THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 LIBRARY 
 Mtthodlst Board or Missions 
 
 NASHVILLE. TENM.
 
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 Letters From Italy, 
 Switzerland and Germany 
 
 By 
 VIRGINIA CARROLL PEMBERTON 
 
 I 
 
 CINCINNATI 
 PRESS OF JENNINGS AND GRAHAM
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY 
 VIRGINIA CARROLL PEMBERTON
 
 P37£ 
 
 TO 
 I DEDICATE THIS BOOK 
 
 55GS&9
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 Our little friend Barron, six years of age, delights 
 to hear about my beautiful trip to Europe, but he in- 
 variably closes our tete-a-tete saying, emphatically and 
 defiantly, "But there 's nothing in Europe as good as 
 America." 
 
 I commend his patriotism, yet am pleased that more 
 than once he has asked his mother to carry him to 
 Europe "to see St. Peter's, the Sea of Ice, and that 
 big St. Bernard dog." 
 
 It is with the hope of giving pleasure to many 
 young friends, also those of larger growth, that this 
 little volume is published. 
 
 I would that it might even strengthen the desire 
 of some people unto determination to see the invalu- 
 able art-treasures and to enjoy the charming scenery 
 of Europe, enhanced by association with the heroic 
 deeds and beautiful romances of many centuries. 
 
 My two communications from Europe, published 
 in the Western Methodist, are, through the courtesy 
 of the editors, incorporated with the letters and notes 
 from my diary written as we traveled in Italy, Swit- 
 
 5
 
 6 FOREWORD 
 
 zerland, and Germany. Our pleasing experiences in 
 Holland, Belgium, France, and England may be re- 
 counted later. 
 
 With small claim to literary merit, I thank the 
 friends who have encouraged the publication of these 
 sketchy epistles, and for whose kindly appreciation I 
 am deeply grateful. V. C. P.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Voyage, ------ 11 
 
 Italy, - - -41 
 
 Switzerland, ------ 130 
 
 Germany, - 174
 
 Letters from Italy, Switzerland 
 and Germany
 
 THE VOYAGE 
 
 Fifteen Days at Sea, During Which We are 
 Enlivened by Moderate Gales and the Ar- 
 rival of a New Passenger. 
 
 S. S. Slavonic June 19, 1908. 
 
 This is our second day of seeming to be between 
 the heavens and the deep blue sea, and there 's no 
 turning back home except in mind and spirit. I can 
 hardly believe I am actually going to London, and by 
 way of Italy, Switzerland, Holland, Belgium, and 
 France. 
 
 Our June Mediterranean tour is well planned, and 
 our itinerary will lead us through scores of interesting 
 places in Southern Europe. 
 
 I intended to review a little history for this event- 
 ful trip, but was too busy with a bit of embroidery for 
 Elizabeth's wedding trousseau; besides, foreign lands 
 become more remote and strange peoples of lesser in- 
 terest when a family-wedding approaches; kings and 
 queens were of small moment to me, and poets and 
 philosophers were held in abeyance. My chief thought 
 was of "love that makes the world go round," and 
 the humdrum needle seemed to sing bridal choruses 
 and sweetest lullabies as loving wishes were stitched 
 into linen. 
 
 11
 
 12 THE VOYAGE 
 
 It was indeed difficult to make preparation for an 
 unsentimental journey, and at times the thought of 
 going so far without any member of my family blotted 
 out every pleasing prospect but one. 
 
 During those weeks I often asked myself why I 
 had agreed to go to Europe in this lonesome way, and 
 
 the anticipated visit to our dear L in London 
 
 was the one excuse for such a rash act. 
 
 There was a time when I wished to go to Europe 
 to find a companion for Ann Fisher, that quaint old 
 wooden doll brought to Virginia in the long ago, and 
 for which Mother took her first tottering footsteps. 
 But the days of dolls have long since passed away. 
 Also I 've long known it is not necessary to go to 
 Europe for fine scenery, as we have Niagara Falls to 
 the east and the Rocky Mountains to the west of us. 
 Quite recently the Hon. James Bryce, England's am- 
 bassador to the United States, said that in our South- 
 west we have the agricultural resources of France, the 
 rural beauties of England, and the tinted skies of Italy. 
 
 Still there are the footprints and highways of a 
 grand old civilization in Europe which I have long 
 desired to see; and the art-treasures of past centuries 
 held out resistless allurements. So when the short 
 time of preparation for the tour was nearly ended, and 
 but little improved, I borrowed my husband's steamer- 
 trunk and black suit-case, and bravely packed my 
 American-made clothing. I had misgivings about the 
 new Knox hat with elongated brim, although the mil- 
 liner declared it just the thing for foreign travel, and 
 good enough to wear in the presence of royalty.
 
 THE VOYAGE 13 
 
 If possible, in those last busy weeks home seemed 
 dearer than ever, and I fain would have lingered in 
 our Southland. The flickering sunshine and the 
 shadows beneath the trees were never more entranc- 
 ing, and nasturtiums, roses, lilies, jasmines, olean- 
 ders, and magnolias charmed me ne'er so well. Ar- 
 kansas, my good mother-in-law, bedecked with June 
 roses, never looked lovelier than when I started off 
 from Little Rock with a chaperon to unknown lands. 
 
 At St. Louis, Mrs. B and Miss J , of 
 
 Tennessee, joined us, and our journey to New York 
 was not unpleasant, although heavy rains marred the 
 succession of pleasing landscapes. 
 
 We spent two days in the great city and com- 
 pleted our shopping; buying raincoats, steamer-hats, 
 rugs, books, and magazines. The chaperon and I 
 bought suit-cases alike, and all the raincoats are alike 
 in lacking grace and beauty. 
 
 Just before sailing we discovered the chaperon 
 had regularly for three days administered her medi- 
 cine for the prevention of sea-sickness — but at the 
 wrong times. What the outcome will be remains to 
 be seen. 
 
 I do n't think I 've really forgotten anything, yet 
 I failed to bring the silk bag for magazines, and the 
 little pillow to form a head-rest on the back of my 
 steamer-chair, as directed by the chaperon. There 
 was no time to make the bag, but I brought the blue 
 silk scraps along to harmonize with the Atlantic 
 Ocean and possibly soothe the Mediterranean Sea. 
 Almost at the last minute the silkoline pillow was
 
 14 THE VOYAGE 
 
 tied on the young box-elder to protect its tender 
 branches from the wires which anchor it to the old 
 cedar tree near our library window. That little seed- 
 ling, which pushed its way up among the flowers, right 
 by the Mary Washington rose, has grown rapidly, and 
 it was necessary to safeguard it against windstorms. 
 
 I 've made apology and explanation to the cha- 
 peron, and I expect to be able to hold my own head 
 up. The flannelette cover of my hot-water bottle is 
 a fine substitute for the silk bag, and this scarlet pouch, 
 with Chinese flowers and parasols chasing around it, 
 is large enough to hold note-books, pencils, and the 
 magazines I may never read. I shall spend my days 
 on deck, scribbling some and dozing a good deal, and 
 I hope to emulate that wonderful baby who "breathed 
 and breathed and breathed all day long." 
 
 On yesterday the commotion of passengers coming 
 aboard and their friends leaving the ship was followed 
 by a noticeable silence. Everybody seemed to be writ- 
 ing farewell letters to be left at Sandy Hook for the 
 United States mail. I dare say, we all desired to go 
 to Europe, but some of us wished ourselves at home. 
 
 New York Harbor, with sea-craft of every size 
 and shape, made a fine picture, and our receding shores 
 were wondrous fair to look upon. Soon the ceaseless 
 hum of the busy, bustling city was no longer heard, 
 and for once New York appeared to be silent and se- 
 rene. Its tall spires and magnificent buildings were 
 fading out of sight as we passed Ellis Island and the 
 neighboring ones on which notable and beneficent in- 
 stitutions of our country are situated. The Statue of
 
 THE VOYAGE 15 
 
 Liberty gleaming in the sunlight, which bespeaks our 
 welcome to the peoples of the earth, now spoke us 
 farewell and bon voyage to the Old World. 
 
 The call to luncheon was opportune, and we be- 
 gan to look at our fellow-passengers with interest. 
 Seated on deck we had resembled so many "Injuns 
 all in a row," but now we looked into each other's 
 faces and read the signs of promise there. Friendly 
 lights beamed through "windows of the soul," and 
 kindly salutations were exchanged. 
 
 The long tables were decorated with ferns, and 
 some of them were graced with beautiful flowers sent 
 by friends in compliment to the young ladies, who 
 kindly shared the brightness and fragrance with us 
 all. All around us the language of flowers was elo- 
 quent, and one small table was a "thing of beauty" 
 with the artistic arrangement of a profusion of ex- 
 quisite roses, pink carnations, and rare orchids. Al- 
 most the entire number of cabin passengers, one hun- 
 dred and thirty, were seated in the dining-saloon, and 
 good cheer prevailed. A lady of foreign accent, seated 
 near us, ordered wine — to prevent sea-sickness, she 
 said; and from the size of the bottle, she anticipated 
 a prolonged siege. 
 
 There are a number of Southerners aboard and 
 very pleasant-looking people from all parts of the 
 United States. 
 
 The chief event of yesterday afternoon was the 
 delivery of steamer-letters, and it was good to have 
 messages of love and cheer as the homeland was slip- 
 ping out of sight.
 
 16 THE VOYAGE 
 
 Tell A I 've already commenced collecting 
 
 souvenir postcards for her, as our menus for luncheon 
 and dinner have pretty and detachable pictures of the 
 steamship Slavonia anchored at Gibraltar, Naples, 
 Trieste, and "Fiume," her Mediterranean ports, though 
 we shall not see the two last-named ports. 
 
 June 20, 1908. 
 
 On the hurricane deck at 7.30 A. M. 
 
 The weather is fine and the ocean is intensely blue 
 this morning. As the spray falls into drops the sap- 
 phire waves are crested with diamonds flashing in the 
 sunlight. In the distance little white caps on big waves 
 run to join each other like gleeful children in a game 
 of catching hands. The glorious sunset of last evening 
 was a foregleam of this resplendent morning. 
 
 Very few passengers come out before breakfast, 
 although it is delightful up here, and there is always 
 something to see or hear about. The decks are hardly 
 yet dry from the early morning scrubbing, and the tall, 
 thin, old gentleman from Colorado is in danger of 
 slipping down as he takes his morning exercises. He 
 wildly gesticulates arms, hands, and fingers as he hops 
 and skips, dances and prances, paces and races around 
 the deck. He is the most animated granddaddy-long- 
 legs I ever saw. He has evidently been in a sanita- 
 rium where patients receive hints on diet and how 
 to be quiet ; the mind compose and eat protose ; to 
 shake the digits and avoid the fidgets; and where ex- 
 ercises, prescribed and self-appointed, engross all God's 
 anointed until tortures of the Inquisition seem brought
 
 THE VOYAGE 17 
 
 into requisition. Yet Mr. Longlegs enjoys his gym- 
 nastic gyrations, and so do we. 
 
 The Italians are already having good times on the 
 steerage deck. A young man oblivious to everything 
 else is playing lively tunes on his accordeon, keeping 
 time with his feet; while another with a baby in his 
 arms is dancing to this energetic music. Little chil- 
 dren dressed in red, yellow, blue, and green prints are 
 marched up to the hydrant, and their smiling faces are 
 hastily scrubbed. These Italians are leaving the 
 United States because there is a scarcity of work, and 
 they are the merriest people on the ship; but they are 
 sailing homeward, while the rest of us are leaving 
 friends and familiar scenes. 
 
 The Marconi wireless telegraph station is on this 
 deck, and messages buzzing around in there sound like 
 mammoth mad wasps dancing on window panes. This 
 morning really seems an opportune time for a mes- 
 sage from Mars, if it is ever to come. We might be 
 a little startled by the communication, but would 
 hardly run away. 
 
 Bulletins from the wireless telegraph station are 
 read with eagerness, and yesterday we heard that the 
 Republicans in the Chicago convention had nominated 
 Judge W. H. Taft for President of the United States. 
 As the "publicans" and sinners may be victorious in the 
 November election, I 'm glad we of the South are 
 favorably impressed with Judge Taft. 
 
 We also scan the ship's daily log with as much 
 interest as ever men in Washington City watched the 
 returns from a baseball game in a distant town. 
 2
 
 18 THE VOYAGE 
 
 Our day is reckoned from noon to noon, and 
 Rackem says our watches must be moved up twice a 
 day to keep correct hours. 
 
 We have representatives of many countries on 
 board our ship, but the more than seven hundred steer- 
 age passengers are chiefly Italians and Hungarians. 
 As they are not very friendly towards one another, 
 they are separated by all the available space; the 
 Italians being in the bow, and the Hungarians in the 
 stern of the ship. The Italians seem pleased by our 
 interest in them, but the Hungarians are stolid-looking, 
 with unresponsive faces. 
 
 Our good ship, the Slavonia, is a Cunard Royal 
 Mail twin-screw steamer, 510 feet long and 69 feet 
 wide, and it is wonderfully complete and compact in 
 every part. The British Lion, rampant, stamped on 
 the stationery, painted on the china, and carved on 
 the newel posts of the stairways, is evidence that the 
 Slavonia is a loyal subject of King Edward VII of 
 England. 
 
 The vessel is well manned and no one doubts her 
 ability to cope with wind and wave. Her commander 
 and officers are vigilant and courteous, and her seamen 
 and stewards are tireless in the performance of duty. 
 
 We are living in luxury on the Atlantic Ocean, 
 though the cozy cabins are right little, tight little 
 
 apartments. The beautiful Miss R , of North 
 
 Carolina, and the witty Miss K , of Texas, are my 
 
 room-mates, and we are comfortable and congenial in 
 close quarters. These young ladies call our cabin- 
 steward "Rack-em," and somehow he feels compli- 
 mented.
 
 THE VOYAGE 19 
 
 When he showed me the electric bell, and I told 
 him we expect to keep well and need but little atten- 
 tion, he quickly said, "Oh, but we want to be called; 
 for we must earn our living." So "tips" are of vital 
 consequence to the men who serve on royal mail-ships 
 owned by rich corporations of England. 
 
 This morning we were introduced to Captain 
 D , commander of the ship, and he said sea- 
 sickness is largely due to disturbance of the brain. 
 So from this day we shall cultivate the serenity of 
 old-world philosophers, lest the semblance of brain- 
 storm overtake us. 
 
 Monday, June 22, 1908. 
 
 At eight o'clock this morning the sky was partially 
 overcast with clouds, and a light rain sprinkled the 
 little company of us seated on the hurricane deck. 
 Suddenly the sun burst forth and a beautiful rainbow 
 "all woven of light" spanned the heavens. As Words- 
 worth said, "The clouds were touched, and in their 
 silent faces could be read unutterable love." 
 
 On yesterday, our first Sunday at sea, divine 
 service was held in the dining-saloon. The improvised 
 pulpit was draped with British flags, and the service 
 of the Church of England was impressively read by 
 Rev. Dr. Hill, of Pennsylvania. Special prayers were 
 read for His Majesty, King Edward VII of England, 
 and His Excellency the President of the United States, 
 whose name was not called. 
 
 We entered the Gulf Stream on Saturday evening 
 and were in it a part of yesterday, consequently the
 
 20 THE VOYAGE 
 
 temperature was higher and the day was rather warm. 
 That day sea-gulls followed us for awhile, and this 
 morning a whale bobbed up serenely, though I failed 
 to see his ugly countenance. 
 
 We were invited to a concert Saturday evening, 
 given "by kind permission" of the commander, and 
 the music and recitations by the passengers were good, 
 and much enjoyed by the audience. Three of our party 
 added to the entertainment of the evening. Mrs. 
 B , of Tennessee, gave a fine selection on the vio- 
 lin, the chaperon recited a witty story in Negro dia- 
 lect, and Mr. S played on the mandolin. The 
 
 concert closed with the audience singing "God Save 
 the King," followed by "America;" for these loyal 
 Britons are not unmindful of their American patrons. 
 
 Through Marconi's wireless we have been in com- 
 munication with several ships on the highways of the 
 sea, and it is a comfort to know we are in speaking 
 distance of other people. Though the most interesting 
 news of to-day is that the population of this floating 
 city has been increased by the arrival of a new pas- 
 senger. The light-hearted Italians in the steerage are 
 rejoicing over the birth of a baby, and we are won- 
 dering what they will name her. She might be called 
 Oceana, or Slavoniana; at any rate she is Italiana, 
 though, being born on a British ship, she is a subject 
 of King Edward VII. The ocean is a little rough 
 to-day, and the baby will be well rocked in the cradle 
 of the deep. May she, all unconscious though it be, 
 catch the rhythm of the sea in its ceaseless song of 
 praise to God on high.
 
 THE VOYAGE 21 
 
 One of my room-mates, not feeling well to-day, 
 declined to go to luncheon, and the table-steward said 
 she ought to eat, "to have something to bring up." 
 Judging from the many opportunities to eat, this stew- 
 ard's opinion prevails, and the hospitality of the Sla- 
 von'xa is boundless. Three times a day the long tables 
 in the saloon are loaded with good things from the 
 ends of the earth, and between meals tea and biscuit 
 (crackers) or bouillon and wafers are served on deck. 
 If we do n't go to meals they '11 come to us. There 's 
 bound to be something to bring up! These informal 
 and frequent teas are conducive to sociability and the 
 days are passing pleasantly. 
 
 We promenade the decks at all hours, usually wear- 
 ing raincoats, not to keep off rain, but to hold down 
 our skirts. Hats are rarely laid aside, and a few of 
 the ladies have very becoming ones. The Old Lady's 
 felt hat, being too large, has a tuck pinned in the 
 crown, which makes the brim droop behind like a 
 vanquished rooster's tail after a fight. She, however, 
 is not subdued by the slight circumstance of the pass- 
 ing hour; nor do our promenaders anticipate the fate 
 of Rack-em, who says "the Missis" (his wife) will 
 not go out with him when he is at home, because the 
 carpets on shipboard have made his feet tender and 
 ruined his gait. Although he has been in the employ 
 of the Cunard Ship Company for twenty years, his 
 lack of grace on land may not be entirely due to the 
 luxuries of their ships. He has been married twelve 
 years and has spent less than half the time in England, 
 and says his younger children would not recognize
 
 22 THE VOYAGE 
 
 him, so little have they ever seen him. One of the 
 ladies asked him if a half worn raincoat would be ac- 
 ceptable to some woman in the steerage, and he quickly 
 replied, "I know some one a great deal better than 
 those in the steerage who would be thankful for it, 
 and that is my wife in England." 
 
 Rack-em is short and florid, and a rather fierce- 
 looking Englishman, with his hair standing on ends 
 like that of the immortal Tommy Traddles intro- 
 duced by Charles Dickens. Rack-em says he loves the 
 ocean and knows it " 'eart to 'eart ;" and he must have 
 the faith of the prophets of old, for he believes our 
 bathroom steward bids fair to become a fine inter- 
 preter. 
 
 This handsome, fair-haired Russian boy of sunny 
 countenance puts one hand upon the cold and the other 
 upon the hot-water faucet, and smilingly awaits the 
 indicative nod to learn whether a bath of higher or 
 lower temperature is desired. It is upon this good 
 start in understanding the universal language that the 
 optimistic Rack-em bases his prophecy. 
 
 June 23, 1908. 
 
 A few of us were on the hurricane deck at 7.45 
 this morning, and the ocean was very rough. Her 
 great billows angrily hurled themselves against our 
 ship, and it was fascinating to watch the conflict be- 
 tween nature and man, whose skill won the victory. 
 The contest began early in the night, and Rack-em 
 came to close the port-holes in our cabin; but Miss
 
 THE VOYAGE 23 
 
 K , not being well, persuaded him to leave it open, 
 
 and we were fanned to sleep by the brisk breezes. 
 
 At four o'clock we were awakened as, with a roar 
 and a splash, a small deluge poured in upon Miss 
 R sweetly sleeping in the berth under the port- 
 hole. 
 
 The night-steward came immediately, saying he 
 knew what had happened, because "the bookings 
 showed that this port-'ole was the only one left hopen, 
 as the young lady would 'ave it so." 
 
 That was small comfort for Miss R , who 
 
 received the drenching richly deserved by Miss K , 
 
 and we quickly made her as comfortable as possible. 
 The port-hole was closed and screwed down, to pre- 
 vent further encroachment of the sea. There was not 
 much more sleep for us, as the ship rocked to and fro, 
 and at six o'clock, without discussion or premedita- 
 tion, my charming room-mates answered the call of 
 the sea. I arose, dressed quickly, and fled to the 
 upper deck to prevent the spread of brainstorm in our 
 cabin. 
 
 A number of chairs were vacant at breakfast time, 
 and a great many were unoccupied at luncheon, while 
 a moderate gale prevailed. 
 
 The lady at our table who ordered the big bottle 
 of wine to prevent sea-sickness was absent, having suc- 
 cumbed to water, if not to wine. All in vain, at in- 
 tervals during the day our pretty Hungarian stew- 
 ardess begged Miss R to "eat a little cheeken, to 
 
 keep from getting too theene." 
 
 They tell us Gibraltar is 3,251 miles from New
 
 24 THE VOYAGE 
 
 York, and that we are now about halfway there. 
 The old Atlantic is rushing along impetuously, as 
 though eager to reach a haven of rest. The great 
 billows continue to rush at our ship, and we are re- 
 minded of the monster leviathan of old. But the 
 stately ship goes on. With patience and perseverance 
 she rides the huge waves of the partially subjugated 
 and ever-restless sea. 
 
 It has been said the ocean, ceaseless and resistless, 
 represents only the omnipotent God, with never a 
 token of His love. Yet we know all lands are en- 
 riched by treasure brought on the ocean wave, and 
 by its breath man is refreshed and invigorated. 
 
 The great air-shafts standing on the upper deck are 
 benign monsters, wide-mouthed and hideous to look at, 
 and they catch the sea-breeze and ventilate the ship be- 
 low. Lifeboats containing casks of water and boxes 
 of biscuit are in readiness to be lowered upon the ocean 
 should disaster overtake the Slavonia; but we antici- 
 pate only good fortune. 
 
 Twice a day a thermometer is let down into the 
 great deep, and a secret is wrested from Dame Na- 
 ture's heart. The proximity of an iceberg is some- 
 times discovered in this way and danger is averted. 
 
 June 25, 1908. 
 
 The ocean is smooth and glorious to-day, with 
 hardly a wrinkle on her brow. 
 
 The sea-sick voyagers are better and the sociability 
 on deck has been renewed. The handsomely dressed
 
 THE VOYAGE 25 
 
 woman wearing many ruthlessly-slain bluebirds around 
 the crown of her big hat says this is her twenty-third 
 voyage across the Atlantic, and that once she "went 
 over for a dinner in London." Whereupon a young 
 lady from the South, in a whisper, wondered if her 
 mission was to cook the dinner in London. 
 
 Through the kindness of Mr. M , our con- 
 ductor, several of our party were invited up on the 
 bridge this morning, and the unobstructed view of 
 the vast ocean was sublime. To me it is not a melan- 
 choly sea, nor does it seem treacherous, but it does 
 signify separation, and I realize each day how far I 
 am from home. On the bridge we saw the pilot and 
 his compass with needles delicately poised, and his 
 wheel which connects with the engine and controls the 
 rudder of the ship. Charts of the ocean-route, the 
 chronometers and thermometers of late device and best 
 invention were very interesting to us. We looked 
 through the wonderful and delicate instrument in- 
 vented by Hadley for ascertaining the latitude and 
 longtitude, in which the sun, falling on a little mirror, 
 is seen through glass, and the mark is recorded by 
 needles. The officer in charge was asked how the 
 longitude and latitude are discovered on a cloudy day, 
 and he smiled, but the question was unanswered. 
 
 This afternoon we sighted a tramp-steamer, and 
 Mr. Longlegs kindly lent us his fine glasses to get a 
 good look at it, and we discovered no reason for call- 
 ing a useful carrier of freight a tramp. 
 
 This evening we encountered a school of porpoises, 
 and they jumped joyously — perhaps on account of
 
 26 THE VOYAGE 
 
 loaves, if not fishes, as the crumbs from our dinner- 
 table had just been emptied into the sea. 
 
 The event of last evening was the grand ball of 
 the voyage, and for which elaborate preparation was 
 made. The decks, enclosed with canvas, were spread 
 with rugs, decorated with flags, and made brilliant 
 with electric lights. The ladies were beautifully at- 
 tired, and gold braid and buttons glittered on the uni- 
 form of their escorts, officers of the ship, and we heard 
 a fine supper was served at midnight. The American 
 girls say the Englishmen are not good dancers, and it 
 is barely possible that Rack-em's rolling gait is not 
 confined to the stewards of ships. 
 
 A day or two ago several members of our party 
 went down into the boiler-room and inspected the fine 
 machinery of the Slavonia. Despite the noise and 
 grime of the engine a little canary bird, the engineer's 
 pet, chirped and sang merrily in its cage, and seemed 
 to enjoy "dying for the king," and other little tricks 
 taught it by the patient and faithful Englishman who 
 labors down below the daylight for the safety and 
 speed of the ship. 
 
 June 27, 1908. 
 
 On hurricane deck at 7.30 A. M. 
 
 This morning the blue sky is cloudless. The 
 ocean is calm, and serenely wears the colors of heaven 
 on her breast. The Kindly Light has led us through 
 night's encircling gloom. A few moments ago a beau- 
 tiful sea-dove flew around the ship and rested on the 
 rail of the steerage deck. No one knows whence it
 
 THE VOYAGE 27 
 
 came nor whither it goeth, but it seems to presage 
 for us a prosperous voyage to the end. 
 
 A day or two ago the bright bow of promise flung 
 across the firmament reminded us of God's goodness 
 to the children of men, and this gentle dove brings a 
 message from the Prince of Peace, the Savior of man- 
 kind. 
 
 As we look out where the sky and the ocean meet 
 we are reminded of the mysterious and invisible line 
 which separates time from eternity. There are no 
 boundary lines and seemingly no pathway ahead; yet 
 our pilot, true to his compass, is guiding this great ship 
 into safe harbors. 
 
 We know not what the future holds for us, but 
 with our own Quaker poet we sing: 
 
 "I know not where His islands lift 
 Their fronded palms in air, 
 I only know I can not drift 
 Beyond His love and care." 
 
 This beautiful, restful voyage is making us ready 
 for the dash through Europe. 
 
 We are fortunate in having a charming young lady 
 and a bright school girl to enliven the dash. Besides 
 our courteous and capable conductor we have a 
 preacher to indoctrinate us, a lawyer to extricate us, 
 a teacher to elucidate and illuminate us, and a doctor 
 to medicate, vaccinate, and, if need be, fumigate us. 
 We are prepared and equipped for the exigencies and 
 emergencies of foreign travel. 
 
 We have on board another party of tourists (of
 
 28 THE VOYAGE 
 
 the same number and under the same management as 
 ours), formed of Carolinians and Virginians, and we 
 have many pleasant acquaintances in common with 
 them. The Old Gentleman from North Carolina en- 
 tertains me with reminiscences, and says W 's 
 
 father helped him to get started in business more than 
 fifty years ago, and afterwards helped him to win his 
 sweetheart when the case seemed hopeless. Forty 
 years have passed since their wedding day, and he is 
 her lover still. As he talked about her, Wordsworth's 
 poem, written after thirty-six years of wedded life, was 
 recalled : 
 
 "No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace 
 As I have seen in an autumnal face. 
 
 Morn into morn did pass, noon into eve, 
 And the old day was welcome as the young. 
 
 As welcome, and as beautiful in sooth, 
 More beautiful as being a thing more holy." 
 
 June 29, 1908. 
 
 The past two days have been crowded with in- 
 teresting incidents, not to say events, which they cer- 
 tainly were for me. 
 
 We have sailed through the Straits of Gibraltar 
 into the Mediterranean Sea, glimpsed Portugal, looked 
 over into Spain, upon the Atlas Mountains of Africa, 
 and have set foot upon England's possessions, spending 
 several hours at Gibraltar, the mighty fortress of his- 
 tory.
 
 THE VOYAGE 29 
 
 Yesterday we sighted land, and first thought it a 
 shadow or a cloud against the horizon. It was the 
 rocky coast of Cape St. Vincent, the tip end of Portu- 
 gal, rising abruptly from the sea, and the friendly 
 lighthouse, the quaint church and farm-houses, with 
 cultivated fields beyond, formed a charming picture. 
 This tranquil scene contrasted strongly with that re- 
 cently enacted in the capital city when the king and 
 crown prince of Portugal were brutally assassinated 
 in the crowded streets. The young King Manuel 
 comes to the throne with a sad but courageous heart. 
 His inaugural address of twenty-six words was worthy 
 of a thoughtful and cautious monarch, and that he 
 may rule righteously was our hope as the Slavonia 
 sailed past this tip end of Portugal. 
 
 To-day we 've had the rugged coast of Spain on 
 one side, and on the other Africa's towering moun- 
 tains; and the grandeur of the scene is indescribable. 
 In this meeting-place of Nature's mighty monarchs 
 the sea may not be quelled, but it is held in check by 
 the mountains. These countries are shut in by nature, 
 but superstition and unbelief have been far greater 
 barriers to the spread of truth among their peoples. 
 
 Tarifa, Spain, is very attractive with its two light- 
 houses, several watch-towers of olden time, and queer 
 little dwellings perched upon the rocky cliffs. The 
 small farms are divided by hedges, and a few trees 
 give the charm of home-likeness to the landscape. 
 Back of these were the wooded hills, and we could n't 
 peep far into Spanish territory, but we made good 
 wishes for the king and queen and the Crown Prince
 
 30 THE VOYAGE 
 
 Alfonso, a soldier at three years of age and destined, 
 if he lives, to add to the glory of Spain, for he is 
 not only a prince of the Asturias, but the great-grand- 
 son of the great Queen Victoria. 
 
 A little before noon we sighted Gibraltar, the his- 
 toric key of Europe. In undisguised delight we gazed 
 upon the great rock with its fortifications and bristling 
 guns, the signal service and wireless telegraph stations; 
 for this natural stronghold has been reinforced by 
 man's skill and scientific knowledge. 
 
 Gibraltar, the mighty tongue of rock, 1,35° feet 
 above the sea, runs south of the mainland of Spain 
 to within twenty miles of the shore of Africa, and it 
 has been called the portal through which Arabian re- 
 finement and learning entered the peninsula with the 
 Moors in 711. At the northeast corner of the prom- 
 ontory stands the picturesque ruin of a once magnifi- 
 cent Moorish castle, said to be one of the oldest build- 
 ings in Spain. The Moors called Gibraltar "Tarik's 
 Hill," and, beginning early in the fourteenth century, 
 they fought fiercely, siege after siege, to recover it 
 from Spain for Mohammed and Morocco. No sooner 
 was Spain's possession confirmed, 1492, than other na- 
 tions coveted the great rock, "emphatically a fortress," 
 and centuries of complex wars for its conquest enliv- 
 ened European nations. Though I believe England's 
 ownership has been undisputed since 1783, when Sir 
 George Augustus Elliott led her forces to victory after 
 four years' war with France. 
 
 The Italians cheered wildly, and we Americans 
 were quite as much pleased, on entering the harbor,
 
 THE VOYAGE 31 
 
 to see the United States flag unfurled from the main- 
 mast of the Slavonia, thereby indicating whence she 
 sailed. 
 
 The little quarantine vessel, with black and yellow 
 flags, steamed up, gave us a clean bill of health, and 
 then bustled off to another large ship with evident 
 pride in authority among nations. The calm blue Bay 
 of Gibraltar was dotted with vessels of many nations, 
 and the immense Princess, of the German Lloyd 
 Steamship Company, was just starting out. She left 
 New York two days after we did, but reached Gi- 
 braltar half a day ahead of us, paid a fashionable call, 
 and was now resuming her voyage, causing some com- 
 motion, and the bay seemed stirred to its depths. Con- 
 sequently we had an exciting time getting into the 
 small vessel which carried us to Gibraltar, for it was 
 violently tossed by the waves in the wake of the big 
 ship. Finally we descended the ladder lashed to the 
 side of the ship, and one by one the courageous and 
 the curious men and women were lifted by a strong 
 officer of the Slavonia and cast into the arms of the 
 sturdy and expectant sailors of the little vessel 
 below. 
 
 Some of the passengers preferred to remain on 
 board, and one large woman did it regardless of pref- 
 erence. She climbed down the ladder to the officer 
 with strength in his arms, looked over at the little 
 vessel, and then slowly climbed back to the deck of 
 the Slavonia. 
 
 The expectant and sturdy sailors below laughingly 
 declared she was a wise as well as a weighty woman.
 
 32 THE VOYAGE 
 
 A few moments later we admired her discretion, for a 
 wave dashed into the little boat and gave some of us 
 a good shower and a taste of briny water. 
 
 The Old Gentleman said it was a bad business, but 
 was thrown overboard, and went on to Gibraltar with 
 us. At the pier we were welcomed by English, 
 Spanish, Portuguese, Moors, Turks, Africans, Ara- 
 bians, and other picturesque peoples, who eagerly 
 scanned our faces. Doubtless some of them were de- 
 scendants of the Basques, who long ago declared them- 
 selves "gentlemen by land, gentlemen by sea, and gen- 
 tlemen in spite of the devil." The swarthy one who 
 wore a long hooded cloak of brown broadcloth, vest 
 and knee-breeches embroidered with gold, sandals and 
 silk stockings, and carried a tan leather bag, embroi- 
 dered with silk of many colors, said he was "only a 
 Moorish gentleman." 
 
 After entering the great stone portals of the walled 
 city at the foot of the promontory, we became pic- 
 turesque ourselves, seated in little open tan-colored 
 carriages, with white muslin curtains looped back at 
 their four corners. The somber clothing of our Span- 
 ish driver was brightened by his green hat, green 
 cravat, and big handkerchief which he waved fran- 
 tically whenever he could n't understand our questions. 
 The villas of English residents are surrounded with 
 luxuriant gardens, shade and fruit trees; and almond, 
 olive, orange, lemon, pomegranate, and fig trees flour- 
 ish in this more than half tropical zone. The loquat 
 is similar to, if not the same fruit we saw in New 
 Orleans unexpectedly that day when Mrs. B re-
 
 THE VOYAGE 33 
 
 moved her little son's hat in the parlor and a shower 
 of shining Japanese plums fell at our feet. 
 
 Vegetation here is not yet parched by the mid- 
 summer sun, and even the formidable rock is lovely in 
 its vernal dress and draperies. The market place was 
 alive with gayly clad children, who offered fruits and 
 flowers for sale as they ran around among the docile 
 little donkeys loaded with casks of water and great 
 panniers of burr-artichokes. The day was warm, but 
 every woman wore a mantilla over her head and 
 shoulders, and seemed reconciled to her fate. 
 
 The city of Gibraltar is old and the streets are 
 narrow, but the governor's palace, Protestant Cathe- 
 dral, and other State institutions are imposing, and 
 Commercial Square is surrounded with substantial 
 business houses. The Alemada and Victoria gardens 
 are enchanting with fine trees, flowering shrubs, and 
 plants. The tall eucalyptus, the gnarled jejune, and 
 graceful pepper, or pimenta trees, with clusters of fra- 
 grant white blossoms, were new to us. Flowers ran 
 riot in Victoria gardens and were kept within bounds 
 by hedges of cactus. One fine plumbago plant would 
 have covered the side of a cottage with its dainty 
 foliage and delicate blue blossoms; and crepe myrtles, 
 oleanders, and jasmines filled the atmosphere with 
 delicious perfume. A handsome plot commemorates 
 the coronation of King Edward VII, his majesty's 
 monogram and 1901 being traced in plants of brilliant 
 foliage. 
 
 A bronze bust of Wellington upon a tall granite 
 shaft is conspicuously placed and may be seen from 
 3
 
 34 THE VOYAGE 
 
 afar. And more imposing still is the monument to the 
 valiant Sir George Augustus Elliott, which is situated 
 on a lofty plateau and is reached by a long flight of 
 broad stone steps. 
 
 We drove to Europa Point for the fine view of 
 Rosia Bay and the surrounding countries. The one- 
 hundred-ton gun up there (said to be the largest in 
 the world) is painted in bright colors and at a distance 
 resembles a flower-bed in gaudy array. 
 
 It is said at times there are 30,000 military men 
 and as many soldiers of the navy stationed in the fort. 
 Excavations in the rock will hold supplies for five 
 years, and great reservoirs are filled with water for do- 
 mestic use. 
 
 Torpedo boats are held in readiness should an evil 
 day dawn, and Wellington's "Trust in the Lord and 
 keep your powder dry" seems to be the policy at 
 present. 
 
 Gibraltar is sometimes called the "Hill of Caves," 
 and the walls with stalactite pillars are said to surpass 
 in beauty those in our Mammoth Cave. In some of 
 these caverns skeletons of the bear, hyena, leopard, 
 rhinoceros, ibex, and other wild animals are found, 
 and we stood under an arch formed of the jaw-bones 
 of some mammoth monster of past aeons. 
 
 We went into some of the shops and admired the 
 Maltese lace and other pretty articles which, some one 
 said, had been priced for rich Americans — of which 
 we were not. We contented ourselves with a few 
 trifles, as there was not time to "dicker" with the mer- 
 chants.
 
 THE VOYAGE 35 
 
 We saw a man with a tin cup in his hand driving 
 his herd of goats from door to door, where he milked 
 them and supplied his customers with fresh milk. I 
 was reminded of our infant industry in goat's milk at 
 old Carrollton, in the days of Ann Fisher, when 
 mother kept her contract, bought our one pound of 
 laboriously-made butter, and sent it out to be used to 
 grease the carriage wheels. 
 
 We saw a number of Americans on the streets of 
 Gibraltar, but recognized none of them. It was good 
 to find the New York Herald, but we were saddened 
 by the news of the death of Ex-President Cleveland. 
 The world is richer for the life and work of this great 
 and good man who was honored by all nations. 
 
 Our return to the Slavonia was easy and unevent- 
 ful. Foreigners escorted us to the tender and sold us 
 postcards, huge paper fans with glaring pictures of 
 bull-fights, linen table-covers of drawn-work, fans of 
 ivory and sandalwood, and artistic baskets filled with 
 green and purple figs, beautiful strawberries, luscious 
 apricots, and lovely flowers. A boy offered us some 
 nuts, and with sinister smile a withered hag standing 
 near watched the Old Gentleman as he tried in vain 
 to eat one. These may have been the hard-shelled 
 nuts of the karite tree, or possibly the dried seeds of 
 the dorowa, edible in season, but now as hard as the 
 cement said to be made in Africa of the leaves and 
 pods of this tree, combined with other substances. 
 
 At three o'clock we sailed from Gibraltar, and 
 looking back at the bold, defiant fortress, with its bas- 
 tions and batteries, from the sea-wall to the summit,
 
 36 THE VOYAGE 
 
 we were impressed anew with the daring of the Anglo- 
 Saxon who captured and keeps it. He even forbids 
 neighboring nations to build fortresses upon their own 
 domain, except within limits prescribed by him. The 
 gateway to Europe is unlocked to the world, but old 
 England keeps the key, and the nations of earth may 
 be thankful. 
 
 Thursday, July 2, 1908. 
 
 For some hours after we left Gibraltar on Tues- 
 day we skirted the coast of Spain, and then we seemed 
 to sail out into mid-ocean again. To-day the Medi- 
 terranean Sea is as calm as a lake, and the Slavonia is 
 as graceful as a swan upon its vivid waters. A glimpse 
 of the Island of Sardinia, the cloudless skies and gentle 
 breezes added to our enjoyment of yesterday. 
 
 The series of out-door sports on deck closed in the 
 afternoon with pillow rights, potato races, and other 
 laughable features. After the concert last night prizes 
 were awarded the plucky and lucky young men who 
 have made mirthful hours for us. My room-mates 
 and I, not caring for refreshments, retired immediately 
 after the concert, and they were fast asleep when, with 
 a gentle tap on the door, the thoughtful Rack-em ap- 
 peared, saying, "Sandwiches, ladies?" The hospi- 
 tality of the Slavonia is unabated, and Rack-em is op- 
 timistic still. 
 
 Our bon voyage will soon be ended. We will 
 reach Naples to-night, and they say we must enter the 
 harbor by ten o'clock or we '11 not be allowed to dis- 
 embark before to-morrow. We '11 be happy to reach
 
 THE VOYAGE 37 
 
 Naples. For one thing, I am tired of keeping the hat 
 with elongated brim on my little bed all day and un- 
 der it all night. My conundrum of the voyage is, 
 "What is more troublesome than living in a suit- 
 case?" Living in two suit-cases, of course. At first 
 I invariably opened the wrong one, no matter what 
 I needed, but I have improved, and am now usually 
 clothed, and in my right mind as well, when the last 
 suit-case is locked. 
 
 We will miss the daily routine of the Slavonia, 
 which has been restful and refreshing. Three times a 
 day it has been the bugler's delight to summon us to 
 the dining-room with the tune, "Roast Beef of Merrie 
 Old England," except on Sundays, when he gave us 
 the tune played by Westminster chimes. The other 
 night, after serenading the new arrival, the baby- 
 subject of King Edward VII, he came up from the 
 steerage modestly saying, "I blowed them ladies to 
 
 bed down there." Miss R , of artistic bent, says 
 
 this rosy-cheeked young bugler with blue eyes and red 
 hair might well sit for a portrait of Cupid. 
 
 We will miss the smile of the sea. It has been so 
 lovely in the quiet evenings, when the shades of night 
 have fallen across the silvery waves and the firmament 
 hath shown God's handiwork. Then in our hearts 
 we sang with Isaac Watts, "In ever}' star Thy wisdom 
 shines." And with Wordsworth we have thought: 
 
 "In night's blue vault 
 Sparkle the stars, as of their station proud."
 
 38 THE VOYAGE 
 
 Neither will we forget the occasional frown of 
 the sea. One evening the sky was overcast with heavy- 
 clouds, and as the great billows surged around us the 
 ocean was terrible in the blackness of night. I thought 
 about Columbus, and, as never before, I marveled at 
 the faith which flooded his soul as he sailed westward. 
 According to his faith Columbus kept on, and he found 
 the New World. 
 
 The ever-ready and obliging Rack-em says I have 
 used the "black-lead" a great deal, and he is not mis- 
 taken. It has been a comfort to imagine myself look- 
 ing into the faces of the dear ones in America as I 've 
 scribbled about these new experiences. Fortunately 
 the "magic ring" was not packed in the bewildering 
 suit-cases, and I have taken many a peep through it 
 across the seas. The one convenience and comfort 
 lacking on this ship is the ability to hear from our 
 families at moderate cost. 
 
 Strenuous days are ahead of us. If we see half the 
 interesting places in our itinerary, we shall read "ser- 
 mons in stones," and books in rocks and rills for weeks 
 to come; to say nothing of the art-galleries and other 
 institutions of learning we shall visit day by day. I 
 shall see a thousand things I 've always desired to see, 
 and ten thousand times I shall wish for you. 
 
 I have been most fortunate in escaping sea-sickness. 
 Brainstorm has been held at bay, and I have partaken 
 of pigeons, chickens, ducklings, geese, turkeys, beef, 
 and mutton. The "ravigote" and the "jambon au 
 diable" we discretely passed on to the sphinx seated 
 on the other side of the table. I have "brought up"
 
 THE VOYAGE 39 
 
 nothing but recollections and reminiscences from mem- 
 ory's treasure house for my own benefit, and "tips" 
 (from the pocketbook) for the sympathetic Hungarian 
 stewardess and stewards of the cabin, the deck, the 
 dining-saloon, bathroom, for boots and the bugler, the 
 obliging servants of the Slavonic I have learned the 
 meaning of "ship-shape," and that no habitation on 
 the dusty fourth of this terrestrial globe may be so 
 called again. 
 
 We know not whether any ship ever came exactly 
 this way or ever will again, for our shining pathway 
 has been obliterated even as we looked back upon it. 
 The classic Mediterranean teems with associations of 
 centuries of civilization, and its history, wonderful in 
 fact, has all the charm of tales of lambent fancy, 
 though but half remembered now. 
 
 Through you I should like to advise your son and 
 daughters and their young friends to read history and 
 biography with the hope, if not expectation, of going 
 to Europe some day. I am sure this habit would en- 
 able them to so grasp the historical settings of great 
 events that they might easily and with infinite pleasure 
 be recalled in later life. 
 
 And I covet for these young friends a kindly dis- 
 position towards all men. The little flower-boats we 
 used to sail on the old mill-race at the foot of the 
 grove at Carrollton never reached their destination on 
 foreign shores, but I know now they strengthened that 
 spirit of kindliness towards all nations which was in- 
 culcated around the fireside and whereof I am glad 
 to-day.
 
 40 THE VOYAGE 
 
 Sailing on the Mediterranean, who of our Chris- 
 tian nation could fail to take courage and thank God 
 for Paul's "journeyings oft" to spread the gospel of 
 Christ which from these shores has gone to the utter- 
 most parts of the earth for the salvation of men. 
 
 In our party of twelve Southerners (eight ladies 
 and four gentlemen), Alabama, Georgia, Missouri, 
 Tennessee, and Arkansas are well represented. We 've 
 always been neighbors, and it 's a small matter that 
 we had never met face to face before starting on our 
 tour of Europe. The heroic struggle and Christian 
 endeavor of our forefathers and the one defeat of our 
 fathers which added glory to a good name is our com- 
 mon heritage. We cherish the traditions and truths 
 of the Southland, and together we own her sacred and 
 royal history. We are proud of our birthright, and 
 doubtless the pleasant acquaintance begun on ship- 
 board will ripen into lasting friendship.
 
 ITALY 
 
 Naples, Capri, Pompeii. 
 
 July 3, 1908. 
 
 NAPLES, QUEEN OF THE BEWITCHING BAY. 
 
 We entered the Bay of Naples early in the even- 
 ing, amid the shifting scenes of twilight under the 
 brightly-tinted skies of Italy. Nature was robed in 
 blue and purple and emerald, and her supernal beauty 
 was mirrored in the still waters of the bay. The queen 
 of night sped swiftly in her chariot of gleaming silver, 
 and the slender crescent passed beyond the horizon as 
 the golden stars came forth to illuminate the heavens. 
 Myriads of little lights sparkled along the shore and 
 seemed to encircle the bay. We had rather a tedious 
 time getting ashore, as the passengers in the steerage 
 were allowed to disembark first. It was a pleasure, 
 however, to see their delight on touching native land 
 and to hear joyous greetings from their friends assem- 
 bled to welcome them home. 
 
 Our drive through the city and up on the heights 
 to Hotel Bristol gave us a glimpse of Naples by gas- 
 light, but we were too weary to linger on the way. 
 Nor did we converse long after our late but excellent 
 
 41
 
 42 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 dinner. The chaperon and I were assigned a hand- 
 some suite of rooms with tesselated floors, luxurious 
 mirrors, and fine old furniture. From our balcony 
 we looked down at this city of terraces, for Naples is 
 built on a hill rising as an amphitheater out of the 
 lovely bay. Sounds of merriment and snatches of song 
 floated on the air, and Naples reveled in midnight 
 festivities. 
 
 This morning I awoke much refreshed, but mysti- 
 fied by ruffles of unfamiliar lace on my sleeves. It 
 developed that last night I had unlocked the chap- 
 eron's suit-case, the one like mine and placed in my 
 room by mistake, and appropriated her night-dress 
 without knowing it. The comedy of the suit-cases 
 progresses. 
 
 It was my turn to laugh, and pay too, an hour later 
 when the chaperon and I sent a joint message by 
 cable to Little Rock. She had told her family that a 
 cablegram of less than two words would signify we 'd 
 had a rough passage and sea-sickness, however cheery 
 the one word might read. Her cipher cable was orig- 
 inal and unique. It was like keeping yourself well 
 and paying the doctor. Two words were cabled, and 
 Pandora's box was not opened in Arkansas by the 
 tidings from fortunate travelers. 
 
 We find beautiful Naples smiling, chattering, sing- 
 ing, and romping like a happy child, with no regret 
 for the past and small thought for the future. And 
 who can wonder, when her vine-clad hills, her olive 
 and lemon groves rejoice in abundance, and the Bay 
 of Naples is married to the Mediterranean Sea?
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 43 
 
 In the sunlight of to-day the Islands Capri and 
 Ischia glisten like gems on the bosom of the bay, and 
 the cruelty of Tiberius is forgotten. Nor far off 
 Mt. Vesuvius keeps silent vigil, and no one expects 
 a repetition of his wrathful vengeance upon a pleasure- 
 loving people. Picturesque old castles crown the hills, 
 but their watch-towers are deserted and their crum- 
 bling ramparts are covered with vines and flowers. 
 We are in the land of poetry, music, and laughter, and 
 even the beggars are happy for centissime. And, by 
 the way, I do not see so many beggars as I expected 
 to find here. Nor do I see so many beautiful faces, 
 though there is a pleasing cheerfulness in almost every 
 countenance. 
 
 The cab-drivers call out to one another in sharp 
 tones and approach with menacing gesture, but on meet- 
 ing they burst into laughter and are the best of friends. 
 A cab may be had for two lire (forty cents) an hour, 
 and charming roads lead in every direction. 
 
 The Province of Naples was originally dominated 
 by a Greek colony, but it has been seized and subdued 
 successively by the Roman, Norman, German, French, 
 and Spanish peoples; since 1S61 it has belonged to the 
 Kingdom of Italy. Naples has been the favorite place 
 of residence of Roman emperors and the nobility of 
 Italy, and it is now her largest city, with a population 
 of more than 600,000. The Via Roma here is said 
 to be the most densely populated street in Europe. 
 The climate is bracing and, since pure water is brought 
 from a spring in the hills thirty miles away, it is no 
 longer good form to "see Naples and die." There
 
 44 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 are three hundred churches here, and some of them are 
 richly embellished with paintings, mosaics, and fres- 
 coes. The museum and art galleries contain many 
 treasures, including gems of the Etruscan and Greek 
 periods, bronzes from Herculaneum and Pompeii, and 
 the celebrated Farnese sculptures. Colossal statues of 
 marble adorn the exterior of the royal palaces, and by 
 their court costumes the Norseman, the Crusader, and 
 many stern rulers are readily recognized. The Mar- 
 gherita Villa, situated on the summit of the hill, has 
 graceful towers and turrets, and the high wall is 
 adorned with jardinieres filled with scarlet carnations 
 at present. 
 
 This afternoon Miss H and I drove around 
 
 the city, and we met the finely-appointed equipages 
 of noble ladies, handsomely gowned for their fashion- 
 able afternoon pastime. We went into the imposing St. 
 Francis Cathedral and saw fine pictures in mosaics and 
 much ornate woodwork in chapels and elsewhere. Reli- 
 gious services were being held in one of the chapels, and 
 we lingered there a few moments in silence. We went 
 into a few shops and saw lovely cameos, corals, and 
 tortoise-shell ornaments. This is said to be the best 
 
 place in Europe to buy cameos. Miss H bought 
 
 several pairs of very cheap kid gloves from a manu- 
 facturer she patronized on a former tour of Europe, 
 and I selected a pair which fitted fairly well and cost 
 only thirty-five cents. Before we reached the hotel 
 my gloves had stretched a size too large, and they are 
 stretching still. 
 
 The markets are filled with flowers, and boys and
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 45 
 
 girls ran after us with bouquets of jasmine blossoms, 
 Parma violets, and exquisite roses like the Marechal 
 Niel with a trace of coral in its petals. The diminu- 
 tive donkey of the French fable is here, but his pros- 
 pect of a friendly lift has been indefinitely postponed. 
 He is either hitched to the family cart crowded with 
 children, or is almost smothered between two great 
 panniers filled with fruits and vegetables for the mar- 
 ket, with now and then a baby thrown on top for a 
 ride. 
 
 It is easy to learn Italian money, but the abbre- 
 viations used in bills are a little confusing at first. 
 A charge of "25 cts. un Oeuf" seemed an exorbitant 
 price for the one egg ordered at breakfast this morn- 
 ing, but it proved to be just five cents of our good 
 money. In Italy "cts." stands for centissime, five of 
 which are equivalent to our penny. Our continental 
 breakfast of rolls with butter and coffee is supple- 
 mented with honey fit for the gods. Of course the 
 rolls are cold, but they are crisp and good. For 
 luncheon and dinner we have a variety of good things, 
 and the fine figs, the immense cherries (red and pink 
 like corals), and golden apricots are beyond compare. 
 
 The little "lift" or elevator in this hotel is a useful 
 modern innovation slipped in the wall of the grand 
 marble stairway. It comes up empty and always seems 
 to know when and where to stop. It would be inter- 
 esting to see what would happen if a passenger changed 
 her mind and wished to go higher instead of lower, 
 but there is no time for experiments and the secret 
 of the little elevator's sagacity is safe.
 
 46 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 CAPRI. 
 
 The pleasure in our excursion to Capri surpassed 
 all expectation. The succession of charming pastoral 
 scenes skirting the Bay of Naples recalled idyls of the 
 poets of old. This is the land of the goatherd with 
 capering flocks and the shepherdess of snow-white 
 sheep. Hercules and Omphale are making love to 
 each other to-day. She is knitting as he gazes into her 
 face, and their flocks browse together contentedly 
 among the moss-covered rocks. 
 
 Our little steamer went merrily ; it was the Reg'ina 
 Elena, named for Italy's beautiful queen, the beloved 
 wife of King Victor Emmanuel. Our enjoyment of 
 that rare day was heightened by music and melody 
 from a quintet of Italians on the steamer who per- 
 formed well on guitar and violin and three of them 
 sang almost divinely. We passed Sorrento, the birth- 
 place of the poet Tasso, and not far off was Posilippo, 
 where Virgil's tomb is sacredly guarded. 
 
 Sorrento is a favorite summer resort of the Ital- 
 ians, and is much frequented in winter by English and 
 American visitors. The villas, Oriental in architecture 
 and colorings, seem to rest upon houses cut in the 
 stone below. Anyhow, there are doors, windows, and 
 balconies cut into these soft stone cliffs, and private 
 stairways lead down to the bathing grounds along the 
 bay. The little bath-houses are fantastic in red and 
 yellow stripes; they stand on stilts, as if to avoid get- 
 ting wet feet. 
 
 Our first stop was at the famous Blue Grotto,
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 47 
 
 which we entered in tiny rowboats, bowing our heads 
 until safely through the narrow and low entrance to 
 the cavern. The lofty, vaulted ceiling was even 
 brighter than the intensely blue waters below, and it 
 was a weird place by torchlight, especially when the 
 almost naked boy dived to show his silvery form and 
 to pick up the bits of coin thrown by the spectators 
 from the boats. The Blue Grotto is certainly very 
 wonderful, for it is painted by nature's hand with her 
 own cobalt. 
 
 The island Capri is rugged and rocky, but it is 
 clothed in verdure fair. Capri and Anacapri are the 
 quaint villages of flat-roofed houses, white, buff, and 
 pink on the summit of the island. Roads cut in the 
 stone by the Romans are still used, and our drive up 
 to Excelsior Park Hotel was very interesting. Our 
 carriage horses were decorated with red pompons, and 
 two of them had long pheasant feathers in their head- 
 gear. Plants clinging to the overhanging walls hid 
 their roots in crevices covered with dainty foliage and 
 purple blossoms, and red poppies bloomed all along the 
 way. We passed little shrines cut in these walls of 
 soft stone, and invariably flowers had been recently 
 laid at the feet of the Virgin and Child. One shrine 
 near the quay at Naples is under the boat-shed and 
 enclosed with a tall iron fence, yet vines are flourishing 
 and flowers are blooming around the Madonna and 
 Child in this tiny spot. The spirit of worship is here. 
 
 On the Island Capri the groves of fig, lemon, and 
 olive trees are luxuriant, and the grace of the vine- 
 yards is enchanting. The garlands of vine and ten-
 
 48 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 dril and their clusters of shining grapes are divinely 
 fashioned. Here is inspiration for painter and sculptor 
 and poet. If the vintage time is more beautiful than 
 summer, Bacchus has reason to revel in the glories of 
 autumn. 
 
 We passed a very ancient church surrounded by 
 crumbling tombs, and many names and dates of his- 
 toric interest were chiseled on the walls of enclosure, 
 built centuries ago. At the hotel we were welcomed 
 by smiling women and girls with corals and cameos 
 for sale, and even their wares were picturesque. The 
 strings of tiny pink, pearl-shaped corals suggested dim- 
 pled babyhood. The delicate white ones reminded us 
 of the treasures said to exist in fairyland. The very 
 jagged scarlet necklaces might have been worn by the 
 Furies of ancient times. 
 
 Our luncheon was served in the garden under a 
 canopy, to soften the rays of the midday sun, and from 
 there we had fine views of the Bay of Naples and its 
 beautiful isles. Traces of the twelve villas of the 
 cruel Tiberius were pointed out, also the precipice over 
 which the victims of his wrath were hurled into the 
 sea. The watchful Mt. Vesuvius loomed up in the 
 distance, a soft white cloud ever resting upon his 
 scarred brow. 
 
 We were ready for luncheon, and the bread and 
 butter, sardines, and other relishes on the tables were 
 quickly disposed of, and, as a picnic feast seemed 
 
 appropriate for gardens and terraces, Mr. M had 
 
 these dishes replenished. The second installment of 
 "relishes" had about vanished when the soup was
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 49 
 
 brought in, and a hot luncheon of several courses was 
 served. The repast ended with green-gage plums, cher- 
 ries, apricots, and green almonds, ripe but not dried 
 yet. We walked about the gardens, tried to guess 
 whom the old statuary represented, and suddenly dis- 
 covered steps cut into the stone leading to an old palace 
 above our hotel. But for time wasted on "relishes" 
 we might have ascended the hidden stairway and ex- 
 plored this ruin of ancient grandeur. Pictures of 
 beautiful Capri, laved by the laughing waters and 
 luxuriating in eternal sunshine, will hang in memory's 
 hall through the years to come. My souvenirs of the 
 day are a tiny pink cameo for a cravat pin, a string 
 of dimpled coral, and a tortoise-shell guitar inlaid with 
 mother-of-pearl, though, being less than five inches 
 long, it did not cost a small fortune. 
 
 On our return to Naples we walked from the quay 
 up into the city, and we saw an old woman on the 
 street in charge of a dozen little boys and girls; she 
 had a whip in her hand, and several of the children 
 were tied together with a stout cord. As we ap- 
 proached the half-starved hag cracked the long whip, 
 thrust her bony hand into our faces, and instantly the 
 children became whining beggars, besetting us on every 
 side. This medieval institution, and really a school 
 for crime, contrasted strangely with the first Ameri- 
 can day-nursery I ever saw, when down in the grove 
 black "Mammy Mandy" took care of the babies and 
 little children of father's slaves who worked in the 
 fields at "Carrollton." Those black pickaninnies of 
 the Southern plantation jumped and jabbered as they 
 4
 
 50 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 played under the trees all day; but these miserable 
 Italian children looked as though they had never 
 laughed nor had enough to eat in their lives. This 
 is the one sad picture I shall carry from Naples, and 
 I only hope there is not such another woeful group 
 in Italy to-day. 
 
 July 4, 1908. 
 
 POMPEII, THE BURIED CITY. 
 
 To-day we went to Pompeii and glanced back 
 through more than eighteen centuries. The horror 
 of the destruction of Pompeii by the eruption of Mt. 
 Vesuvius, A. D. 79, in the reign of Titus, is lost sight 
 of in the search for historical antiquities. Science is 
 cold and heartless, but the excavations and explora- 
 tions, mainly by Englishmen, have been conducted as 
 cautiously as possible. The sand or lava from the 
 volcano, which seemed to bury Pompeii beyond the 
 recall of men, really preserved it for the study of 
 generations to come centuries later. That men of 
 these days, in the interest of science, should have per- 
 sisted until the buried city was located and its treasures 
 unearthed seems most wonderful of all to me. 
 
 Evidences of the terrors and the horrors of the 
 catastrophe are preserved in the museum, and the skel- 
 etons of several human beings and domestic animals 
 seem to writhe in never-ending agony. We did not 
 linger there, nor did we desire a crumb of the burnt 
 and blackened bread which was taken from the broken 
 ovens of 79 A. D. Comparatively speaking, only a
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 51 
 
 few men and women perished that awful day, but 
 enougli lives were lost to lengthen the shadow of dis- 
 aster athwart the history of the world. 
 
 Dr. Henry M. Field says the plain narrative of 
 the destruction of Pompeii by Pliny is as terrible as 
 the imagination of Bulwer or any man could picture 
 it. And no wonder, for Pliny not only witnessed the 
 great catastrophe, but his heart was torn with grief 
 in the death of his uncle, the elder Pliny, who per- 
 ished in the effort to gain close observation of the 
 volcano in eruption. 
 
 We walked the streets of Pompeii, paved with 
 slabs of prehistoric lava, and saw the ruts worn by the 
 wheels of Roman chariots more than 2,000 years ago. 
 In these silent and desolate thoroughfares, ruin and 
 disaster cling to each other. The lofty marble pillars 
 of temple and forum, statuary in the gardens, and 
 frescoes on palace walls record the days of delight and 
 luxury. The industries, graces, and beauties of this 
 ancient city of Greco-Roman culture are revealed to- 
 day by the stately ruins of Pompeii. We walked 
 through the roofless ruins of shops, dwellings, palaces, 
 theaters, forums, and temples, and one might easily 
 get lost in this labyrinth of ruins. Our guide pointed 
 out what had been the most important public build- 
 ings, which were grouped around the Forum, the 
 principal market-place of the city. Many of the 
 famous structures have been identified by the massive 
 pillars and Corinthian capitals and the fluted columns, 
 which are broken but yet grand and imposing. An 
 inscription in the pavement designates the Temple of
 
 52 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 Apollo, and a marble bust found within its walls 
 identifies the Temple of Jupiter. 
 
 Near the Triangular Forum are two theaters and 
 the gymnasium of the gladiators, but mirth and ap- 
 plause died with the pleasure-seekers. The splendid 
 baths of marble, richly ornamented with the Numidian 
 lion and other figures in bas-relief, were once the pride 
 of Pompeii's luxurious men. The chemist's shop is 
 recognized by the painted serpent on the wall, and a 
 bit of dainty sculpture (the marble now the color of 
 ivory) adorns the doorway to the sculptor's roofless 
 studio. Here is an old restaurant where the viands 
 were kept hot by fires under the stone counter from 
 which they were served, and in another one the maca- 
 roni pot and gridiron have rested upon dead embers 
 through these centuries. Great wine jars are standing 
 in the cellars; here are the stones once used for grind- 
 ing grain, and lead pipes, all twisted and warped, 
 indicate a system of waterworks. 
 
 The dwellings, of Oriental architecture, were built 
 around open courts, and their rooms were adorned 
 with frescoes, paintings, statuettes, and small fountains 
 of delicate perfumes. The House of the Vettii has 
 been roofed and preserved as it was originally, and the 
 mythological and allegorical scenes painted on the red 
 walls are still interesting and beautiful. In a banquet 
 hall we noticed a painting of Hercules strangling the 
 serpent ; while in another the frieze represents in a 
 series of pictures the "Amorini,'' graceful in sport and 
 often at work, very unlike our traditional Cupid, who 
 toils not, neither does he spin. These winged Amorini
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 53 
 
 are in groups, playing games or intent on occupations 
 of domestic life. They are starting out to war with 
 shields and spears, mounted on capering goats. They 
 are racing in chariots drawn by stags, and the chariot- 
 eers urge their steeds to greater speed. These beauti- 
 ful Amorini are pounding herbs in a mortar, perhaps 
 making love-philters. They are even making money, 
 smelting the metal, hammering it on anvils, and weigh- 
 ing the coin in the scales. They are celebrating the 
 festival of flowers, and are gathering grapes for the 
 vintage. They have kindled the fire on an altar to 
 offer sacrifice to Fortuna. These frescoes and friezes 
 are charming, but the banquet halls are deserted and 
 the footfall of the descendants of strangers alone re- 
 sounds in the House of the Vettii. 
 
 Here are gardens with marble seats, statuary, and 
 fountains, but the seats are vacant, the statuary is 
 broken, and the fountains will never play again. No 
 sound of merriment is heard in the theater, and the 
 gymnasium is as still as the grave. The basillica for 
 the administration of justice is dismantled and over- 
 thrown; the pillars of the temple are crumbling, and 
 no worshiper is there ; the eloquence of the Forum 
 is hushed forever; the market-place is desolate. Yet 
 there is no disorder in the streets of Pompeii. The 
 stillness of the tomb broods over it, but the comforting 
 aspect of a cemetery is lacking, for these crumbling 
 columns tell of life's fitful fever ended by direful catas- 
 trophe. Man's delight in things temporal is recorded 
 here. The curtain has been lifted from the past that 
 the present may take heed for the future. The echo
 
 54 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 of the stately ruins, "All is vanity," was spoken by 
 the preacher of all ages. The uncertainty of life is 
 impressed by the scene, and it is a consolation to think 
 of the rest that remaineth for the people of God. 
 
 We will love to recall Nature's kindly smile upon 
 the stately ruins of Pompeii. Scarlet poppies and 
 morning-glories, blue and white and pink, bloomed 
 along the deserted streets, and exquisite ferns peeped 
 from crevices under shattered doorways. Not far off 
 Mt. Vesuvius lifted his face to the sunny skies, obliv- 
 ious of all calamity, and the soft white cloud encircled 
 his scarred but noble brow. I thought I saw faint 
 smoke ascend as incense to the heavens, but Miss 
 H said it was only a passing cloud. 
 
 An hour's ride by electric train brought us back 
 to Naples, and it was good to come into this beautiful 
 city of life, laughter, and song. In Pompeii we met 
 Mr. and Mrs. B , fellow passengers of the Sla- 
 vonics, and her pedometer will probably record millions 
 of steps taken and thousands of miles walked before 
 they sail homeward in August. 
 
 The other party of Southerners, our good friends 
 of the Slavonia, are stopping in this hotel, and to-day 
 the Old Gentleman has worn a tiny American flag as a 
 boutonniere. He regrets not being able to celebrate 
 the Fourth of July, but says he "would n't have done 
 this much in England," as he has a great respect and 
 admiration for our vanquished foe of former days. 
 
 On our drive yesterday we saw a tall, slender 
 figure disappear around a corner, and verily it was
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 55 
 
 Mr. Granddaddy Longlegs, still gesticulating as he 
 passed through the streets of Naples. 
 
 I have resurrected a few French phrases which 
 proved useful, and these foreigners are too polite to 
 smile at my absurd mispronunciation. 
 
 At half-past six o'clock this evening we will leave 
 for Rome.
 
 ROME 
 
 A Day of Rest — St. Peter's Cathedral — 
 Pilgrims and Protestants See the Pope — 
 Monuments, Museums, and Memorials — 
 Churches, Crypts, and Cemeteries — Pal- 
 aces and Prisons. 
 
 Sunday, June 5, 1908. 
 
 A DAY OF REST IN ROME. 
 
 We left Naples yesterday afternoon, and the 
 charm of that beautiful city, set upon a hill, abides 
 with us. With queenly grace and smile of joyous 
 possession she looked down upon the Bay of Naples, 
 which glistened like rubies, pearls, and amethysts in 
 the sunset glow. In the distance Capri and Ischia, 
 islands of enchantment, gleamed in the golden splendor 
 of the evening light. The ruby tints of the skies 
 brightened the soft white cloud encircling the scarred 
 brow of Mt. Vesuvius, that monarch always serene 
 and majestic despite his robe of sackcloth and ashes. 
 The glories of the sunset faded away, and the shimmer 
 of moonlight transformed the earth and added mystery 
 to its beauty. 
 
 As is the custom of Europe, we were shut up in 
 compartments of the train, and our suit-cases and 
 
 56
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 57 
 
 satchels were piled in racks over our heads — and we 
 hoped they would not take a tumble. 
 
 The first evidence of haste seen in Italy was on 
 this train when dinner was served. The macaroni was 
 really delicious, and the waiters were excusable for 
 being in a hurry to get their share. The dinner was 
 good throughout, but the toothsomeness of macaroni 
 over here passes belief. We Americans had a sociable 
 time in the dining-car, but the fine-looking Englishman 
 and his wife across the aisle ate to sustain life. They 
 exchanged glances occasionally and were heroic in their 
 silent endeavor to be prepared to fast all night. It was 
 nearly midnight when the old Roman acqueducts 
 loomed up before us and we entered the portals of the 
 Eternal City. 
 
 The Grand Hotel du Quirinal, located in a lovely 
 section of Rome, is complete and beautiful in its ap- 
 pointments and our rooms are bright and attractive. 
 I was waked early this morning by the birds singing 
 in their leafy tabernacles, and soon every housetop was 
 gilded, and trees, domes, columns, and spires glittered 
 in the light of a new day. A little later, in rich con- 
 tralto voice, the man sweeping the courtyard below 
 chanted a prayer in soft, sympathetic Italian. This 
 restful and lovely Sunday morning was a fore-gleam 
 of my first eventful day in Rome. The old proverb, 
 "Good news from a far country is like water to a 
 thirsty soul," proved true, and I was refreshed by 
 letters from home. 
 
 After breakfast (served in our rooms on the rest-
 
 58 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 day) I sauntered around the pretty garden of the 
 hotel, and was charmed to find white and pink olean- 
 ders, scarlet geraniums, crimson pelargoniums, and 
 other old favorites of the floral kingdom. The invit- 
 ing grotto of rocks, covered with ivy and always cool, 
 was enlivened by caged birds. The little canaries 
 sang happily in duets and choruses and rejoiced in the 
 protection of gilded cages. Two large blue birds, with 
 an occasional note of protest, flitted incessantly in their 
 cage and rebelled against imprisonment. They resem- 
 bled our jay birds, but were larger and darker in color, 
 with a touch of red on their wings. Possibly they 
 were burdened with neglect of duty, being unable to 
 carry weekly report of bad children to the "Ole Bad 
 Man" in regions below, as our old black mammies 
 in the South used to declare the jaybirds did every 
 Friday. 
 
 The first meeting-place of our party for the day 
 was at luncheon, and the enclosed menu will show you 
 that good things are set before us in this hotel. 
 
 Lunch a 12. 
 
 Omelette a. la Paysanne 
 
 Cote de Coeuf Provencale 
 
 Pommes Brioches 
 
 Viande froide a la gelee 
 
 Salade 
 
 Fromage & Beurre 
 
 Fruits & Dessert.
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 59 
 
 st. peter's cathedral. 
 
 This afternoon we attended service at St. Peter's 
 Cathedral, the approach to which somewhat prepared 
 us for the interior grandeur and magnificence of the 
 Cathedral. Circular colonnades, formed of four rows 
 of marble columns nearly fifty feet high, enclose the 
 area in front and lead up to the Cathedral. A mighty 
 Egyptian obelisk, said to be the oldest thing in Rome, 
 stands in the center of this open square, and it is good 
 to see this monumental relic of Paganism now bearing 
 aloft the Cross of Christ. On each side of the square 
 is a tall, graceful fountain, enwrapped in a magical 
 mist of rippling waters. The great Cathedral is awe- 
 inspiring. Its majestic dome pierces the clouds and is 
 a monument of marvelous beauty to the architect, 
 sculptor, and painter, Michael Angelo, who designed 
 it. This wonderful dome was not changed when his 
 Greek design for the Cathedral was lengthened into 
 a Latin cross. As we entered the circular colonnade 
 men and women ahead of us, ascending the Cathedral 
 steps, looked like children. Twenty-eight Popes 
 reigned during the building of St. Peter's, the largest 
 cathedral in the world, which required one hundred 
 and seventy-six years for its completion. The impres- 
 sion of vastness on entering the Cathedral is succeeded 
 by wonderment at the grandeur and gorgeousness 
 within. The immense pictures above the seven altars 
 are masterpieces of renowned painters copied in mo- 
 saics, of which "The Transfiguration," by Raphael, 
 is one of the most notable. The grand altar, under
 
 60 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 the towering dome, erected by Clement VIII, has a 
 canopy of bronze gilt made by Bernini, and supported 
 by spiral columns nearly one hundred feet high. In 
 front of the altar is the circular opening to the crypt, 
 with marble steps leading down to the tomb of St. 
 Peter. The walls of this crypt, veneered with lapis- 
 lazuli and other precious stones, are adorned with 
 pillars of alabaster, ornaments of silver set with jewels, 
 and lamps of burnished gold. In the niche over St. 
 Peter's tomb a gold cabinet of exquisite workmanship 
 holds the vestments which are worn by the reigning 
 Pope during jubilee celebrations. Opposite this niche 
 is a heroic statue of the Pope in robes and miter, cut 
 from one piece of fine and glistening white marble. 
 
 St. Peter's Cathedral seems many in one, as it is 
 divided by numerous pillars and arches, with niches 
 above for tombs and statuary. It is said that an army 
 of ten thousand men may stand in the transept and not 
 be seen by one entering the nave of the Cathedral. 
 
 Splendid statues of many Popes rest upon their 
 sarcophagi in the niches above the arches; and these, 
 as well as other groups of marble statuary, are master- 
 pieces of renowned sculptors. One of the grandest 
 monuments is that to Clement XIII, by Canova. It 
 represents the Pope at prayer, while Death stands on 
 one side holding a torch reversed, and on the other 
 Religion, with rapt countenance, leans confidently 
 upon the cross. The lions and angels by Canova are 
 justly celebrated. A very remarkable group, called 
 "Old Age and Youth," seemed almost too realistic to 
 be enjoyed by women; yet it is hard to even imagine
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 61 
 
 an old woman with pallid checks and sunken eyes 
 always gazing In the mirror held in her hand and for- 
 ever mourning her lost beauty, as this one is repre- 
 sented. Nor do I think any young woman entirely 
 self-sufficient and complacent, no matter how extraor- 
 dinary her beauty. The lineaments of these self- 
 absorbed, vain women were chiseled by a masterful 
 hand, which might have portrayed womanhood In 
 ecstasy of worship or sacrifice. 
 
 The notable group "La Pieta," by Michael Angelo, 
 represents the Virgin holding the dead Christ in her 
 arms. It Illustrates with sympathetic Imagination and 
 wonderful genius a mother's love and grief in the hour 
 of bereavement. Pope Pius VIII is represented as 
 kneeling with Christ and giving his benediction to St. 
 Peter and St. Paul, and the folds of his marble robes 
 appear almost as soft as velvet. 
 
 Judging from the labels, the confessionals of St. 
 Peter's are arranged to meet the needs of every one 
 who has a language. The famous and much-sought 
 statue of St. Peter represents him seated in a chair of 
 state, with his right hand lifted in benediction upon 
 his faithful followers. We saw devout women kissing 
 his favorite big bronze toe, which is getting thinner 
 every day; and one woman lifted her little son that 
 he might thus prove his devotion. We heard a part of 
 the service and some music, and saw a number of car- 
 dinals in goodly array. St. Peter's Cathedral has been 
 called Rome's living landmark of the past, and truly 
 It is a grand temple for the worship of the living God. 
 
 The Vatican, adjoining St. Peter's, looked to me
 
 62 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 like an immense pile of houses. We expect to go there 
 to-morrow morning, and I will try to tell you some- 
 thing about its treasures of art, though as you well 
 know I am neither connoisseur nor critic. It may be 
 that my chaperon and I shall have the pleasure of 
 
 seeing Pope Pius X. Bishop M gave W a 
 
 letter introducing us to Bishop F of the American 
 
 College in Rome, and we shall deliver it very soon. 
 
 This evening a party of American ladies started 
 from this hotel on a stroll, leaving their hats behind, 
 
 but Rev. Dr. E kindly sent a messenger to tell 
 
 them no lady goes out in Rome with uncovered head. 
 Needless to say they made hasty return. "All the 
 world 's a stage," and their reappearance brought forth 
 our applause. 
 
 The sunset glow of our first day in Rome lingered 
 long, and then the curtain of night, embroidered with 
 silver and gold, shut us in with bright memories and 
 hallowed thought of loved ones at home. 
 
 ROME OF TO-DAY. 
 
 The Rome of to-day is a prosperous and beautiful 
 capital city of handsome hotels, royal palaces, elegant 
 villas, magnificent cathedrals, and fine art galleries. 
 Flowers, fountains, and statuary add charm and grace 
 to the many private and public gardens of the city. 
 The storied ilex and graceful pepper trees adorn the 
 parks, and quiet nooks and broad avenues are shaded 
 by tall sycamores. The rejuvenation of Rome began 
 on September 20, 1870, when King Victor Emmanuel, 
 at the head of the Italian army, proclaimed a united
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 63 
 
 Italv. With the overthrow of Papal rule, the Court 
 was moved from Florence to Rome. Improvements 
 begun then have been continued, and halves of houses 
 now occupied show where narrow streets were widened 
 and crooked ones made straight. The excavation of 
 ancient Rome has been pursued scientifically and ener- 
 getically, and countless statues, bronzes, columns, gold 
 and silver coins have been unearthed and added to the 
 treasures of the museums for the delight of the anti- 
 quarian. Religious toleration now characterizes Rome, 
 and the Methodist, Baptist, and Presbyterian churches 
 are doing educational and evangelistic work in the city. 
 
 In the Parliament Flouse we saw fine portraits of 
 the late King Humbert and Queen Margherita, and 
 of King Victor Emmanuel and Queen Eleanor, the 
 honored regents of to-day. This was our nearest ap- 
 proach to a glimpse of royalty in Italy, as the Quirinal 
 Palace is deserted for the summer season. It was a 
 surprise to hear that Queen Eleanor is a Protestant, 
 and scarcely less so to learn that General Garibaldi's 
 daughter is teaching in a Protestant school under the 
 shadow of the Vatican. One of the very interesting 
 objects in the Parliament House was a picture of the 
 Capitol of the United States of America, and needless 
 to say, we saluted it with pleasure. 
 
 The market-places in Rome are interesting, and the 
 Italians' love of color is everywhere evident. One old 
 woman wore a blue skirt, yellow waist, and scarlet 
 velvet girdle ; and another one was knitting bright pur- 
 ple stockings. Even the horses hitched to wine-carts 
 sport brilliant colors, their knee pants, or aprons, being
 
 64 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 trimmed with scarlet bindings, balls, and tassels, and 
 their heads bedecked with red pompons. A little 
 watch-dog invariably rides behind the driver's unique 
 umbrella to guard the casks of wine. The artistic 
 temperament of the Italian is also in evidence every- 
 where and in the smallest concerns of life. One old 
 crone waved a twig of green leaves over little pyra- 
 mids of great red cherries, and an old man had his 
 stock of lemons arranged on leafy baskets under pretty 
 arches of cool foliage. 
 
 In the Ghetto, or former Jewish quarters, men 
 drew heavily-loaded carts of merchandise, and women 
 and children filled straw-covered bottles with water 
 from the hydrants, and they all looked needy. The 
 water of Rome is now considered pure and healthful, 
 and even the Campagna, over which it used to be said 
 a bird could not fly and survive, has been redeemed 
 by drainage of the lowland. One very attractive open- 
 air cafe, extending a block, was densely shaded by 
 mimosa trees in fluffy and sweet-scented bloom. The 
 tables were crowded with men, women, and children 
 taking light refreshment, and their voices were pleas- 
 ing, but the joyous smile so prevalent in Naples was 
 lacking. The shops in Rome are alluring with pic- 
 tures, statuary, brasses, bronzes, cameos, mosaics, and 
 many other beautiful and useful articles. The famous 
 Roman pearls offered here are more lustrous and more 
 durable than our white wax beads, but there was no 
 occasion to see if they would dissolve in vinegar or 
 
 wine. 
 
 Nearly every lady in our party purchased one or
 
 / 
 
 H 
 
 - 
 
 - 
 
 a
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 65 
 
 more of the famous Roman silk blankets and Roman 
 sashes of lovely and rare colorings. The Old Lady se- 
 lected for her husband a blanket with stripes of the 
 rich red, blue and yellow colors of the Vatican Guards. 
 
 Signora B bought soap in a drug store, and 
 
 the silver coin returned in change was declared "false 
 money" by the picture dealer nearby. He said the 
 druggist would be imprisoned if the fraud were re- 
 ported to the city officials. All along the little Bride- 
 to-be is gathering exquisite articles for the wedding 
 trousseau, and from here several of us will express 
 things to London, where our trunks await us. 
 
 These Italians know good American money, and 
 they are learning the English language, though they 
 express themselves somewhat picturesquely. The con- 
 cierge at our hotel said our cloaks were stored away 
 in the "magazine," and that the bus had made one 
 "voyage" to the station. The bright little boys who 
 elevate the "lift" and land us upstairs in the hotel are 
 trying to teach us Italian, but we progress slowly and 
 not surely. 
 
 One of our beautiful drives under tall sycamore 
 trees and winding through gardens with flowers, foun- 
 tains, shrubbery, and sago palms carried us to the sum- 
 mit of Janiculum Hill, one of the seven historic hills 
 of Rome within the walls of the ancient city. An old 
 church stands on the lofty site once occupied by a 
 temple to Janus, the wise god who looked backward 
 and forward at the same time. From this eminence 
 we had a fine view of the city and the surrounding 
 country, with all roads leading into Rome. In the 
 5
 
 66 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 distance we saw residences of the French ambassador; 
 of Marconi, the inventor of wireless telegraphy ; and 
 of other distinguished men; and not far off, a bronze 
 statue of General Garibaldi, with groups of sculpture 
 around its base — one of which represented America. 
 The American eagle has no fear of the she-wolf here 
 or elsewhere, and they are often grouped together. In 
 another direction a heroic marble statue of Garibaldi 
 graced the center of a garden encircled with marble 
 busts of patriots and statesmen honored by Italy. 
 
 As the fortress-castle San Angelo on the banks of 
 the yellow Tiber is reflected in the still waters, a 
 lovely picture delights the eye, and we would fain 
 forget the old scenes of horror enacted within its walls. 
 It was originally built by Hadrian for the tomb of 
 emperors, and it was enriched with rare treasures of 
 art. The ashes of Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius en- 
 tombed here were scattered to the winds, and the splen- 
 did structure became a prison, in which Beatrice 
 Cenci, Benvenuto Cellini, and other historic per- 
 sonages were imprisoned and tortured. Too often the 
 grandeur of old Rome was stained with blood, and we 
 are thankful the prosperous Rome of to-day is tolerant 
 and even friendly towards the many men of many 
 minds who come here. 
 
 July 7, 1908. 
 
 PILGRIMS AND PROTESTANTS SEE THE POPE. 
 
 We Ve seen the pope, and he seemed to see us. 
 We even exchanged glances with him, and his gentle- 
 ness impressed us more than his greatness. Yesterday
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 67 
 
 afternoon my chaperon and I called at the American 
 
 College and, not finding Bishop F , left our letter 
 
 of introduction for him. A few hours later he tele- 
 phoned us to come to the college this morning, pre- 
 pared for attendance upon an audience with Pope 
 Pius X. We were not provided with the prescribed 
 costumes of black, but a silk waist borrowed from 
 IVUss K supplied my partial need, and the chap- 
 eron looked quite stately and impressive robed in a 
 trailing dinner gown, as she walked into the breakfast- 
 room. Her long gloves and the veil folded over the 
 transparent yoke toned down the festive attire, and we 
 left the hotel with expectations and anticipations as 
 well as congratulations from several of the friends, 
 who would have been pleased to accompany us if only 
 
 my letter had been less specific. Bishop F met 
 
 us cordially, and we were agreeably surprised to learn 
 that he once lived in Arkansas. It was not necessary 
 to present the note of primary French phrases Ave had 
 carried in the event of a colloquial dead-lock. I was 
 glad of that, as I had written it. Here again are 
 cape jasmines, oleanders, and other flowering plants, 
 which brighten the courtyard of the college, and 
 Bishop F said only a calacanthus shrub, with red- 
 brown spicy blossoms, is needed to complete the illusion 
 of the other Sunny South, his native land and ours 
 across the sea. We were requested to wait a little 
 while for several Pennsylvania ladies who desired 
 
 to accompany us to the Vatican. Bishop K 
 
 gave us a letter to be presented at the Vatican, and 
 my chaperon, "Signora B ," was the designated
 
 68 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 guardian for this party of pilgrims and Protestants. 
 She became more impressive with this honor, but de- 
 clared it was the lace mantilla on her head which made 
 her feel like a scion of old Italian nobility. 
 
 When we reached the Vatican the Pennsylvania 
 pilgrims asked permission to supply themselves with 
 rosaries to be blessed by the pope. The Alabama aris- 
 tocrat assented; the noble signora smiled with queenly 
 grace; a special dispensation was granted by her with 
 the dignity suggestive of papal authority. The two 
 young pilgrims murmured thanks, and regardless of the 
 blazing, burning sunshine sped swiftly across the square 
 to a shop filled with things ecclesiastical. 
 
 As we waited in the grateful shade of the grand 
 colonnade of massive marble columns, the worldly- 
 minded among us tried to make a mental sketch of the 
 gorgeous uniform worn by the Swiss Guards of the 
 Vatican. Michael Angelo designed this uniform, and 
 he must have done so in an hour when cold marble re- 
 fused to breathe under the stroke of his magical chisel. 
 Here he reached Alpine heights in color and wove 
 the brilliant hues of sunset into cloth. The coat and 
 bloomers of rich red cloth shine through the slashed 
 costume of dark-blue over them, and which is trimmed 
 with orange-yellow bands. 
 
 The mental sketch was barely begun when the 
 young pilgrims returned almost loaded down with ro- 
 saries, having bought the old shop-keeper's entire stock. 
 They regretted there were not more to buy, and none 
 
 more costly, but kindly let Signora B and me 
 
 have two rosaries each for souvenirs of the day. The
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 69 
 
 pilgrims must have been shocked to discover that 
 
 Signora B was not the devout Romanist she 
 
 looked, and merely a pretender before the papal throne 
 of Italy. 
 
 The great bronze doors of the Vatican palace 
 opened upon a grand marble stairway, and we climbed 
 marble flights and walked through marble halls until 
 acquaintance ripened into friendship. The pilgrims 
 from the North and the Protestants from the South 
 forgot the "Mason and Dixon line." In spirit we all 
 went back to America and peeped into the brightest 
 and happiest homes on earth. We congratulated our- 
 selves on belonging to the land of liberty, progress, and 
 power. They did not count us heretics, nor did we 
 consider them idolaters. We were sisters in Christ, 
 and our hearts throbbed in sympathy with God's chil- 
 dren throughout the universe. 
 
 We were a little fatigued, but were refreshed by 
 the journey along the marble stairways, from which we 
 were ushered into the throne-room of the papal palace 
 by attendants who wore a rich uniform of cardinal-red 
 satin with gilt trimmings and lace ruffles. 
 
 A gold crucifix was in one end of this spacious 
 room, or hall, and immense and exquisite tapestry-pic- 
 tures adorned its walls. "With the exception of those 
 who represented various orders of Roman Catholicism, 
 every one in the goodly company wore garments of 
 black. There were men and women of various na- 
 tionalities and from every walk of life, and solemn- 
 looking monks, nuns of gentle mien, and children with 
 the joy of life shining in their faces. The group that
 
 70 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 interested me most were young Irish women, whose 
 bright faces were barely concealed by the hoods to 
 their somber brown gowns and cloaks. 
 
 From the throne-room we were escorted by the 
 papal guard into other beautiful rooms, and soon the 
 appearance of the papal nuncio, the pope's secretary, 
 clad in cardinal robes, signified the approach of Pope 
 Pius X. He was clad in soft white raiment, and his 
 marvelously sympathetic voice gave us understanding 
 of the blessing pronounced in unknown tongue as the 
 company knelt around the room. We Protestants be- 
 lieve no living man infallible, but with the pilgrims 
 we were comforted by the blessing of a priest of God. 
 We felt it a privilege to look into the face of the 
 temporal head of the Roman Catholic Church, which 
 has preserved Christianity through these centuries. 
 
 This short ceremony ended, and then one of the 
 pilgrims and a Protestant crept into the adjoining room 
 and saw the presentation of fine vestments to the pope 
 by two ladies and two little girls who carried the 
 precious gift. They were accompanied by a large 
 number of their associates, all of whom wore white 
 muslins with broad blue bands across the shoulder, evi- 
 dently the uniform of some school. The ladies spoke 
 fluently in Italian, and the pope's grateful response 
 sounded eloquent. The weary expression left his face, 
 and his benign countenance was full of serenity and 
 dignity. His life has been one of sacrifice and labor 
 for humanity, and he was greatly beloved in Venice, 
 his former parish, whence he was called to become 
 first in the heart of the whole Roman Catholic Church.
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 71 
 
 Pope Pius X is a man of integrity, and is esteemed 
 by men of all nations. 
 
 A clergyman of the Church of England told me 
 this incident, and I can well believe it: A devout 
 Roman Catholic, grieved because her sister had be- 
 come a Protestant, sought sympathy and advice in an 
 interview with Pope Pius X. He listened kindly, and 
 then asked her, "Does your sister love Christ, our 
 Lord ?" The woman replied in the affirmative. 
 "Then," said the pope, "you need have no fear; for 
 all is well with your sister if she loves Christ." 
 
 When we returned to the Hotel du Quirinal our 
 friends were at luncheon, and Signora B trium- 
 phantly entered the dining-room wearing her lace man- 
 tilla, the trailing dinner-gown, and the half dozen rosa- 
 ries which had been blessed by the pope. An attache 
 of the hotel had asked her to carry a rosary for a friend 
 of his, that it might come under the all-inclusive bless- 
 ing of the pope, saying the little package need not be 
 opened. With womanly desire to do things well, she 
 opened it to slip the rosary upon her wrist, and found 
 the package contained several very pretty rosaries in- 
 stead of one. It is possible, if not probable, these 
 rosaries were afterwards sold for a good price to guests 
 at the hotel. 
 
 MONUMENTS, MUSEUMS, AND MEMORIALS. 
 
 Of the magnificent monuments, many museums, 
 and millions of memorials in Rome I can mention only 
 a few and describe none. 
 
 In the miles and miles of paintings, sculpture, and
 
 72 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 statuary in the museums, everything historical, alle- 
 gorical, and mythological is represented, though the 
 presentation of sacred subjects predominates in the 
 picture galleries. Some of the statues appear to have 
 been made before the fall of man or ever a rib was 
 taken from his side. More than once I 've thought 
 of the little girl in Arkansas who came into her grand- 
 mother's parlor and, holding up her doll with not a 
 stitch of clothing on, said to the company, "My poor 
 doll is barefooted." And sometimes I 've been re- 
 minded of the little boy in Virginia who escaped from 
 the bath-tub and his old black "mammy," and overtook 
 his mother as she welcomed her guests for the day in 
 the sunny walk hedged with roses. 
 
 When the innocence of these blessed babies is lack- 
 ing it is well for barefooted dolls and fugitives from 
 the bath to remain in museums, even though they be 
 graceful and beautiful, embodying the ideal of genius. 
 
 Sometimes the devotion of the child-mother plead- 
 ing for her doll and the joy of the mischievous little 
 boy on catching his mother are seen in the statues and 
 the cold marble is glorified. The chisel in an inspired 
 hand may lead mortal man to heavenly heights. 
 There 's an angel in the block of stone for the divinely- 
 inspired sculptor, and so it is a benediction to stand in 
 the presence of some of these statues so full of spiritual 
 strength and beauty. 
 
 The Vatican, the papal palace, is said to contain 
 eleven thousand rooms, museums, chapels, and galleries. 
 It is the treasure-house of art, for there we saw with 
 delight, though unsatisfying haste, masterpieces in
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 73 
 
 sculpture and painting by Phidias, Praxiteles, Canova, 
 Michael Angelo, Raphael, and other world-famous 
 artists. "The Transfiguration," by Raphael, is called 
 the greatest painting in the world, and one may well 
 believe it, for its matchless beauty tells of inspiration 
 in holy thought. The "Last Judgment," by Michael 
 Angelo, on the altar-wall of the Sistine Chapel, is no 
 less renowned; and it too is almost overpowering in 
 its sweep of imagination and boldness of execution. 
 There are hundreds of figures in the picture — angels 
 ascending, demons descending, the dead rising to be 
 judged, and the Virgin is looking away as the wicked 
 ones receive their condemnation. The guide pointed 
 out a demon whose face is said to be the likeness of a 
 cardinal hated and thus reviled by Michael Angelo. 
 The story is that the cardinal appealed to the pope to 
 have this likeness blotted out, and that the pope said 
 he might have been recalled from purgatory, but that 
 Michael Angelo had consigned him to the infernal re- 
 gions, from which there is no escape. 
 
 Again Michael Angelo's marvelous genius is 
 shown in the frescoes in the ceiling of Sistine Chapel 
 which represent scenes from Bible history. The "Cre- 
 ation of the World" is followed by "Creation of 
 Adam," "Creation of Eve," the "Expulsion from Para- 
 dise," "Sacrifice of Cain and Abel," and the "Deluge." 
 
 As the titanic Eve springs from the side of the 
 slumbering Adam, she appears to be physically equal to 
 any man that lives; and that she forged ahead in the 
 acquirement of knowledge is rarely questioned. 
 Around the ceiling are the figures of seven prophets,
 
 74 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 and five sibyls intently reading books or scrolls; also 
 scenes representing deliverances that came to the chil- 
 dren of Israel: Judith with the head of Holofernes, 
 David slaying Goliath, and other historical events. 
 These fine frescoes are seen to best advantage by con- 
 noisseurs who lie on the floor and gaze upwards 
 through opera-glasses. My respect for hardwood floors 
 and the accustomed dignity of the chaperon reconciled 
 us to the second-best view from a comfortable seat in 
 the chapel. 
 
 It is a pleasure to recall the fact that the stern, 
 upright Michael Angelo, always in conflict with the 
 world, at last found happiness in the companionship 
 of the pure and lovely Vittoria Colonna of noble birth 
 and character. The guide reminded us this greatest 
 genius was born in the fifteenth century — "the golden 
 century, because America was discovered in it," he 
 added. 
 
 Nearly every painter of renown has portrayed the 
 Madonna and Holy Family, and many of these paint- 
 ings are very beautiful, though in varying degree. 
 The Madonnas by Raphael are surpassingly beautiful, 
 with a serenity of repose and countenance beatific that 
 uplifts the beholder. 
 
 The Coronation of the Virgin is a favorite and 
 very beautiful conception of the old masters. Flowers, 
 usually lilies, spring up in the empty tomb, while in 
 the clouds the Virgin receives the crown of life from 
 her Divine Son and Redeemer. 
 
 In the halls of sculpture the statue of Apollo Bel- 
 vedere stands alone, with the glow of exaltation in his
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 75 
 
 face. Canova's Perseus is scarcely less beautiful, but 
 his face is cold and his body is rigid as he views the 
 Gorgon head held aloft in his hand. The Boxers, by 
 Canova, seem to breathe, and every muscle is tense 
 as they face each other. One is terrible in brute force, 
 but the lithe one is alert and may parry the blow of 
 his antagonist. I did not care to see the combat begin. 
 Nothing can be more terrible than the Laocoon group. 
 The agony in the father's face is indescribable as his 
 body is distorted in the death-struggle against the ser- 
 pents coiling around him and his sons. "Father Nile, 
 half reclining on an Egyptian sphinx, is kept awake by 
 more than a dozen healthy youths who play around and 
 climb upon his colossal frame to their heart's content, 
 typifying the fertility of the soil overflowed by the 
 River Nile. The statue of Minerva by Phidias is 
 stately and graceful. The Muses by Praxiteles are 
 charming, and the Venus of his school is extraordina- 
 rily graceful and beautiful. 
 
 Portraits and statues of emperors, generals, schol- 
 ars, prelates, and citizens are lifelike and interesting. 
 The statue of Seneca is fine and of noble mien. In 
 one hand he holds the little vessel to catch the trickling 
 blood when he died the honorable death of a Roman 
 statesman. I saw no memorial to Seneca's wife, who 
 tried to follow him into the mysterious land of Death, 
 and whose pallid countenance ever after proclaimed 
 her devotion as well as her defeat in life. A bust of 
 Plotina, the wife of Trajan, and the sarcophagus of 
 Eleanor, the mother of Constantine, are two of the 
 many memorials to women.
 
 76 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 Here are mosaics from the villa of Cicero ; a basin 
 of finest porphyry from the golden palace of Nero ; ala- 
 baster vases and a fountain for perfumes from the 
 palaces of the Caesars. The mosaic pictures from Ha- 
 drian's villa at Tivoli represent domestic scenes; a 
 goatherd and his flock, baskets of fish and fruit, ducks, 
 and even pigs, are reproduced with poetic and artistic 
 touch. 
 
 There are halls of exquisite tapestries designed by 
 Raphael, and things of priceless value on every side. 
 Truly, the world is under obligation to the popes who 
 have garnered these gems of art for the embellishment 
 of the Vatican and the benefit of mankind through 
 centuries to come. 
 
 In Rome tradition and history are taught, and 
 myths are perpetuated by memorials in marble and 
 bronze. Here are memorials to great good men, to 
 eminent bad men, and to mere mythical men. On 
 fountains and in parks heroic statues of Castor and 
 Pollux stand in readiness to mount their noble white 
 horses and lead the Romans to victory, as told in sto- 
 ries of old. The mythical tales of Gannymede and 
 Leda are told in bas-relief figures on the great bronze 
 portals of St. Peter's Cathedral. The ancient Campi- 
 doglio on Capitoline Hill is reached by an imposing 
 granite or marble stairway, guarded at the bottom by 
 bronze lions and at the top by the heroic Castor and 
 Pollux in marble. A golden bronze statue of Marcus 
 Aurelius, on a pedestal designed by Michael Angelo, 
 occupies a place of honor in the courtyard. 
 
 The old Capitol is now a museum, and contains
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 77 
 
 some of the most celebrated statues in the world. In 
 the halls of emperors, senators, philosophers, and poets 
 we looked upon the features of Tiberius, Caesar Augus- 
 tus, Marcus Brutus, Homer, Seneca, and many other 
 illustrious men. The Capitoline Venus is chaste and 
 beautiful. The statue of Diana of the Ephesians is 
 ugly and ungraceful. The Capitoline Faun, by Praxi- 
 teles, wonderfully portrays a human being brutalized 
 by passion. 
 
 One of the most interesting monuments in Rome 
 is the magnificent bronze column erected by the 
 Roman senate in honor of the Emperor Trajan. It 
 stands in the ancient Forum of Trajan, and his vic- 
 tories are artistically represented in bas-relief around 
 the column. Trajan's statue on the pinnacle has been 
 supplanted by one of St. Peter holding immense keys 
 in his hand. 
 
 The world-famous Moses, by Michael Angelo, 
 seated under the sarcophagus of Pope Julius III, forms 
 a part of this magnificent tomb, begun in 1505 and 
 finished forty years later. The colossal Moses has 
 horns, and the great law-giver is terrible to look upon. 
 He would sit grandly on an Egyptian obelisk or 
 mighty monolith in an open square, and then be a 
 terror to the just as well as the unjust. 
 
 In the galleries of the Barberini Palace, art em- 
 phasizes dark pages and illuminates bright ones in his- 
 tory. Of the celebrated paintings there the most no- 
 table are "The Slave," by Titian ; the strangely beauti- 
 ful and sorrowful "Beatrice Cenci," accredited to 
 Guido Reni ; and "The Holy Family," by Andrea del 
 Sarto.
 
 78 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 CHURCHES, CRYPTS, AND CEMETERIES. 
 
 Many of the churches of Rome have been damaged 
 or destroyed by fire, and afterwards rebuilt, new treas- 
 ures being added to their old ones. One of these is 
 the magnificent St. Paul's Basilica, first erected by 
 Constantine the Great, where Paul the Apostle was 
 buried. That St. Paul's and many another early 
 Christian "Church was called a Basilica, in compliment 
 to ancient Rome, may not have been "Sop to Cerberus." 
 
 When the original St. Paul's Basilica was destroyed 
 by fire in 1823, only two of its chapels and forty mo- 
 saic portraits of the popes were saved. In 1825 Pope 
 Leo XIII ordered its rebuilding, and it was finished 
 thirty years later. 
 
 St. Paul's is less gorgeous than St. Peter's Cathe- 
 dral, but it is imperial in its grandeur, with magnifi- 
 cent columns of richest marbles, and its lofty ceilings 
 overlaid with massive gildings. The antique papal 
 altar is studded with precious stones, and its canopy 
 rests upon four columns of porphyry. Paintings by 
 renowned artists represent scenes in St. Paul's life, 
 and the frieze under the cornice is formed of medallion 
 portraits of the popes in mosaics. The guide called 
 our attention to the eyes of the portrait of St. Linus, 
 and we saw them sparkle for ourselves, diamonds hav- 
 ing been placed there by a rich and titled woman of 
 Italy. 
 
 The Pantheon of Agrippa, erected 27 B. C, is a 
 masterpiece of classic Greek architecture. The sixteen 
 columns of the Corinthian portico are granite mono-
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 79 
 
 liths, with capitals and bases of white marble. This 
 imposing structure is lighted by a circular opening in 
 the central cupola. This heathen temple was finally 
 converted into a Christian church, and Pope Boniface 
 dedicated it to the memory of Christian martyrs whose 
 bones were brought from the Catacombs for interment 
 here. Raphael, King Victor Emmanuel, and other il- 
 lustrious men are buried here, and henceforth it is to 
 be the final resting place for all kings of Italy. The 
 tomb of King Humbert, "the wise and good king" 
 who was murdered July 29, 1900, is not finished; it 
 is covered with curtains of black, upon which are fast- 
 ened wreaths of palm leaves tied with royal purple 
 ribbons. 
 
 Tradition is recited with the assurance of truth 
 here, and we do not question anything, audibly at any 
 rate. In the cloisters of one church a marble pillar 
 is said to have come from Solomon's temple, and we 
 stood by a fragment of stone coping said to have been 
 a part of the well from which the woman of Samaria 
 drew water as she talked to Jesus Christ. 
 
 In St. John's the Lateran, called the Mother of 
 Christianity, we saw the Scala Santa, the holy stairway 
 of twenty-eight steps said to have been brought from 
 the house of Pilate in Jerusalem, 326 A. D., and to 
 have been ascended by our Lord. No one is allowed 
 to walk on these steps; we saw a devout woman pain- 
 fully ascending them on her knees, that she might be 
 granted indulgences by the Roman Catholic Church. 
 It was while ascending these very steps Martin Luther 
 realized that justification through faith in Christ, and
 
 80 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 not by works, is the way of salvation for men. He 
 arose, and the Reformation was begun that day. At 
 the bottom of the stairway is a circular piece of dark 
 marble cracked in several places. We are told that 
 Christ stood upon this marble when His death-sentence 
 was pronounced, and that the cracks were made by 
 the earthquake at His crucifixion. 
 
 There are said to be four hundred churches in 
 Rome, and every church seems to have a crypt. In 
 many instances a small section of the crypt is devoted 
 to some tomb or relic of unusual importance, w T hich 
 may be seen from the floor of the church. In one crypt 
 we saw the baptistry of Constantine the Great; St. 
 Peter's chains in another, and relics of many saints in 
 others. 
 
 One could hardly imagine a more gruesome place 
 than the crypt of the Capuchin church. The walls are 
 veneered with the ghastly bones and grinning skulls of 
 departed Capuchin monks, and there are center-tables 
 and hanging-baskets made of the bones of dead men's 
 fingers and toes. The old monk in charge was fasten- 
 ing more bones together, perhaps to make rustic seats 
 and comfortless couches for himself and his co-workers, 
 who seem to think "this world is all a fleeting show for 
 man's delusion given," and that life must ever be over- 
 shadowed with Death's grim visage. 
 
 We went down into the catacombs guided by a 
 Franciscan monk, and our dull wax-tapers seemed 
 mainly to reveal the darkness and blackness as we de- 
 scended three flights of crooked and slippery steps cut 
 into the soft stone and worn smooth by the footsteps
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 81 
 
 of centuries. We were surrounded by tiers of narrow 
 niches cut in the stone walls and once filled with the 
 corpses of men and women. A few inscriptions are 
 still decipherable, and over some of the niches is the 
 chiseled fish, the symbol of Christianity. It is true 
 that, a few years ago, an American woman thrust her 
 hand into a niche for a souvenir and picked up a bone 
 said to have been the joint of the great toe of some 
 departed saint, but we were content to merely look 
 around. In fact I should gladly have returned to the 
 light of day after the first casual glance into these dis- 
 carded tombs. 
 
 We went into several of the dark, dismal chapels 
 where the persecuted Christians met to worship God, 
 and the earliest examples of Christian art are found in 
 the frescoes of the St. Calixtus Catacombs. It is said 
 Rome is encircled by catacombs, the highest being 
 twenty-two feet and the lowest fifty feet beneath the 
 surface of the earth, but we had no desire to verify 
 the statement. 
 
 We returned to the city by the old Appian Way, 
 which has been called a street of tombs; among the 
 costly ones to be seen are the round one of Cecilia Me- 
 tella and the pyramidal tomb of Cais Cestus. 
 
 We visited the Protestant cemetery, a beautiful 
 resting-place under somber pines, and in whose branches 
 the ravens found protection from the heat of summer- 
 sun. We lingered a few moments by the graves of the 
 immortal poets Keats and Shelley, and recalled some 
 of their inspired songs which have lifted men into di- 
 viner life. In this lonesome but lovely cemetery Miss 
 6
 
 82 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 K had the sorrow to find a newly-erected monu- 
 ment bearing the familiar name of her father's kins- 
 woman whom she expected to meet during her sojourn 
 in Rome. 
 
 Olive trees are said to live for centuries, and we 
 wondered if St. Paul might have seen some of these 
 ancient gnarled and twisted gray sentinels now stand- 
 ing along the Appian Way. A curious characteristic 
 of the olive tree is that in very old age its large limbs 
 separate from the trunk down to the roots, and actually 
 move apart, thus forming a small grove of its own. 
 
 PALACES AND PRISONS OF ANCIENT ROME. 
 
 The days pass swiftly in Rome. The past crowds 
 upon the present. The harvest of a cycle of centuries 
 is spread before us. Superhuman effort and life with- 
 out limitations alone could compass this wide and 
 wondrous field of treasure. We can only hope to 
 glean a grain of wheat here and there. Old Mr. 
 
 B was wiser than we knew when he said he 
 
 "must have passed through Rome in the night," and 
 I will never again laugh at his subterfuge. Neither 
 will I attempt to describe the Eternal City, for I am 
 less wise than I knew. 
 
 Fortunately poets, historians, and Christians have 
 given us the story of old Rome, the eloquence heard 
 in its Forums, the mirth and cruelty of its Colosseum, 
 and the glory, as well as the shame, of its catacombs. 
 Now we see the palaces of the Caesars in ruins, the 
 grand columns of the Forum broken, the temples and 
 triumphal arches crumbling away, and the Colosseum
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 83 
 
 a ghost of its former grandeur. Again and again we 
 are reminded "the paths of glory lead but to the 
 grave." 
 
 Excavations are still being made in old Rome, and 
 there is no end to the discovery of interesting and in- 
 valuable relics. A tomb partly unearthed near the 
 Forum recently is supposed to be that of Romulus, and 
 the scholars of the world are trying to decipher its 
 curious inscription. We went under the excavations 
 to see it, but the light of the candle was very, very 
 dim, and the riddle was not solved that day. Rome 
 loves the memory of Romulus, her founder and first 
 king, and she would joyously emblazon his tomb with 
 symbols of pomp and power. The traditions of his 
 early life are cherished, and may be learned from sculp- 
 tures on gateways, imprint on imperial documents, 
 pictures on hotel-menus, and elsewhere. The provi- 
 dential she-wolf stands patiently, while Romulus and 
 Remus sit under her and greedily suckle warm milk 
 from the maternal fountain. The potent letters of an- 
 cient time when Rome ruled the world, "S. P. Q. R.' 
 (Senatus Populusque Rornanus), inscribed on the ped- 
 estal which supports this happy group, are almost as 
 much in evidence in Rome as was the British Lion 
 on our good ship Slavonia. 
 
 Our walk through the ruins of the Roman Forum 
 and adjoining historic structures was very interesting, 
 
 under the guidance of Rev. Dr. E , of Baltimore, 
 
 a former missionary to Rome from the Southern Bap- 
 tist Church. He pointed out the Temple of Concord, 
 erected 366 B. C, and the Arch of Septimius Severus,
 
 84 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 A. D. 203. He accompanied us through the garden 
 of the Temple of Vesta, adorned with statues of the 
 seven Vestal virgins, with a jasmine vine scattering 
 starlike blossoms at their feet. Beautiful ferns flour- 
 ished all among the ruins, and, as always in Italy, Na- 
 ture smiled and added a "tender grace to the day that 
 is dead." We walked under the triumphal arch of 
 Titus, which commemorates his overthrow of Jerusa- 
 lem. This arch, built of white marble from Pentelicus, 
 Greece, is ornamented with bas-reliefs representing the 
 treasures said to have been brought from Jerusalem 
 by the captjve Jews, one of them being the golden can- 
 dlestick from Solomon's Temple. 
 
 Not far off stands the vast and majestic ruin of the 
 Colosseum, begun by Vespasian and finished A. D. 80, 
 in the reign of Titus, by the captive Jews. It was not 
 wrecked by fire and storms, but by men of the four- 
 teenth and fifteenth centuries, who dismantled it to 
 build marble palaces in the center of Rome. This 
 vast amphitheater once seated 85,000 spectators, and 
 10,000 gladiators were kept to amuse them. Now, as 
 the sunlight streams through hundreds of arched win- 
 dows and doorways, the skeleton of the Colosseum 
 seems to look with eyes innumerable upon its own deso- 
 lation. The vast ruin is more magnificent and myste- 
 rious in the moonlight, when fantastic shadows con- 
 gregate around it and the sigh of the soft breeze be- 
 comes a mournful requiem for its vanished glories. On 
 a stormy night howling demons seem to invade the 
 solitary ruins of Colosseum, and shivering sightseers 
 hasten from the place of devastation with thoughts of
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 85 
 
 the diabolical scenes and woeful tragedies enacted 
 within its once glided walls. 
 
 Nero's golden palace was not far from the Colos- 
 seum, but all traces of its porticos and columns, ex- 
 tending a mile, of Nero's statue 120 feet high, and of 
 the golden stalls for his chariot horses, have long since 
 disappeared. We are told the palace was overlaid with 
 gold, and everywhere adorned with precious stones and 
 mother-of-pearl, and that there were contrivances in 
 the roof of the banquet hall to scatter flowers and 
 sprinkle sweet-scented oils upon Nero and his fellow- 
 revelers. It is said his principal banquet rrall was cir- 
 cular and was kept in perpetual motion to represent the 
 celestial sphere. In that case devils turned, and after- 
 wards trembled. 
 
 The Arch of Constantine, erected A. D. 311, is 
 really three arches; it is a noble monument to the 
 victory of the first Christian monarch. We rested 
 awhile in its shade, and Cupid followed us there. The 
 rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed American girl smiled as the 
 Old Gentleman's son talked to her in accents low. 
 
 The ruins of Rome are not depressing, for the woe- 
 fulness of calamity and the horror of catastrophe 
 which hang over Pompeii are happily not here. True, 
 triumphal arches, stately temples, and grand columns 
 are broken and crumbling away, but they record 
 things completed. The life of the mighty civilization 
 of old Rome has throbbed through all these centuries. 
 The plans of her architects and bridge builders are 
 used to-day. The eloquence of her orators has never 
 been stilled. The achievement of her artists has in-
 
 86 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 spired all nations. She taught the peoples of earth the 
 strength and majesty of law. Her very persecutions 
 of the Christians enabled them to bring the world 
 nearer the one true God. 
 
 The Mamertine Prison, built by the fourth king 
 of ancient Rome, in which St. Paul was incarcerated, 
 is the one ancient structure adjoining the Forum that 
 is not in absolute ruin. We went into this damp and 
 dismal dungeon and saw the aperture through which 
 condemned men were lowered to be strangled or 
 starved to death, as was the fate of Jugurtha. It was 
 in this prison that Paul suffered when he wrote Tim- 
 othy to bring his winter cloak, but he was triumphant 
 in spirit. He rejoiced in the expectation of the "crown 
 of righteousness, which the Lord, the Righteous Judge, 
 shall give me at that day; and not to me only, but 
 unto all them also that love His appearing." 
 
 The monster, Nero, fastened his crime of burning 
 Rome upon the Christians and beheaded Paul, their 
 leader ; but never again did he have a moment of peace. 
 Suetonius, the historian, says "Nero thought the furies 
 lashed him with their whips, and sometimes seared 
 his skin with their burning torches." He was denied 
 the easy death, as his golden box of poisons could not 
 be found. He escaped death by scourging and the 
 Tarpeian rock, decreed by the Roman senate, by 
 plunging a dagger into his throat. In his golden pal- 
 ace the infamous Nero, monarch of the civilized world, 
 experienced the tortures of the damned. By faith 
 Paul, the prisoner, looked from the dungeon into his 
 Heavenly Father's house of "many mansions" and was
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 87 
 
 unafraid. Conscience comforted him, while she gave 
 Nero foresight of the bottomless pit. History testifies 
 to immortal man's hold upon unseen eternal things, 
 and in Rome we are made to realize that character is 
 the crown that fadeth not away. 
 
 We are to leave this afternoon for Florence, the 
 world-renowned city of art, carrying with us inefface- 
 able impressions of the ancient, imperial Rome, the 
 magical city of to-day. 
 
 '**. 
 
 *°ndmw^
 
 FLORENCE 
 
 Palaces of Arts — Charming Drives — Cathe- 
 drals and Other Hallowed Places. 
 
 July 13, 1908. 
 
 FROM ROME TO FLORENCE. 
 
 The journey from Rome to Florence was through 
 a beautiful country of cultivated fields, terraced hills, 
 fruitful valleys, and picturesque mountains. 
 
 Italy's festival of the golden grain was being cele- 
 brated, and the tiny stone huts dotting the fields were 
 deserted. The gayly-clad peasants united in the la- 
 bors and festivities of the harvest-time. Little children 
 played within sight, and older ones gleaned after the 
 reapers. Women helped the men, and the unthreshed 
 sheaves were pressed down and hanging over the sides 
 of the carts drawn by white oxen. Every heart was 
 glad in the fruition of labor and in the fulfillment of 
 the seasons. Bread for months to come was at hand. 
 Now and then flaming-red poppies illuminated the 
 roadside, reminding us that man does not live by bread 
 alone. Beyond the fields lombardy poplars, olive 
 groves, and vineyards led the way to handsome villas 
 on the hilltops. Still farther off the Appenine Moun- 
 tains challenged the admiration of every traveler, and 
 blue and sunny skies lovingly encompassed nature's 
 fair panorama. 
 
 88
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 89 
 
 However, it was not long before the delectable 
 vision was interrupted and the panorama broken into 
 fragments by the tunnels through the Appenines ; but 
 the world was more enchanting every time we came 
 into daylight. 
 
 We enjoyed the sociability of the railway journey, 
 and the freedom from hurry was restful. On entering 
 stations the tortoise-like train slowed up a little more, 
 and a guard ran along on the platform to unlock the 
 compartments for imprisoned travelers desiring release. 
 Almost immediately the toy whistle was blown by 
 somebody, and we crept on. We had time to study 
 French, and our lawyer's progress was noticeable. 
 
 Hereafter Mr. M , standing six feet high, will 
 
 be "La Conducteur," though not the least feminine in 
 fact. We were confined in two compartments, but 
 were allowed to exchange visits and to converse to- 
 gether in English. Good fortune followed us, and in 
 time we reached Florence, where carriages with white 
 canopies trimmed with red, officials in bright uniform, 
 and citizens in goodly array suggested a gala day. 
 
 The spell of enchantment woven by memory and 
 tinted by imagination was strong upon us. As we 
 drove through the streets half-remembered facts 
 crowded upon us. We read pages of history in their 
 original setting. Fragments of Roman walls tell of 
 earliest days in Florence. Castles with feudal towers 
 record luxury and rapine. Traces of the hatred be- 
 tween Guelphs and Ghibellines are not yet obliterated. 
 But Italy's love of the beautiful outshines everything 
 else. Stone walls are embellished and gateways
 
 90 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 adorned with artistic sculptures. Beautiful tablets re- 
 cord historical events. Lovely pictures of the Ma- 
 donna and Child grace the outer walls of schools and 
 sanctuaries. Art is the poetry of Italian life and en- 
 ters largely into its religion as well. 
 
 Our pension was once the habitation of nobility. 
 A wall surrounds the garden, and a sculptured lion 
 watches over it. The establishment is built around 
 several courts, in which pink oleanders, white jas- 
 mines, and lesser plants bloom and perfume the at- 
 mosphere. Our tall, fair-haired, and handsome land- 
 ladies are Norwegians, though not Vikings bold. They 
 are powerful in frame, gracious in manner, and they 
 cordially welcome Americans. One of them carries 
 in her arms a midget of a dog, called Princess, though 
 christened with half a dozen distinguished names, and 
 she talks to it in French. The mistress of Princess 
 says she talks to herself sometimes because she likes 
 to converse with an honest woman. 
 
 This rambling old house seems to have been built 
 in all the ages, and only the guests represent the pres- 
 ent time. To reach my room from the front hall I 
 pass through dining-rooms, down steps, and through 
 a glass-covered hall between the courtyards, up a long 
 flight of stairs, and then down a short one, and into 
 the hall leading to my lady's chamber. It is a large, 
 handsome room, decorated with mirrors, while the 
 ceiling is heavily ornamented with cherubs and cupids. 
 The panels in the walls suggest secret doors, and the 
 curtained closet seems to conceal a private stairway. 
 The tall cream-colored object decorated with shining
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 91 
 
 medallions is a stove, and not a monument to a de- 
 parted saint or statesman. 
 
 The large windows and green shutters are fitted 
 with heavy rods and locks, which creak and clang when 
 they are opened or shut. Inside, solid wooden shut- 
 ters are a further protection against intruders from 
 the courtyard below. They might also insure the 
 safety of a hapless prisoner, and love would hardly 
 laugh at the locksmith here. The love of color is 
 shown everywhere; but was it from a sense of fitness 
 that the writing-table of my room was supplied with 
 brilliant green ink? 
 
 FLORENCE, THE MOTHER OF ILLUSTRIOUS MEN. 
 
 Like her marvelous cathedral with the double 
 dome, Florence wears a double crown. We are told 
 that her people are superior in amiability, intelligence, 
 and freedom from bigotry, combining the best charac- 
 teristics of the Roman and Tuscan peoples. Through 
 the centuries, beginning B. C, she has heard alter- 
 nately the clash of war and the songs of peace. 
 
 Florence, of royal mien, was the capital of Italy 
 from 1864 to 1870, when King Victor Emmanuel 
 moved the court to Rome. She is still queen of the 
 world of art, and the mother of illustrious sons who 
 hastened the Renaissance and laid sure foundation for 
 United Italy; versatile men in art and science; virile 
 men in thought and deed. These, her priceless jewels, 
 have added luster to the imperishable treasure of the 
 world. 
 
 Florence honors and cherishes the memory of her
 
 92 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 sons of unrivaled genius in poetry, philosophy, painting, 
 i*nd sculpture. Two immense halls in the Uffizzi Palace 
 are sacred to the statues of her illustrious children, in- 
 cluding Americo Vespucci, Dante, Petrach, Boccaccio, 
 Galileo, Giotto, Brunelleschi, Savonarola, Fra Bar- 
 tolommeo, Andrea del Sarto, Cellini, Carlo Dolci, 
 Ghiberti, Leonardo da Vinci, and Michael Angelo. 
 This palace was built by the Medici family, who were 
 patrons of art as well as rulers of men. This powerful 
 family gained eight grand-dukeships and furnished 
 four popes for the Roman Catholic Church ; thus feast- 
 ing twice as often as they fasted. Yet between po- 
 litical conspiracies and pontifical conquests, and despite 
 feasting and fastings, the Medici collected the most 
 celebrated pictures and statuary in the world, includ- 
 ing masterpieces of Raphael, Titian, Veronese, Cor- 
 reggio, Guido, Michael Angelo, and other world- 
 famous artists. 
 
 The Uffizzi and Pitti Galleries, on opposite sides 
 of the River Arno, are connected by a covered bridge 
 which is hung with the drawings of famous artists, and 
 portraits in black and white of celebrities of Europe. 
 An occasional window in this narrow, long gallery 
 gave us a glimpse of the flowing waters below, and 
 somehow we were reminded of the devices of olden 
 time for the quiet removal of men and women feared 
 by those in high places. Happily this connecting-link 
 between the art galleries only shortens the weary way 
 of sight-seeing, and it is all the more interesting because 
 it is built above the little shops on the old Ponte 
 Vecchio.
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 93 
 
 The royal apartments of Pitti Palace are reserved 
 for the king of Italy when he honors Florence with a 
 visit. Its museums are open alike to plebeian and pa- 
 trician for a lira each. 
 
 Although art was consecrated to religion in an- 
 cient days, portraits of living men were often intro- 
 duced in sacred scenes. The Medici magnates are rec- 
 ognized in Botticelli's painting, "Adoration of the 
 Magi," and their families are formally presented to 
 the Virgin for her blessing. 
 
 Florence has been pillaged by barbarians, desolated 
 by pestilence, despoiled in war, and torn by civil strife; 
 but now she basks in the sunlight and watches the shift- 
 ing clouds. She dreams of past glories, revels in the 
 peaceful present, and goes serenely forth to meet the 
 shadowy future. She has more than 200,000 inhab- 
 itants, and the cost of living here is moderate. In the 
 spring-time and autumn many visitors come to enjoy 
 the beauties of nature, and the treasures of art and 
 literature hold them indefinitely. In the National Li- 
 brary there are 480,000 volumes, many of them rare 
 and of great value. The volumes of greatest worth 
 are those from her own men of letters, an illustrious 
 company of world-renowned painters, poets, prophets, 
 patriots, philosophers, and sculptors. 
 
 Soon after the immortal poet Dante came Petrarch, 
 "who substituted the art of poetry for the prophetic 
 inspiration ; and while Petrarch was yet singing, Boc- 
 caccio anticipated in his multifarious literature the 
 "Age of the Renaissance." 
 
 In Florence one onlv turns from literature and art
 
 94 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 to enjoy the natural beauties of the city and surround- 
 ing country. The never-ending procession of flowers 
 is led in the spring-time by more than twenty varieties 
 of tulips, and it may be the old Tuscan "Firenze" — 
 Florence in English — took its name from nature's 
 beauteous gift to the Vale d'Arno. 
 
 THE UFFIZZI AND PITTI PALACES OF ART. 
 
 These art-museums are crowded with the paint- 
 ings and sculptures worthy of the world's greatest mas- 
 ters, and even the hurried tourist is bound by the spell 
 of enchantment within their halls. To me a few of 
 the most exquisite paintings in these renow r ned collec- 
 tions are "The Madonna of the Chair," by Raphael, 
 well known and beloved everywhere because so often 
 copied by painters of all lands. It is the most per- 
 fectly-beautiful picture I Ve ever seen. The "Virgin 
 and Child" is yet another notable work, and "St. 
 John," by Andrea del Sarto, with a chalice in his hand 
 and a cross as his staff, appeals to the highest and 
 noblest emotions. The "Madonna with Sts. John 
 and Francis," Andrea del Sarto's masterpiece, is tran- 
 scendent in grace and loveliness. "The Virgin," with 
 the Child in arms, standing on a pedestal supported by 
 angels, is said to have the features of the painter's 
 beautiful wife. On one side St. Francis lifts a small 
 cross, and on the other St. John holds an open book. 
 This holy conception is divinely executed in rare and 
 tender colorings. Besides the "Transfiguration" there 
 are a number of twofold pictures, "The Coronation 
 of the "Virgin" being one of the tenderest and loveliest
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 95 
 
 conceptions of the old masters. Flowers, usually lilies, 
 spring up in the empty tomb, while in the clouds above, 
 the Virgin receives the crown of life from her Son, 
 the Divine Redeemer. 
 
 Titian's paintings are exquisite in form and per- 
 fect in coloring; and so the fact that they are not 
 always chaste is the more to be deplored. His famous 
 Venus, complacent in consciousness of perfect physique, 
 sadly needs at least one of the robes her maid lifts 
 from a trunk in the background of the painting. His 
 "La Flora," scantily robed and holding fair flowers 
 in one hand, is idyllic, and the witchery of spring-time 
 is there. 
 
 Corregio's exquisite little picture, "The Holy Vir- 
 gin and Child," surrounded by angels, is often copied 
 by artists from foreign lands, and the "Head of Me- 
 dusa," by Leonardo da Vinci, is terrifying. 
 
 Here, too, is a remarkable collection of portraits 
 of ancient and modern masters painted by themselves. 
 A man seeing himself "in a looking-glass straightway 
 forgetteth," but these men of genius must have had 
 exceptional memory. Among these are portraits of 
 Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci, Andrea del Sarto, 
 Michael Angelo, Gulio Romano, the founder of the 
 Tuscan and Roman school of painting; Titian, Ve- 
 ronese, and Tintoretto, chief masters of the Lombard 
 and Venetian schools; Domenichino, Guercino, Guido, 
 Albani, and others of the Bolognese school. 
 
 Among the foreign old painters are Albert Durer, 
 Holbein, Rubens, Van Dyck, Rembrandt ; and in the 
 collection of modern painters we noticed Alma Ta-
 
 96 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 dema, Corot, David, Millais, Watts, Lebrun, and 
 many others. 
 
 Here are fine Italian tapestries, and the draperies 
 in the Uffizzi galleries show the Medici coat-of-arms. 
 The halls of sculpture are seemingly endless. A fine 
 bust of Julius Caesar, known to be antique, is of price- 
 less value, and the two busts of Nero are notable ; that 
 of him in childhood has a lovely face, while cruelty 
 and perfidy stamp that of the mature man. The deli- 
 cate features of Poppea, Nero's wife and the most 
 beautiful woman of her time, are finely chiseled in 
 marble, and nobility characterizes the features of 
 Agrippina, the honored empress and the mother of 
 Caligula. The head of an old man in black stone 
 was once supposed to be an effigy of Euripides.. 
 
 The Hall of Niobe is dedicated to the antique 
 statues of Niobe and her children, which were un- 
 earthed in 1583 near St. Paul's Gate in Rome. This 
 group of statues, which, it is supposed, originally 
 adorned a temple, is considered worthy of Phidias or 
 Praxiteles. Nothing could be more pathetic than the 
 mother who prays to the gods as she tries to shield 
 her youngest daughter from the unseen but terrible 
 fate awaiting her. Some of the sons and daughters 
 sorrowfully await their fate, while others flee in ter- 
 ror. This group is far more beautiful than the Lao- 
 coon, in the Vatican, but quite as expressive of pa- 
 rental affection, mental anguish, and physical helpless- 
 ness. 
 
 The Hall of Niobe also contains the famous Me- 
 dician Vase, with the "Sacrifice of Iphigenia" sculp-
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 97 
 
 tured in bas-relief around it. This vase was discovered 
 in Hadrian's villa at Tivoli, and it belongs to the 
 best epoch of Greek art. The Tribune contains mas- 
 terpieces of ancient Greek and Roman sculptures. In 
 "The Wrestlers," taut muscles and distended veins 
 tell of supreme physical effort. The victorious athlete 
 presses to earth his antagonist who vows vengeance 
 as he struggles in vain to rise. "The Dancing Faun," 
 perfect in characteristic feature and graceful attitude, 
 has been attributed to Praxiteles. "The Whetter," 
 another ancient masterpiece in marble, seems to listen 
 for further instruction as he bends over the stone and 
 whets his hooked knife for execution of cruel com- 
 mand. He is supposed to represent the Scythian or- 
 dered by Apollo to flay alive Marsyas, the sweet mu- 
 sician, and mythology becomes very real. 
 
 It was a relief to turn from this to the "Little 
 Apollo," almost as charming as the Apollo Belvedere 
 in Rome, and supposed to be the work of Cleomenes, 
 who immortalized himself by the famous Venus de 
 Medici brought to Florence in 1677 from Hadrian's 
 villa in Rome. Ovid wrote in extravagant praise of 
 the exquisite form and grace of this Venus, and every 
 lover of the beautiful is captivated by her. 
 
 Cupids, dryads, naiads, satyrs, demons, angels, gods 
 and goddesses, and in fact denizens imagined to exist 
 in the air, the earth, and the waters beneath the earth 
 are represented here. The Vestal virgin is modest 
 and fair, and not far off Bacchante is dancing, her 
 light draperies seeming to float with the movement of 
 the figure, In the great bronze figures of Cain and 
 
 7
 
 98 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 Abel the former has the bitterness of the curse on his 
 face, while Abel is lovely in death. 
 
 Bronzes, cameos, gems, vases, cabinets, and tables 
 of alabaster, Lapis lazzuli, malachite, and mosaics are 
 mementos from grand palaces. Then there are vases 
 of semi-precious stones ornamented with gold, pearls, 
 and diamonds. Here is a cup made of a single garnet, 
 and one immense pearl forms the tiny watch-dog lying 
 on the top of a little crystal casket. 
 
 Near the Pitti Palace is the Museum of Physics, 
 containing rare botanical specimens and the first tele- 
 scope of Galileo. When he heard an instrument had 
 been invented to bring objects for nearer vision, he 
 determined to perfect it and count the stars. It has 
 been said his telescopic discoveries and observations 
 were "not less remarkable for the sagacity which di- 
 rected than for the inspiration which prompted them." 
 
 Among the fine sculptures beneath the arches of 
 the Loggia are the "Rape of the Sabines," by John of 
 Bologna, and "Perseus with the Head of Medusa," 
 by Benvenuto Cellini. 
 
 It is very interesting to follow the development of 
 Tuscan art in the Academy of fine Arts here. The 
 large Madonnas by Cimabue and Giotto are apathetic 
 and wear cumbersome draperies. The Madonnas and 
 Saints by Fra Bartolomeo are gracious and stately, 
 and his portrait of Savonarola is fine. One of the 
 angels in "The Baptism of Christ," by Verrochio, is 
 said to be the first work of his pupil Leonardo da 
 Vinci. Many of these old paintings are on wood in- 
 stead of canvas, and gold-leaf is applied to brighten 
 them.
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 99 
 
 The chief attraction in the academy is Michael An- 
 gelo's magnificent "David," with aspiration stamped on 
 his noble brow. It is said Michael Angelo asked for 
 the immense block of marble which obstructed the 
 highway, promising to use it worthily, and the won- 
 derment of Florence was turned into joy by his glori- 
 ous achievement in the statue of "David," unrivaled in 
 the world of genius. 
 
 CHARMING CARRIAGE DRIVES IN AND AROUND 
 FLORENCE. 
 
 One of our delightful drives was to Fiesole, an old 
 Etruscan village on the heights above Florence. The 
 winding roadway between walls was hedged with roses 
 a part of the way. Here the quaint belfry, the church, 
 and the cemetery are interesting landmarks of ancient 
 days. 
 
 Of course, we visited Ponte Vecchio, the quaintest 
 of old bridges, edged on one side with shops filled with 
 curios which please and tempt the wayfaring man. 
 The lack of time for shopping alone saves the way- 
 faring woman from financial distress. Though it 
 would be too much to expect any woman to leave 
 Florence without bits of marble chiseled daintily after 
 masterpieces, so Apollo Belvedere, Venus, Pliny's 
 Doves, and other miniature sculptures were hurriedly 
 purchased and tucked away in satchels and suit-cases. 
 
 The charming drive to Michael Angelo's Square 
 above the city was through avenues shaded by syca- 
 more and fir trees. And there were maples with clus- 
 ters of snow-white leaves, like blossoms of new design, 
 or white butterflies poised in balmy air.
 
 100 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 We passed handsome villas with extensive gardens, 
 lovely vineyards, and shining groves. Needless to say, 
 the most interesting one was that in which Galileo 
 lived, and where he died in 1642. The villa of Arceti, 
 with its astronomical observatory, is at once a me- 
 morial to Galileo's courage through persecution and 
 his triumph for science. In vain do we try to imagine 
 the converse of the mighty men on the day Milton 
 visited Galileo in this villa. They forgot temporal 
 things and rejoiced in the progress of science. He who 
 followed the stars in their courses was akin to the poet 
 of empyrean heights. They were brothers in aspira- 
 tion, friends in achievement, and joint-heirs in the 
 Kingdom of God. The sweet communion of that day 
 was not forgotten. The remembrance of it enheart- 
 ened Galileo and Milton for the vicissitudes of the 
 remainder of life's journey. It may be the recollection 
 of it inspired Milton's Hymn of Resignation: "They 
 also serve who only stand and wait." 
 
 Galileo was born the day Michael Angelo died, 
 and Isaac Newton was born the day Galileo died. 
 Apostolic succession in science, was it not ? 
 
 From Michael Angelo Square we saw art in happy 
 communion with nature. The domes, towers, castles, 
 and cathedrals of Florence were stately in tints of gray 
 and subdued by memories of happier days. 
 
 The River Arno ran merrily across the green val- 
 ley and through the quaint city, singing all the way. 
 On the hills beyond, myrtle and olive trees gleamed in 
 the sunlight. The distant mountains caught the 
 shadows of the clouds above, and seemed to float with
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 101 
 
 them. The scene begun on earth was finished in the 
 heavens. We returned from aerial heights through a 
 stretch of primeval forest. Firs, maples, and poplars 
 overshadowed the tangled vines, lowly type of tins 
 complex age. Chief among the aspiring ones was the 
 tall tulip tree. Was this survivor of prehistoric time 
 spared that man may note his golden chalice lifted 
 for the heavenly draught? And ifo we learn kind 
 thoughtfulness under his cool canopy spread century 
 after century for the refreshment of the creatures of 
 earth ? 
 
 CHURCHES, CATHEDRALS, AND OTHER HALLOWED 
 PLACES IN FLORENCE. 
 
 On Sunday we were informed, "The churches open 
 to visitors are closed;" and this statement meant that 
 the Protestant ministers were resting for a season. The 
 Roman Catholic churches are always open, and I never 
 saw visitors turned away from them; but as we could 
 not understand Italian we preferred to visit these 
 churches when services were not being held. 
 
 The American Episcopal Church in Florence, 
 which is a part of an ancient Roman Catholic church, 
 is one of the oldest on the continent. In the little 
 Protestant cemetery there Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett 
 Browning, Walter Savage Landor, Hiram Powers, and 
 Theodore Parker await the resurrection morn. Every 
 one goes to the old church "San Lorenzo" to see the 
 chapels encrusted with semi-precious stones and the 
 tombs of Julian and Lorenzo de Medici, over which 
 are Michael Angelo's celebrated sculptures "Day and 
 Night" and "Twilight and Dawn."
 
 102 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 The residence of Michael Angelo is still in a fair 
 state of preservation, and Florence counts it a choice 
 possession, hallowed by association. 
 
 The tomb of Michael Angelo and those of Dante 
 and Galileo are in Santa Croce Cathedral, called the 
 "Pantheon of Italian Glories." This Gothic church 
 contains paintings and sculptures by men of genius, 
 and the frescoes are counted with Giotto's masterpieces. 
 In 1865, on the six hundredth anniversary of his birth, 
 a statue of Dante was erected in front of this ancient 
 cathedral. Michael Angelo was Italy's prophet, and 
 it has been said that Dante "immortalized mediaeval 
 thoughts and aspirations at the moment when they 
 were already losing their reality for the Italian people." 
 With pride Florence cherishes the memory of these 
 two greatest masters of the world of genius born on 
 her soil. 
 
 Dante's house is also preserved, and the old stone 
 upon which he sat in moody silence was pointed out 
 to us. Ah! but he was dreaming dreams and seeing 
 visions beyond the ken of many men. One of the 
 noble army of martyrs of whom the world was not 
 worthy, Dante shall live forever in the hearts of men. 
 
 The Santa Maria del Fiore or Duomo Cathedral, 
 one of the grandest Gothic structures in Europe, was 
 consecrated in 1436 and finished centuries later. It was 
 built of white and colored marbles and first impresses 
 one most with its extraordinary grace. Architecture 
 has been called frozen music, but the glitter of ice is 
 not here. The glowing tints of early dawn and the 
 melody of divine aspiration are caught in the stone.
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 103 
 
 Indeed, architecture is forgotten in the contemplation 
 of this flower of art. The heaven-born talent of five 
 men of genius is united in this edifice for the adoration 
 of the King of Icings. Designed by Arnolfo, its double 
 dome suggested by Brunnelleschi, with statues over its 
 doors by Donatello, stained-glass windows by Ghiberti, 
 and its marvelous campanile by Giotto, the cathedral 
 is truly awe-inspiring in its grandeur. 
 
 Magistrates of the republic ordered a bell-tower 
 for this cathedral to be so magnificent in height and 
 quality of work as to excel everything done by the 
 Greeks and Romans during their greatest prosperity, 
 and its foundation was laid in July, 1334. Giotto died 
 before his work was half finished, but his design was 
 carried on to completion. Charles V said it was 
 worthy to be preserved under a crystal. This wonder- 
 ful campanile stands apart from the church; it is 300 
 feet tall and is as graceful as a lily. We can fancy 
 the curfew rung from its airy height a call to quiet 
 meditation of joys beyond earthly habitation. 
 
 Near the Duomo is the old octagonal baptistery, 
 called by Ruskin "the central building of Etrurian 
 Christianity." Scenes from the Bible are minutely 
 and marvelously wrought on the bronze doors, de- 
 signed by Ghiberti and declared by Michael Angelo 
 "worthy to be the gates of Paradise." 
 
 The founders of the two great religious orders 
 which flourished here — St. Francis, who taught the 
 Gospel of Works; and St. Dominic, who lived the 
 Gospel of Faith — built memorials in the hearts of men, 
 and generations have arisen to call them blessed. I 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 WtethodJst Board of Missions* 
 
 NASHVILLE. TENM.
 
 104 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 think it was the gentle St. Francis who preached to 
 the birds, his "little brothers of the air." 
 
 The old Vecchio Palace, once capital of the repub- 
 lic, later a prison, and now the city hall, looks like a 
 fortress. Near the main entrance a bronze tablet in 
 the pavement marks the spot on which Savonarola was 
 burned, and in the sparkling waters of Neptune's foun- 
 tain we seemed to hear a murmur for the errors of 
 misguided men. The courageous monk dared to ex- 
 press the indignation of the oppressed people, and he 
 counted his life none too dear to be offered for the 
 establishment of just and righteous government. 
 
 Casa Guida, the house in which Robert and Eliza- 
 beth Browning lived, seemed a hallowed place to us. 
 A tablet on the outer wall records the love and grati- 
 tude with which Mrs. Browning is remembered in 
 Italy for her beneficent work. And who may say how 
 many faltering ones shall yet be inspired by one im- 
 mortal thought as she gave it: 
 
 "Whosoever may 
 Discern true ends here, shall grow pure enough 
 To love them, brave enough to strive for them, 
 And strong enough to reach them, though the roads 
 be rough?"
 
 From the Appenine Mountains to the Adriatic 
 Sea — Venice — Milan and the Plains of 
 
 LOMBARDY STRESSA, ON LAKE MaGGIORE 
 
 The Best Wine of Italy. 
 
 July 1 6th. 
 
 FROM THE APPENINE MOUNTAINS TO THE ADRIATIC 
 
 SEA. 
 
 As we journeyed toward Venice we looked at fair 
 Florence until her quaint Ponte Vecchio, her grand 
 cathedral, and her campanile, marvel of grace, were lost 
 in the clouds and the song of the River Arno was no 
 longer heard. 
 
 The ingratiating Appenine Mountains lured us on, 
 and soon held us captive as the train groped through 
 tunnels innumerable. The darkness was impenetrable 
 without, and we felt it within. The lawyer was un- 
 able to extricate us, nor could the teacher lead us into 
 luminous depths. We were the silent Seven, and in 
 the dimly-lighted compartment, with eyes half shut, 
 we looked like graven images with not a worshiper to 
 fall at our feet. At last we emerged from the forty- 
 six tunnels, visited our friends in the other compart- 
 ment, and learned the M. D. and D. D. had acquitted 
 themselves nobly, for their fellow-prisoners were well, 
 and well indoctrinated. "La Conducteur" bought na- 
 tive wine as weak as water, but in pretty, straw- 
 
 105
 
 106 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 covered bottles; and this, with the basket-luncheon, re- 
 stored us. 
 
 We looked out upon the cultivated valleys, terraced 
 hills of gray olive trees, and fields of flax swayed by 
 every breeze. Ceres, in cloth of gold, embroidered 
 with scarlet, presided over cornfields dotted with pop- 
 pies. The little farms were divided by rows of Lom- 
 bardy poplars, and the peasants sought shady places at 
 midday. The atmosphere was heavy and sultry, and 
 the afternoon thunderstorm was an undisguised bless- 
 ing. Suddenly a rainbow of supernal beauty spanned 
 the heavens, and the earth rejoiced anew in the ever- 
 lasting promises of God. 
 
 We were due in Venice at 7.30 P. M., but when 
 we arrived it was 19.30 o'clock there. A number of 
 Venetians were at the station, apparently to meet us, 
 though they did not greet us, and there were no car- 
 riages nor cabs, and not even a one-horse cart to take 
 us to the hotel. Not an automobile was there to rush 
 us through the city, and there were no airships in sight. 
 To sink or swim, survive or perish seemed inevitable, 
 for the tortoise had sauntered across a bridge and left 
 us on an island, with the Adriatic Sea on one side and 
 the lagoons all around us. As we scanned the gray 
 skies and dull waters, the air was rent with a babel of 
 tongues, and the lagoons were dotted with queer little 
 black boats. On account of the rain the gondolas with 
 cabins were used, and they looked like houseboats for 
 the pygmies of pixies. 
 
 It was a bit disconcerting to hear the gondolier of 
 sentimental story fiercely assail his competitor in trade,
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 107 
 
 and somewhat disappointing to see the gondola with 
 shining prow piled up with suit-cases. The contest 
 between gondoliers became interesting, and the musi- 
 cian, the chaperon, the little Princess, and "La Conduc- 
 teur" looked half-frightened as we passed them. The 
 M. D., his charming wife, the lovely Sisters, and I 
 were together, and our gondolier, throwing aside his 
 cloak, shot past all hated rivals in this race on the 
 silvery waves. Our gondola was the first one to enter 
 the Grand Canal, and then romance was partially vin- 
 dicated. 
 
 Our graceful gondolier donned his picturesque 
 cloak and became the cavalier of the seas. He pointed 
 out historic palaces, and in charming voice sang 
 snatches of Italian love-songs. " 'T is love makes the 
 old world go round," and we who looked backward 
 wondered if those who looked forward would find the 
 happiness old days held for the trysting and trustful 
 youth. The distrust among men of the twentieth cen- 
 tury robs it of the best of earthly blessings. 
 
 A succession of handsome buildings front on Grand 
 Canal, and in one lovely garden a man clothed in 
 white gathered great clusters of pink oleander blossoms, 
 and the fine old palace seemed very homelike. The 
 man may have been a Merchant of Venice, certainly 
 no Shylock ever gathered dainty petals with such tender 
 care. 
 
 This palace and many others are adorned with 
 marble medallions and ornate figures of colored stones 
 set in the outer walls, some of them being the ensigns 
 armorial of families of distinction. We felt a peculiar
 
 108 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 interest in Lord Byron's palace and the one in which 
 Robert Browning died, for we are debtors to these 
 great poets. 
 
 We were the first to reach the hotel, and were 
 courteously welcomed by Venetians who can neither 
 speak nor be spoken to in English. The incoming tide 
 of the Adriatic covered the door-steps, and we walked 
 from the gondola into the vestibule of the reception 
 hall. Our hotel fronts on Grand Canal, and it is 
 built upon two or three of the 117 islands which en- 
 able Venice to keep her head above the softly-flowing 
 tides of the Adriatic Sea. Its court for flowers and 
 statuary, the fine old ebony furniture, and bronze or- 
 naments give color to the report that it was once a 
 grand palace of dukes, if not doges, of Venice. We 
 crossed one of the 378 bridges of Venice to reach the 
 dining-room, and it was past 21 o'clock when we 
 finished dinner and retired to our rooms. 
 
 My little room is long and narrow. The carpet 
 of Venetian red has curious designs wrought in green, 
 black, and blue velvet, and the window draperies har- 
 monize with it. The old mahogany furniture belongs 
 to a past century, and the souvenir hunter might covet 
 the brass candlestick and the odd little water-bottle, 
 which I 'd much rather possess than the great toe joint 
 of a saint. I listened for the "voices of the night," 
 and heard a good deal besides the song of the mosquito 
 quartet beyond the bar of bobinet. At 22 o'clock the 
 bells of Venice chimed in unison, and at 23 o'clock 
 harmonious notes again pealed forth. At 24 o'clock 
 the old bronze giants pounded on the bell of the great
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 109 
 
 timekeeper in St. Mark's Square, and the midnight 
 melody of Venice mingled with sweet tones from afar. 
 The music of the islands floated out to sea and became 
 a part of its grand symphony. 
 
 Under the star-lit skies, with the perfume of 
 flowers drifting through the night, Venice with poetic 
 highways, her quaint reckoning of time, and midnight 
 lullabies seemed scarcely more real than dreamland, 
 except that the hungry mosquitoes would have eaten us 
 alive but for the bar of bobinet. 
 
 In the early dawn my window framed a tiny land- 
 scape and one of nature's fascinating aquarelles in blue 
 and gray and pink, for the banners of light flung across 
 the east were reflected in the limpid waters of the 
 Grand Canal. Two gondolas were moored under the 
 vine-covered arbor of the private wharf below, and the 
 forsaken fountain near by was rilled with the rose- 
 colored oleanders which perfumed the night and added 
 loveliness to the morning. The gray palace with mar- 
 ble cornices and large observatory across the street 
 seems to be deserted. But who knows how often curi- 
 ous people may still peep through the little six-inch 
 shutters built in the middle of the heavy ones? 
 
 At breakfast a compatriot of ours said she heard 
 somebody splashing in the bath near her room all night. 
 For this may the Adriatic cease not her slumber-song 
 for Americans yet to come ! The old lady thought the 
 pink salt-cellar was an electric light bulb, but she he- 
 roically refrained from remarking on the waiter's care- 
 lessness in leaving it on the table. 
 
 The continental breakfast grows in favor, and the
 
 110 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 Old Gentleman admits that It is "better than no break- 
 fast." I quite agree with him, since I 've learned to 
 subdue crusty little mountains and to devour extinct 
 volcanoes. By pressing with all my strength on the 
 bottom crust, the diminutive mountain is reduced to 
 fragments, and honest labor is rewarded. Perhaps the 
 "intestine discords" of old Italy, mentioned in guide- 
 books, were due more to political ambition and re- 
 ligious aspiration than to the cold and monotonous meal 
 of the morning. 
 
 st. mark's square and st. mark's cathedral. 
 
 With its fluttering doves, military bands, enticing 
 shops, royal palaces, the grand cathedral and strange 
 peoples all in sight at once, St. Mark's Square is the 
 most popular and attractive place in Venice. Every 
 visitor buys grain for St. Mark's doves, which are 
 tame enough to be fed from the hand. In the after- 
 noon, when the bronze giants strike the great bell 
 for 2 o'clock, thousands of doves alight for their daily 
 feast provided by the City Fathers of Venice. It is 
 said six thousand of these pigeons died recently from 
 some mysterious disease, and that all Venice mourned. 
 The famous glass factories constitute one of the chief 
 sources of revenue for the city, and it is interesting to 
 see the great variety of beautiful things manufactured 
 by the skilled artisans; ornaments, vases, chandeliers, 
 etc. The little shops glitter with bronzes, brasses, and 
 beads of every conceivable hue and shape. 
 
 In the lace factories, for one franc a day (twenty 
 cents in our money) girls spend their young lives
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 111 
 
 bending over spools and cushions to make duchesse, 
 Venetian, rose point, and other fine laces. An eight- 
 hundred-dollar lace robe and a two-thousand-dollar 
 bertha were very beautiful, but they were simple com- 
 pared to a royal robe on which forty women had 
 worked for nearly two years. Under the clever guise 
 of shopping for a friend in Tennessee, the little Bride- 
 to-be bought her own exquisite bridal veil, edged with 
 rose-point lace, while the rest of us invested in tiny 
 pieces of real lace, fancy fan-chains and hat pins of 
 counterfeit precious stones. 
 
 St. Mark's lion guards unceasingly the royal pal- 
 aces and the arsenal gates, being bold in bronze and 
 not much more saintly in flawless white marble. In- 
 sects are said to be numerous here, but real, live, four- 
 footed beasts are scarce. There are very few cats and 
 no dogs in Venice, but we 've seen some little boys 
 here as restless and fidgety as the one in America 
 who told his Sunday-school teacher he had a flea in 
 his pocket. 
 
 The four horses in Venice are historical, if not zo- 
 ological, specimens, and they may be seen by every one 
 who visits St. Mark's Square, for these fiery steeds 
 of bronze, captured on foreign shores in the thir- 
 teenth century, are kept on the facade of St. Mark's 
 Cathedral. The chaperon was bitterly disappointed 
 not to find above the entrance to St. Mark's the angels 
 with glittering wings so graphically described by emi- 
 nent writers. 
 
 St. Mark's Cathedral, begun in the ninth century 
 and rebuilt after several destructive fires, is a pile of
 
 112 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 Romanesque-Byzantine architecture adorned with five 
 domes and five hundred marble columns. The guide 
 points to pillars of porphyry, jasper, and Verdantique, 
 and other treasures from Tyre, Greece, Constantinople, 
 and indeed from wherever the Venetian fleet touched, 
 until we are reminded of the resourcefulness of Sinbad 
 the Sailor. 
 
 The interior of this vast cathedral is more impres- 
 sive to me than the gorgeous exterior. The pulpit of 
 agate was brought from Palestine; and the choir is 
 richly adorned with bas-reliefs in bronze, portraying 
 incidents in the life of St. Mark. The faces of Are- 
 tino and Titian on the bronze door of the sacristy are 
 the work of the famous Sansovine, of whom doges and 
 kings stood in awe. St. Mark's fine and ancient mo- 
 saics are unsurpassed, and the walls are encrusted and 
 floors inlaid with these semi-precious stones. 
 
 Beginning with the creation, countless scenes and 
 events in the history of the world are depicted in mar- 
 bles. Though I doubt if any fox was ever carried to 
 his grave by two roosters except in fable or fantastic 
 mosaics on the floor of St. Mark's. The Virgin Mary 
 and her ancestors perched on the limbs of their gene- 
 alogical tree are ill at ease, probably remembering that 
 pride goeth before a fall. 
 
 St. Mark's bones were brought from Alexandria, 
 Egypt, to be entombed beneath this costly and sacred 
 pile which bears his revered name, one of the most 
 famous cathedrals in the world. Venetians say Pope 
 Pius X longs to return to Venice and to the people 
 most dear to him, and from whom he was so unex- 
 
 JOORDS VXTMTV7TI XSIC
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 113 
 
 pectedly transported — not to the skies, but the Apos- 
 tolic See. Not in many years, we hope, but doubtless 
 even his bones shall be expected to rest under the 
 shadow of the Vatican. 
 
 The campanile which collapsed in 1902 is being 
 rebuilt, and the new structure will be very similar to 
 the old one, which had stood more than a thousand 
 years in St. Mark's Square before it "sat down." The 
 noble granite columns in this square — one surmounted 
 by the winged Lion of St. Mark, and the other by 
 St. Theodore treading on a crocodile — were pro-' 
 nounced by John Ruskin the most beautiful columns 
 in the world. 
 
 July 17th. 
 
 PALACE OF THE DOGES AND THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 
 
 After leaving St. Mark's we went through the old 
 palace of the doges and climbed the golden stairway 
 once sacred to despotic rulers. Pillars of Jasper, man- 
 tels of Carrara marble, the throne on which one hun- 
 dred doges were crowned, and the lion's head in the 
 Sallo della Bussola, seemingly an ornament, but in 
 reality a secret letter-box for denunciations in days of 
 political intrigue, treachery and cruelty, are among the 
 many objects of interest here. Frescoes by Tintor- 
 retto, and famous paintings, "The Rape of Europa," 
 by Veronese, and "Christ before Pilate," by Durer, are 
 among the art-treasures of the palace. 
 
 From this place of grandeur, though not through 
 the secret door from the Hall of the "Chief Three," 
 we crossed over the "Bridge of Sighs," and went down 
 8
 
 114 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 into the dark dungeons. The two ranges of prisons, 
 known in history as the Pozzi, for criminal and po- 
 litical prisoners were entirely separate, but there is no 
 record that the aristocrat was happier there than the 
 prisoner of low degree. Not a ray of daylight could 
 reach any of the dungeons, but each had a small open- 
 ing through which the priest might shrive the con- 
 demned man. 
 
 PICTURES AND POETIC HIGHWAYS. 
 
 St. George's Church and School cover the little 
 island on which they stand, and a picture of striking 
 beauty, seemingly sketched on the horizon, is reflected 
 in the canal. In fact there are so many pictures out- 
 of-doors in Venice, it is difficult to turn from them ex- 
 cept for the desire to see the masterpieces of art in 
 the museums and churches. 
 
 One day our gondolier carried us out into the la- 
 goons, and in the waste of waters we saw a funeral 
 procession as it neared the Silent Island, sacred to the 
 dead. A barge slowly conveyed the casket, followed 
 by two gondolas carrying the bereaved ones to pay the 
 last tribute of respect to their loved one. The sky 
 was overcast and with the gray waters formed a most 
 desolate background for the scene of infinite pathos. 
 It was some consolation to see evergreens growing on 
 the Silent Island, but I shall never forget the dreari- 
 ness of that lowly funeral procession in the lagoons 
 of Venice. 
 
 The Academy of Fine Arts is rich in interior dec- 
 orations and contains many famous paintings, includ-
 
 , LETTERS FROM ITALY 115 
 
 ing "The Ascension of the Virgin," by Titian; "Ma- 
 donna and Child," by Tintorretti ; and "The Annun- 
 ciation," by Veronese. Paul Veronese's delight in 
 large descriptive paintings is shown in his "Feast in 
 the House of Levi," representing three gorgeous 
 scenes. Here are pen-and-ink sketches showing how 
 Leonardo da Vinci developed his masterpieces. 
 
 In Venice we have the poetry of motion as gondolas 
 glide past palaces and prisons of olden time. The 
 Queen of the Adriatic is robed in a wondrous fabric 
 of past centuries, woven of crimson and gold, and 
 sparkling with gems, and the mystic spell of her charm 
 is unbroken. 
 
 Architecture flowered when dukes, emperors, and 
 kings of Italy demanded palaces designed by masters 
 of the fine arts. Many of the fine palaces in Venice 
 seem to float on Grand Canal, their windows and bal- 
 conies of stone furnished with scarlet cushions that 
 the pageantry of Venice may be enjoyed in luxurious 
 ease as the great festival processions of Church and 
 State sail grandly by and the applause of the spectators 
 rings from shore to shore. 
 
 There are days when the funeral procession, most 
 impressive of all, slowly wends its way to the Silent 
 Island and a solemn requiem for the dead is heard in 
 the rhythm of the waves; and there are days when 
 sweet music heralds the approach of a joyous wedding 
 party on their way to St. Mark's or some other historic 
 church along this poetic highway. Pleasure-loving 
 people glide past in the glare of noon-day, and in the 
 shadows of evening merry song and musical laughter
 
 116 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 from gondolas with shining prow entertain the spec- 
 tators luxuriating in palaces reflected in cool waters. 
 
 At first it seemed to us inappropriate for ladies to 
 go out on the water wearing their elegant gowns and 
 hats with delicate plumes, but the gondola is the fash- 
 ionable conveyance in this city of the lagoons, and the 
 Grand Canal is its principal avenue. 
 
 The proud gondola still has the right of way in 
 these poetic highways of Venice, and the steam launch 
 is counted an intrusive plebeian. Nevertheless, the 
 Grand Canal being twelve feet deep, steam and electric 
 launches blithely run from end to end, little caring for 
 the occasional snub, sure to come. One day, with up- 
 lifted finger, our gondolier stopped a large launch 
 loaded with passengers and leisurely rowed across the 
 path of the interloper, viewing it with scorn and de- 
 rision. Speaking of launches, I am reminded of an 
 amusing experience of yesterday, when a party of our 
 friends went out in an electric launch and were star- 
 tled by the continuous ringing of its alarm-bell until 
 they discovered the Old Gentleman had fallen asleep 
 on the electric button. 
 
 A steam launch took us to the public gardens, which 
 are attractive with fine trees and the largest, most 
 brilliant begonias I ever saw. Not far off a bit of Sar- 
 gossa Sea, with white gulls flying over and dipping 
 down into the tall yellow grass, made a charming 
 little picture. Some of our party went on out to 
 Lido, the fashionable bathing resort of the Adriatic; 
 but, not caring for the study of comparative anatomy, 
 I returned to the city. 
 
 On the launch I conversed with a cultured Ameri-
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 117 
 
 can woman, who said many Americans bring their 
 children and live in Italy for years, because they can 
 obtain more for their money. I guess she belongs to 
 the American Colony in Italy, for she smiled when 
 I said I 'd rather live in America and have fewer 
 things. And while I do wish a great number of 
 Americans might have the benefit of a trip to Europe, 
 I believe America is the best country in which to rear 
 sons and daughters for the life we live. 
 
 On a very hot afternoon the young woman in a 
 shop said, "We call this a sirrocco;" we had a time 
 of discomfort until a thunderstorm brought relief in 
 the evening. 
 
 In Venice reality seems like a dream, and fiction 
 becomes fact. The palace of Desdemona, who mar- 
 ried Othello, the Moor of Venice, is near our hotel. 
 Shakespeare seems to be near us with the "Merchant 
 of Venice" and his friends who are distressed and dis- 
 mayed by the demand of the merciless Shylock, and we 
 are glad the fair Portia has the ability to outwit him. 
 
 We bought souvenirs in the shops on the Bridge- 
 of-the-Rialto, passed over it, and saw the site of the 
 hated Shylock's home and his auction block of the old 
 market-place. Near there a man with a basket of de- 
 licious peaches weighed two on his little scales and sold 
 them to us for twelve cents. An old woman was bent 
 almost double under her basket of cucumbers, and it 
 seemed wiser not to patronize her that day. 
 
 Americans are not the only people here amused by 
 the sound of foreign tongues. Yesterday, as we crossed 
 a bridge the voice and intonations of a member of 
 our party were so perfectly mimicked there was no
 
 118 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 misunderstanding it, even if a man below us had not 
 shrieked with laughter when we looked around to dis- 
 cover whence came the echo. 
 
 If we are not growing saintly, we should, at least, 
 become slightly artistic, for at luncheon we often eat 
 "Filet de Saint Pierre a la Richelieu," which is not 
 bad, and "Peches a l'Aurore," which are delicious. 
 Nearly every day in Europe we have had "Poulet" or 
 "Poulardi" for dinner, and it would rejoice our every- 
 day American host to see the fowl carved and dex- 
 trously served from the silver platter by the waiter. 
 
 The parlors of this hotel are on the same island 
 with the dining-saloon, and sometimes we congregate 
 there for a moment's review of the procession passing 
 on Grand Canal. To-day after luncheon a young 
 lady in lavender and new lace sat on the terrace writ- 
 ing, and, as sometimes happens, the fountain-pen played 
 at both ends. She leaned over the steps, washed her 
 fingers in the canal without soiling dainty lingerie or 
 even getting her white plumes splashed. 
 
 If Venice in daylight is indescribable, what shall 
 I say of it as viewed by moonlight? We spent one 
 evening in gondolas, and after circuitous courses 
 through the lagoons we re-entered the Grand Canal, 
 joined the flotilla surrounding the barge of musicians, 
 who sang sweetly and changed the ethereal city into 
 one of tuneful reality. 
 
 We do not see rich argosies of spices and silks, nor 
 high-prowed galleys, victorious of old, sailing the Adri- 
 atic; but here are tokens of the days when Venice was 
 mistress of the seas, and also traces of despotic tyranny 
 which may have hastened her downfall.
 
 FROM THE ADRIATIC SEA TO THE PLAINS OF LOMBARDY. 
 
 Milan, July 18, 1908. 
 
 In the journey from Venice we passed through 
 Verona, an ancient city of distinction. Long ago it 
 was adorned with a circus and amphitheater built by 
 Roman emperors, and the Roman gateways are stand- 
 ing here after more than fifteen centuries. Verona was 
 the birthplace of Paul Veronese, whose masterpieces, 
 "The Marriage in Cana" and "The Supper in the 
 House of Simon the Leper," are unsurpassed in scenes 
 of dignity, grace, and magnificence. Another honored 
 son of Verona was Pliny, the elder, who perished in 
 his endeavor to see the volcano in eruption the day 
 Pompeii and Herculaneum were overthrown by earth- 
 quake and buried by sand and lava from Mt. Vesuvius. 
 Shakespeare makes us believe Romeo and Juliet lived 
 in Verona, and that their distressful love-tragedy for- 
 ever wiped out the enmity between Capulet and Mon- 
 tague. The tomb of Capulet, in which the despairing 
 lovers courted Death, is pointed out, but I doubt if 
 anybody ever saw the statue of Juliet in pure gold 
 promised (in the romance) by Montague. "All the 
 world loves a lover," and none more truly than these 
 radiant ones created by the immortal Shakespeare. 
 
 Passing through Padua we glimpsed the famous 
 university, founded in 1222, and other honorable edi- 
 fices of the city. One of the most widely sought 
 
 119
 
 120 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 places in Europe by lovers of Christian art is the little 
 Arena Chapel at Padua, designed and painted by- 
 Giotto in 1306; and St. Antoine church contains cele- 
 brated bronzes by Donatello. The monument there 
 to Garibaldi and the Victor Emmanuel Square honor 
 men dear to Italy, and the Botanical Gardens are said 
 to be the oldest in Europe. 
 
 For miles we skirted the lake of Garda, the 
 largest lake in Northern Italy, along whose shores pic- 
 turesque villages were scattered. On the hills beyond 
 the lake were battlemented castles, and not far off we 
 sighted the Alps, once seen, never to be forgotten. 
 This lake was well known to the Romans as Be- 
 nacus: Virgil tells of its sudden storms, which fre- 
 quently arise now, though all was tranquil as we 
 passed along. 
 
 It was raining when we reached Milan, and we 
 went directly to the Hotel du Nord where luncheon 
 was served at once. For the first time since leaving 
 the good ship Slavonia our party sat at one table, and 
 
 the blessing invoked by Rev. Dr. B gave a pleasing 
 
 suggestion of homelikeness. We were hungry, and 
 the foreign dishes, including "Poulardi ne au riz a la 
 Cardinal," were so palatable we decided cardinals 
 know what to eat in Italy. 
 
 The fruits of Italy are as beautiful as they are 
 luscious, and no mortal man may escape temptation 
 through the fine figs, apricots shot with sunshine, and 
 cherries like great rubies. 
 
 In spite of the rain, carriages were ordered, and 
 immediately after luncheon we stared out sight-seeing.
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 121 
 
 Milan's masterpieces in art and architecture. 
 Of course, we went first to Santa Maria delle Gar- 
 zie to see "The Last Supper," painted by Leonardo 
 da Vinci in 1499, which is one of the twelve most 
 celebrated paintings in the world. This wonderful 
 painting on the wall of the refectory of the old convent 
 bears evidences of the vicissitudes of war and the rav- 
 ages of time. Napoleon turned this building into a 
 stable and ordered a door cut for his horses, though 
 fortunately the opening was below the table at which 
 the Master and His disciples are seated. This mar- 
 velous painting is much faded, and from time to time 
 artists of renown have reverently labored to restore 
 and preserve it. The delineation of the features and 
 the attitude of the Master and His disciples are life- 
 like, irresistible, and overpowering, and the perspective 
 in the picture is perfect. It is comforting to look from 
 the sorrowful countenance of the Master and the ques- 
 tioning faces of the agitated disciples seated at the 
 table and glimpse through the windows the running 
 streams, everlasting hills, and blessed skies of this won- 
 derful painting. And did not the Master Himself 
 often turn to things out of doors for comfort In times 
 of stress and sorrow? It is grievous to stand in the 
 presence of these perturbed men, soon to see enacted 
 the world-tragedy of nearly nineteen centuries ago, 
 which pulsates throughout the universe to-day. Yet 
 again and again we look upon "The Last Supper," 
 with its irresistible charms which overpower the eyes 
 and strengthen the spirit. Pupils of the great Leo- 
 nardo da Vinci have copied this masterpiece in art on
 
 122 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 the side-walls, and the old refectory seems a holy place. 
 From the old Convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie 
 we drove to Milan's masterpiece in architecture, the 
 cathedral, which seemed no less a holy place because 
 perfectly radiant in grace and loveliness. 
 
 The Cathedral of Milan is said to be one of the 
 most beautiful in the world, and I do not expect to see 
 another half so fair as this one of white marble. The 
 cathedral was founded in 1386 by Giovanni Galeazzo 
 Visconti on the spot where a pagan temple of Minerva 
 once stood. The interior with its immense nave, 
 pointed Gothic arches supported by massive marble pil- 
 lars, and finely-proportioned aisles form the perfection 
 of architecture. The wonderful stained-glass windows 
 reproduce scenes from the Old and New Testaments 
 and give indescribable charm to the solemnity of the 
 place. Services were being held in several chapels by 
 
 devout Roman Catholics, and Mrs. B and I spent 
 
 a few quiet moments with them, though we scarcely 
 understood the signs and symbols of the Church. The 
 exterior of this majestic cathedral is adorned with more 
 than 30,000 statues and basso-relievos (no two alike), 
 all of which were designed by eminent sculptors. It is 
 only from the roof that any clear conception may be 
 gained of the fretworks, carvings, scultpures, and pin- 
 nacles. Nothing less than a visit to Milan will give 
 any idea of the majesty, grace, and beauty of the ca- 
 thedral, as it stands apart and seems a temple not made 
 with hands.
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 123 
 
 Milan's manufactories and monuments. 
 From the roof of the cathedral may be seen the 
 prosperous city of Milan, with its pleasure-grounds, 
 large manufactories, gems in medieval and modern 
 architecture, and many monuments to patriots and 
 heroes of Italy. Miles from the city and beyond the 
 fertile plains of Lombardy the mountains form a glori- 
 ous company, including Mt. Viso, Mt. Cenis, Mt. 
 Blanc, Mt. Rosa, Jungfrau and other celebrities peer- 
 ing into the heavens. Milan, the ancient city, was en- 
 tirely destroyed in 1162 by Frederick Barbarossa, and 
 afterwards rebuilt on a larger scale. Fine flannels, 
 silks, and satins are manufactured here, and its superior 
 dairy products are widely known. The Arcade, one 
 of the finest of modern structures, is well adapted for 
 the display of exquisite fabrics and charming fads. 
 Every one saunters through its glass-covered arches to 
 linger under its dome. The library founded by Arch- 
 bishop Federico Borromeo in 1 609 is rich in rare books 
 and manuscripts, including works of Leonardo da 
 Vinci, letters of St. Carlo Borromeo, Galileo, and 
 Lucrezia Borgia. Near the cathedral we visited the 
 fine monument to Leonardo da Vinci, who is called "a 
 perfect giant in every branch of art and scientific 
 knowledge," and this group in marble is noble in con- 
 ception and execution, the statue of the great da Vinci 
 being the central and loftiest one of the commanding 
 figures. A monument in bronze, by the famous sculp- 
 tor Grandi, commemorates the terrible "Five Days' 
 Battle" and the victory of the citizens of Milan who 
 wrested their city from the Austrian army of occupa-
 
 124 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 tlon. One of the old landmarks here is the bell-tower 
 erected in 1272, from which was rung the knell on days 
 of public executions; it sounded the curfew after twi- 
 light, and always tolled on the death of members of the 
 powerful Visconti family to whom this city owes so 
 much. The Simplon Gate was intended to commemo- 
 rate the victories of Napoleon I, but the original in- 
 scriptions were erased, and this "Arch of Peace" now 
 records the liberty and independence gained in 1859. 
 In the Foro Bonaparte the statue of Garibaldi, by 
 Ettore Ximenes, is conspicuous; it eulogizes "this sim- 
 ple-minded, heroic patriot who held a kingdom in his 
 hand and retired from it penniless." A splendid monu- 
 ment erected in 1896, on June 24th, the anniversary 
 of the Battle of Solferino, is dedicated to the "Re- 
 Galantuomo — Vittorio Emanuele." And there are 
 many other monuments and museums of historical 
 relics we should see but for lack of time. 
 
 At any rate, we have not wasted precious time here 
 on "relishes" as we did inadvertently that day at Ischia, 
 the most beautiful island in the Bay of Naples. Nor 
 
 have we followed the example of Miss H 's party 
 
 of lively American girls who sampled the cakes in 
 every confectionery. They missed seeing some master- 
 pieces in bronze and granite, but say they know Milan 
 has the best assortment of cakes in Europe. 
 
 STRESA ON LAKE MAGGIORE. 
 
 July 20, 1908. 
 
 A short railway journey from Milan brought us 
 to Lake Maggiore, nearly forty miles long and famous
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 125 
 
 for its scenery. As we steamed around the curves of 
 the lake a faultless cyclorama was unfolded. On one 
 side terraced vineyards, rioting in prospect of glad 
 vintage, were mirrored in clear waters, and on the 
 other side of us lofty mountains heaved into the depths. 
 The villages, like little boats, kept close to the shore ; 
 castles stood on the heights, and above these an occa- 
 sional lone monastery marked the topmost boundary 
 of hospitality. Stresa is an ideal resting-place, and the 
 weary traveler might well wish Sunday twice pro- 
 longed here. Our hotel is perched upon a hill, and 
 right well does it deserve to be called "Beau Sejour." 
 We look down upon the beautiful Borromean Islands, 
 and across to the rioting vineyards, stately castles, and 
 quiet monastery above. Beyond the majestic blue Alps 
 of Italy in front of us the snow-capped Alps of Switz- 
 erland sit supreme and commune together in the clouds. 
 It was nearly nine o'clock when the glowing tints of 
 the setting sun faded into solemn twilight. Little 
 lights sprang out in the village below us, the three 
 Graces of Lake Maggiore held aloft blazing clusters 
 like the Pleiades brought to earth, and the steady flame 
 on the mountain height avowed the Christian com- 
 passion of the keepers of the lone monastery up there. 
 And He who guides the sun, moon, and stars in their 
 courses encompassed all with His love. 
 
 On Sunday morning the patter of raindrops made 
 the call for breakfast unnecessary. Lake Maggiore 
 was slightly ruffled, and the hurried flight of the sea- 
 gulls portended a stormy day. At breakfast our land- 
 lord looked out and said, "More snow in Switzerland,"
 
 126 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 and that explained the wintry blast of the morning as 
 well as the changed aspect of the mountains, which 
 now seemed much nearer to us. In a few hours the 
 clouds dispersed and Stresa basked in glorious sunlight. 
 We walked through the hotel gardens, abloom with 
 gaudy zinnias, fine hydrangeas, and lovely roses. We 
 sat awhile under the great palms, fir trees, and poplars 
 of the little park and talked about things at home and 
 in foreign lands. We came to the conclusion that we 
 could guess Italian better if these people would only 
 call things and places by their names. 
 
 "For instance," said Miss J , "who could im- 
 agine that Firenze means Florence?" 
 
 An afternoon walk on the excellent road skirting 
 the lake carried us past a succession of handsome villas 
 situated on the hills and partly concealed by hedges 
 of evergreens and flowers. Italy's flag of red, white, 
 and green was in evidence now and then, and red, 
 yellow, white, and pink begonias enlivened the land- 
 scape. At last I have found in Italy an unfamiliar 
 
 flower. This morning Mrs. B and I walked 
 
 down into Stresa and entered the open gates of a 
 garden presided over by King Humbert in bronze. 
 Several gardeners looked at us with surprise, but 
 worked quietly on. Presently a man with a rake in 
 hand rapidly approached us and solemnly said: "You 
 are not permitted to enter." We thanked him and 
 started to retrace our steps, but, his duty done, he gen- 
 erously and without speaking pointed to another gate 
 which prolonged our walk under the lofty palms. The 
 unknown shrub in the pretty garden was covered with
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 127 
 
 very bright blossoms of dark red, shading out to pink, 
 which were shaped like diminutive callas. With a 
 glance at alluring shop windows, we returned to our 
 hotel through narrow and crooked streets, the tall 
 houses almost shutting out the sunlight. This was a 
 striking contrast to the walk of the day before, when 
 we passed the succession of handsome villas on the lake 
 front. A woodyard in this settlement was a shanty 
 filled with small bundles of slender switches; and a 
 boy, with a basket almost as tall as himself strapped 
 to his back, was starting out to deliver a load of 
 switches for firewood. It is possible that these twigs 
 were taken from mulberry trees in leaf to feed silk- 
 worms, and the switches were then saved for fuel. 
 The frugality of these poor people is evident every- 
 where, but I have rarely seen repulsive poverty. No 
 settlement in Italy is too squalid to have its little 
 shrine with a flower laid at the feet of the Virgin and 
 Child. 
 
 In the little railway station here at Stresa the slate 
 giving the hours for the arrival and departure of 
 trains is decorated with a bouquet of roses artistically 
 made with pink and white crayons. 
 
 THE BEST WINE OF ITALY. 
 
 The sweet Ostia and other delicious, sparkling 
 wines of Italy have been celebrated in song and story, 
 but the true delight of a sojourn in this land of sun- 
 shine comes not through the vintage of the wine-press. 
 To my mind, Italy's love of the beautiful is her best 
 wine, and through it the spirit of man is refreshed and
 
 128 LETTERS FROM ITALY 
 
 exhilarated. Stately palms and pink oleanders sur- 
 round the courtyards of palaces; violets are scattered 
 along the pathway of peasants, and the king's highway 
 is edged with red poppies. There is music in Italy's 
 laughter and divine harmony in her song. Her archi- 
 tecture embodies strength and loveliness, and her very 
 ruins are glorious. He who runs may see enough 
 beauty in Italy to enrich all his remaining years. And 
 for the one who tarries in this sunny land of art there 
 is the delight of exultation and spiritual exaltation. 
 Everything is made beautiful. The outer walls are 
 ornamented, and the inner walls are resplendent with 
 the handiwork of genius guided by love. Italy's gate- 
 ways are artistic, and grim facts are recorded in lines 
 of grace. Her sanctuaries and schools are adorned 
 with the portraits of the Christ Child in sculpture and 
 painting, and we are often reminded "How He walked 
 here, the shadow of Him love, the speech of Him soft 
 music, and His step a benediction." 
 
 The Madonna was painted by every old Italian 
 master who aspired to portray perfect womanhood and 
 holy motherhood, and he usually combined the beauties 
 of Grecian and Roman physiognomy, making the por- 
 traits of her tender, true, and beautiful. Time and 
 again they have recalled to us lines of Sir Edwin 
 Arnold from "The Light of the World:" 
 
 "Those were the eyes — communing with the skies; 
 That was the face — tender and true and pure; 
 There was the breast — beautiful, sinless, sweet ; 
 This was the frame — majestic, maidenly ; 
 And these the soft, strong hands, and those the arms,
 
 LETTERS FROM ITALY 129 
 
 And those the knees — bent daily in meek prayer. 
 Whereto the Eternal Love would needs commit 
 The flower of humankind to bud and blow." 
 
 Some one has said, "In Italian painting deep 
 thought and poignant passion are not suffered to inter- 
 rupt the calm unfolding of a world where plastic 
 beauty reigns supreme." Thus the painted scene of 
 cruel martyrdom is made beautiful by the vision of 
 angels beyond the clouds. Yes, these paintings, so full 
 of aesthetic charm, are of untold ethical value. It is 
 easy to believe some of the old masters "went from 
 prayers to painting and from painting to prayers," for 
 holy aspiration is kindled by their works of art. It 
 seems to me that no traveler through Italy can fail to 
 gain moral strength and spiritual uplift from the paint- 
 ings and sculptures which embody the spirit of an age 
 of self-sacrifice, devotion, and adoration. And though 
 the ecstatic faith of those days be dimmed by ecclesi- 
 asticism, it may come back, for Italy never forgets 
 
 "The earth where heroes trod ; 
 Where sainted martyrs glorified 
 In death th' Incarnate God."
 
 SWITZERLAND 
 
 Through Simplon Tunnel to Martigny — A 
 Drive Across the Alps — The Village, the 
 Valley, and the Sea of Ice — From Mt. 
 Blanc to Jungfrau — Geneva — The Castle 
 of Chillon — The Forests and Lakes of 
 Switzerland — Interlaken — Murren — Lu- 
 cerne AND PlLATUS. 
 
 SWITZERLAND THE ANCIENT HELVETIA, 
 NOW A MODEL REPUBLIC. 
 
 THROUGH SIMPLON TUNNEL TO MARTIGNY. 
 
 July 21, 1908. 
 As we entered Switzerland at Domo D'ossola our 
 twenty-six suit-cases were passed through the custom 
 house and the courteous Swiss officials regarded us in 
 a friendly light. The guards wore a black uniform 
 trimmed with scarlet, and a musical bell gave the 
 signal for our train to start. It was not long before 
 we changed to the electric train, which carried us 
 through the longest tunnel in the world, under the 
 Simplon Pass, made famous by the victorious march 
 of the redoubtable Napoleon and his loyal army a little 
 more than a century ago. Without regard to number 
 of suit-cases marked with "J>" it took us twenty-six 
 
 130
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 131 
 
 minutes to traverse the ten miles of darkness, but there 
 was no stifling smoke, and the double railway track 
 was reassuring. We were glad to emerge into day- 
 light and again looked out upon rugged old Switzer- 
 land, rock-ribbed and stern featured, with bristling 
 crags overhead, dangerous precipices below, and moun- 
 tains all around us. Serried ranks of spruce climbed 
 the steep heights and were now and again broken by 
 great scars extending from the top to the base of moun- 
 tain and made in past aeons by the resistless march of 
 avalanches of ice and rocks. Humble huts on moun- 
 tain-sides could scarcely be distinguished from the great 
 boulders strewn by titanic forces in centuries long 
 gone. The glory of the sun was often obscured by 
 dark clouds, and white mist clouds floated from the 
 valleys below. Impetuous cascades enlivened the som- 
 ber landscape. They sang gleefully as they swirled 
 and dashed against rocks, threw foam spray on the 
 tree-tops, and plunged over precipices. One of be- 
 witching grace took five leaps in his headlong race 
 towards the sea. 
 
 An ancient hospice, afar off, brought to mind 
 stories of the rescue of daring adventurers by the 
 monks and their St. Bernard dogs, and the beckoning 
 of a shining peak, yet more distant, seemed to justify 
 the perilous exploit not always reasonable for men to 
 make. 
 
 We passed through several pretty towns with 
 modern hotels, picturesque dwellings, and churches, 
 and followed the River Rhone for miles through its 
 fertile valley. The little farms were highly cultivated
 
 132 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 in narrow strips of potatoes, turnips, beets, and aspar- 
 agus. A wheat field the size of a carpet was an appro- 
 priate foreground for a tiny chalet on the hillside, and 
 in the meadow behind it two cows browsed to the 
 music of their tinkling bells. 
 
 The day's journey ended at Martigny, where we 
 were ready for Swiss cheese and whatever else might 
 be set before us for dinner. We knew we 'd certainly 
 have "poulardi" or "poulet" — and chicken called by 
 any name is good. 
 
 This was our first day in Switzerland, the an- 
 cient Helvetia, now the model republic of the Old 
 World. More than fifty years ago Switzerland 
 adopted the initiative and referendum form of gov- 
 ernment, and her people have ruled themselves so 
 wisely and well, its adoption is commended to all 
 republics. Our statesmen say we might gain largely 
 by following the example of this wise little country 
 of the Alps. 
 
 A NIGHT AT MARTIGNY. 
 
 We found Martigny, an old and interesting Va- 
 laisan town nestling against the Alps and looking out 
 on the widest part of the Rhone valley. This was 
 once the Roman town Forum Claudii, and many his- 
 torical inscriptions on walls, bits of bronze and marble, 
 and pieces of money have been unearthed here. After- 
 wards it became an ecclesiastical town, and the first 
 eleven Valasian bishops resided here ; then later it be- 
 came a fief of the House of Savoy. Overlooking the 
 town, on a rocky spur, still stands the Batiaz Castle, 
 once a Roman watch-tower, and then the bishops'
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 133 
 
 residence until the thirteenth century. After being 
 dismantled more than once during the feudal wars, 
 this castle was set on fire by a Valasian patriot and 
 partially destroyed in 15 15. 
 
 The valley of the Rhone, between the Bermese and 
 Pennine Alps, is in the canton Valais, notable for its 
 picturesque and superb scenery. And there are still 
 old castles and crenelated manor-houses which recall 
 stirring times in a "tragical and passionate history." 
 
 The floral beauties of the valley, varied in form 
 and color, extend to the snowy summits, and one 
 Alpine garden in this region boasts of a million flowers 
 which flourish in the wide range of latitude existent 
 here. Our hotel was guarded by a lion, sculptured 
 over the gateway, and ivy geraniums with a profusion 
 of pink blossoms trailed from graceful urns on the 
 pillars of the gate. Pink oleanders in full bloom and 
 a quaint fountain at play gave distinction to the garden. 
 
 After dinner we conversed a while with American 
 tourists who had driven from Chamonix that day in 
 a cold rain, and therefore were not enthusiastic over 
 the glories of the Alps. These people met another 
 party of Americans going on to Chamonix, and the 
 young man who would n't "be bothered" to bring an 
 overcoat shivered in the one borrowed from an older 
 and wiser man. The comfortable sitting-room of the 
 hotel was decorated with bright pictures of home life 
 in Switzerland, the prettiest one being the "Village 
 Wedding." Near her father and mother, the flower- 
 bedecked bride and the groom with a posey fastened 
 in his tall hat, worn only on the wedding-day, wel-
 
 134 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 corned their smiling guests on the village green. The 
 old pump-handle was entwined with garlands of leaves, 
 and little boys stood near the arch of flowers ready to 
 toss nosegays as soon as the solemn ceremony was 
 ended. In imagination we heard the wedding bells of 
 Switzerland ring across the valleys and from Alpine 
 heights sweet echoes fell. 
 
 The homespun counterpane and fine crochetted 
 loops for the window curtains in my room were evi- 
 dences of thrifty home-life in Switzerland to-day, and 
 the tall brass candlestick had been fashioned by one 
 with hammer in hand. That night I slept comfortably 
 under the little feather bed laid across the homespun 
 counterpane, for the atmosphere was wintry. The 
 next morning I was waked by the tintinnabulation 
 of bells, and I looked out upon a new world. In the 
 little garden below the flowers listened to the hum 
 of bees gathering honey from cups of fragrant dew. 
 Mountains towered above us, and the loftiest peaks 
 glowed in the sunlight. In sheltered places snow- 
 drifts lay undisturbed, and the stately pines lifted their 
 heads in adoration to the Creator of all majesty ;nd 
 beauty. 
 
 A DRIVE ACROSS THE ALPS. 
 
 Soon after breakfast to the accompaniment of tin- 
 kling bells we started from Martigny on the carriage 
 drive to Chamonix, and as our horses trotted off I 
 recognized the mystical music of the early morning. 
 Our carriage drivers were intelligent Swiss guides who 
 might have given us much pleasing information had 
 we known their language. These sturdy descendants
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 135 
 
 of the ancient Helvetians, whose deathless valor won 
 immortal glory, know and love the Alpine heights 
 where nature's throbbing heart is heard, and they 
 pointed out distant objects of natural beauty as well 
 as places of historical interest. 
 
 The business section of Martigny was almost de- 
 serted, and the cats asleep in the windows of several 
 shops seemed in full possession. A bright-looking boy 
 astride a hobby-horse lent semblance of animation to 
 the stillness of the morning. In a little while we met 
 a funeral procession, and the dullness of the village 
 became its aureola. Business had been suspended to 
 pay homage to the memory of one beloved by her 
 fellow-villagers. There was no hearse nor vehicle of 
 any description, but respect and reverence for the dead 
 were never more truly manifest than in this lowly- 
 spectacle. Four women of mature and toilful life, 
 clad in white robes with hoods and carrying black hats, 
 led the procession ; they were professional mourners — 
 a custom in European countries. Then came two 
 priests, the first bearing a large black wreath and the 
 other holding aloft the sacred cross, symbol of ever- 
 lasting love and undying faith. Six strong men bore 
 the coffin, which was followed by grief-stricken men 
 and women in garments of black. Our guides bowed 
 uncovered heads ; the sympathetic bells lost their merri- 
 ment, and the touch of nature that "makes the whole 
 world kin" was heavy upon us as we slowly wended 
 our way through the shabby outskirts of the village. 
 
 Our drive across the Alps baffles description, for 
 beauty, grandeur, and sublimity dwelt together, and
 
 136 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 heaven and earth shadowed God's unutterable glory. 
 Upward paths led through grain-fields, terraced vine- 
 yards, and meadows bedecked with scarlet poppies, 
 purple asters, and dainty bluebells; and we passed 
 through hanging gardens abloom with daisies, dande- 
 lions, and royal heart's-ease. We entered the evergreen 
 forests of pine and larch trees, and breathed balsamic 
 incense as it rose to the skies. At every turn, for miles 
 and miles, we saw the old Roman tower near Mar- 
 tigny, and the valley of the Rhone finally looked like 
 a garden threaded by a strip of silver sheen. We 
 passed houses that had seemed to be in the clouds, 
 their roofs weighted with heavy rocks to keep them 
 from being blown away by wintry winds. Again we 
 looked up and said the people surely never come down 
 after they begin life up on those inaccessible heights. 
 But we passed beyond and found houses and gardens 
 straggling up to the top of the Alps. On one sunny 
 eminence a little chapel memorialized the place of 
 blessing, and herdsmen there "praise Him, from whom 
 all blessings flow." The sheep-huts and cow-sheds 
 were deserted, and flocks and herds were grazing in 
 summer pasturage in high mountain fastnesses. One 
 quaint and pretty custom in some of these valleys is 
 to select the two finest cows in a herd, naming one 
 Queen of Milk and the other Queen of Horns, and 
 to pay special honor to these favorites on the home- 
 coming of the cows in the autumnal season. Indeed, 
 the family fireside song, the "Ranz des V aches (Re- 
 turn of the Cows) is one of the notable and best loved 
 airs of Switzerland; military bands are forbidden to
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 137 
 
 play it in the Swiss regiments of foreign armies lest 
 brave soldiers be overcome with homesickness. 
 
 At times on our drive, as during the day before, 
 the brightness of the sun was obscured ; and as we en- 
 tered the trailing clouds the valleys and mountains 
 below were submerged in a turbulent sea of white 
 fog-mist. The Alps became grander and more entranc- 
 ing, and through far-off vistas the snow-covered domes 
 appeared to crown celestial cities, gloriously beautiful. 
 Then the mist clouds seemed transformed into angelic 
 hosts worthy to guard these cities of purity and peace. 
 We soon learned, however, that our celestial cities 
 were in reality distant glaciers studded with crystals 
 of purest ray. 
 
 Our guide pointed out the great Saint Bernard 
 Pass, which was traversed by Roman armies, by the 
 forces of Charlemagne, and by the armies of Napoleon 
 on his way to Italy. After his conquest the Emperor 
 Napoleon caused military roads to be built over these 
 passes, which were used until the mountains were 
 pierced by tunnels for the railways now intersecting 
 a large part of Switzerland. The great Saint Bernard 
 and the little Saint Bernard Pass, said to have been 
 crossed by Hannibal, were named for the Crusading 
 Monk who established hospices for the entertainment 
 of adventurous travelers, many of whom were rescued 
 by the monks and their well-trained St. Bernard 
 dogs. 
 
 In about three hours we reached Forclaz Pass, the 
 summit of our drive, where we rested in the mountain 
 lodge, partaking of milk and fruit. Views of the never-
 
 138 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 to-be-forgotten and indescribable scenery were pur- 
 chased, and Miss K selected the melodious horn 
 
 of an Alpine goat for her lively little brother in North 
 Carolina. 
 
 Tinkling bells soon summoned us to the carriages, 
 and then began our rapid descent which was almost 
 terrifying at times, although our guides walked along- 
 side the horses. It often looked as though the dark 
 mountains were closing in to shove us into the seem- 
 ingly bottomless gorges yawning beneath us. The 
 winding road clung to the mountain side, and as we 
 looked into deep abysses our wonder and joy were 
 stricken with awe. Torrents from the glaciers hol- 
 lowed out these Dantean chasms in the masses of 
 protogine connecting or forming a part of the moun- 
 tains, and even now dark waters lurked in their mys- 
 terious depths. Doubtless we passed along dangerous 
 places in our ascent, but it was only when we de- 
 scended to lower levels that danger seemed to beset 
 our pathway. At one point the sloping pine forest 
 across the chasm seemed appropriate for the last rest- 
 ing-place of pilgrims and prophets of old, with massive 
 moss-covered bowlders for grave-stones. In our own 
 sunny Colorado I thought I saw nature's sleeping- 
 chamber for her poets, and this rugged, silent slope 
 was not less beautiful, and far more sublime. 
 
 As we crept through a rocky defile something in 
 old Latin books about showers of stones being hurled 
 from the top of a precipice upon the army of invasion 
 flitted through my brain. Once more I regretted that 
 embryonic gray matter, groping after grammar, had
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 139 
 
 lost much of the sweep and cycle of heroic deeds and 
 historical events in ancient Helvetia. 
 
 We drove through the skull of Tete-Noir Pass, for 
 the immense black head thrust across the roadway is 
 pierced by a short tunnel. It is a trick of these sedate 
 and steady drivers to crack their whips in this tunnel, 
 surprising the tourists and arousing the dwellers of the 
 forests above and around it with sharp reverberations. 
 But for thick wraps we might have suffered in the 
 damp, cold atmosphere, a closed carriage being out of 
 the question unless sullen skies sent rain upon us. The 
 sunny skies of Italy and her soft atmosphere, which 
 enwraps nature in lustrous sheen and comforts every 
 living creature, were sadly missed. 
 
 Once we left the carriages, took a short walk and 
 climbed steps to a rustic pavilion overlooking the chasm 
 where "confusion worse confounded" is enshrined in 
 the heart of beauty. This deserted playground of the 
 Titans has become the laboratory of gnomes and the 
 hiding-place of fairies. Gladsome vines drape the 
 giant bowlders which rest upon moss-covered beds 
 fringed with ferns. Shrubs and trees had gained foot- 
 hold, and through the weird depths below a purling 
 stream hastened to carry tidings from snowy summit 
 to sapphire sea. 
 
 Just before we reached Trient, an idyllic mountain 
 village, we saw a party of young folks, Germans I 
 think, returning from a jaunt up in the mountains. 
 The girls wore short dresses of heavy gray flannel, 
 and their bright eyes and rosy cheeks indicated whole- 
 some sport. Two of them ran past our carriage, per-
 
 140 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 haps as a ball goes down a hill, though they succeeded 
 in stopping at the hotel. Possibly they were spurred 
 on by the thought that these Americans might stop for 
 refreshment and deplete the larder of their hotel. 
 
 Having had refreshment at the summit of Forclaz 
 Pass, we pursued the uneven tenor of our way until 
 we reached Chatelard, where the bridge across the 
 Eau-Noire forms the Franco-Swiss frontier. The car- 
 riages were dismissed here, the obliging Swiss guides 
 wishing us "bon voyage" as they started back to Mar- 
 tigny carrying our thanks and good-will with them. 
 
 The hotel at Chatelard was almost near enough to 
 the mountain cliffs for us to reach from the windows 
 and pluck ferns and catch the pearly drops of water 
 trickling through their fairy-like fronds. After a 
 hearty luncheon the three groups of our party were 
 consolidated into one, and the journey was resumed 
 in a large, heavy vehicle, a diligence for French terri- 
 tory. About two hours later we stopped at a hamlet 
 in the dark forest overshadowed by darker mountains; 
 and near the weather-stained cross by the wayside we 
 drank from an ever-flowing fountain fed by crystal 
 torrents from the glaciers. 
 
 We came quite unexpectedly upon our first nearby 
 glacier. The forest had been parted by a vast and 
 weird wonder and a new light fell upon the earth. 
 For an instant I was reminded of the huge pile of slag 
 cast from smelting furnaces of iron works in the moun- 
 tains of Virginia; but that rough mass was dull and 
 dismal, while to my eyes this rugged, royal pile was 
 as blue as the heavens, though lacking "sweet content."
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 141 
 
 Had nature's prodigality hurled an avalanche of sap- 
 phires down this mountain-side? On nearer approach 
 we knew this marvel of the Alps was one of the seven 
 great glaciers of the valley of Chamonix, and we were 
 awed and silenced by its majestic mien. In fact we 
 talked very little that day, for we were engrossed with 
 nature as she spread before us "the footsteps of truth 
 and the vision of song." 
 
 CHAMONIX 
 The Village, the Valley, and the Sea of Ice. 
 
 Chamonix, July 22, 1908. 
 
 The shadows of evening were falling as we entered 
 Chamonix, "the Queen of Alpine Resorts," and the 
 village tucked away in the mountains was soon ablaze 
 
 with electric lights. Mrs. B and Miss H , 
 
 who came from Martigny on the electric railway, 
 awaited us at the hotel, and they were as enthusiastic 
 over their quick journey as we were over the leisurely 
 drive across the Alps. The dinner-hour was enlivened 
 by musicians who came into the dining-room and sang 
 selections from opera with fine expression. Between 
 songs the leader of the quartet walked around the ta- 
 bles to receive contributions of coin. These were not 
 strolling musicians of France, but professional singers 
 from the Casino in Chamonix. The drive had sharp- 
 ened our appetites for the excellent dinner, and the de- 
 licious honey for which Chamonix is famous was not 
 spared. 
 
 We were pleased to overtake here the friends of
 
 142 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 our voyage across the Atlantic, the charming Caro- 
 linians and Virginians, conducted by one of them who 
 is surreptitiously called "St. Sebastian" by the girls of 
 the party. They had just returned from the celebrated 
 glacier Mer de Glace and gave vivid accounts of the 
 difficulties and enjoyments of the expedition. They 
 were weary in the flesh and seemed somewhat subdued 
 in spirit, being unaccustomed to mountain-climbing 
 either by foot or by mule-back, and, with the excep- 
 tion of "St. Sebastian," advised me not to take the 
 tiresome jaunt. Two young ladies hobbled in and 
 said they would n't recover from the effects of that 
 five-hours' mule-ride in weeks. With all these argu- 
 ments for discretion, my name was dropped from the 
 list of applicants for mules needed for the very early 
 morning excursion to Montanvert. Everybody said the 
 trip to the "Glacier des Bossons," selected by Dr. and 
 
 Mrs. B , would be far less fatiguing and quite as 
 
 interesting, and I tried to believe them. 
 
 The little shops were bright and attractive, chiefly 
 with delicate wood-carvings, pictures, and the Edel- 
 weiss, the white flower of the snow-region of the Alps. 
 We bought souvenir flowers, and tiny chalets with men 
 and women to match, and diminutive domestic and 
 wild animals enough to establish Swiss settlements in 
 twenty-six suit-cases. Chamonix is the home of the 
 amethyst, and some beautiful sparkling stones were 
 bought at reasonable prices. 
 
 Impenetrable clouds had enwrapped Mt. Blanc all 
 day, nor did we glimpse his snow palace that night.
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 143 
 
 THE VALE OF CHAMONIX. 
 
 An authentic document, signed by Pope Urban II 
 and bearing the seal of Aymon, Count of Geneva, cer- 
 tifies that the valley of Chamonix, which is 3,400 feet 
 above the sea-level, was ceded to the Benedictine monks 
 in 1090. So little was known of this region, however, 
 that in 1741 the explorers Pocock and Windham, of 
 England, came with a well-armed escort, expecting to 
 find a barbarous people. Instead of this, the inhab- 
 itants of the valley were peaceful, and proved them- 
 selves reliable and valuable allies in exploration. 
 Some years later, through art and science, the painter 
 Bourrit and the geologist De Saussure, of Geneva, cre- 
 ated a world-wide interest in the natural wonders of 
 this now famous valley. 
 
 We are told Chamonix means "intrenched camp," 
 and the fortifications here, not made with hands, bear 
 the stamp of One all-glorious and divine. Many of 
 the wonders and delights of our drive across the Alps 
 are repeated, multiplied, and magnified in the valley 
 of Chamonix. Laughing cascades and rushing torrents 
 meet in the River Arve, and their songs become a 
 sweet choral. The Arve unites with the Arvieron, 
 and the choral bursts into psalmody. The seven gla- 
 ciers of Chamonix, marvelous in form and matchless 
 in beauty, link the past to the present and grasp the 
 mysterious future. They seem to be a part of eternity. 
 They are sapphire gateways into aerial regions, never 
 to be unlocked by mortal man, nor may he enrich him- 
 self with their unnumbered ornaments of pearls, em- 
 eralds, rubies, and diamonds flashing in the sunlight.
 
 144 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 Mountains are always alluring ; the Alleghany and 
 Blue Ridge with sunny smile; the Rocky Mountains 
 despite a warning frown; the Atlas Mountains laved 
 by the billows of the sea; old Vesuvius, hiding his 
 scarred brow in shimmering cloud ; the Appenines with 
 olive groves, and the Alps, crowned with celestial cities. 
 And in Chamonix Valley, mountains gracious, for- 
 midable and ferocious, enticing, entrancing, and en- 
 rapturing, form a cylorama bewildering, bewitching, 
 and indescribable. 
 
 Beyond the lovely flower-starred summits are the 
 Aiguilles piercing the clouds with their glittering gray 
 points; while, soaring above all, Mt. Blanc invites, en- 
 treats, and commands perilous ascent. It is not strange 
 that De Saussure, the geologist, spent years trying to 
 reach the dome of the granite king's snow-palace, and 
 only desisted to prepare for further attempts ; nor that 
 Jacques Balmat, a man of the mountains, undaunted 
 by hardship, suffering, and failure, never desisted until 
 he stood upon its lonely height. A year later he, with 
 seventeen other guides, successfully conducted De Saus- 
 sure to the summit of Mt. Blanc, and valuable scien- 
 tific observations were made and recorded there. 
 
 Two monuments in Chamonix commemorate the 
 daring achievement pi these aspiring men. One re- 
 cords the first ascent of Mt. Blanc, by Jacques Balmat 
 in August 1786; and the sculptured "Scholar and 
 Guide" who "conquered" Mt. Blanc in 1787, are 
 heroic statues of De Saussure and Balmat. This mon- 
 ument was peculiarly interesting to Rev. Dr. K , 
 
 because his wife's ancestors were closely related to the
 
 I 'nil I <>\ ( lASTl 1- 
 
 I ike I ■■iii-iii lies by (hi I Ion's walls: 
 A thousand feet in tK-i>tli below 
 
 Its mass) waters meet and How." 
 
 — Byron.
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 145 
 
 eminent geologist and physician, Horace Benedict de 
 Saussure. Jacques Balmat was rewarded by the King 
 of Sardinia, and "Mt. Blanc" was added to the sur- 
 name of this dauntless and devoted guide who, besides 
 aiding in scientific exploration, saved several lives at 
 the peril of his own. 
 
 The number of adventurous tourists has increased 
 year by year until as many as two hundred in a sea- 
 son now view the prospect from the observatory erected 
 on Mt. Blanc in 1890 by the scientist M. J. Vallot. 
 
 The French Alpine Club of Chamonix fosters love 
 and reverence for Nature's stronghold, and has done 
 much to lessen the dangers of climbing inaccessible and 
 dangerous peaks. Neatly framed placards in the hotels 
 request all visitors to contribute to the municipal fund 
 for the improvement of roads and the preservation of 
 the beauties of the valley, and contributions are cheer- 
 fully made by the stranger within the gates. 
 
 THE MULE-RIDE TO MOXTANVERT. 
 
 After all I went to Montanvert and saw Mer de 
 Glace. When I waked that morning and caught sight 
 of Mt. Blanc the thought of compromise for the day 
 was onerous, and I sought "La Conducteur" for con- 
 sultation. A boy was dispatched across the meadows 
 to secure, if possible, a mule and have him saddled for 
 me by the time we reached the peasant's hut, about a 
 mile away. The party was ready to start, but friends 
 
 came to my rescue. Miss K , of Virginia, who 
 
 kindly supplied the black silk waist in Rome that I 
 might be conventionally attired for the audience of the 
 10
 
 146 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 pope, bought the woolen socks and alpenstock for me 
 as I hurried to my room for hat and cloak. And "St. 
 Sebastian" himself brought out my continental break- 
 fast, which might have been wrapped in an envelope. 
 
 I started off with "La Conducteur," Misses J , 
 
 and Mr. S who intended to walk to Montan- 
 
 vert, assuring them I could easily, if necessary, find my 
 way back to the hotel from the peasant's hut. But 
 so elated was I by the sight of Mt. Blanc and the 
 anticipation of Mer de Glace, I am not sure that I 
 should have returned to the village. In fact, I thought 
 one who had walked through seven miles of darkness 
 and blackness in Mammoth Cave might climb moun- 
 tains indefinitely in this exhilarating atmosphere, in- 
 spirited by the glories and the grandeur of the Alps. 
 So I crossed the flower-strewn meadows in hopeful 
 anticipation. 
 
 The view of "the silent sea of pines" Coleridge 
 delighted in greatly charmed us, and we were en- 
 thralled by Mt. Blanc, unrivaled and serene, "in the 
 roar of his mad avalanches." He, too, is "heir of the 
 sunset and herald of morn," and he deigned to cast 
 aside the cloud-curtains that our hearts might be filled 
 with wonder and joy that morning. 
 
 Happily my powers of endurance were not tested, 
 and from the old rail-fence around the peasant's hut 
 I mounted the tallest mule I ever saw. He looked 
 like a giraffe, sober-minded and self-possessed, and 
 took his place near the head of the procession without 
 consulting me. Eight of us were mounted, and in 
 single file we ascended the steep, narrow, and often
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 147 
 
 slippery road, winding back and forth up the terraced 
 mountain-side, the muleteers walking on the outer edge. 
 Our huge saddles had little iron railings, and it would 
 have been impossible to fall off backwards ; a comfort- 
 ing reflection, as one falling might knock off the heads 
 of a succession of friends on the winding terraces be- 
 low. At times Mrs. B 's frisky little black steed, 
 
 Lena, kicked at the next mule in the procession, but 
 the guide was watchful and no harm resulted. 
 
 Once five or six goats came running wildly down 
 the steep terraces and I rather expected them to jump 
 over our caravan. I remembered how at old Carroll- 
 ton, in the long ago, the little wagon was often left 
 hanging on the fence when the boy driver jumped 
 out and his goats jumped over; and there was no guess- 
 ing what these unfettered mountain-goats of the Alps 
 might do in a gleeful moment. 
 
 About half-way up to Montanvert we stopped for 
 a few minutes' rest, and I ate my frugal breakfast un- 
 der the delicious pines. My American husband would 
 have laughed at those two little rolls, buttered and 
 spread with mulberry jam ; but they were good and 
 sufficient, and perhaps never again shall such a banquet- 
 hall be mine. The air was redolent with the perfume 
 of the pines, and a great light shone in the vaulted 
 dome. Through grand arches I saw the green valleys, 
 flower-starred heights, gray aiguilles, snow-clad peaks, 
 and ice-pinnacles of the Alps glistening and joyous in 
 the light of a glorious morning. 
 
 The zigzag road wound through forests of noble 
 pines and shining larch trees ; and ferns, wild strawber-
 
 148 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 ries, forget-me-nots, and Alpine roses were scattered 
 along the way. We met groups of tourists coming 
 down the mountains, most of them walking, who 
 looked at us with some curiosity and kindliness as well. 
 A large party of boys with their conductor rested by 
 the roadside, and their bouquets of wild flowers showed 
 pleasure in botany, though geology may have prompted 
 their expedition. It was good to look into their bright 
 faces and to wish for the boys' attainment of high 
 ideals. Doctors of the philosophy of life say "nothing 
 human is alien to us," and the realization of this truth 
 comes forcibly in a strange land and among foreign 
 peoples. 
 
 We saw men and teams at work on the electric 
 railway, which will be in operation before long, and 
 will shorten the trip to Montanvert. And then tour- 
 ists to Chamonix may allot one half day to the village, 
 the valley, and the sea of ice, and maybe they '11 not 
 see Mt. Blanc at all, for he often hides his face in 
 impenetrable clouds for hours at a time. That will 
 be an easy trip, but not half so interesting as by mule- 
 back up the terraced mountains, through the "silent 
 sea of pines," close under larch trees, and among rocks 
 and ferns, brightened in sunny places with Alpine roses 
 and blue forget-me-nots. 
 
 The pedestrians of our party kept pace with us, 
 and sometimes passed us by short cuts across the moun- 
 tain terraces. Every turn in the winding pathway re- 
 vealed new beauty and grandeur, and in two and a 
 half short hours we reached Montanvert. 
 
 The hotel there is surrounded by giant rocks, and
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 149 
 
 it overlooks the fathomless gorge cut by Mer de Glace, 
 the most celebrated glacier of the Alps. Nearby moun- 
 tains, bright with verdure, and those farther off cov- 
 ered with snow, gleamed in the sunlight, while yonder 
 sparkled cascades from azure heights. 
 
 THE WALK FROM MONTANVERT TO MER DE GLACE. 
 
 In the midst of this romantic scenery we soberly 
 pulled woolen socks over our shoes, and, aided by alpen- 
 stocks and guides, rapidly descended a rocky path and 
 climbed down slippery and steep places until we stood 
 by the celebrated Mer de Glace, a veritable sea of ice. 
 At the foot of the precipitous embankment two of our 
 ladies seated themselves on a towering rock and re- 
 mained there in safety. It was my intention only to 
 step out on the edge of the glacier ; but with the kindly 
 
 assistance of our obliging conductor and Mr. S 
 
 I went half across it. Then, at my request, they went 
 on to join the friends ahead of us, thoughtfully and 
 kindly spreading a coat to make a comfortable resting- 
 place for me. I was not cold sitting there because the 
 glacier throws back the heat of the rays of the summer 
 sun, warming the atmosphere. Nor was I afraid to 
 be left alone, as the friends and guides would be in 
 sight even though they crossed the turbulent-looking 
 sea of ice. 
 
 And again, unexpected good fortune was mine, for 
 a splendid St. Bernard dog had followed us from the 
 hotel, and there he was lying at my back unobtru- 
 sively, but as surely guarding me as ever human friend 
 watched over another. Nobody sent him or knew he
 
 150 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 had followed us on the glacier ; but with instinct akin 
 to reason and faithful to his mission in life, he had 
 come to aid, if need be, the lonely traveler. We, St. 
 Bernard and I, were very near the beaten pathway, and 
 a party of English people crossing over stopped to 
 admire him and to congratulate me, for they thought 
 the splendid dog was my pet. It was good to hear the 
 mother-tongue in which cordial greetings were ex- 
 changed, and to be invited by them to stop in Liver- 
 pool before sailing homeward. 
 
 You must understand this "crossing over" the gla- 
 cier means climbing over great boulders of ice covered 
 with snow, and up and down and around slippery 
 places; and although little steps are cut along in the 
 ice, utmost caution in the use of the alpenstock, with 
 its metal tip, is necessary in this strange journeying 
 across the frozen sea. The guides wear spike-nailed 
 shoes, and, of course, tourists usually follow beaten 
 paths, only the most ventursome risking places known 
 to be dangerous. There are tremendous crevasses into 
 which an unwary or even the most cautious man may 
 fall, never to regain earthly foothold, possibly to be 
 found a half century later in the sepulcher of ice. 
 
 The glacier is a river, or sea of ice, filling the 
 space between two mountains, beginning at their sum- 
 mit, and moving stealthily and steadily, though imper- 
 ceptibly, down towards the valley. There is a con- 
 stant melting in its abyssmal depths; but the winter 
 adds more ice than is melted by the summer solstice, 
 and this glacier may see the end of the world. 
 
 This wonderful and mysterious Mer de Glace was
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 151 
 
 a revelation. I seemed never to have heard of a glacier 
 before, and I despair of giving you the faintest idea 
 of how this one looks. In fact I suspect it never looks 
 the same to any two people; and perhaps one alone 
 and at rest gains a view of the mighty monster never 
 to be obtained when precautions for safety in climbing 
 across it are of prime importance. To me it was ter- 
 rific and appalling in its awful grandeur and sublimity. 
 It looked like a great torrential sea frozen at the in- 
 stant its tumultuous waves threatened the destruction 
 of the valley below. It seemed to represent the im- 
 mutable laws of God and His eternal justice. I won- 
 dered if in all these years of God's love and mercy 
 I had failed to consider His just and mighty wrath. 
 The great glacier was silent and cold, yet its message 
 thundered in my ears. 
 
 With its huge and irregular blocks of snow-covered 
 ice, the glacier close at hand spells isolation, desolation, 
 destruction, and annihilation. Pearly raindrops, crys- 
 tal snow Hakes, shining ice-floes had become bowlders, 
 pyramids, and hills of ice, now welded together by 
 freezing blasts from the caverns of the storm-king. 
 This terrible sea of ice is far more desolate-looking 
 than the top of Pike's Peak ; for among the millions of 
 stones up there, tender, blue-eyed, forget-me-nots are 
 found, while no living thing could exist here in caves 
 of ice and on fathomless snowdrifts. 
 
 In this place of sublimest desolation the St. Ber- 
 nard, my sympathetic friend and protector, never 
 stirred from my side, and I was not in the slightest 
 danger. But the ethereal splendor of my celestial cities
 
 152 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 was not here, and my sapphire gateways had been de- 
 stroyed. Nature, in implacable mood, had overthrown 
 the domes and towers, the turrets and minarets of ala- 
 baster, and had scattered them among the ruins along 
 this disastrous highway. Here was anarchy ending in 
 chaos. The Chinese conception of Hades might have 
 originated here. Nature, pitiless and unrelenting, 
 seemed symbolic of law untouched by love. It was 
 typical of life unredeemed, and without the hope of a 
 Messiah to come. 
 
 Yet the sun was shining above us, blue skies encom- 
 passed the earth, and the sea of ice had its metes and 
 bounds. The promises of God are immutable as His 
 laws, and to His believing children the Messiah had" 
 already come. 
 
 A guide conducted me safely back to the towering 
 rocks, and assisted me up the steep and slippery path 
 to the hotel. The faithful St. Bernard dog followed 
 a part of the way, and then mysteriously disappeared, 
 possibly going to comfort another stranger in a strange 
 land. We had mounted our mules and were starting 
 down the terraced mountain-side when a man was 
 brought up in a chair-litter borne by four men and ac- 
 companied by several others. This unusual sight fright- 
 ened "Signora B V mule, but two men jerked 
 
 him forward as he threatened to back off the edge of 
 the precipice. We leaned heavily against the saddle 
 railings and came down the steep grades of the zigzag 
 path without accident and in comparative comfort. 
 We reached the Hotel Victoria about 3 o'clock as 
 hungry as those Germans looked when they ran past
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 153 
 
 our carriages at Trient. We were tired in the flesh, 
 and may have been subdued in spirit as by a service 
 in the sanctuary. To some of us the Mer de Glace 
 was a vast and solemn cathedral, and the Spirit of the 
 Most High dwelt there. 
 
 FROM MT. BLANC TO JUNGFRAU. 
 
 July 24, 1908. 
 
 We had a perfect day for our journey from Cha- 
 monix to Geneva. The atmosphere was crisp that 
 morning, and the valley of Chamonix never was love- 
 lier nor more enchanting. Again the cloud-curtains 
 were parted, and Mt. Blanc filled the valley with his 
 presence and set us to singing anthems of praise. The 
 village and the valley almost adored him, and the hills 
 and mountains lifted up their heads as he magnified the 
 beauties and wonders of earth and the skies above. 
 
 We left Chamonix soon after our breakfast of 
 coffee, rolls, and honey, and reached Geneva in time 
 for luncheon. And there I discovered why the passing- 
 of-the-cheese is a solemn ceremony. Each one is afraid 
 of getting too little of the good, and too much of the 
 bad cheese; for there are numerous varieties. The 
 trip to Geneva was made in the electric cars, and we 
 crossed wide chasms, went over and around mountains, 
 catching glimpses of the cloud-piercing aiguilles and 
 the shining peaks of crystal. We descended into val- 
 leys and looked across sweet meadows, in which the 
 peasants raked up new-mown hay, and into little vil- 
 lages of rural Switzerland. The cottages were clus- 
 tered together and the air of friendliness was abroad.
 
 154 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 GENEVA, A CHARMING CITY. 
 
 We found Geneva, the beautiful city on Lake Ge- 
 neva, a place of many attractions. The Rhone River 
 and Lake Geneva unite here, and the bridges in tri- 
 angles and quadrangles are unique, and popular places 
 for evening promenades. In fact, at all hours of the 
 day people congregate on the bridges to feed the swans 
 and watch them in their graceful maneuvers on the 
 lake. We are told Geneva is more than 1,000 feet 
 above sea-level and has nearly 120,000 inhabitants. 
 There are many large and handsome hotels, residences, 
 and business houses, from seven to ten stories high, and 
 the broad avenues are shaded with sycamore trees. 
 The shops are filled with fine clocks, watches, and 
 music-boxes, many of which are quaint in design and 
 exquisite in workmanship. We heard nothing was 
 cheap in Geneva, but a tiny watch in a ball of crystal 
 for less than ten dollars seemed very reasonable ; while 
 a lovely little clock, suitable for a desk, priced at forty 
 dollars, was not at all cheap. The daintiest vegetables 
 I ever saw were here in the confectionery stores; for 
 the little baskets of tiny potatoes, carrots, and beets 
 were in reality delicious candies. 
 
 We went to several drug-stores for quinine, but 
 found neither pills nor capsules of the bitter stuff. We 
 had to content ourselves with two-grain quinine loz- 
 enges, about the size of a dime and shaped like a doll's 
 sailor hat. These fetching lozenges were thirty cents 
 a dozen; so even the semblance of headgear is dear 
 over here. The chaperon again bought toilet soap, and 
 rejoiced aloud in her possession. We exchanged salu-
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 155 
 
 tations with an old fruit-seller on the street, and paid 
 three cents each for apricots and twice as much for 
 peaches. The old woman's face was wrinkled and 
 sad, but her black dress was brightened with a wide 
 yellow belt, and the black handkerchief on her head 
 was embroidered in red and yellow flowers. 
 
 Passing another fruitstand, the chaperon bought 
 three peaches and put into the paper bag with them 
 the three she already possessed. The old fruit-man 
 promptly charged her for the six peaches, and in the 
 confusion of the moment she laid down the package of 
 soap and left it there. 
 
 In our drive through the city the old Armory, the 
 Russian Church, handsome new theater, Conservatory 
 of Music and Art, schools, and other public buildings 
 of note were pointed out. The Canton of Geneva now 
 devotes one-third of its budget to public educational 
 institutions, and doubtless this was brought to pass 
 through the initiative and referendum. 
 
 We went into the cathedral in which John Calvin 
 preached, and stood under the high pulpit of ancient 
 days. As Calvin wrote and preached, he not only 
 built up the Presbyterian Church, but developed public 
 instruction and elaborated the civil and sumptuary 
 laws for Geneva. Calvin came to Geneva in 1536, 
 and died here in 1564; and he is revered as patriot, 
 statesman, and religious teacher. Already plans are 
 made to celebrate here the four hundredth anniversary 
 of his birth, July IO, 1909. 
 
 In the Cathedral of St. Pierre the fine marble 
 statue of Duke Henri de Rohan recalled the time
 
 156 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 when this then imperial city became a place of refuge 
 for persecuted Protestants. The Gothic Chapel of the 
 Maccabees, adorned with fine stained-glass windows, 
 contains interesting relics of the past of great value 
 to that ancient and honorable body. An honored 
 citizen of Geneva to-day is Henri Dunant, the founder 
 of the International Red Cross Society, which has miti- 
 gated the horrors of battlefields the world over. 
 Through Dunant's influence the Swiss Federal Council 
 called an international conference in Geneva, and on 
 August 8, 1864, representatives of twelve governments 
 adopted articles of agreement "for the amelioration of 
 conditions of the wounded in armies in the field." 
 
 After dinner we crossed the lake and strolled 
 through a pretty park ornamented with groups of statu- 
 ary representing historical events. In the twilight the 
 chimneys of the houses looked odd enough, with slant- 
 ing stove-pipes protruding; it was easy to imagine they 
 were the crooked legs of crooked men caught fast while 
 trying to capture the city by seizing its very hearth- 
 stones. 
 
 In the early morning I counted from my window 
 fourteen beautiful swans gracefully riding the vivid 
 blue waters of Lake Geneva. Geneva, the fair city, 
 was flooded with rosy light, and across the Rhone, be- 
 yond the silent pines, many mountains clad in "ten- 
 derest purple of distance" looked up as Mt. Blanc 
 caught the rising sunlight upon his glistening dome. 
 Sweet place of refuge for the oppressed, birthplace of 
 philosophers, and forever exalted by the life of the pa- 
 triot Bonnivard, we would delight to linger in Geneva.
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 157 
 
 From here Mt. Blanc challenged de Saussure, and 
 he went forth to scale the granite walls and enter the 
 monarch's palace of eternal snow. Rousseau, the phi- 
 losopher, was born in Geneva, but at last his attacks 
 upon Christianity closed her gates upon him. Near 
 here is the beautiful place where Voltaire once dwelt, 
 and on the island stood the Episcopal Castle seized and 
 occupied by the Count of Savoy. Not far off in the 
 lovely gardens of a pretty chateau is the last resting- 
 place of the brilliant Madame de Stael, who was buried 
 beside the grave of her illustrious father, M. Necker, 
 chancellor of the exchequer under Louis XVI. 
 
 A young lady in the hotel — an American, of course 
 — advised us to buy a conversation book and learn 
 more French phrases. 'T was good advice, to be sure; 
 but who could settle down to dull lessons in such sur- 
 roundings, and with Lac Lehman at her feet? I 
 did n't tell her that several of our party already pos- 
 sessed conversation books, and what progress had been 
 made in French by the lawyer. 
 
 At 8.30 on Friday morning we sailed from Geneva 
 for Montreux to music by the band on the steamer. 
 The harbor of Lake Geneva was enlivened by many 
 little boats, and a few larger ones were decorated with 
 the flags of Switzerland and France. Geneva boasts 
 of her supply of purest water, and the ceaseless play 
 of the remarkable fountain in the lake is the continu- 
 ation of merriment begun by cascades on distant moun- 
 tain heights. The picturesque lighthouse may some- 
 times look out upon troubled waters, but we had 
 smooth sailing as the incomparable landscape unfolded
 
 158 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 before us. We had the enrapturing Alps on one side, 
 and on the other the beautiful plain of Geneva. We 
 passed a succession of villages and touched at Nyan, 
 Vevey, Clarens, and other places to leave or take on 
 tourists. After our lunch, brought from Geneva and 
 supplemented by a caterer on the boat, was eaten with 
 relish and enjoyment, the artistic lunch-basket was 
 presented to the Old Lady with a speech, and she 
 seemed much gratified. She afterwards told us about 
 the effort made to lose the basket, which, she thought, 
 might prove a burdensome souvenir. She dropped it 
 on the floor and went to the other end of the boat for 
 a change of scene. When she came back somebody 
 had picked up the basket, but only to lay it in the chair 
 she had vacated. 
 
 "People are occasionally too honest," she said. 
 
 At one place hundreds of sea-gulls poised in the 
 air, circled around our boat, and skimmed the blue 
 waters as they picked up the crumbs scattered from the 
 lunch-tables. 
 
 THE CASTLE OF SORROW. 
 
 At Montreux we left the boat and took the electric 
 railway, and for a little while skirted the lake on the 
 hills above it. From here we saw the Castle of Chillon, 
 immortalized in poetry and history, and hallowed by 
 the sufferings and martyrdom of reformers and pris- 
 oners of State. The old dungeons and the beam, black 
 with age, on which the condemned were executed may 
 be seen to-day. And here are the pillars to which Bon- 
 nivard, the patriot, was cruelly chained ; and his foot-
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 159 
 
 prints, worn in the stone floor, inspired Byron as he 
 wrote : 
 
 "Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, 
 
 And thy sad floor an altar ; for 't was trod 
 
 Until his very steps have left trace, 
 
 Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
 
 By Bonnivard. May none those marks efface; 
 For they appeal from tyranny to God." 
 
 In Geneva we saw a monument to Bonnivard, 
 whose courage and virtues made him "worthy of the 
 best age of ancient freedom." The castle is situated 
 between Clarens and Villeneuve, at one extremity of 
 Lake Geneva. A stream from a hill behind the castle 
 pours its torrent against the walls as it empties into 
 the lake several hundred feet deep. Not far from the 
 castle is a very small island, said to be the only one 
 in Lake Geneva proper. 
 
 IN THE FORESTS OF SWITZERLAND. 
 
 Soon we had left the tranquil Lake Geneva with 
 its old Castle of Sorrow, and were almost lost in the 
 dark, extensive forests. Centuries ago Switzerland be- 
 gan to protect her woodlands, and the far-reaching and 
 beneficent results of this wise policy, still continued, 
 are apparent to-day. Now Switzerland forbids the 
 transmission of electricity to foreign countries, except 
 upon a permit granted by the federal council, that her 
 natural water-power may be wisely conserved. 
 
 In our refreshing ride through the forests we 
 passed very near secluded homes of the peasantry, for
 
 160 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 the modern railway has encroached upon the privacy 
 of- the simple life. The cozy chalets, with roofs 
 weighted with rocks, many small windows in the gable- 
 end, with one pane of glass open, gave a hint of wintry 
 winds in the Alps. 
 
 On this bright day doors stood ajar, and once we 
 were near enough to get a hasty glimpse of family-life 
 in these altitudes. The young mother bent over the 
 wooden cradle to comfort the little child whose slum- 
 ber was disturbed by the passing train. The door of 
 the little milk-dairy in the yard was wide open and we 
 saw its shelves stocked with rich yellow cheeses; every 
 one of the right sort, we fancied. In Switzerland 
 special cheeses are made for celebrations of Church and 
 State, weddings, funerals, first-borns, and perhaps for 
 generations to come. 
 
 In many places what seemed to be vines were really 
 trees trained to cover the sides of the dwelling-houses. 
 Only a few goats and cows were visible, but under 
 every cottage a comfortable barn awaited the return 
 of the flocks and herds from the high pasturage of the 
 summer season. 
 
 FROM FORESTS TO LAKES. 
 
 At Spiez we left our train for the steamer to Inter- 
 laken, and walked down to the lake-shore, half a mile 
 away, sending the twenty-six suit-cases by the trolley 
 car. We passed through an old-fashioned garden with 
 tangled vines, charming shrubbery, and masses of 
 blooming plants. Bright hollyhocks, brilliant zinnias, 
 and flaming poppies held forth in sunny places, while 
 bluebells and purple pansies rested in the shade.
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 161 
 
 Our sail on Lake Thun was another unimproved 
 opportunity to study the conversation book, for we 
 were fascinated by nature's volume of ancient lore. 
 The lake was shut in from the world, and the moun- 
 tains closed after us, though now and then we were 
 welcomed to a village on the water's edge. Just be- 
 fore the sun disappeared behind the mountains the 
 small spot of gold on the water became a ladder of 
 fire, and then, the clouds catching the glory of sunset, 
 our lake became an opalescent sea. Nearby mountains 
 glowed softly, and in the distance Jungfrau, the vir- 
 gin queen of the mountains, seemed more of heaven 
 than of earth. 
 
 Twilight had fallen when we steamed into the 
 canal which connects Lake Thun and Lake Brienze, 
 between which Interlaken stands, and scarcely a sound 
 was heard except from the rooks roosting in the trees 
 along the banks. But the lonesomeness of the canal, 
 with the scolding of the rooks, only heightened vivid 
 memories of the miracle of sunset in an opalescent sea 
 and the transfiguration of Jungfrau, the virgin queen 
 of the Alps. 
 
 July 25th. 
 
 THE VILLAGE BETWEEN LAKES. 
 
 It was nine o'clock when we arrived at Interlaken 
 last evening, and this famous summer resort between 
 Lake Thun and Lake Brienze seemed in a merry mood. 
 People were congregated in the stores and hotels, and 
 music was heard on every side. Singers in picturesque 
 costume, accompanied by good performers on stringed 
 U
 
 162 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 instruments, made the night melodious. Switzerland 
 jumped from tallow-candles and flickering pine-cones 
 to electroliers, and Interlaken and other villages are 
 ablaze with electricity as the hum of business and pleas- 
 ure is heard far in the night. 
 
 Our restful-looking hotel is surrounded with trees 
 and pretty gardens; its handsome hall and stairway 
 are decorated with many palms. Dainty little ferns 
 in jars of white basket-china graced the dinner-table 
 last evening ; the yellow draperies and large mirrors be- 
 tween the windows adding to the handsome appearance 
 of the dining-room. 
 
 The parlor is handsomely furnished in old ma- 
 hogany and with rose-colored draperies and velvet car- 
 pet. The chandelier is a pretty representation of a 
 branch of mistletoe, the clusters of berries beaming 
 with light ; and on each side of the large mantle-mirror 
 rosy light falls from bunches of artistic azaleas. A 
 few choice pieces of bric-a-brac complete this charming 
 room. 
 
 Best of all, we found letters awaiting us here, and 
 we soon retired to our rooms to re-read the news from 
 home. In my room pale yellow flowers on the white 
 walls, the cream-colored curtains, and the velvet rug 
 of richer hue, scattered over with delicate foliage, sug- 
 gest springtime with golden sunshine and gay daffodils. 
 The upstairs hall is decorated with pictures of pretty 
 women in native costume, representing Fribourg, 
 Berne, Zurich, Lucerne, Valais, Tessin, and the other 
 cantons of Switzerland. The distinctive features of 
 the costumes is seen in the cut and color of the long
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 163 
 
 apron, and the style and shape of the head-dress, which 
 ranges from the big round band-box effect to the lace 
 butterfly ready to soar. The most unique costume is 
 that of the hardy women of Champery who find a 
 jacket and trousers necessary as they follow the herds 
 and flocks over rugged and jagged pasturage. 
 
 This morning our breakfast was served in an open 
 pavilion at one end of the hotel, three sides of it be- 
 ing partially enclosed with vines and blooming plants. 
 On one side a rocky stream separated us from the 
 mountain cliffs ; and in front trees, flowers, and charm- 
 ing walks were inviting. Tall palms and fine Rubra 
 begonias formed effective background for the gayer 
 parterres. As the Misses J and I breakfasted to- 
 gether under the shadow of mountain-cliffs, a little 
 sparrow hopped around our table and found crumbs 
 to his liking. Thus our sojourn at Interlaken was be- 
 gun close to nature and her little ones. Beyond the 
 mountains of bright verdure, distant ones are snow- 
 clad, and Jungfrau's crystal diadem sparkles in the 
 light and splendor of the morning. 
 
 EXCURSION' TO MURREN. 
 
 Immediately after breakfast we started on an ex- 
 cursion to the village of Murren, one of the finest 
 points in the Bernese Oberland from which to view the 
 snow-crowned Jungfrau and her lofty attendants. We 
 went by the mountain railway through the valley of 
 Lauterbrunnen, with its clear springs, and celebrated 
 for its Staubbach Falls, more than 1,000 feet high. 
 Then for two miles we ascended by the funicular rail-
 
 164 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 way, which seemed more dangerous than our old in- 
 clined railway up to Lookout Mountain, in Ten- 
 nessee. 
 
 All the way up the mountain-slopes were covered 
 with wild flowers; and there were unknown beauties 
 among the bluebells, red clovers, white and yellow 
 daisies, gentian, cyclamen, and the Alpine roses. We 
 saw no Edelweiss, which grows above the timber line 
 and near the eternal snowfields. 
 
 In the car we were seated near an old Englishman 
 who kindly pointed out unsurpassed views of the moun- 
 tains and the valleys, and said he hoped we might see 
 the unrivaled floral display of Mt. Pilatus. In con- 
 versation with his companion he remarked, "That man 
 with the suit of canvas and uncomfortable-looking 
 boots on was rather decent;" and as he evidently 
 thought as well of us, we wondered how he might 
 describe us a little later. 
 
 We reached Murren at noonday, and Jungfrau, 
 the Monch, and the Eiger Monch were awe-inspiring 
 in grace, grimness, and grandeur. These were robed 
 in white, except the Black Eiger, of lesser proportion, 
 who was nearer and protected the domain of his su- 
 periors. At one time Jungfrau, the virgin queen of the 
 Alps, enveloped her face in a veil of mist, and her 
 admirers were baffled. 
 
 Our luncheon, brought from Interlaken and sup- 
 plemented at Murren, was served on a high balcony 
 opposite the illustrious mountain peaks; and, but for 
 appetites worthy of the bracing atmosphere, we might 
 have feasted eyes only. With due ceremony the lunch-
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 165 
 
 basket was presented to Mrs. C , who packed it 
 
 full of souvenirs that call for careful handling. 
 
 The comely peasant girl who waited on our table 
 wore a black skirt with bodice over the white muslin 
 waist, and a long apron of red silk fastened with rib- 
 bon bows. Her filagree-silver ornaments for the 
 bodice, with silver chains dangling from the shoulders, 
 completed the picturesque costume of the peasant girl 
 of the Bernese Alps; they are valued heirlooms in her 
 family. 
 
 The little village Murren consists of a few hotels 
 for the accommodation of tourists, and little shops full 
 of curios, carvings, edelweiss flowers, postcards, pic- 
 tures, and superior soaps. Again the chaperon pur- 
 chased soap, and we congratulated her. The sales- 
 woman charged her a franc (twenty cents) for Pear's 
 soap, "because it came from England and had a tariff;" 
 and for Swiss soap she asked a franc "because it is 
 better than the English make," she said. Handsome 
 pink and purple columbine and gorgeous pansies flour- 
 ished in the gardens on this lofty eminence. 
 
 Here and there a small group of children marked a 
 lacemaker's stand, and from spools of thread little girls 
 were industriously making edges and insertions for sale. 
 In the shops hand-carvings in wood and ivory were 
 charmingly characteristic of the country and the people, 
 and we bought our share of wild goats, fleet-footed 
 chamois, and odd little gnomes with beard almost to 
 their feet. 
 
 However, the most artistic and realistic wood and 
 ivory carvings are in the shops at Interlaken, which we
 
 166 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 have visited several times. For centuries wood-carving 
 has been a source of revenue for the rural population 
 of Switzerland, and in 1825 it became an organized 
 industry under the leadership of Christian Fischer. 
 The people in the Bernese Oberland excel in this minor 
 art, but skill with the pen-knife is pretty general in 
 Switzerland. And here in Interlaken the beautiful 
 flowers of ivory and wood are carved and colored so 
 well it is difficult to believe they are not real blossoms. 
 
 In one shop we saw a splendid St. Bernard dog, 
 his leather collar, with the chain attached, and a rope 
 tied to that; all carved from one block of wood and 
 so perfectly colored that passers-by thought him alive 
 and on duty. In the same shop the wooden busts of 
 an old man and his wife were said to be fine likenesses 
 of an aged couple well known in Interlaken. 
 
 Picture-frames, clocks, music-boxes, chairs, tables, 
 toys, and all sorts of things were carved in all sorts 
 of ways. A little doll, half an inch tall, with jointed 
 arms and legs, was enticing, .but she did not appear 
 to be a relation of old Mary Ann Fisher, whose ar- 
 ticulated wooden family I have sought in vain so far. 
 
 A few T unnecessary articles of clothing have been 
 thrown aside, that a chamois, a mule, except for his 
 trappings, totally unlike my giraffe of Chamonix, a 
 midget milkmaid, a cuckoo clock, and several other 
 bits of carving might be added to the Swiss settlement 
 in my suit-case. Of the exquisitely embroidered hand- 
 kerchiefs, waists, and robes we (chiefly the Bride-to-be) 
 bought not a few. 
 
 As usual in the tourist season, the brilliantly-lighted
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 167 
 
 and well-filled shops attracted a procession of people 
 who good-naturedly jostled one another at times. The 
 Old Lady said she saw the devil in petticoats here one 
 evening, and that he, or rather she, spoke English 
 when inviting a young man who happened to be near 
 us looking in the windows, to a den of infamy in Inter- 
 laken. The evil one was repulsed ; but is it not time for 
 Catholics and Protestants of all Christendom to work 
 together to protect their young people from shameless 
 men and women seeking them and all whom they may 
 devour ? 
 
 Sunday, July 26, 1908. 
 
 Sunday in Interlaken has been the refreshing day 
 of rest needed after steady sightseeing. After break- 
 fast on the terrace several of our party met in the 
 writing-room, and the flight of time was marked by 
 the scratch of pens. All unmindful were we of spar- 
 rows, palms, lakes, glaciers, mountains, and the ocean 
 while we dwelt in old, familiar scenes. As we scrib- 
 bled and talked, by turns, a small boy, not of America, 
 tipped into the room, whispered to the little dog in 
 his arms, laid the glossy pet at his feet, and wrote a 
 letter in perfect silence. "Hereafter we will remember 
 the etiquette of the writing-room," said the Old Lady 
 for us all. Of all the Americans in the hotel, none are 
 more charming than the dozen vivacious Southern girls, 
 who probably tax the patience of their agreeable chap- 
 eron now and then. They say two or three of their 
 number can faint on the slightest provocation, and that 
 no day lacks its excitement. 
 
 Our Sunday afternoon rest was broken up by a
 
 168 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 large company of young people of Interlaken assembled 
 in a hall near the hotel for the weekly singing-school. 
 Their voices were musical, and the yodle-song of the 
 Tyrolese Alps was exhilarating. In fancy we caught 
 sight of sleek herds hastening down mountain-side to 
 the clarion call of joyous and simple-hearted youth of 
 Switzerland. The solitudes and sublimities of nature 
 draw men closer to one another, and I should like to 
 have attended service in the ancient Roman Catholic 
 monastery of Interlaken, which is also a place of wor- 
 ship for Scotch Presbyterians and French and English 
 Protestants, for Americans are welcomed there. 
 
 LUCERNE AND MT. PILATUS. 
 
 July 28, 1908. 
 
 We left Interlaken Monday morning and came to 
 Lucerne by the lake and mountain route, and again 
 we reveled in fine views of the varied and fascinating 
 scenery of Switzerland. The lovely lacelike Geisbach 
 Falls takes thirteen leaps in the headlong race to the 
 sea, and the mountain profiles silhouetted against the 
 blue sky are of manifold charm. All roads in Switzer- 
 land lead through mountains whose beauty fadeth not 
 away. 
 
 From the village Brienze, in which Christian 
 Fischer organized the wood-carving industry and es- 
 tablished a school for teaching it, we went by train 
 up very steep grades and through the Brunig Pass, 
 where we looked down upon the lake of emerald re- 
 flecting the mountains below us; then to blue moun- 
 tains beyond, purple ones above us, and glittering white
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 169 
 
 crags afar off. In a lonely spot we passed a shrine with 
 the crucifix, and not far from there men and women 
 climbed through a terraced cemetery to a chapel on 
 the mountain-side. 
 
 In Lucerne we were cordially welcomed by St. Se- 
 bastian's party, who had preceded us, and the next 
 morning we breakfasted together before they left for 
 
 Germany. Miss R , Miss K , and I thought 
 
 the monumental stove of white porcelain with shining 
 pipe curved, twisted, and contorted, might be a me- 
 morial to Adam and Eve who ate imprudently, and 
 we indulged sparingly. 
 
 Our American hats are beginning to look travel- 
 worn, and new ones have been purchased here by 
 one of the ladies and two gentlemen of our party; 
 though neither of them selected the round band-box 
 or the butterfly style of Switzerland. My hat with 
 elongated brim has given me some discomfort in the 
 high-back seats of the railway trains; but it is not 
 wearing out. Durable as it is, and despite the mil- 
 liner's prophecy, it will hardly bear the scrutiny of 
 royalty. 
 
 European monarchs take summer outings like the 
 American democracy, and they little dream what they 
 miss by being "out of town" when America comes 
 over. 
 
 In Lucerne rough and rugged old Switzerland is 
 all smiles. We no longer see his furrowed brow, nor 
 the scars of time in his face. Hoary age has retired, 
 arrayed in ermine, and youth reigns in joyous beauty. 
 Formidable mountains are all around us, but distant
 
 170 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 enough to be enchanting and entrancing, making Lu- 
 cerne restful to all who seek her. The Lake of Lu- 
 cerne is the magician of the morning, and he multiplies 
 the glories of the night. Whether sitting on the green 
 slopes beside it or sailing on its glowing waters, the 
 vision of a beautiful dream unfolds into charming re- 
 ality. ' 
 
 This lake of the four forest cantons of Switzerland 
 revels in rare environment. Loveliness and sublimity 
 are mirrored by it at every turn, and historical associ- 
 ations hang around it. Pilatus from many peaks seems 
 to say: "Behold, how pleasant it is for brethren to 
 dwell together in unity." 
 
 Long ago his clustered peaks shadowed forth Swiss 
 independence won by unity of strength and brother- 
 hood in heroic struggle. The men of the four forest 
 cantons were brave and daring, and they had a large 
 share in the victory of Sempach in 1386. And on a 
 precipitous cliff of rock rising from Lake Lucerne 
 the William Tell Chapel commemorates victory over 
 Austrian tyrants, whether or not the tradition of the 
 daring escape from Gessler be true. 
 
 Righi, some miles from Lucerne and the solitary 
 sentinel of the Alps, stands aloof from his fellows ; not. 
 as tall as many of them, but claiming pre-eminence for 
 his superb views of the lakes, valleys, and innumerable 
 mountains of this fairest region of Switzerland. The 
 railroad which leads to the summit of Righi was the 
 first of its kind built in this country ; it is similar to 
 the cog-road which goes up to Pike's Peak in Colorado. 
 
 The Lake of Lucerne, 1,437 feet above sea-level,
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 171 
 
 covers portions of four valleys, and scientists read rec- 
 ords of several geological periods in the formation of 
 the mountains, sharp-pointed, cone-shaped, round- 
 topped, and pyramidal, which surround it. 
 
 In her twenty-two cantons Switzerland has many 
 climates, and there are regions of olives, grapes, oaks, 
 beeches, pines, and firs up to high mountain pastures, 
 where the rhododendron flourishes near snow-fields. 
 Walnut groves and cereals abound around Lucerne, 
 and condensed milk, butter, and cheese are manufac- 
 tured here for export. 
 
 The town is picturesque with its old covered 
 bridges, one of them zigzagging across the lake by way 
 of the ancient octagonal tower, called Wasserthurm, 
 is said to have been a lighthouse. This Old Bridge 
 is decorated with paintings representing historical 
 events in Switzerland, and of necessity men of every 
 degree learned lessons of patriotism in the olden time. 
 Even now this rambling old wooden structure, of four 
 centuries ago, is more to be desired on a hot day than 
 Lucerne's up-to-date stone bridges glaring in the sun- 
 light. 
 
 The people here speak German, and more rarely 
 English ; and what we do not understand we try to 
 guess. Though we neither understood nor guessed 
 what a salesman meant when he said the picture on 
 a postcard of three men standing together, bearing 
 shields and a cross, "are like in America." Afterwards 
 we saw a large picture of three heroes, with other men 
 grouped around them, and learned it represented the 
 Confederation of Swiss Cantons.
 
 172 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 The stores here are filled to overflowing with furs, 
 embroideries, and a great variety of things admired by 
 women. None were more attractive than the tiniest 
 and daintiest carvings in ivory ; and the Old Lady, be- 
 ing of domestic turn of mind, was most tempted by 
 chickens, dogs, and furniture ; the right size, but en- 
 tirely too fine for my little milkmaid from Interlaken 
 who travels in my purse. The dolls in the shops wore 
 Swiss costumes, but were inane Americans. 
 
 The libraries of Lucerne contain a complete collec- 
 tion of historical documents of Switzerland from the 
 Middle Ages, upon which much time and energy 
 might be spent profitably by students of the history of 
 the world. 
 
 THE LION OF LUCERNE. 
 
 Lucerne's greatest work of art is not in a museum 
 of treasures, nor a gallery of paintings and sculpture 
 by the old masters; but it is out of doors, chiseled in 
 the side of a great rock, and people come from the ends 
 of the earth to see the Lion of Lucerne, by Thorwals- 
 den. Doubtless, for many people association adds to 
 the grandeur of this work of genius, but not one can 
 look upon it unmoved. We could scarcely look at it, 
 and yet could not turn away. The noble beast is mor- 
 tally wounded ; but in the agony of death he tries to 
 protect the shield with the lilies of France, upon which 
 he is dying. 
 
 A fine conception of Thorwalsden is this colossal 
 monument erected by the French Government to com- 
 memorate the heroism and devotion of the Swiss
 
 LETTERS FROM SWITZERLAND 173 
 
 Guards who fell at the Tuillerfcs In 1792, defending 
 King Louis XVI of France. The emotions are deeply 
 stirred, and a more splendid presentation of dignity in 
 defeat and devotion in death I have not seen in art. 
 
 IMPERISHABLE RECORDS. 
 
 A visit to the Glacial Garden of Lucerne seemed 
 to promise snow -hanks, grottoes of ice, and cold drinks 
 for the summer season ; but it proved to be a geological 
 garden, paleozoic and prehistoric. The imprint of 
 plant-life, the footprints of glaciers, and the records 
 of deep waters are seen here in tablets of stone. These 
 bowlders, rounded and polished by the passage of a 
 glacier, rocks encrusted with tiny shells, stones with 
 intaglio of fern and palm-leaf, tell of various periods 
 in the formation of the world. The hieroglyphics pen- 
 ciled by nature have been deciphered by man, and from 
 the records preserved by the rocks of the Alps, Agassiz 
 gave the world his glacial theories. 
 
 The beauty and strength of Switzerland are im- 
 mortal. The one exists, not in her celestial cities, with 
 sapphire gateways and dazzling domes ; but in her spirit 
 of brotherhood : the other lives, not in her "everlasting 
 hills," which have charmed, silenced, and enthralled 
 us; but in her men of courage and devotion, who have 
 inspired generations of patriots.
 
 GERMANY 
 
 Heidelberg — Bingen and Other Cities on the 
 Rhine — Cologne, the Cathedral City. 
 
 our glimpse of germany. 
 
 July 29, 1908. 
 
 "Empires had fallen, the Greek beautified the earth 
 with magic art, the Roman founded his colossal and 
 iron despotism," while the German was still content 
 to reign over beasts of the forest, study nature, and 
 hear her voice in the whispering of the trees. Yet 
 Hume, the historian, says, "If our part of the world 
 maintain sentiments of liberty, honor, equity, and valor 
 superior to the rest of mankind, it owes these advan- 
 tages to the seeds implanted by those generous barbar- 
 
 ians." 
 
 Through English ancestry we have shared this fair 
 heritage and recognize our indebtedness to these liberty- 
 loving people. Nevertheless, American feathers were 
 ruffled as we entered Germany, for at Basle we had 
 our first unpleasantness with the customs officials of 
 Europe. 
 
 The casual inspection of our twenty-six suit-cases 
 * was about over when an official drew forth a little 
 package of Roman sashes from the shallow depths of 
 Miss J 's belongings. With a frown of disap- 
 proval he weighed the three sashes and demanded duty 
 
 174
 
 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 175 
 
 on them (forty cents, or one hundred and sixty pfen- 
 nigs in German money) ; for no silk may enter this 
 country free of duty. The most sanguine American 
 tourist nor the veriest Micawber of Europe could hope 
 to establish a rival industry with three silk sashes ; and 
 though not fluent in German, we were slightly indig- 
 nant in English. Some one told us the duty collected 
 on the three sashes could be recovered if the transac- 
 tion were reported to higher authorities; but our time 
 was more valuable than a double-handful of German 
 pfennigs, and we tarried not at Basle. 
 
 At stations along the journey Germans spoke 
 gruffly to one another, although they smiled at times. 
 We passed through broad, well-tilled fields and large 
 manufacturing districts, and saw many evidences of 
 agricultural and industrial prosperity which, by way 
 of contrast, brought to mind Jean Paul Richter's dec- 
 laration, "Providence has given to the French the em- 
 pire of the land, to the English that of the sea, to the 
 Germans that of — the air." Or was that merely Jean 
 Paul's prophecy of perfect aviation for Germany, 
 which may yet come through Count Zeppelin's pa- 
 tience, persistence, and perseverance? Possibly, but 
 so far the birdman of the world is Mr. Wilbur Wright 
 of our own land and sky, and we '11 try to hold him 
 up to that distinction. 
 
 HEIDELBERG, OX THE RIVER NECKAR. 
 
 Twilight had fallen when we arrived at Heidel- 
 berg, and in the drive up the long, steep road to the 
 Hotel Bellcvue we saw a somber city straggling to
 
 176 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 
 
 the top of the hill. Students from Heidelberg Uni- 
 versity were already gathering in the Stadt-garten, a 
 beer garden much frequented by them; and we heard 
 snatches of lively songs. Later in the evening perhaps 
 they clashed their glasses and drank to their sweet- 
 hearts, or united in singing their consecration hymn: 
 
 "Fatherland! thou land of story, 
 To the altars of thy glory 
 Consecrate us, sword in hand." 
 
 The students of the university are patriotic, ever 
 brave in the defense of Germany, and this hymn is 
 sung with great fervor and clashing of beer-glasses. 
 
 It was good to reach our hotel, a splendid mansion 
 of old ; and the dining-room, with lofty ceiling and 
 panels finely carved and inlaid with richly-colored 
 woods, was built for royal feasts. 
 
 My room was an inviting resting-place; the hand- 
 embroidered counterpane, handsome oval mirrors, and 
 an elegant writing-desk giving it a touch of luxurious- 
 ness. The stove of pale green tilings might have been 
 a doll-house eight stories high, and the slender hexag- 
 onal table seemed appropriate for tea should the Lillipu- 
 tians come forth to discuss the "woman question," 
 which agitates all Germany at present. The demand 
 for woman's rights was made in Germany about sev- 
 enty-five years ago, "when machinery made her labors 
 in the household almost superfluous." The cultured 
 women became interested in the almost helpless con- 
 dition of those of the middle classes and lent their aid.
 
 One oi i 111: Mw\ Towers oi Heidelberg Castle
 
 LETTERS FROM GERMAN! 177 
 
 In 1865, under the leadership of Frau Luise Otto, of 
 Leipzig, the General Association of Women asked for 
 the women of Germany educational facilities equal to 
 those provided for men: the right to work, and the 
 choice of professions. This association of influential 
 women has worked wisely and unceasingly, and it is 
 confidently expected that the universities of Germany 
 will soon be opened to women.* The Lilliputians did 
 not come forth to discuss the situation, and in the 
 "wee sma' hours" I looked down from my window 
 upon the drowsy city, across fruitful valleys, and into 
 dark forests of solitude hanging upon mountain-crags 
 beyond the Neckar. The chimes of Heidelberg rang 
 sweetly with the passing of the night, and the flame- 
 blossoms of pomegranate trees on our terraces seemed 
 to flicker in the starlight. 
 
 In the gray dawn of the next morning we saw an 
 old woman deliver milk from a clumsy cart drawn by 
 a cow — the use of these as beasts of burden in Ger- 
 many is not to the credit of the empire. 
 
 The women of Germany are industrious, even those 
 of noble birth looking well to the ways of their house- 
 holds. The practical housewife in the country is said 
 to rise at daylight to see the stock fed, the butter made, 
 and the milk sent off to market. Then, before break- 
 
 * In London we learned from the newspapers (and what a 
 comfort it was to be able to read with ease the daily news once 
 more) that this " Woman Question " was being happily settled 
 by degrees, for on August 15th all the Universities of Germany 
 were opened to women who have passed the regular entrance 
 examinations. 
 12
 
 178 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 
 
 fast is served elsewhere, she rides in her pony carriage 
 to inspect the other farms, to poke into every corner, 
 lift the lids off the sauce-pans, and count the new-laid 
 eggs. No matter how many cheeses may be already in 
 store, the required number must be added each noon. 
 The linen-chest, filled to overflowing by deft young 
 fingers before the bridal day, is steadily replenished, 
 and her supplies never become scant. She is acquainted 
 with surgery, keeps balsams on hand for wounds, and 
 looks after the brewing of mead and beer for festival 
 occasions. In secret she prepares for Christmas stores 
 of good things to eat, and dainty presents for her own 
 family, and those of the bookkeepers, secretaries, and 
 servants of the various farms. And no heart is so full 
 of delight as hers when troops of children — the larger 
 ones leading little ones by the hand and carrying the 
 babies in their arms — march around the Christmas tree 
 singing sweet carols. 
 
 This busy housewife never tires of playing with 
 the little children at her feet, and to please them she 
 has devised many of the wonderful toys of Germany. 
 The bracing climate of Germany must go far towards 
 creating and preserving these industrious dames, who 
 live and work as systematically as the planets move in 
 their courses. What they did before machinery made 
 their labors "almost superfluous in the household," I 
 shall not undertake to say. 
 
 Nor does the busy housewife forget the poor and 
 needy. One of Germany's beautiful legends is of St. 
 Elizabeth, who dispensed alms despite the protest and 
 without the knowledge of her husband, the landgrave.
 
 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 179 
 
 One day as she gave loaves of bread to the beggars at 
 the castle-gate, he returned unexpectedly, and with 
 severity asked what she carried in her apron. She re- 
 plied, "Roses." "Let me see," he said. And lo! by 
 a miracle the loaves had been turned into roses. 
 
 It is all truth to say that the love, industry, and 
 chastity of motherhood in Germany has been trans- 
 muted into flowers and fruits of genius to charm and 
 nourish humanity through centuries to come. 
 
 HEIDELBERG CASTLE. 
 
 Immediately after breakfast we drove to the Castle 
 of Heidelberg, one of the most famous and interesting 
 castles of the world. This vast structure was begun 
 about the end of the thirteenth century by Elector Ru- 
 pert, and its collection of palaces around the courtyard 
 mark historic events. Otto Plenry's building is said 
 to have been the "finest example of Renaissance archi- 
 tecture" in Germany. The palace erected for Eliza- 
 beth, daughter of James I, is also of great interest and 
 beauty. Frederick's palace seems to be in a better state 
 of preservation than the others, and in its group of 
 imposing statues of crusaders and palatine electors, 
 Charlemagne occupies the place of honor. We went 
 into the banquet hall, the chapel, and the vaulted 
 chamber of the Great Tun, which was built in 175 1 
 and is large enough to contain more than two hundred 
 thousand bottles of wine. This gigantic wine-tun and 
 the fireplace in the kitchen for roasting an ox indicate 
 feasting and revelry of vast proportion and unsafe du- 
 ration. We imagine the sweet sound of minstrelsy in
 
 180 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 
 
 Castle Hall became less melodious as flagons of wine 
 were freely quaffed by the gay company. 
 
 This grand castle, with "buttress, bastions, and 
 high-soaring towers," has the emblems of chivalry and 
 heraldic arms of German potentates sculptured on its 
 walls ; the pillars of the fountain in the courtyard were 
 brought from Charlemagne's palace at Ingelheim. The 
 statues of stern electors and noble crusaders are solemn 
 and silent, but the court-jester, in efKgy, actually makes 
 the wine-cellar of Frederick's palace resound with mer- 
 riment to-day. He of the blue coat, knee-breeches, 
 and lace ruffles looks bland and simple ; but only touch 
 his hand, and from the box he holds, up flies a fox-tail 
 into the unwary tourist's face, while friends and 
 strangers unite in a roar of laughter, and the old court- 
 jester is satisfied. 
 
 The grounds once used in falconry were pointed 
 out, and in imagination we saw hooded hawks, with 
 bells on their legs, borne by falconers for a royal com- 
 pany of knights and ladies mounted on white palfreys, 
 eager for this ancient sport, almost universal during 
 the Middle Ages. 
 
 The moat, sixty feet deep and half filled with 
 water brought from the mountains; the underground 
 stairways, and the shattered towers tell of intrigue as 
 well as splendor in the days of old when men were 
 bold. This castle was greatly damaged during the 
 Thirty- Years' War, but was restored by Charles 
 Louis. It was dismantled by the French in 1689, and 
 again in 1693, and was almost demolished in 1764, 
 when it was struck by lightning. Yet this vast and
 
 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 181 
 
 magnificent ruin may be seen from afar, with its many 
 grand towers crowning Castlehill, a spur of the Ko- 
 nigsstuhl Mountains. Scenes enacted here in the 
 drama of life by rulers, robbers and revelers, knights 
 and ladies, have added volumes to the stern and ro- 
 mantic history of Germany. 
 
 The forest of the old castle garden is interspersed 
 with holly, the holy-cross spruce, and the yew tree, 
 once valued for making bows and arrows. A small 
 primeval forest of yew, now almost extinct in Europe, 
 is one of Germany's valued possessions in the Bava- 
 rian highlands. 
 
 Just outside of the castle grounds are the inevitable 
 and unavoidable shops filled with curios. The groups 
 of statuettes representing scenes from life in Germany 
 are of peculiar interest; especially the three little 
 women, who are industriously knitting as they stand 
 to gossip in the market-place. The chief diversion of 
 the men of Germany is indicated by the array of pipes, 
 made or molded of amber, porcelain, wood, and what- 
 not ; decorated and plain, large and small, short and 
 long, straight and crooked ; and there are tobacco 
 pouches braided in silver and gold, with smoking-caps 
 to match. 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF HEIDELBERG. 
 
 From the castle we drove to Heidelberg Univer- 
 sity, whence scholars, scientists, and statesmen have 
 come to make Germany a world-power among the na- 
 tions. We viewed this famous and ancient institution 
 with veneration, albeit we were disappointed in the 
 appearance of its local habitation.
 
 182 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 
 
 The university was founded by the Elector Rupert 
 in 1386, and brilliant, wise, and good men have shed 
 luster upon its honored name. In 15 18 Martin Luther 
 preached here the doctrine of justification by faith, 
 and the university was active in the Reformation. It 
 became the stronghold of Protestant learning, and the 
 Heidelberg catechism was the work of theologians 
 within its walls. Of the great Reformer, Richter said, 
 "Luther's prose is a half-battle ; few deeds are equal 
 to his words." And did not this statesman, gentle 
 enough to love the birds, and courageous enough to 
 defy the devil, lay sure foundation for the German 
 language, even while her scholars wrote in Latin and 
 her court conversed in French? 
 
 The library of the university, founded by Otto 
 Henry, was one of the most valuable in Europe; but 
 in 1622 Bavarian invaders presented the greater part 
 of it to Pope Leo XI. Happily in 181 5 many of the 
 rarest works were returned, and the precious volumes 
 are dear to the heart of Heidelberg. 
 
 The university prison, with caricatures, comic pic- 
 tures, and songs scrawled on the walls by imprisoned 
 students, seems to have been a lively habitation for 
 them. We entered this prison through a courtyard in 
 which children played and women and chickens 
 scratched for a living. Accurately speaking, the 
 women were darning and washing clothes, and one 
 was paring potatoes, and it may be they have minis- 
 tered from time to time to the needs of rollicking stu- 
 dent prisoners incarcerated above them. 
 
 Across the Neckar River stands the house dedi-
 
 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 183 
 
 cated to dueling, evidences of which we saw in the 
 ugly scars on the faces of several students. We are 
 told the student duelists wear heavily-padded clothing 
 and are held far enough apart to escape mortal 
 wounds; also that skilled surgeons are always in at- 
 tendance to dress the saber-cuts, the so-called wounds 
 of honor. We wondered why the Emperor of Ger- 
 many, a God-fearing man, does not forever prohibit 
 this senseless and wicked travesty of courage. 
 
 Ruskin says the women of nations might stop 
 threatened wars by assuming sorrowful countenances 
 and wearing garments of mourning. And I dare say, 
 the women of this nation might soon frown out of 
 existence this barbarity at Heidelberg University 
 which w T ould destroy the beauty of Adonis should one 
 chance to be born in Germany. The professors, stu- 
 dents of other nations, and many Germans who come 
 to Heidelberg University disapprove of these duels, 
 and effort is being made to abolish the custom. The 
 life of students in German universities is without re- 
 straint, and only to be desired for men whose habits 
 have been formed, and it is well for American parents 
 to remember this. The students of Heidelberg Uni- 
 versity are very loyal to their motto: 
 
 "Fearless in strife: to the banner still true." 
 
 And fellows from this great university have become 
 men renowned in peace and war ; men of thought to 
 make mystery plain; men of heavenly gift in poesy and 
 music; men of daring to break the thralldom of super- 
 stition, and men of faith to lift the world nearer the 
 Savior of mankind.
 
 184 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 
 
 The seat of this renowned university, the pros- 
 perous little city of Heidelberg, has had an eventful 
 life. In early times it was a fief of the Bishop of 
 Worms, and in the thirteenth century it was made the 
 capital of the palatinate, remaining such for five hun- 
 dred years. 
 
 In the seventeenth century the city was sacked by 
 Tilly, taken by the Swedes, beleagured by Bavarians, 
 and twice pillaged by the French. In 1693 the French 
 left only one house in the Markt-platz, which house 
 is now a popular inn with the students. 
 
 One of the most interesting of her ancient build- 
 ings is Peterskirche, founded in 1392, in which Jerome 
 of Prague expounded the doctrines of the Reformation. 
 Of interest also is the fact that in a church of the fif- 
 teenth century the Roman Catholics now worship in 
 its choir, while the Protestants worship in its nave. 
 Another old building worthy of mention in this con- 
 nection is the old Jesuitenkirche, with its fine decora- 
 tions. All three of these buildings are of Gothic archi- 
 tecture. 
 
 There was not time to visit the shops of Heidel- 
 berg, and we failed to learn the scientific processes, 
 salutary or Satanic, of the "milk laboratory" we passed. 
 
 A bronze statue of Field Marshal Prince Wrede, 
 erected in i860, by Louis I, King of Bavaria, is con- 
 spicuously placed in the city. Doubtless there are me- 
 morials to the Emperor Frederick and Bismarck, the 
 Iron Chancellor, who together welded principalities, 
 dukedoms, and little kingdoms into the great German 
 Empire. I was as bitterly disappointed in not seeing
 
 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 185 
 
 statues of these statesmen in Heidelberg as the chap- 
 eron was on not finding the dazzling white angels 
 over the doors of St. Mark's Cathedral in Venice. 
 
 At present we have no expectation of seeing his 
 majesty, Emperor William of Germany and King of 
 Prussia, and we must be content with his portrait on 
 a postcard. He appears to be a fine-looking man, 
 heavily decorated with numerous signs and symbols of 
 royalty and power. The empress on the same postcard 
 is handsomely attired, and wears jewels and emblems 
 of great worth and significance. We understand the 
 crown prince is learning a trade, for these practical 
 Germans believe it not only wise to dignify labor, but 
 that it is as necessary to train the hand as the brain 
 in order to attain proficiency in life. 
 
 The German Empire, now nearly forty years old, 
 looks well to the ways of her household and plans 
 for its future enlargement. It is said she will soon 
 adopt Prussia's system of "taxing the bachelors," which 
 means the married men with small incomes are allowed 
 to deduct a certain amount from their taxes for every 
 child in the family. It occurs to us other nations 
 might find it profitable to pay a premium upon large 
 families. 
 
 BINGEN, AND OTHER CITIES OX THE RHINE. 
 
 July 30, 1908. 
 
 From the day of the sweet song of minstrelsy to 
 those of triumphant roar of Wagner's overtures and 
 operas Germany has loved music ; and so, to our re- 
 gret, we reached Bingen just as her festival of music
 
 186 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 
 
 closed. The large tent-auditorium, gayly decorated 
 with national colors, had not even been removed. 
 
 In this realm of old castles, legendary lore, and 
 history, facts and fancies are inextricably woven to- 
 gether, and the line of demarcation is almost obliter- 
 ated at times. Though in sight of Bingen across the 
 river, on the terraced heights, is the "Watch on the 
 Rhine," a colossal and imposing monument which com- 
 memorates Prussia's final victory over the French in 
 1870, a tremendous fact in the history of Europe. 
 
 Our drive through Bingen aroused the good peo- 
 ple, who rushed out to look at us. Mothers thrust 
 their little children forward, to see or be seen, and 
 boys ran ahead, shouting to others, who joined them 
 and stared at us. In the more pretentious houses the 
 mirror-reflectors gave occupants of the second story a 
 view of what passed on in the street below; but for 
 once white-capped dames laid aside their knitting and 
 hurried to the windows for a good look. Rev. Dr. 
 
 B said it was our first experience in being "the 
 
 peep show," but the entertainment was not altogether 
 one-sided. Perhaps so many good-looking Americans 
 were never before seen at one time in this quaint vil- 
 lage of steep red roofs, little windows, and snowy 
 lace curtains. 
 
 The tiny gardens were brilliant, with red and 
 yellow dahlias and fine pink roses, aptly called "Ger- 
 man Beauties" by Mrs. B , of Atlanta. Judging 
 
 from the number of garments spread out to dry on the 
 grass near the village stream, we saw the beginning 
 of the semi-annual clothes-washing in Bingen. The
 
 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 187 
 
 women and children were comfortably and sensibly 
 dressed for their work, and they all seemed in fine 
 humor with the world. Indeed, I have been much 
 impressed with the evidences of thrift and the spirit 
 of cheerfulness which seem to prevail among the tillers 
 of the soil in Europe. With such utilization of land 
 and a like frugality in the home, our small farmers 
 in America might lay up riches for themselves and the 
 good of generations yet unborn. 
 
 On the little farms around Bingen preparation was 
 being made for the autumnal seed-sowing, and more 
 than one woman, aided by her domestic ally the cow, 
 plowed the fields. Almost every inch of land is in 
 cultivation, narrow terraces being held in place with 
 stones carried by hand up the hillsides. The potatoes 
 of the Rhineland are fine, with a nutty flavor; the 
 cheese is very good, and the German housewives pride 
 themselves on their rich pastries, fine sweetmeats, and 
 sparkling wines. Of the terraced hills overlooking the 
 Rhine and cultivated to the top, the concierge of our 
 hotel said, "There 's where the good wine grows." 
 Indeed, these picturesque vineyards are profitable, for 
 the Rhineland produces the finest white wines in the 
 world. The grandeur of our lofty mountains and 
 the sweep of our great rivers can not be surpassed by 
 anything we have seen in Europe ; but the scenery of 
 the Rhine is justly famous for beauty, the castle ruins 
 adding a picturesqueness yet unknown in the United 
 States. 
 
 Let us hope our country may escape such tragic 
 events as have made the Rhine one of the most inter-
 
 188 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 
 
 esting rivers in the history of the world. Beginning 
 with the Romans, led by Caesar, and until modern 
 times, armies of European nations have crossed and 
 recrossed it to wage terrible warfare until the very 
 mountain crags have trembled, and the hills and val- 
 leys are "saturated with life of the past." 
 
 The Rhine, eight hundred miles long, gets its start 
 in Switzerland, where the streams from more than one 
 hundred glaciers unite to gladden the heart of Ger- 
 many. Our sail down the river was charming, the old 
 castles recalling historical facts and ancient legends of 
 the celebrated Mouse Tower, the famous fortress of 
 Ehrenbreitstein, Rheinstein, and Ehrenfels, once the 
 residence of the archbishops of Mayence. Stahleck 
 was taken and retaken a number of times during the 
 Thirty- Years' War, and at Caub the Prussian army 
 crossed the Rhine in 1814 under the command of 
 Blucher. Passing the cave of the Lorelei, we heard 
 the sighing of winds and saw the great stonehill 
 whence mysterious missiles were sent upon luckless 
 men of fabled lands. 
 
 The poet tells us 
 
 "A maiden of wonderful beauty, 
 Like a vision enchanting and fair, 
 There sits in the blaze of her jewels, 
 And combeth her bright, golden hair;" 
 
 but she was not visible that day. Nor did we see the 
 place where the fabled Nibelungen treasures, won by 
 Siegfried from the mythical giants of the Land of 
 Mist, were cast into the Rhine by the cruel Hagen,
 
 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 189 
 
 who slew him and left the devoted Krimhilde in despair 
 and desolation. 
 
 In a day or two we shall be in "brave little Hol- 
 land ;" and what a contrast will that flat country of 
 canals be to Germany, with these terraced vineyards, 
 castle-crowned mountains, and romantic forests over- 
 looking the Rhine. 
 
 COBLENTZ, THE CITY OF FORTIFICATIONS. 
 
 As we neared Coblentz, the ancient capital of 
 Rhenish Prussia, we looked out for the extensive forti- 
 fications which connect the military works on the left 
 bank of the Rhine with the famous fortress Ehren- 
 breitstein on the other side of the river. This tri- 
 angular city, situated at the confluence of the Rhine 
 and Moselle Rivers, always a place of military im- 
 portance, is a great commercial center whence linens, 
 cottons, furniture, tobacco, wines, and mineral waters 
 are exported to Great Britain, Holland, and other 
 countries. At this place the Rhine is spanned by a 
 bridge of boats nearly 500 yards long and an iron 
 bridge built in recent years. The Royal Castle and 
 other handsome buildings front on the Rhine, and of 
 the ancient structures none is more interesting than 
 the Church of St. Castor, built in early Lombard style 
 with four towers. 
 
 Before the Christian era a military post, which 
 became the residence of Frankish kings, was established 
 here by the Roman Drusus. In 843 A. D. the three 
 sons of Charlemagne — Lothar, Charles, and Lewis — 
 met here, when they divided the Germanic Empire
 
 190 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 
 
 into France, Germany, and Italy. Truly, Germany 
 has good reason for pride in Coblentz on the Rhine. 
 
 July 31st. 
 
 COLOGNE, THE CATHEDRAL CITY. 
 
 This is one of Germany's most ancient and inter- 
 esting cities of fortifications, crooked streets, and nar- 
 row pathways, and in German it is Koln. In some 
 streets we walk single file, and then "make ourselves 
 small" when we meet people, preferring this to the 
 way of the two wise goats that met on the edge of 
 the precipice, when one lay down for the other to 
 walk over him. On yesterday one of the ladies in 
 our party was nearly run over by a cyclist who darted 
 from behind a cab as she started across the narrow 
 street. She escaped, and the young man was not in- 
 jured by his sudden stop which overturned the bicycle; 
 but we will not soon forget the cab-driver's angry 
 warning. Broadly speaking, it seems if you get run 
 over by a vehicle in Germany your only escape from 
 fines and imprisonment for obstructing the highway 
 (not to say narrow-way) is to die on the spot; so the 
 angry cab-driver was in reality a "generous barbarian," 
 and we thanked him. 
 
 There are many traces of ancient days in Cologne, 
 for it was on this site the Emperor Claudius founded 
 a Roman colony, 51 A. D., and called it Colonia 
 Agrippina in honor of his wife. Centuries later this 
 chief city of Rhenish Prussia became a fortress of first 
 rank ; it is connected with Deutz across the Rhine by 
 a bridge of boats more than a thousand feet long,
 
 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 191 
 
 though the iron bridge is used for street and railway 
 traffic. 
 
 We walked through the market-place, alive with 
 women and children who were disappointed at our 
 failure to buy beets, carrots, and onions. We did in- 
 dulge in a few flowers and small bottles of cologne 
 water — one of the principal manufactures for which 
 this city is noted. A rose called daisy may smell as 
 sweet ; but does "Koln-wasser" seem as fragrant as 
 cologne-water to you? However, I do not vouch for 
 the accuracy of German phrases coined in these crooked 
 streets. 
 
 Some dogs earn their bread here, and maybe those 
 that draw the little wagons of shining milk-cans from 
 door to door have special reward from the cheerful 
 women who guide and ofttimes help them carry the 
 load. 
 
 One of the most interesting of the ancient dwellings 
 here is the Jabbach House, in which the great painter 
 Peter Paul Rubens was born, June 29, 1577. His 
 parents fled from Antwerp on account of religious 
 troubles, and resided here a number of years. A 
 bust of Rubens is carved in oak over the large dou- 
 ble doors of this house, representing him as wearing 
 the large bonnet seen in the portrait of the famous 
 painter. 
 
 A tablet records the fact that Marie de Medici, 
 widow of Henry IV and mother of Louis XIII of 
 France, died in this house, July 4, 1642, and was 
 buried before the chapel of the Three Kings in the 
 cathedral. Afterwards her body was removed for
 
 192 LETTERS FROM GERMANY «* 
 
 burial in Paris; but, it is said, her heart was left in 
 the Cathedral of Cologne. 
 
 In the Wallraf-Richartz Museum we saw the 
 Holy Family and other paintings by Rubens ; St. Fran- 
 cis Assisi, by Murillo, and many paintings by old 
 Dutch masters, who bring before us intimate scenes 
 of the home-life of their people. What more charming 
 conception than the Family Concert, in which the 
 little girl beats the drum, one boys plays the flute, 
 and another sings, while the little dog and the pet 
 crow seem to share the fond mother's pride and com- 
 plete the appreciative audience. 
 
 Of the thirty-three churches in Cologne, twenty- 
 nine are Roman Catholic, and many of them contain 
 treasures of great value. St. Peter's is adorned with 
 the famous altar-piece by Rubens representing the 
 Crucifixion of St. Peter. St. Gereons and St. Ursula 
 are the patron saints of Cologne, and each is honored 
 with a monumental church of rare architectural beauty. 
 We visited the Church of St. Ursula, with its golden 
 chamber lined with the skulls of this saint and her 
 eleven thousand nuns who were cruelly slaughtered on 
 a holy pilgrimage. Relics of St. Ursula are kept in a 
 silver casket, and her monument is a recumbent statue 
 of this revered saint. Among other relics in the cham- 
 ber is a broken jar, said to have been used at Cana 
 when Christ turned water into wine for the marriage 
 
 feast. 
 
 But the chief object of interest in this ancient city 
 is the Cathedral of Cologne, which was six hundred 
 years in building — one of the finest Gothic monuments
 
 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 193 
 
 in Europe and one of the most imposing structures in 
 the world. We love to linger near, to look again and 
 again at this vast and noble cathedral, with its mighty 
 twin towers, severe and stately, yet soaring towards 
 heaven and lifting men's thoughts to God. Not less 
 impressive than the sublime exterior is its interior, with 
 lofty painted arches, massive pillars, and richly-colored 
 windows. Here are sarcophagi, with recumbent statues 
 of archbishops of Cologne, whose robes, jewels, and 
 chalices are venerated as holy things. The shrine of 
 the Magi is adorned with gold and precious stones, for 
 the bones of the three wise men who carried gifts of 
 gold, frankincense, and myrrh to the infant Savior are 
 said to rest here. 
 
 It is an old legend that the name of the architect 
 of this wonderful cathedral has been forgotten because, 
 although he was able with the aid of a pious monk 
 to wrest the plan from the devil, and then proved 
 himself free from covetousness, anger, and all the seven 
 deadly sins except pride, that one was sufficient to rob 
 him of the great honor of being known to posterity. 
 
 As we took our last look at the soaring towers of 
 the cathedral we were reminded of Luther's hymn: 
 
 "A safe stronghold our God is still, 
 A trusty shield and weapon ; 
 He '11 help us clear from all the ill 
 That hath us now o'ertaken." 
 
 We thought, too, of the motto adopted in recent years 
 by Christian men of Germany, "We can advance only 
 upon our knees;" and we know Germany's greatness is 
 13
 
 194 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 
 
 in something more than the strength of the largest army 
 in the world. Through the invention of her own 
 Gutenberg the zeal and faith of Germany's reformers 
 and religious teachers have been spread abroad, and 
 atheism, infidelity, and superstition shall pass away. 
 
 We have not looked into the faces of celebrities in 
 Germany, but have seemed to feel the presence of phi- 
 losophers, poets, and prose writers, many of whom 
 long since departed. But there is in them, as Carlyle 
 said of Richter, "that which does not die; that beauty 
 and earnestness of soul, that spirit of humanity, of 
 love, and mild wisdom over which the vicissitudes of 
 mode have no sway." 
 
 Among the novelists we have recalled Marlitt, 
 Mulbach, and Georg Ebers, the distinguished Egyptol- 
 ogist, whose delightful novels "Uarda," "The Bride of 
 the Nile," and "The Egyptian Princess" give much in- 
 formation about the curious customs of the ancient and 
 wonderful people of the land of the Nile. Of course, 
 we have recalled that coterie of the nineteenth century 
 entertained by the Duke of Weimar, wherein shone 
 Goethe, "Patriarch of German Literature," prime fa- 
 vorite at court, and author of "Faust;" Schiller, the 
 student-author of "The Robbers," whose "William 
 Tell," with its glorious call to brotherhood and rever- 
 ence for womanhood shall ring throughout the ages; 
 Herder, of whom Richter said, if he were not a poet, 
 he was "something more — a poem ;" and Richter, the 
 rugged, impetuous, vehement, and reverent lover of 
 nature and mankind— "Jean Paul, the Only One." 
 And most of all we have thought of Richter, for this
 
 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 195 
 
 poet of exuberant fancy, this philosopher who laughed 
 in the face of frowning misfortune, this humorist "who 
 bowls with the sun and moon," dwelt in an atmos- 
 phere of love. He pitied the man whose mother had 
 not made for him all mothers venerable. He denied 
 himself the evening meal to gain time for writing, but 
 said, "The interruptions by my children I can not deny 
 myself." 
 
 And do we not recognize Jean Paul himself in the 
 sympathetic and devoutly-wise Emmanuel of that in- 
 comparable book "Hesperus," to whom Victor sa\s: 
 "Thou lovest men as children who can not offend ; thou 
 lovest earthly enjoyments as fruits which one plucks 
 for refreshment, but without hungering for them; the 
 storms and earthquakes of life pass by thee unheard, 
 because thou liest in a life-dream full of tones, full of 
 songs, full of meadows; and when death awakes thee, 
 thou art still smiling over the bright dream." 
 
 We recall very few sallies of wit from the satirical 
 Heinrich Heine, embittered by ill-health and untoward 
 circumstances; but his tender devotion to his mother 
 and wife will never be forgotten. And is there any- 
 thing more beautiful and pathetic than the lines writ- 
 ten from his deathbed to his wife — a prayer-poem end- 
 ing with these lines: 
 
 "My shepherd care, 
 My herdsman's office now I leave; 
 Back to Thy hands, O God, I give 
 My staff; and now I pray Thee guard 
 This lamb of mine, when 'neath the sward
 
 196 LETTERS FROM GERMANY 
 
 * I lie ; and suffer not, I pray, 
 That thorns should pierce her on the way; 
 From nettles harsh protect her fleece; 
 From soiling marshes give release, 
 And everywhere her feet before 
 With sweet grass spread the meadows o'er; 
 And let her sleep from care as blest 
 As once she slept upon my breast ?" 
 
 We leave Germany with a new sense of obligation 
 to her sons and daughters who have enriched our life, 
 and who have made her people to be numbered with 
 the great ones of earth. And may her men and women 
 ever be characterized by the fidelity handed down by 
 "the generous barbarians," the honored progenitors of 
 this nation of thinkers and philosophers!
 
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