L 3 s ! M 
 


\ 
 
Vacation Days in Europe 
 
 FORDYGE 
 

 
 ' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
VACATION DAYS 
 
 IN 
 
 EUROPE 
 
 NOTES OF A TRIP ABROAD 
 
 BY 
 EMMA J. FORDYCE 
 
 Republican Printing Company 
 
 Cedar Rapids, Iowa 
 
 1904 
 
\ 
 
 HENRY MORSE STEPHEN* 
 

 FOREWORD 
 
 The printing of these hastily written letters, 
 through the generosity of The Daily Republican is not 
 because of any idea that the world is hungry for new 
 books. 
 
 It is an earnest effort to make the friends of the 
 winner the host of friends of those friends, and all 
 their helpers, realize what heart -felt pleasure they 
 have given by their unselfish kindness. May that 
 effort succeed. E. J. F 
 
 
ENROUTE TO THE SEA 
 
 June 22, 1903. 
 
 The second Republican Contest is ended and, 
 thanks to the generous hearts and work of our friends 
 and our friends' friends, our trip to Europe is be- 
 gun. 
 
 At the pretty little town of Manchester we are to 
 take our sleeper for Chicago, and toward that place 
 we go, on the Illinois Central, over a country water- 
 soaked and, in many places, water-covered. It is 
 beautifully green, but it looks very strange to see 
 Iowa corn, whole fields of it, not more than four 
 inches high, so late in the year. 
 
 Arrived at Manchester, past fields of drowned corn, 
 we wait for our train for Chicago, and as we walk 
 out to see and thank Conductor Marvin for his help 
 to us, we realize what a beauitiful little city Manches- 
 ter is with its wide streets, comfortable houses sur- 
 rounded by green, its fine trees and lovely roses. Mr. 
 Marvin works, in the dusk, amongst his roses and 
 gives us some most beautiful and fragrant ones as we 
 say "g:ood-bye" and return to our station acros a 
 river as smooth as a mirror, and pink, gold and rose 
 with the sunset. A sweet-faced old lady in the station 
 tells us how she cared for the Union wounded all 
 through the dreadful years of '61, '62, '63 and '64 and 
 how, after the battle of Gettysburg she helped doc- 
 tors amputate the limbs and probe the wounds of 
 men who had lain in the drenching rain and hot sun 
 of three summer days, only to face the operating 
 table without ajiy anaesthetic to deaden- their dread- 
 ful pain. All the time she talks, a little lad runs about 
 the station crowing happily to himself, all unconscious 
 of the awful suffering through which he entered into 
 his heritage of a great and united country. 
 
 The train rushes in out of the black darkness, peo- 
 ple settle into their sleeping berths after untold and 
 remarkable gymnastics and the morning sun shines 
 
down upon us in dirty, noisy Chicago. Same old 
 place! Same "good-a-banan" man in great numbers! 
 Same old cabman who v charges 50c where he would 
 nsttitfet 2&$, 'sgme old rushing crowds, and 
 looking *mte:rk,,*same many-tongued babel. 
 . . .Thre t a-t^Q (> p x m ; s.ees>us settled in "Car 4" of a 
 .\rh-tn-* I o I eleVefc I mgttificeiit sleepers of the Grand 
 TrunR 'afteY a* figlit* With" the custom's officer who 
 "rumpled" our belongings when we didn't have time 
 to repack them, and acted like a salaried fiend gen- 
 erally, then apologized to us after we had said a few 
 direct words. Illinois corn was drowned too, Indiana's 
 was a little better, Michigan's crops still better and 
 Canada was as green as a garden, the old orchards, 
 the stake and rider fences, the evergreens all bathed 
 in the amber light of a clear sunset. Supper in the 
 diner over, where the little French lady who couldn't 
 speak a word of English and who poured an imagin- 
 ary something, with a hand glittering with rings, 
 into her cup with the tragic air of a Lady Macbeth 
 and gazed with darkly rolling and imploring eyes at 
 her bewildered waiter who was helped out by a friend- 
 ly co- worker with "Why, slhuah, she wants some hot 
 water in her tea!" we came back to our seat only to 
 greet the stalwart form and smiling face of David 
 Johnson, our old Cedar Rapids friend, who told us 
 lot about the way Italians behave in constructing road 
 beds for railroads. More gymnastics and more grind- 
 ing of car wheels, the beating of rain on the window 
 panes, the hearing one girl in the next section say, 
 "Yes, but we must get up at six Toronto time 
 which means five by our watches, you goose, 
 because we haven't changed them the hour yet," 
 then semi-unconisciousnes until the gray dawn 
 of a rainy morning brought us to Toronto. A 
 drive plast the Queen's hotel, King Edward's 
 hotel, the Sovereign Bank brought us to The 
 Iroquois where the candelabra are decorated with 
 the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes and the 
 waitresses polish the steel table knives at a little side 
 serving table near you and put them into a little por- 
 celain kettle, where the street car conductor presents 
 a little iron box with a jug-like handle and you drop 
 your own nickle in its slot. The M. P. who eats din- 
 ner at our table tells us that Mr. Gamey, the speaker, 
 is '.to defend himself from charge of bribery ait the 3 
 p. m. sitting of Parliament and tells us to use his 
 name to gain admission to the session. 
 
 
 
The parliament houses are beautiful graystone, ivy 
 covered buildings and fine looking men filled the ses- 
 sions room, where business was carried on with much 
 dignity and decorum. As we pass a fine ivy-covered 
 church the son of the governor general of Canada en- 
 ters to be married. This is his "busy day." He is of 
 age, inherits his fortune of $7,000,000 and marries today. 
 He is a fine looking young fellow and his bride is 
 most lovely. Toronto, we find, is wide and clean in 
 streets, with great brick houses, ivy grown, and hand- 
 some squares with flowers and carpet-like green sod. 
 Four p. m. sees us off for Montreal on the City of 
 Toronto, a splendid, clean, lake boat which carries, 
 among other things, seven newly married couples in 
 varying stages of idiocy resulting from bliss accord- 
 ing to temperament and good-breeding. The finest 
 couple were objects of amused interest even to the 
 best disposition, because of the evident distress of the 
 handsome groom when rice kept falling from all sorts 
 of unexpected parts of his anatomy. 
 
 In half an hour Lake Ontario was doing its worst 
 in the way of performing unpleasant up and down and 
 sideways evolutions and all night long it tossed and 
 rain fell. Morning came with its gray-blue mist and 
 the Thousand Islands was dimmed, the far shores ob- 
 scured and the mighty St. Lawrence seemed like a 
 shoreless ocean. What a magnificent river! What ev- 
 erchanging beauty and grandeur! All day until the 
 rapids were reached, the rain fell. Six o'clock found 
 us with the roar of the Lachine Rapids in our ears and 
 the rocking, dropping boat seemingly falling from 
 under us. 
 
 Then we swept under the magnificent two mile 
 long Victoria bridge and the bus driver of The Queen's 
 hotel claimed us for his own. Over the debris of street 
 paving, through deep pools of black mud, into the 
 many ragged holes of the asphalt we drove at a mad 
 gallop until, in a steep side hill, the bus was stopped 
 and the big conductor on the back steps yelled 
 "Fares!" at us in a voice calculated to startle a na- 
 tion. One of the seven grooms remarked to us "sotto 
 voce," "I didn't expect to take my wife up town 
 through a run-a-way and hold up." Fares paid, the 
 resumed gallop brought us to The Queen's, its tea and 
 its heart-breaking music, its marble stairs and its old 
 
elevator with big wooden doors and the speed of the 
 turtle with the slowest record. 
 
 Ten o'clock found the Mr. Pratt party seeing the 
 quaint things of Montreal, the little old house near 
 the water front where Lavalle lived, the market with 
 its little vegetable carts and its chatter of French with 
 its accompanying violent gesticulation, with the head 
 of cabbage, the beet, or the turnip in dispute, held in 
 the tightly-clenched hand, the modern grays-tone 
 building where stood the gate to the fort through 
 which the British marched and ended French rule for 
 dered by mists, may be seen; the crematory with its 
 Byzantine decorations, the chapel with its lovely 
 stained glass, its exquisite carvings, lovely Mount 
 Royal from which the broad wide-spreading valley of 
 the St. Lawrence, the distant Green Mountains, the 
 whole 100 miles of beautifully green country, blue bor- 
 dered by mists, may be seen, the crematory with Its 
 lovely flowers, the great Catholic nunneries, hospitals, 
 schools showing the wealth of the 250,000 Catholics 
 who belong to Montreal. Ten o'clock and the hustle, 
 rush and flaring lights of the docks told that the 
 Dominion was nearly ready to sail. All night until 4 
 a. m. the rattle and roar of loading went on. This 
 morning sees us on our way to Quebec on the blue 
 grreen waters of the St. Lawrence with its green, far 
 distant shores and its majestic sweep. Monday morn- 
 ing sees us "on the deep" and its miseries claim us. 
 
 QUEBEC 
 
 Quebec, June 27. Between showers, at 9:30 p. m., 
 through dreadfully muddy streets, we went down to 
 the Dominion dock. Here was the wildest sort of con- 
 fusion, hansoms, five-wheelers, drays, driving up, 
 winches banging and groaning loading a train load of 
 perishable freight that had arrived at the last moment, 
 others loading hay and baggage. Sleep was out of the 
 question until 3 a. m. when we swung out into the 
 stream and started for Quebec. 
 
 Morning showed that the Dominion was about 400 
 feet long, very wide, twin screw, very white and gold, 
 and clean. Having studied economy of space in the dis- 
 posing of bagg-age, and learned the art of hanging 17 
 things on one hook, we all went to view the majestic 
 St. Lawrence running blue and clear for its 900 or more 
 miles to the sea; with its banks a constant panorama 
 
of hills, (growing larger and larger as the mouth was 
 neared) and little fishing villages with their feet in the 
 water; toward night the river widened until we could 
 see but one shore at a time. At 2:30 Quebec showed its 
 towering rock upon which its citadel is built and, as 
 we passed, the French gentleman at our right showed 
 us the path up which the soldiers climbed to capture 
 it and the spot where Montcalm fell. Most quaint and 
 beautiful did the old city show from the river with its 
 lower town and its towering citadel land Chateau 
 Frontenac. As soon as we landed, we rushed for a 
 carriage and drove straight to the "lower town" the 
 old French quarter with its narrow streets just wide 
 enough to allow the carriage to pass and one footman 
 to walk beside and its peaked-roof stone or brick 
 houses. Here the French fought the Indians for an em- 
 pire which their profligate kings threw away. The lit- 
 tle two story house in which Victoria's father, the 
 Duke of Kent, lived while Governor General of Cana- 
 da had, stretched from its upper windows, a Union 
 Jack. 
 
 Up the steep streets we went to The Basilica, a 
 reproduction, in the interior, of St. Peter's. It was 
 very effective with its wide space, its altar over which 
 hung the great golden eagle with a golden world in 
 its talons, the world fire red from the light of the red 
 window beside it. One irreverent American murmur- 
 ed his greeting to the American eagle as he looked at 
 it. 
 
 Here, in this old church, devout hearts have 
 brought their cares since 1630. Here, too, is Van 
 Dyke's "Christ on the Cross" gazing- down with tired 
 eyes on the throngs who gaze up to Him. The pic- 
 ture was brought from Europe to escape destruction 
 during the French Revolution. The devout kneel ev- 
 erywhere in the church and say their beads with eyes 
 fixed on the "rubbering" tourist. 
 
 Out again and up to the Citadel. Priests and sol- 
 diers are everywhere. As we enter the grim walls, a 
 soldier with one of those ridiculous little round hats 
 with a strap across the chin and the most vigorous 
 of English accents, takes charge of us. He shows us 
 the military prison with its little slits of windows 18 
 inches long and 4 inches wide through the thick stone 
 walls; the bare barracks, the Grand Battery; and, as 
 we turn from viewing it, the whole magnificent pano- 
 rama of the 350 feet elevation bursts upon us. The 
 
St. Lawrence is a wide blue ribbon laid down the mid- 
 dle of a green valley, with misty blue hills on its 
 edges and, just below us, lie the little old French 
 houses of the lower town. 
 
 We go down and see the monument erected to 
 Montcalm and Wolfe, stroll up Dufferin Terrace with 
 its splendid view of the St. Lawrence.then go out to the 
 old Franciscan Monastery where, in the ancient gar- 
 den, two brown dressed, bare footed monks hoe away 
 steadily, not stopping to view the lovely valley of the 
 St. Charles which lies so inviting and fair below. The 
 Plains of Abraham must be walked on so the foot may 
 touch "real history." Now comes the rain again and 
 we race for the dock in a dust storm that flutters the 
 gowns of the fat priests who hold fast therr shovel 
 hats. Storm over, we go up to the Chateau Fron- 
 tenac for table d'hote dinner. A beautiful place it is, 
 magnificent, artistic, with its soft velvet carpets, its 
 flowers, its noiseless attendants, its orchestras. 
 
 Dinner over, we stroll through the beautiful rooms, 
 look out the windows at the splendid views down the 
 river, then go shopping, with pleasant results. Morn- 
 ing finds us still going down the St. Lawrence which 
 grows wider and wider, twenty miles, twenty-five 
 miles, thirty miles, fifty miles at the mouth; our pilot 
 leaves us with cheers from the passengers, and we 
 have now no link to connect us with the land. 
 
 Now begin rain, fog, mist, that awful ground 
 swell of the sea which heaps up like molten steel to 
 the horizon's rim which seems so definite that one 
 feels that a foot over it is "off the earth." Here our 
 troubles begin and sea sickness lays its awful grip 
 upon us for ten days. One day we stand up dizzily to 
 look at an iceberg which floats, all glistening and 
 white, in a blue, blue sea; another, to look at a whale; 
 another to see a porpoise. One evening, the end of the 
 only beautiful day we have, we sit in the swaying 
 chair and hold up our head with one hand, while we 
 listen to the speeches of an Englishman, a Canadian, 
 an American, Mr. W. A. Pratt, on Fourth of July. The 
 captain kindly carried the American flag on the main 
 mast all day and fired a salute in the morning and 
 some fire works in the evening. Two nights the fog 
 was so thick The Dominion "lay to" until morning 
 and one night she backed out of the ice. Being only 
 about 400 feet long, the vessel "bounced" badly in a 
 sea and as we had head winds during the entire voy- 
 
 10 
 
age, we had plenty of "dead swell" and "bounce." 
 Fog, rain and mist added their mite to make every 
 passenger hail the shores of "old Ireland" with joy 
 Monday morning-. Most beautiful they were through 
 the gray mist. The day cleared, the blue Irish Sea 
 lay like a mirror, every one "chirked up" and was gay. 
 All day long sea and shore showed their beauty and 
 at night, a full moon added its silver to the water. 
 Groups sat and sang everywhere. Even Mr. Grier's 
 anecdote of the sea sick man by the ship rail who saw 
 a bandana dropped by a passenger near, fall, and ex- 
 claimed, "There goes my liver," excited only smiles 
 instead of shudders. 
 
 Four o'clock the next morning saw Liverpool near 
 and everybody crowded out on deck to see River Dee 
 join the Mercey and look at the sands where "Mary 
 went to call the cattle home and never home came 
 she." Slowly we swung into the mouth of the river. 
 .New Brighton, a perfect picture of "Spotless Town", 
 only the roofs are red and grass green, is greeted with 
 a cheer. 
 
 Breakfast over, we swing alongside the largest 
 floating dock in the world and fall into the clutches of 
 the Custom House officers who are very pleasant and 
 obliging. Through the rain we make for the Midland 
 Station, and, as we alight put foot on "Old England." 
 The land for us! We know now why "There is no 
 more sea." 
 
 ANTWERP 
 
 Antwerp, July 14. Our voyage of 4,300 miles by 
 water is ended, our watches have been set ahead from 
 20 to 30 minutes each day, a proceeding rather discon- 
 certing when the rising hour is 7 a. m. until we are 
 now 5 hours fast. At noon as it is now here, Cedar 
 Rapids is just blowing its 7 a. m. whistles. 
 
 We go direct to London but as we are not through 
 there and must go back later, it may all be left to one 
 telling. 
 
 The entire Pratt party with enough red labels on 
 the baggage to sink a ship, is put into large bmsses and 
 threads its way through the crowded narrow streets 
 to the station and a wild run of an hour, sometimes at 
 the rate of 70 miles per hour takes us to Harwich. The 
 train is made up of cars not so large as a street car, 
 divided into sections that do not communicate and 
 
 11 
 
have side doors, and containing two seats facing each 
 other, two racks, and that is all. Our car, being a tour- 
 ist, has seats all around the sides, a table with long 
 "leaves" dropped down, running through the middle. 
 The engine looks only half grown up and has only a 
 little hood over the machinery and no protection at all 
 for engineer and fireman. The "guard" collects your 
 tickets before you start, the door is slammed and no 
 more officials or trainmen of any kind do you see until 
 you reach your journey's end. The "guard" doesn't go 
 with the train but meets it at the station. No water 
 to drink, no fruit or peanuts for anyone to buy. The 
 car sways and bumps, swings and everybody does 
 likewise until one can't tell whether the blue-printed 
 label "Engaged", pasted up by the guard before we 
 started, belongs to the oldest married member of the 
 party over which it was pasted originally, or to her 
 next door neighbor, the pretty girl from St. Louis. 
 
 A rush through the darkness at Harwich for the 
 little steamer, a packing like sardines into small state- 
 rooms, a night full of impressions that the berth is 
 sinking into great depths and the morning sun shows 
 the smooth, silvery waters of the Scheldt with the old 
 Dutch windmills (for this part of Belgium looks very 
 Dutch) its low green banks with their yellow stripes of 
 fields of ripening wheat. 
 
 The river narrows presently and shipping of all 
 kinds crowds into view. The usual Custom Officer 
 comes on and says, "Open" in a stern voice and the 
 next step in showing one's white collar to all Europe 5 
 because he travels, is over. What a quaint city! 
 Roofs with the corneris cut off, red-tiled, show every- 
 where. Everything brick or stone. Streets cobble- 
 stoned. Here comes a milk cart drawn by or rather 
 pushed by the brown dog under it who barks madly 
 because he doesn't w&nt to work. Madam, the owner, 
 stalks in rear with bare head and with wooden shoes 
 clattering. There is a group of market women, bare 
 headed, wooden-shoed, with purchases in the apron 
 whose gathered end is held in the clenched hand. Three 
 women push a big cart heavily laden with clams. Here 
 is the public square with its beautiful bronze statue of 
 Rubens, its fragrant flower stalls with lillies, carna- 
 tions, roses tended by bare headed, gossiping women, 
 and on the other side one front of the beautiful cath- 
 dral. The hotel reached and party orders received, a 
 rush is made for the lace- shop across the square. Such 
 
 13 
 
airy loveliness as the laces showed as the experienced 
 girls showed "Madam!" her wares, until "Madam" 
 spent of her patrimony for buying, almost to the last 
 sou. Life woven into beauty is what she carried away. 
 The crooked, narrow little side streets attract us with 
 their narrow stone side walks, 2 feet and 3 feet, built 
 up against the stone walls and, once in a while, an 
 iron pump right in the middle of it around which 
 swarm the little wooden-shoed children, playing the 
 tricks of children the world over. Here is the store of 
 Josephine Van Winkle. It is about 10x12 feet and 
 contains the Van Winkle stock of underwear and hos- 
 iery, wrapped in brown paper, on its shelves. Past the 
 window goes the fish seller with his fish buckets 
 swinging from the ends of a harness over his should- 
 ers. Here come two old ladies in black dress-up bon- 
 nets and white aprons from a "tabak" store. A fan- 
 fare of trumpets! The narrow street is full of march- 
 ing soldiers in blue and red and the person of peace 
 flattens himself against the wall of the building to 
 let them tramp past. Three or four hundred little 
 children heads bare, wooden shoes clattering, pour out 
 of a schoolhouse across the 8 foot wide street from 
 which is a wholesale house which has in front of it 
 one of those enormously long, low drays with little, 
 low front wheels and back wheels broad tired and 
 twice as high. The big brothers, grandmothers, uncles 
 and aunts claim the children and go clattering away 
 with them. One o'clock and time for lunch. Tea 20 
 cents a cup! That's because we don't and won't drink 
 wine. That wine must be paid for somehow. "No salt 
 in anything?" Of course not. Who expects salt in food 
 except Americans? 
 
 Now to the Cathedral. Here is the great arched 
 entrance door with its carved figures of apostles on 
 the arch. A pompous old man swings open the door 
 and the white coolness of the great building is ours. 
 Seven rows of magnificent fluted marble columns, 18 
 feet around, mark nave and aisles. Above the high 
 altar glow the beautifully light soft colors of Ru- 
 bens' "Assumption" with ite exquisite floating figures. 
 From the transepts look down "The Ascent of the 
 Cross" and the "Descent from the Cross." Both are 
 lovely but so very different, showing the effect of Ru- 
 bens' art training. 
 
 Near the side door is "The Marriage of Cana in 
 Galilee." It is beautiful and remarkable in that its 
 
 13 
 
colors have not faded at all nor been retouched though 
 it was done 337 years ago. 
 
 Near the first pillar on the right hangs Da Vinci's 
 exquisite "Head of Christ" with its sorrowful eyes 
 following you wherever you go. It is on marble and 
 shows no trace of brush mark. The lecturer talks 
 on, the crowd of tourists peers about but the majesty 
 of the great church and the beauty of that sad face 
 claim one and he hears and sees nothing else until 
 with a start, he realizes that it is time to leave beau- 
 tiful quaint Antwerp for gay Brussels. 
 
 BRUSSELS 
 
 Brussels, July 17. 'Antwerp Is a contrast of ancient 
 and modern; old, old buildings in which the quaintly 
 dressed old lady made ice cream in an American freez- 
 er, where the little boy in wooden shoes chased the 
 American electric car. 
 
 Brussels is modern, airy, clean, gay, beautiful. The 
 ride from Antwerp to Brussels was a Joy. Beautiful 
 little stripes of grain fields filled with the glorious 
 yellow and red poppies, fragrant rose gardens, row 
 after row of the high trimmed trees one sees in pic- 
 tures of Holland; parks with beautiful trees many of 
 them the red leaved copper beech; women working in 
 the fields; dogs drawing the cart or wheelbarrow 
 laden with vegetables. All the hard work of the 
 farm done by hand, the women being the burden bear- 
 ers, seem to be the law in Belgium. The cherries, 
 gooseberries and strawberries are immense and as de- 
 licious as they are large. The potatoes are correspond- 
 ingly tiny. The grain fields are about as large as two 
 city lots which makes the country look like a grow- 
 ing and many colored checker board. The cars are 
 larger on the continent, still divided into compart- 
 ments with side doors, but with a narrow little corri- 
 dor down one side. It is still impossible to get from 
 one car to another except from the station platform. 
 The guard still locks us in and leaves us to the mer- 
 cies of the engineer. 
 
 We go to our hotel, De la Empereur, by a Brussels 
 omnibus which is a large street car on very broad 
 tired wheels set well under the car so the ends bob 
 gaily. The conductor toots on a horn, the driver 
 makes a series of strange and wonderful noises and 
 away plunge the horses, at great speed, across the 
 
 14 
 
big cobble stones. We find our hotel to be a quaint 
 old house built around a court in which is an old 
 garden with statuary and fountain. Our rooms look 
 out upon the garden through long windows which 
 swing open like two doors. We regularly lost our way 
 at each meal trying to find the dining room which 
 
 was away across the garden. If all the Belgians 
 cook as well as the De la Empereur cooks, lucky is 
 Belgium. Table d'hote dinner of seven courses over, 
 everybody goes out to see the sights. Brussels is said 
 to be a small Paris and is certainly very beautiful 
 and gay. The streets were brilliantly lighted, little 
 tables were out on the broad walks where people ate 
 and laughed; orchestras played for the diners in res- 
 taurant and hotel; people in fine dress filled the 
 streets, laces were everywhere in the store windowB 
 and such beautiful ones! 
 
 The next morning saw us in the magnificent 
 
 "Palais de Justice," the largest building in the world. 
 It is of white marble mainly, covers six acres, and 
 has a tower over 400 feet high. Its cost was $10,000,000 
 and its architect went insane four years before it was 
 completed, so great was his task. The halls have great 
 panels of Italian marble which are marked as though 
 a tree trunk were drawn in the middle of each. 
 The Supreme Court room is in black and gray marble 
 with all the ceiling covered with solid brass decora- 
 tions. The criminal court is in black and green mar- 
 ble. 
 
 The brisk old lady in charge showed us out upon a 
 balcony and all Brussels lay below us with its red tiled 
 roofs and its blue dim hills shutting it in. Of Belgian's 
 6,000,000 of people 60,000 live in Brussels and the rest 
 want to, the old lady told us. 
 
 A short walk across a fine square brings us to the 
 Art Gallery. Here is canvas after canvas of Rubens 
 glowing with his bright coloring, amongst them his 
 "Paracelsus" and "The Adoration of the Magi." Moas, 
 Franz Hals, Jan Sheen, Ruysda-al. Cupy, Teuters, 
 Van Dyke have lovely work here. It was wonderful. 
 Out again into the hot white light and into the green- 
 ness of the palace gardens which face the King's 
 palace and past the finest hotel in Europe to the great 
 fountain and so back to the hotel we go. 
 
 The omnibus, the train, the carryall and a climb 
 up 226 steps bring us to the mound in the middle of 
 the battlefield of Waterloo, built by the Belgium wo- 
 
 15 
 
men who carried the earth in baskets on the head 
 and received six cents a day for the hard work. The 
 mound is 150 feet high and commands the entire bat- 
 tle field. On its top stands the lion cast from cap- 
 tured French cannon and paid for by the allied pow- 
 ers. What a lovely view opened before us as we fin- 
 ally reached the top! In all directions the little fields 
 of grain ripening undier July sun, lay sleeping, with 
 the blue horizon far, far away. Almost at our feet 
 are the three little red tiled white walled cottages 
 which mark the middte of the English position and not 
 more than 1700 yards away the old farm buildings 
 which mark the middle of the French lines. The same 
 walls are standing as on th'at clay in 1815 when the 
 power of Napoleon was shattered. 
 
 A pompous old English sergeant arranges us on 
 the steps at the base of the lion pedestal and tells us 
 the story of that bloody day, when of 90,000 French 
 37,000 were killed and of 67,000 allies 26,000 lay dead 
 under the stars of its night. Around to the right is 
 Hougemont where 15,000 were killed in the fierce fight- 
 ing in its court yard. So much blood to win the peace 
 that broods now over these fields in the twilight. Down 
 the steps we go to be entreated by a witty Brussels 
 woman who says, "There is no fly on the Americans," 
 to buy wooden shoes and views of the field. 
 
 Next morning finds us again in the beautiful coun- 
 try, hilly now, with fine castle-like buildings crowning 
 the heights, on our way to .Cologne. At Herbestahl 
 we reach the Belgium frontier and the customs officers 
 drag us and all our baggage from the train and take 
 a look at our white collars as all Europe seems to do 
 to its tourists. On again through fields in which the 
 women toil in red or blue waists making pretty bits 
 of color in the landscape, and tall, high trimmed trees 
 still surround the fields. At Aix-la-Chapelle, made 
 famous by Charlemagne, we change our watches from 
 3:10 p. m. Belgium to 4:17 p. m. German time. Arrived 
 at Cologne, in a thunder storm, and deposited at the 
 Continental hotel, we make a rush for the cathedral. 
 It is only across the square and lifts its beautiful twin 
 towers into the sunset sky with a beauty upon it all 
 that makes one catch his breath. "Lace work in 
 stone" describes it. As we step inside and the daz- 
 zling, deep, glowing colors 'of the sixteenth century 
 north windows, and the magnificent double columns 
 are in view, we know what a cathedral can say to its 
 
worshippers. The pure, simple, Gothic architecture 
 gives great dignity and grandeur, and the beautiful 
 windows give a wealth of coloring that fills eye and 
 soul. 
 
 We sleep sitting, in a bed decorated by a fine feath- 
 erbed on the outside, covered with fine lace, and un- 
 derneath, by a most massive and complicated wooden 
 boot-jack. Morning sees us "prowling." We visit the 
 old market with its chattering women and its splendid 
 bronze statue of Emperor William. I find the way 
 down little crooked, narrow streets with overhang- 
 ing second stories to the buildings, see the church of 
 St. Ursula with its bones of 11,000 murdered virgins 
 in its crypt, then start, again in the rain, for our trip 
 down the Rhine. Our dreams of years are about to be 
 realized through the kindness of our many far-away 
 friends and we think of them gratefully. 
 
 THE RHINE 
 
 The Rhine, July 21. Morning dawns with gray skies 
 and falling rain. We rush aboard the Rhine steamer, 
 seize one of those leather folding stools with no back, 
 plant it in as dry a place as can be found and prepare 
 to see all the realizations of our dreams of years that 
 the weather will allow. The bridge of boats swings 
 open to let us through and Cologne looks like a pan- 
 orama before us. The country is beautifully green. 
 Women do family washing in a pail of Rhine water 
 and spread the garments along the bank to dry with 
 thj hopefulness of humanity that the Impossible can be 
 realized, for it rains constantly. All sorts of river craft 
 pass us flying the black, red and blue flag. Little red 
 roofed villages dot the green of the fields. The river 
 is not beautifully blue as it would be under a blue 
 sky but is blue white. All forenoon the rain falls and 
 the crowded boat carries a great load of disappoint- 
 ment as well as its 246 American tourists; a Cook par- 
 ty of 52, a Hill party of 35, the Pratt party of 40 and 
 just enough German, English, and Belgians to keep the 
 Americans sure they are in a foreign country. 
 
 In the afternoon the river narrows, the banks grow 
 higher, then they turn into great hills, castle- crowned, 
 and the beauty of the Rhine dawns for us. 
 
 Coblenz is reached where the Moselle river rushes in- 
 to the Rhine and the best wine of the Rhine country 
 is made. 
 
 17 
 
Now the great rocky slopes and steeps are vine clad, 
 with strips of stone fences to keep the vines from 
 slipping into the Rhine, apparently. Crest after crest 
 crowds down to the river's edge and towers into the 
 sky so, from the boat, the tops cannot be seen. Great 
 tilted, twisted, standing-on-end layers of rock show 
 themselves and back of us blue-black almost, in the 
 rain and in front of us high and misty they still show. 
 Castles of all kinds crown them. History has been 
 made in them and on the vine clad slopes about them. 
 
 Kere is a little octagonal tower, with a stone chair, 
 close to the river's edge. In it the Kings of the Rhine 
 country were crowned before Germany was a nation. 
 
 Here is a magnificent monument of bronze.on a little 
 island in the river, to Emperor William I, at Rhine- 
 fels. 
 
 Then "The Lurlei" swing into view around a curve, 
 great, needle shaped jagged peaks at whose base the 
 wicked Rhine-nymphs lured the traveler to his death. 
 A rush to the other side of the boat! The Emperor's 
 castle is in sight perched high on its tree-covered 
 steep. It looks too modern. There is an old, old castle 
 on a bare rock. It dates back to the 12th century and 
 is still used as a prison. Grim and inaccessible enough 
 it looks with its little slits of windows in its great 
 stone walls and its thick stone outer walls enclosing it. 
 
 There is an "oh" of delight and Prince Henry's Cas- 
 tle, the Prince Henry who came to America to see us 
 and whom we all love, shows. It is right at the pin- 
 nacle of a very high, very jagged tree-clad rock. It 
 doesn't seem possible to get up to it or down from it 
 but it overlooks the Rhine for miles and miles and 
 opposite it are the most lovely slopes of all the Rhine 
 steeps. Several Americans express a very strong de- 
 sire to own it, especially the smallest and thinnest wo- 
 man of the Pratt party. 
 
 Now some one says, Here is Bingen, "Fair Bingen 
 on the Rhine." And fair it certainly is. Just below 
 it is the famous "Mouse Tower" where the wicked 
 baron, who let people starve because they couldn't 
 pay his price for his stored corn, lived. It rises 
 from the water, apparently, a not very high round 
 tower and looks a good place to starve a stingy baron 
 in and let the rats devour him as the legend says was 
 done. Too bad America hasn't it for its coal barons. 
 Later on, the splendid monument to Germania made 
 of captured French cannon and crowning the very 
 
 18 
 
highest point of the Rhine hills shows in the twilight. 
 No wonder the Germans love the Rhine, with such 
 stimulus to their national pride. The sun goes down, 
 red as fire, into a bed of orange clouds and darkness 
 settles down. An odor of jasmine comes sweet and 
 strong from the shore, the linden lends its odor; green 
 and red lights flash from the top of a tower and make 
 long trembling lines of color across the water, lights 
 twinkle and reflect all along shore; a transport full of 
 German soldiers who sing their national hymn as the 
 band plays it gives us a hearty cheer and we return it. 
 Here is Mayence. The journey down the Rhine is done. 
 
 MA YENCE 
 
 Mayence We land from our Rhine steamer in the 
 usual bustle of baggage shot down an inclined plane 
 and caught by active porters who strap four or five 
 valises together and walk off with them over their 
 shoulders with two more in each hand in an easy and 
 leisurely manner. Up a long street, glistening 
 with rain, and lined with the blossoming lin- 
 dens, heavy with fragrance we go to our hotel. Just op- 
 posite it is a hall hung with the national colors 
 in which an immense audience listens to a great 
 orchestra. From the hotel windows was a lovely view 
 of the Rhine filled with 'the reflections of myriad 
 lights. Four o'clock in the morning brought the tramp 
 of marching feet and a thousand of Germany' young 
 men, forced to give up four of the best years of their 
 lives to military gymnastics, march past. Fine look- 
 ing, strong, alert they seemed. 
 
 The sun comes up out of the Rhine, through clouds 
 of rose red mist, as red as It went into it the night 
 before, and it is time to get ready for sight seeing. 
 
 Next to the hotel stands a section of the old Roman 
 wall built by Claudius. "What history it has seen! 
 
 We make a rush for the old 14th century cathedral, 
 going across the market where flowers of all kinds 
 make a blaze of color and old women sell vegetables 
 of many kinds and small quantities, with great ener- 
 gy. Here is the cathedral; very high pews, the high 
 altar in the front instead of the rear, dim old 16th cen- 
 tury pictures of the events of the greatest Life in the 
 world; effigies of gilded saints lying with hands to- 
 gether in prayer marking the tombs of crusaders, the 
 statue of The Virgin prayed to by honest beggars. 
 
 19 
 
Time is up. A scurry down a narrow side street not 
 wide enough for a wagon to drive through, a dodging 
 of two two-dog carts, and the omnibus takes us to our 
 station. On our way, we see recruits practicing the 
 famous German "goose-step," on their drill grounds, 
 which the Presbyterian ladies of the party insisted 
 they could do perfectly if only given a chance. In 
 Mayence as in every other continental city, were little 
 parks filled with flowers at every available space, 'and 
 every house, almost, had its window boxes full of 
 bloom. Every station has its flowers and every inch 
 of ground is occupied. A rush through a long tunnel, 
 a glimpse of more soldiers, some of them throwing 
 kisses to the younger faces in the train, and we are off 
 for Heidelberg. Women toil in the fields again, cutting 
 the grain with a heavy cradle while men follow bind- 
 ing it into bundles. Here comes a big two-wheeled 
 cart, into a station marked Helvetia, with a cow hitch- 
 ed to one side of the tongue. She seems to find no 
 trouble in doing her work with this one-sided arrange- 
 ment and "chews gum" placidly as she goes. Women 
 carry great loads in baskets and bales on the head as 
 they walk through the ripening grain fields. Pumpkine 
 and potatoes are in bloom; hops climb their tall poles; 
 oats and wheat in little narrow strips about two 
 blocks long make grain fields. A fine rain falls but 
 the people in the fields work away bare headed. Sud- 
 denly on the close horizon the German mountains 
 swing into view blue black, with their castles perched 
 on top. They look like the Berkshire Hills except for 
 the castles and the fact that the grain fields creep too 
 near to their tops sometimes. The forest clad ones are 
 most numerous and beautiful. Great care Germany 
 takes of its trees. Wherever one may be in a field, 
 there it is, trimmed and cared for. 
 
 Here comes an ox team so hitched that they pull 
 the load with the head. The farmers of the party 
 make disgusted comment. Alternate plain and moun- 
 tain brings us to Heidelberg where we rusih in to 
 luncheon to lose no time getting up to the castle. Dur- 
 ing luncheon, many plans are made for carrying away 
 the porcelain stove that towers to the ceiling in one 
 corner of the room. It is very ornate, and has a fire 
 pot that would hold about two quarts of nut coal. 
 An American who lives in Germany said it took all 
 day to get the stove warm so there wasn't any chance 
 
 20 
 
for people. Here come the carriages for the ride. The 
 eight open landaus file up to the steps and the party 
 fills them. As we go on, the uninitiated give us sorrow- 
 ful looks thinking us a funeral, minus the "corpse" and 
 the knowing small boy shrieks in German, "It is an- 
 other! See them!" Under the tree, along the side 
 walls the students eat and drink, some in the red caps, 
 Borne in the green of the different duelling corps. Up 
 the steep street one climbs until, at a turn, 
 the whole of Heidelberg lies in panorama before us, 
 until its red-tiled roofs, its steep streets, the blue river 
 dividing it and the bluer mountains pile into the 
 sky about it. 
 
 Here is the old castle! What a magnificent place it 
 must have been in 1460 at its prime! Look at that 
 splendid view down the valley and over to the sur- 
 rounding mountains before we see the tree in the 
 Princess Elizabeth's garden that has been growing 
 ever since 1650. What sights and sounds has that old 
 tree known ! There is the old dungeon tower with its 
 6 feet thick walls and its 60 feet deep and 80 feet wide 
 moat. The moat is all filled with magnificent old trees 
 now and, let us hope, the prisoners have all forgot- 
 ten their sorrows. Here is the old draw bridge with 
 the 400-year-old portcullis that has shut the door of 
 hope for many a brave man. Over here is an ivy-tree 
 150 years old, gnarled and twisted. Up there high in 
 the old wall is the old sun dial the shadow of whose 
 finger points out the hours encircled below. Here is 
 the great court yard and in this doorway we have a 
 view of the immense banqueting hall. Down into the 
 crypt we go to see the famous old wine cask which 
 furnished wine for the banquets. It holds 49,000 gal- 
 lons, and has a pump just outside the banqueting hall 
 with a handle two yards long. A burst of gay singing 
 in men's voices. Across the hall from the old wine 
 cask is a room of 200 men drinking beer, smoking un- 
 til the air is blue, singing loudly and gaily, led by a 
 band. It is the celebration of the birthday of a teacher 
 in Heidelberg university by his old students. As we 
 look in, the old Herr Professor rises, his students all 
 rise from the long tables too, and beer mugs are held 
 high in air, a rousing cheer goes up and the contents 
 of the glasses go down. The old architect -teacher 
 beams approval. Not so the most rampant prohibi- 
 tionist man of our party. His groan of disgust marks 
 the difference in the temperance attitude of the teach- 
 
 21 
 
ers of the two nations. Through the rooms of this 
 great place, restored by Frederick, one need not go but 
 take a look from the magnificent 60-foot wide terrace 
 instead. What a view! What a view! How we wish 
 all the people who helped to send us away could see 
 it! Rain! A rush for the carriages, a swift ride to 
 the hotel, a scramble for the stores and the station and 
 we are en route for Berne. 
 
 Soon the Swiss mountains crowd dim and far aw;ay 
 on the horizon, the frontier is crossed at Basel and un- 
 til midnight our train rushes our tired party into 
 Switzerland. At one o'clock we sleep hoping that the 
 rain will stop for our one day in Berne. Talk about 
 vacations! Isn't from 5 a. m. until 1 at night a good 
 day's work? 
 
 BERNE 
 
 Berne, Switzerland. The steady tramp of rain 
 overhead, our room is next the roof, wakens us 
 Sunday morning. A peep from the little, swinging, 
 latticed window shows only the outline of the golden 
 dome of the New Parliament buildings, so thick is the 
 rain-veil. Not even the white and gold splendors of 
 our hotel, the Bernerhof, one of the finest in Europe; 
 nor the pleasure of riding in a "lift" that held but 
 three persons and took five minutes from the fifth to 
 the first floor, consoled the party of forty. The view 
 from the dining room window showed, in the inter- 
 vals between heavy showers, the dark green, rushing 
 waters of The Aare in the middle of a valley from 
 which rose on each side, the green foot-hills of the 
 Alps. Back of these, blue-black showed the lower 
 peaks and, far beyond, curtained by the mist, we knew 
 were the Bernese Alps. Great wreaths of vapor swept 
 over this vivid green and blue, snow white cloud-drifts 
 buried them, lifted and trailed into great bars of white 
 across them. Dazzling whiteness it was, when the sun 
 gleamed ever so little upon it. After luncheon, the 
 rain having stopped for a few minutes, Miss Moore's 
 invitation to drive about Berne was accepted. Such a 
 quaint place we found it, as it nestled in its dazzling 
 green valley surrounded by its equally blue mountains. 
 The houses stuccoed on the outside, second story over- 
 hanging the street, stood with the gable ends 
 facing it; little window-boxes full of bloom at 
 
 22 
 
each upper window made even the grayness seem gay. 
 Over a magnificent bridge whioh gave a s-plendid view 
 of the deep-green Aare and the old buildings of lower 
 Berne, we went to the bear-pit. Since Berne means 
 bear it would never do to miss that. Six yreat, fat, 
 good-natured bruins sat up and begged for peanuts 
 while four little ones surveyed them, sleepily, from the 
 branches of the very tall tree into which they had 
 climbed. A great crowd watched them. Back along 
 the old arcaded streets we came. These arcades ar 
 very wide and built out over the street so shopping 
 might be done despite the rain. It made the quaintest 
 possible looking street. One of the arcades dated 
 back to 1489, three years before Columbus discovered 
 America. All sorts of goods were for sale in them but 
 they were closed for the Sabbath. 
 
 The old cathedral, dating 1421, has a beautiful spire 
 and one of the finest organs in Europe. The Catholics 
 built it, but it was taken from them and given to the 
 Protestants. A short drive brings us to the old fif- 
 teenth century clock tower. Many carriages are drawn 
 up neai it and a crowd of sighteers waits the clock's 
 striking. The hour of three is near. A rooster pops 
 forward and gives a crow, the sleeping old man under 
 the clock-face wakes and yawns; the bear dances; the 
 man above the clock strikes the big bell with a mallet. 
 For four hundred years has the clock been running 
 and the cock been crowing. Everybody laughs as the 
 laet feeble, melancholy crow of the cock sounds, and 
 goes away to his sightseeing. 
 
 Here is a typical restaurant. A great room with a 
 frescoed ceiling, carved rafters, and hurrying waiter 
 girls is filled with men and women who sit at small 
 tables drinking beer, the men smoking until the air is 
 blue. A band plays somewhere in its fog. Gaily uni- 
 formed soldiers chat and laugh. Nobody is drunk be- 
 oause he has probably taken two hours to drink a sin- 
 gle stein. Here is the statue of the man that "eats 
 bad children up" with its base encircled by giddy little 
 bears dancing on hind legs, with paw clasping paw. 
 
 Over the great Kornhaus bridge with its massive pil- 
 lars, and its beautiful bronze ceiling, to the top of the 
 height overlooking the city on that side, where, again, 
 is the lovely panorama of red-tiled roofs, the green 
 river between one-half and the other, and the green 
 blue hills melting into the mist wreathed mountains, 
 we go; then across another great bridge high above 
 
 23 
 
the great trees towering on the banks of the Aare up to 
 the hills on which Berne university stands.Fine modern 
 buildings they are crowning heights that give a won- 
 derful view of river and mountains. The rain has been 
 pouring an hour and is even getting into our closed 
 carriage so we make a rush for home. The usual sev- 
 en-course dinner with three meat courses, one of them 
 chicken, over, we go out on the terrace to see whether 
 the late twilight has brought the distant mountains to 
 us. 
 
 A rift in the clouds; the after glow shows on the 
 eastern horizon, and the mountains have come to us! 
 A cry of sheer eostacy breaks from each one. "Ach! 
 Himmel!" says the German lady. The green, green 
 foothills sweep up to the blue lower peaks;and, crowd- 
 ing back of these, blue-black to the snow line, dazzling 
 whiteness tipped with rose, above it, into the amber 
 evening sky, tower those grand peaks, Pilatus, Rigo 
 and the whole family of the Berneee Alps closing the 
 far-reaching distance. The heart swells and the eyes 
 dim. Henceforth this is a more beautiful and sacred 
 world. "Ach! Louie!" says an excited American from 
 the chair upon which she stands, and the tension of 
 feeling- breaks into a g'ay laugh. We go back to our 
 evening service and sing "Jesus, Lover of My Soul" 
 and "Rock of Ages" with glad hearts; and an eloquent 
 and beautiful talk by Rev. Bryant, father of Prof. 
 Bryant of Coe, on "Service" closes our first Sabbath 
 in Switzerland. 
 
 The next morning is gray, our distin guished moun- 
 tain visitors have gone and mist wraps the lower 
 peaks. We go shopping in the queer old arcaded shops 
 until the more reckless are thankful for return tickets 
 already in hand. Such "dear little one room places," 
 says one of the girls. Small peaches, smaller apples, a 
 few bunches of grapes (six or seven sold as a basket) 
 enormous gooseberries as large as the peaches, were 
 the stock-in-trade of the fruit merchants. 
 
 A glance at our watches, a hurried rush for the train 
 and we are off for Interlaken where the near glories 
 of the mountains wait us. 
 
 What lovely green country! The mountains now 
 on the horizon, now gone, play a gigantic game of hide 
 and seek with us. Miss Moore complains that she 
 "can't see the houses for the roofs" so low are they 
 and so near do they touch tha ground at the house- 
 sides. It is unlike Germany in one respect, we again 
 
see houses of wood. German towns are all brick and 
 stone. Miss Wyant proposes her favorite conundrum 
 "Why were the party on the Dominion like Noah's 
 Ark?" The once-sea-sick members of the crowd glare 
 at her but can't guess. "Because both were pitched 
 within and without." A groan follows this scintilla- 
 tion. 
 
 Here we are at Thun. Change for the lake boat. As 
 we cross the gang plank of one little steamer big 
 drops of rain begin to fall. A rush to one side of the 
 boat! Here on a little island, so small that the house 
 covers the whole of it, is the "House of the Poet Hein- 
 rick von Kliest from 1802-180,3." It is a fit place for a 
 poet, with the mountains about it arid the water the 
 most exquisite deep blue-green that must be seen to be 
 appreciated. The deep, under green of Niagara is 
 most like it and yet not so beautiful. 
 
 What a eight the mountains are! Was there ever 
 anything lovelier than that deep, deep blue with its 
 dazzling white cloud-mist? Away on one of the blue 
 steeps is Castle Thun with the lake touching the sheer 
 steep wall-like base. Here comes the rain again. It 
 simply pours and beats the lovely lake into dimples 
 everywhere turning it from green to blue, as it did 
 most of us. From perches on tables, with umbrella 
 overhead, the dauntless American tourist sees what he 
 can of this most beautiful lake in Europe. Long, nar- 
 row, mountain bounded, with peaks crowding down in- 
 to it from every direction, it is lovely in the rain. 
 What must it be in the sunshine! 
 
 An abrupt turn of the steamer and Interlaken comes 
 into view. It has been raining for several days here 
 and the quaint, little town is full of tourists wait- 
 ing for fine weather. We see them everywhere as we 
 go to our hotel, which looks out on the Jungfrau when 
 she wishes to be seen. The lower peaks are within 
 hand-touch apparently and are as soft as plush (in 
 their green tree covering) to the top. None of the 
 higher peaks show. Everybody eats dinner hurriedly 
 and rushes off down the little narrow street, to the 
 shops, which are full of lovely wood and ivory carv- 
 ings, views, pictures and souvenirs. It is like a circus- 
 day. The streets are crowded. Certainly, when 
 "Young England" goes on a vacation, he doesn't try to 
 look pretty. Here is a party of muddy, wet, moun- 
 tain climbers. They have long alpenstocks, heavy 
 shoes, awful hats, and linen clothes. The boys of 15 
 
 26 
 
have linen trousers to the knees, then no covering for 
 the leg until the short stocking coming to the fc shoe 
 top is reached. The small girl has no covering from 
 knee to shoe top. She doesn't seem to care, though, and 
 looks ruddy and strong as any one need. The Ameri- 
 can tourists are very trim-looking except the dreadful 
 Panama hat bent into any shape except a pretty one. 
 
 Herds of mountain goats, six or seven together, are 
 being driven up the street, stopped at the right cus- 
 tomer's house and milked. Some of them draw carts, 
 going along in a very spirited and gay manner. Dog 
 teams draw big carts with big loads. Everything is 
 gray and it is so cold it is very uncomfortable. Sud- 
 denly there comes a burst of sunshine. Over to the 
 right shows a snow-capped mountain. Everybody 
 cheers up, but at 6 o'clock it is again raining. The 
 finest German orchestra is playing at The Kurhaus, 
 so after 7:30 dinner, we go to hear it. They are play- 
 ing the "Overture to William Tell" as we enter and 
 playing it splendidly, too. A great room, brilliantly 
 lighted, filled with little tables and the tabes sur- 
 rounded by people drinking coffee| chocolate, tea, beer 
 or wine, and the men smoking, is what meets our 
 gaze. Just then the orchestra stops. A card bearing 
 the word "Pause" is put up and we find we must wait 
 15 minutes for our next number. It comes finally, a 
 quartet of cornetists, who play German folk songs 
 beautifully, getting a lovely singing quality from their 
 rather intractable instruments. An enthusiastic en- 
 core is given each number of the suite of four. Then 
 "Pause" again. What a medley of nationalities! Eng- 
 lish, American, Canadian, German, French, Austrian, 
 a Tyrolese in a hat with a feather in the side, Italian, 
 Danish, Swede. It is so cold we shiver in our fur 
 capes but the English ladies, in thin dresses with open 
 work yokes, stalk about looking warm and serene. 
 
 Now comes a Schubert number. And how it is play- 
 ed! with such feeling, shading, precision, understand- 
 ing! Surely the German Js nothing if not musical. 
 
 It is cold and late. We hurry home to sleep under 
 three blankets and a feather bed and wish we had a 
 fire beside. 
 
 The next morning it rains. Our room mate says 
 something about breakfast but we remark, in a tone 
 compounded of Polar bear and grizzly, that we "don't 
 want any Continental breakfast and won't get up until 
 the sun shines." Five minutes later a loud rap on the 
 
 26 
 
door and an energetic voice, "Hurry up, Miss Gurley! 
 The Jungfrau is out!" Whereupon after a few wise 
 remarks about recognizing the rulings of Providence, 
 she goes away leaving us "gnashing;" for we know 
 Jungfrau won't stay "out" long enough ftr us to get 
 ready. Taking this as a warning, we get ready and 
 wander disconsolately about in the shops that sell 
 carvings. One of our numerous party meets us and 
 tells us that we are to be ready to start for the upper 
 glacier in twenty minutes. Words cannot measure 
 our astonishment. It is pouring. The mountains are 
 mist wrapped from base to summit. What course of 
 reasoning leads "Herr" Pratt as we call our conductor, 
 to think we shall ever be able to see the mountain, let 
 alone today? We get ready in all the warm clothes 
 we have, furs and all, and behold in twenty minutes 
 the sun is shining. Herr Pratt grows two inches tal- 
 ler. We get into our carriages and bliss fills our 
 hearts. No such greenness have we seen anywhere 
 else. Our road leads us past the cottages with over- 
 hanging roofs with the shingles held on by stones and 
 the winter's wood piled against the side of the house 
 in the protection of the roof. Great heaps of white 
 clouds show against the green of the pines and grass. 
 The river roars and tears itself into watery laca 
 against the boulders. Flowers of all colors fill the 
 grass. We all stand in the carriage, with a cry of de- 
 light, as an Alpine stream comes in sight. It has leap- 
 ed from the top of the cliff straight into the air and 
 300 feet down it comes, lace-work in water, between 
 the green pines, to the foot of the mountain. No words 
 can describe the song it sang, nor tell of its dazzling 
 whiteness. Up and up we go. Blue mountains behind 
 and in front of us, green ones beside us. Waterfall af- 
 ter waterfall like the one described, and the song of the 
 river, far beiow us, is always in our ears. Gray, green, 
 red cliffs tower above us and still the beauty grows. A 
 rapturous sense of the beauty of this world possesses 
 each and no one speaks. Finally, the hotel at the 
 head of the Grindlewald is reached and, after lunch 
 the party starts in groups for the upper glacier. Mr. 
 Elethorpe kindly takes charge of the writer and she 
 rides rapturously, on the high front seat of the car- 
 riage. We have already caught a glimpse of the beam- 
 ty of glacier ice in the turquoise blue of the lower 
 glacier. One would never imagine ice could be so 
 beautiful. But that valley on that ride to the upper 
 
glacier! If it were only possible to give each person 
 who worked so faithfully for the winner of The Re- 
 publican contest just one glimpse of it, he would be 
 amply repaid. The great valley, mountain-lined, 
 lay green as any emerald, with the most wonderful 
 blue mist shrouding it; and the dazzling whiteness of 
 the snow on the mountains was outdazzled by their 
 whiter cloud-mist. A walk along a very muddy road 
 on which pedestrians of all nations were spoiling good 
 shoes brings us to the glacier, itself. Can those beau- 
 tiful semi-circular arches of exquisite blue be ice? 
 Then surely ice is the most beautiful thing in the 
 world, more blue than the bluest ocean or sky. To 
 have with this beauty of ice, that of sun and moun- 
 tain, mist and forest is too much to be believed. All 
 the way back down the valley the magnifu ^nt pano- 
 rama unrolls. Just opposite one of the lovely water 
 falls we stop and a mountaineer with an Alpine horn 
 eight feet long comes. A wild sweet call fills the air 
 and the great mountains opposite sing it back until 
 the whole valley is full of that sonff of the "mountains 
 that sing together." Tears stand in the eyes. For once, 
 we have heard the "melody that sings from the 
 heights." We stop at a little road house and see a 
 "real, live chamois," a gentle little thing that eats 
 from our hand regarding us, meanwhile, with soft 
 brown eyes. We gather Alpine roses, daisies, gentians, 
 larkspur, orchids. 
 
 The rain sweeps down upon us, the carriage tops go 
 up and the beautiful view is shut out from our eyes 
 but into our hearts, always. 
 
 INTERLAKEN 
 
 is that really sunehine on the floor! It is. And the 
 two western enthusiasts next room are announcing 
 loudly through the keyhole that "the Jungfrau is 
 out!" A hurried plunge into any article of clothing 
 nearest in which plunging we are beaten by our Chi- 
 cago room mate a rush down the stairs followed by 
 the voice of the mfaid w*ho cautions "Madam, you 
 have not the key left on the hook!" It is too much for 
 the American mind to work out the reasons why one 
 should lock one's room door and hang the key on a 
 nail just outside. We come meekly back, hang our 
 
 28 
 
key, speechlessly, on the hook and walk out into the 
 sunlight and the presence of the loveliest mountain 
 we have yet seen. The near peaks crowd within hand 
 touch apparently, wreathed with the whitest and most 
 dazzling mist, above and below which are the deep 
 blue and the soft green. A snow has fallen in the 
 night on the higher peaks, which are fairly glittering 
 white in the bright sunlight; and towering above them 
 all, serene, remote, pure, white, scintillating, is the 
 wonderful Jungfrau, the climax of all this beautiful 
 mountain array. It is an ecstacy to look and be alive! 
 the great sun fields, the august Silberhorn, the glacier, 
 the soft blue of the mountains lower, and in front, all 
 seem to gleam with friendly nearness to us. What a 
 beautiful, beautiful world when "the Jungfrau is out" 
 with its white crown in the blue heavens! 
 
 The little Chicago girl and I walk along the 
 foaming green Aare with this view fronting us for a 
 mile or more, then we pack our bags for leaving. My 
 room mate tells me she has seen one of the little pep- 
 per mills into which the pepper is put and ground as it 
 is used at the table, so we make a last flying search 
 for one and find it. Our little boat is full of people in 
 the gayest of spirits the mountain climbers are very 
 much in evidence with Alpenstock and the outrageous 
 clothes already described which the mountain climb- 
 ers affect; the river is the deepest possible green and 
 all about are the mountains. We go past an ever- 
 changing panorama of beauty, into Lake Brienz. 
 All along, the sound of those lovely waterfalls is in 
 our ears and the same white lacy waters stripe the 
 green side of the mountains and the Geisbach Falls 
 are in sight, tumbling, roaring and foaming into the 
 lake. One can trace it up the whole height of moun- 
 tain through lanes of trees, over great boulders in its 
 three great plunges by which it makes its way into the 
 lake from its snow fields above. By train to the foot 
 of the mountain and by cog railway over the Brunig 
 pass we go. What a ride that is! An ever- widening 
 prospect of peaceful valley, checkered by fields and 
 dotted by towns; mountain after mountain coming in- 
 to view; great gulfs into which one looks from the car 
 window; crowding fir balsam fragrant and spicy in the 
 hot sunshine; more beautiful valley, greater mountain 
 heights, with their white, glittering water falls; a stop 
 at the mountain top, a wild slide down the other side 
 
of the pass and lake Lucerne is in view. Soon Lucerne 
 is reached and we have our room assigned in the Hotel 
 de la Europe. 
 
 Dinner which is a rather swell affair in which one 
 eats to a time table, made by the bell of the head 
 waiter which summons all the waiters at one fell 
 swoop and in parade line to serve the next course we 
 go to see the Lion of Lucerne. Very gay are the Lu- 
 cerne streets, lovely the lake and river in full reflect- 
 ion of myriad lights. All sorts of little stores and 
 booths line the street by which one approaches the 
 Lion. Into a little park, dark with the foliage of trees 
 we turn. There is a sound of falling water, and (as we 
 walk toward it) surrounded by vines and trees, high on 
 its, or rather in its stone cliff, gleams the Lion, in the 
 electric light. It is majestic, pathetic, noble. All the 
 little side shows vanish from one's mind as the great 
 lion, powerful in health but so pathetically helples sin 
 death, with limp paw spread protectingly over the 
 lilies of France, shows soft and white in the white 
 light. Never had heroism a more pathetic or beautiful 
 monument. 
 
 At 8:30 we are off for the ascent of the Stanserhorn. 
 It is an exquisite morning, Lake Lucerne is at its best 
 and the friendly mountains again crowd to its shores. 
 Twenty-one peaks we had counted from our hotel win- 
 dow, four of them snowclad. Over the vividly green 
 lake we go to Stans, then get into a little car for the 
 cog railway ascent. Again there is the beautiful pan- 
 orama of valley widening and widening only now all 
 four arms of Lake Lucerne show their lovely waters. 
 We snatch vivid colored wild flowers from the banks 
 as we pass and masses of blue, red and yellow are be- 
 yond our reach. We leave our car and climb to the 
 top 6,000 feet above sea level and look off, on one side 
 on the 34 peaks ranged in crowded phalanx with deli- 
 cate blue mist, and deep blue color to the top. How 
 can one make another see such beauty? 
 
 In the evening at 5, we hear an organ concert in 
 the cathedral which has one of the finest organs in 
 Europe. It is a quaint old cathedral, surrounded by 
 cloisters, and arcaded on two sides. At one corner is a 
 figure of Christ and in the heavy rain of the evening, 
 every one passing who is of the faith kneels to it. Old 
 and young, well and ill dressed, bend the knee to the 
 emblem of unselfish love and have been doing so 
 
since 1100 A. D. The voice of the organ calls us in and 
 soon we are lost in the flood of melody poured from it, 
 into the red, violet and gold lighted spaces of the ca- 
 thedral. 
 The next morning sees us ea route for Paris. 
 
 ON TO PARIS 
 
 July 24. A walk in the moraing through the old 
 covered Roman bridge, which goes slantingly across 
 the river and is decorated overhead with oil paintings 
 telling the history of Lucerne, showed how very o'd 
 part of it was. How many feet in such different cir- 
 cumstance, had hurried under its protecting cover, 
 while eyes looked out the little windows on the love- 
 liness of the river. 
 
 The rain began to pour down as we left the station 
 and the mountains disappeared rapidly. At Basle we 
 left the frontier. At "Petite Croix" we had our "bag- 
 gazh" examined and France began to slide from our 
 car wheels. 
 
 The country is flat with its strips of grain fields, 
 worked by the people who live in the little houses 
 grouped about the big country house with its tall 
 trees and whitewashed wall surrounding it. The grain 
 is being cut with a sickle or cradle and bound by hand 
 the women doing the cutting, the men the binding. 
 It is hauled away in two wheeled-carts drawn by great 
 horses hitched tandem. The deep-greens of England 
 and Switzerland are gone and the yellow greens take 
 their place. Most of the houses are brick with very 
 little or no roof projection. The men mending the 
 roads add touches of color to the landscape by their 
 bright red, blue or yellow sashes. We travel in cars 
 divided into compartments, entered by one side door 
 and along this side runs a very narrow corridor, with 
 the compartment doors on one side and large win- 
 dows on the other. A brass railing runs along under 
 the windows to which one may cling as he stands 
 looking out while the car sways and bumps along. The 
 train is vestibuled and the doors are locked so one 
 can't get out at the station until the guard comes 
 along and unlocks the door. At every station are 
 French soldiers in uniforms of varying gorgeousness 
 and ill flttingness. Mere country boys these soldiers 
 are, most of them. Certainly they are neither imposing 
 nor neat. A long ride across the flat country with 
 
 31 
 
sometimes the chateau of the land-owner in eight, 
 sometimes with glimpses down a long white road tree- 
 bordered, sometimes a canal with its green banks and 
 slow-moving boats, brings us to Paris. 
 
 We ride across the city to hotel D'lena at 6 o'clock 
 where the wet streets are full of people hurrying home 
 through the pouring rain. A vivid, rapidly moving 
 panorama it was. It was a little exciting to see the 
 street cars on boats on the Seine, and rather thrilling 
 to find we were to be near the Eiffel Tower. The 
 D'lena proved to be "marble hills" glittering with 
 mirrors with many marble stairs to climb unless one 
 waited for the slow moving elevator and the bright 
 little French lad, who worked it. A lovable little chap 
 he was with bright brown hair clipped close to his 
 round head, blue eyes with a pleasant twinkle, a blue 
 coat with white buttons, white linen trousers button- 
 ed about the ankles by two big pearl buttons. 
 He had a most alluring smile and a 
 charming way of stepping out of the elevator, with a 
 flourish, before each lady entered, as he held up one, 
 two or three fingers with a questioning "Madame" to 
 find out the floor. The dining room is so full of mir- 
 rors th'at one can scarcely breathe and the nice looking 
 young waiters in evening dress seem an army. Any 
 way we have ice water without a quarrel and there 
 is some salt in what one eats. The broken fragments 
 of stony bread with which England regaled us are 
 replaced by rolls, and the coffee with its hot milk, is 
 really drinkable. The Chicago man insisted he didn't 
 dare drink it because he had just recovered from the 
 "palps" given him by a cup of England's coffee be 
 drank when we first landed. 
 
 Next morning is gloriously sunshiny and everything 
 glitters. Our carriages come for us at ten and we are 
 soon passing the Trocadero. We cross the bridge and 
 pull up near the Ferris Wheel in a lovely green park 
 and begin to realize what a beautiful thing the Paris 
 exposition must have been as we note location and 
 beauty of what is left of it. Down boulevard Qui 
 D'Orsay we go with its bordering trees, its fine build- 
 ings, its fine carriages with well-dressed occupants. 
 
 What a beautiful bridge with its graceful arches and 
 its golden figures lifted high into the blue of the sky! 
 "Yes," .says our guide. "It's the Alexander Bridge!" A 
 quick turn and the glittering tower of Hotel des Inval- 
 ides faces us. A regiment of soldiers tramps past. 
 Surely the historian who said that Napoleon's wars 
 
 82 
 
lowered the average Frenchman's stature four inches 
 must be right. The men seem young, green, under- 
 sized, not very well kept. .No such armies won Na- 
 polecn's victories. 
 
 Here is the Grand Palace of Painting and Sculpture 
 with the splendid, trampling horses springing from its 
 corners, with the woman under their chariot wheels. A 
 fit showing of victory, surely. 
 
 Down the Champs de Elysee, past the graceful Arc 
 de Triumph, through Place de la Concord where 
 France more than once has poured out its best blood, 
 past the great palace of President Loubet who comes 
 out a fine gray haired gentleman with his guards 
 for his morning ride, past the Madeline, the Vendome 
 Column, through the gardens of The Tuilleries with 
 their tragic memories, past Redfern's of fine gown 
 fame to the Louvre, we go and dismiss our drivers. 
 What a magnificent, a superb, a heart stirring, beauty 
 and color filled place! What gilded ceilings, marble 
 floors, great apartments full of the memories of kings 
 and queens that lived and suffered or died in them. 
 Such a palace of art as only a splendor-loving Napo- 
 leon could dream. We spend three ecstatic hours with 
 the Winged Victory, the exquisite Venus who looks 
 so softly at one from her station, with painting, sta- 
 tuary, tapestry, in the "Star Room"where "St. Mi- 
 chael, The Dragon," "Mona Lisa," Corregio's "Holy 
 Family," Veronese's "Last Supper," Raphaels, Muril- 
 los, Fra Angelios, Messinis, Botticellis lend their 
 rich, stirring color. The great painters of the world 
 are here and what exquisite beauty and heart filling 
 color they have left! 
 
 Exhausted, we leave until another time and repair to 
 a French restaurant or "Restauration" as it is called 
 fine, apt name for a lunch rendered rather uncertain 
 as to its elements by our rather free translation of the 
 menu card and our waiter's inability to understand 
 English. When our bread is passed to us in broken 
 pieces in a little basket we begin to understand why 
 the stomach should be known also as a "bread bas- 
 ket." 
 
 The ladies of the party grow very much excited over 
 the beautiful feather boas worn by the French ladies 
 and exclaim over the beauty of the little French lads 
 with velvet trousers, red waist, stockings only to shoe 
 tops, long Lord Fauntleroy locks, great red sash until 
 
 33 
 
his numbers cease to make him remarkable. French 
 children are not always lovely but never cease to be 
 ornate. 
 
 SHOPPING IN PARIS 
 
 July 26. Shopping- morning. "Shall we go to the 
 Bon Marche, or The Louvre Shops?" is the 
 burning- question and is settled as each sees fit. The 
 display windows are not so fine nor is it easy to see 
 what is in stock unless one knows what one wants 
 and asks for it. Then all sorts of beautiful things come 
 out of drawers and packages. The feather boas are 
 especially lovely and they are worn everywhere. The 
 Americans of our party buy recklessly considering the 
 fact that custom's examination is to be passed and it 
 would be pretty hard to persuade "Uncle Sam" that 
 the proper number of gloves for one American lady is 
 sixty pairs. 
 
 In the afternoon we drive, in a big 1 brake, with six 
 white horses, and a driver in bright scarlet which 
 would seem to be sufficient emphasis on the fact that 
 we "Follow the man from Cook's."" 
 
 We see the tower from .which the bell gave the sig- 
 nal for the "Massacre of St. Bartholomew;" the place 
 where Coligny was tossed out upon the walk for the 
 inspection of his vicious king, No. 5 Qui de Conti 
 where Napoleon I. lived when Madam Sans Gene was 
 his washerwoman, the Latin Quartier, the house where 
 Dante lived while exiled to France, the Place of the 
 Bastile with its ghastly memories, the Column of 
 July, the place of public execution (up to two years 
 ago), the strange old cemetery of Pierre la Chaise with 
 its crowded little marble tombs. A beautiful monu- 
 ment to the dead by Bartholdi crowns the highest 
 point; weeping- mortals look down on the dead body 
 and sweet faced angels with backs turned to it and 
 pinions lifted for flight look upward. Here lie th 
 great of France: Ar&g-o, Roissini, De Musset, Rousseau, 
 La Fontaine, Gericault, Victor Hugo, the g-enerals of 
 Napoleon I, Rachel. All kinds and conditions of 
 greatness end in this crowded, artificial, flower-deck- 
 ed, grassless, tasteless, showy, melancholy, city of the 
 dead. 
 
 Quite a contrast is the great market. We walk into 
 the delectable snail part of it first. Here are gallons, 
 
 34 
 
yards, quarter miles of snails of all sizes waiting the 
 moment when they meet death at the hands of their 
 purchasers. 
 
 Tank after tank of frogs for eating also line the 
 aisles; then fish, lobsters, meats, vegetables, fruits, in- 
 cluding gooseberries nearly as large as a walnut, and 
 miles of all the sorts of flowers that grow including 
 armloads of the most rare, exquisite roses. We pass 
 the house of the Countess de Castellane, a pink marble 
 affair copied after the Trianon at Vereailles and doz- 
 ens of other places of note. The next morning in the 
 rain, we go to Versailles and wake the ghosts of roy- 
 alty in these exquisitely beautiful grounds and splen- 
 did marble, picture-decorated palaces. No spot is more 
 pathetic to us than the little balcony from which the 
 poor, ill prepared, well meaning, mistaken Marie An- 
 toinette faced the mob from Paris, at the beginning of 
 the revolution, with her children. 
 
 Next comes a ride up 666 feet to the top of the Eiffel 
 Tower where all Paris lies at one's feet like a great, 
 green, tree trimmed map with the Seine and its many 
 graceful bridges making a green ribbon dividing it, 
 Paris is lovely, lovely. 
 
 It is very intereting to see Paris with a 
 person who lived in it, for a time, twenty years ago. 
 Mr. Bryant, father of Prof. Bryant of Coe, had done 
 so and we were fortunate enough to be the sightseer 
 with him. Ae we stood on the top platform of the Eif- 
 fel Tower Mr. and Mrs. Bryant pointed out everything 
 of interest in Paris and we 'discussed warmly, whether 
 the people we saw in the streets below looked as tall 
 as a Newfoundland dog or only as tall as a little one. 
 The sinking sun drove us, reluctantly, home to din- 
 ner for part of the party were going to Grand Opera in 
 the evening. The ride through the brilliantly lighted 
 streets, the gaily dressed people, the throng entering 
 ths Grand Opera house square, the soldiers in glit- 
 tering uniforms which lined it, were all forgotten 
 when the blaze of light showed us the splendid en- 
 trance hall of the house itself. All that spaciousness, 
 gracefulness of decoration, rich marbles, grand sweep 
 of stair cases could do to make a building impressive 
 had been done. The most beautiful opera house in the 
 world was no disappointment. A soldier in uniform 
 directs us through a rich velvet curtain to the next 
 stair case. Beautiful women elegantly dressed were 
 removing opera cloaks and finely dressed men were 
 assisting them. None except those in full dress en- 
 
 55 
 
ter here so up we go, marble stair case after marble 
 stair case to our boxes" high up in the house. A wo- 
 man usher shows us in and locks the box door after us 
 and from its obscurity we look out on the great stage 
 with its velvet, Mansfield-looking, draped curtain. Ai 
 orchestra of seventy pieces occupies th* orchestra, 
 place and the overture to S?:nt Saens "Samson and 
 Delilah" has begun. The music claims us instantly. 
 What plaintive sweet, crying notes from the first vio- 
 lins and how the throbbing tones of the two harps are 
 felt all through the melody. That orchestra was a joy. 
 Such beautiful shading, such response to the need of a 
 great climax as fairly lifted the chorus of 200 singers 
 when the need conies! The curtain slides out of sight, 
 the drop curtain rises and in the white moonlight, 
 the terraces, fountains, palaces and groves of Delilah 
 show. There must be promptness for another opera 
 follows this. From beginning to end the detail was 
 perfection. Lighting colors, costumes, scenery even 
 to floating clouds, running waters and lightning; mas- 
 sing of the chorus, movement of it, all as exact as a 
 problem in mathematics. Poor anger-tossed Samson 
 defies hie enemies. His voice is a magnificent baritone 
 and his acting is as dramatic as his voice is fine. He 
 is Wm. Casset. The house is eagerly responsive and 
 as the dramatic climax between himself and the con- 
 tralto Madame Heylon-Delilah, comes it grows as 
 still as death and breaks into a roar of applause ana 
 "vivas!" as the curtain goes down after an exquisite 
 duet between them. 
 
 Our woman usher brings us a program for which, 
 she thriftily makes us pay a franc and unlocks out 
 box. We go out to look down at the finely dressed 
 people who throng the foyer, then take a look at the 
 white, gold and crimson decorations of the house. 
 
 The sound of a bell recalls us and, two minutes after 
 it strikes, the curtain is up for the next scene. What 
 can one want in a singer, that Madam Heylon hag 
 not? Grace, beauty, a magnificent, sympathetic con- 
 tralto voice, splendid acting power are all hers. 
 
 We listen motionless and rapt to those beautiful 
 voices not "coming to" until the ballet of eighty, in 
 the softest tints, have made color, motion and music f 
 all one mystic whole for us. 
 
 We heave a long sigh and suddenly realize that we 
 are tired through and through with intense feeling 
 and listening, as the curtain goes down on the finale. 
 We are glad of a rest before Leoncavallo's "Paillasse" 
 
 36 
 
begins. It is done with the same finish and the en- 
 thusiasm of the audience shows no decrease though 
 midnight is past. The streets are as crowded and 
 brilliant as we drive home at one o'clock as they were 
 at eight. When does Paris sleep? We almost drop 
 with surprise to find our entire hansom bill for the 
 evening is but forty cents, for our hotel is two miles 
 from the opera house and our home coming very late. 
 But the fact that a "restauration" charged us for the 
 use of table-cloth and napkin at noon serves to keep 
 the balance even. 
 
 The next morning the ram still pours. Rain or no 
 rain we decide to go to church and one of the little 
 Seine boats is the best way. Mr. and Mrs. Bryant 
 make a fine sprint to catch the first one and we began 
 to pass empty exposition buildings. All sorts of craft 
 pass us and work goes on everywhere as in week 
 days. Women work at washing in the public wash- 
 stations along the river where a few cents bring the 
 privilege of using all necessary appliances for doing 
 such work. Public bath houses are frequent. Here ia 
 tne chamber of deputies where the laws of France 
 grow, and next the obelisk marking the spot where 
 Marie Antoinette and Robespiere, with thousands of 
 the French nobles watered the soil with their blood. 
 Gay as it is how blood-drenched a city is Paris! 
 
 The Concord Bridge shows its graceful curve ana 
 we look with interest at the stones of the old Bastile 
 of which it is built and think of the human misery 
 they have hemmed in. 
 
 The twin towers of ftotre Dame show through the 
 mist and soon we enter its beautiful doors. Very im- 
 pressive is the scene. The cathedral is draped In 
 mourning for the pope. Great throngs of the faithful 
 are here and every little chapel on either side the im- 
 mense nave has its many burning candles and its* 
 kneeling worshippers. The massive columns are wrap- 
 ped in black, fringed with long silver fringe and band- 
 ed at the top with silver stripes and stars. Between 
 each two columns are black, silver fringed draperies, 
 looped into three festoons held by silver cord and tas- 
 sel. On the middle one and at the top, glow the pope's 
 coat of arms in colors. The high altar is an immense 
 catafalque in black and silver, overhung by an im- 
 mense papal crown in the same colors. The navf* i* 
 flHed with seats for the dignitaries who are to attend 
 the ceremonies, all covered in silver or black and 
 silver. 
 
A stir in tne crowd and the arch-bishop of Paris 
 attended by a brilliant procession led by the most im- 
 pressive beadle with black and silver crook which he 
 strikes on the floor at each step, comes from the tran- 
 sept, and the service begins. The sweet high voices of 
 the boy soprani soar to the great roof and all the pomp 
 and ceremony of a great church, with its centuries of 
 history, unfolds itself while thousands of candles 
 glimmer and the rose, gold, and green of the beautiful 
 windows weave flower colors in the air. It is borne in 
 upon us again how great a man is the pope, more 
 powerful than the most powerful king. As we pass 
 the old man by the pillar who sits back of a little 
 ehrine on which is a golden bowl, he suddenly and 
 unexpectedly dashes holy water from it with hi little 
 brush, upon our forehead, cheeks and chest. Startled 
 we find the spell broken, and go out to see the beauty 
 of The Louvre again. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 Midnight finds us on the English channel an- 3 , no one 
 could have persuaded us, in our wildest moments that 
 water could behave as that channel did. Running over 
 rock heaps with an electric car couldn't have jarred us 
 worse nor spilled us worse. No wonder a tunnel un- 
 der the channel is always being talked of. 
 
 Morning finds us on English soil, rather white and 
 frazzled to be sure, but alive; which fact is rather sur- 
 prising to all of us in consideration of the night. Now 
 London, great, historic, interesting London is to be 
 our abiding place. "Thank heaven!" sighs a non- 
 French-speaking gentleman of the party, "I'm once 
 more in a country where I can tell people what I think 
 of them." A comment which speaks volumes for his 
 opinion of the French people. 
 
 Two hundred and thirty miles in four hours and 
 twenty minutes is not such slow going after all. 
 That was the way the Midland Road took us through 
 the most vividly green, flower covered country, to 
 JLondon. A brilliant blue mist showed in every tree 
 vista and the high rounded Derbyshire Hills with 
 their little checkers of wheat and oats fields were 
 drowned deep in it. From this beautiful country 
 through towns that looked like "spotless towns" in 
 Sapolio advertisements we suddenly reach by way 
 

 of tunnels Paddington Station in London. No riding 
 through miles of suburbs, here, but we are promptly 
 landed in the "heart of the world." 
 
 The streets are gay with bunting, English flags, 
 American flags. Great streamers of red, white and 
 blue, mottoes in English and French welcoming Pres- 
 ident Loubet of France, lined High Holborn and Pic- 
 adilly Circus. We were a day late for the great par- 
 ade of King and President in these streets but thous- 
 ands of people crowded them at night viewing the 
 decorations. The tops of the great double decked 
 omnibusses were filled with gaily dressed sightseers 
 and flags fluttered from the top of each of the hund- 
 reds of these most entrancing vehicles. "Punch and 
 Judy" shows killed the devil in side street, under 
 flaring gasoline lights; tumblers in rather soiled tights 
 spread a cloth recklessly in the crowded street and 
 tied themselves into animated human knots while long 
 lines of vehicles drove carefully around them and the 
 crowd applauded. Detachments of horse guards in 
 scarlet coats, on black horses paraded solemnly with 
 clanking of gold chains; Scotch "kilties" in their 
 plaid kilts stalked haughtily about; on all sides were 
 color, motion, life. Bands and piano organs which 
 played, "Coon, Coon, Coon;" "The Good Old Summer 
 Time", enlivened any otherwise dull moment, and at 
 the end of this gay street loomed St. Paul's great dome 
 soaring into the blue English sky. Talk about fascin- 
 ating Paris! Nothing could exceed the charm of this 
 grim, gray old London which has wrought, suffered, 
 accomplished, dared for hundreds of years! And 
 of all the charming things to do in this delightful 
 place to ride on the top of an omnibus through busy 
 crowds down miles and miles of streets, every foot 
 of which makes history and literature live is the most 
 thrilling. 
 
 Next day sees us in the British Museum. As we 
 enter the hall, we are smillingly greeted by the Mess- 
 ners of Cedar Rapids. Imagine our surprise! They 
 are probably the only people we knew in all Lon- 
 don. What a storehouse of treasures the museum 
 is! We see the real Rossetti stone, the mummy of 
 Rameses II, the beautiful and pathetic Elgin Marbles, 
 the wonderful tomb of the greatest king of Asia 
 Minor who ruled 373 B. C., beautiful hand illumined 
 books and rare manuscripts. We look at the original 
 manuscript of Coleridge's "Hymn to Sunrise," By- 
 
ron's "Childe Harold," Gray's "Elegy," and then are 
 taken solemnly and silently to view in a room by 
 itself the famous "Magna Charta." We see hund- 
 reds of copies of early printed books; mummies ga- 
 lore, including mummies of the sacred cats of Egypt. 
 Poor little pussies! They have now most beautifully 
 gilded and gem decorated mummy cases! Our last 
 and most exciting viewing is of the Portland vase. 
 Surprise is no word fon our sensation when we see 
 the little Wedgwood looking thing which is so jeal- 
 ously guarded. 
 
 In the evening we "rest off our minds," by going to 
 see Madame Tussaud's wax works. A ride of several 
 miles on top of the omnibus brings us to the immense 
 building in which the works are housed. It is all 
 plush, velvet, mirrors and gilt, with marble floors 
 and pillars. An orchestra in most remarkably "giddy" 
 plush uniforms plays classical music. We distinguish 
 ourselves by trying to buy a catalogue of a remark- 
 ably life-like wax figure, and revenge ourselves by 
 giggling at the same feat performed by the people 
 following us and then plunge into the excitement of 
 the exhibition. 
 
 The figures are very life-like, indeed, and wear 
 real clothes of the finest kind. The Paris gowns of 
 the queen and her court ladies are fairly ravish- 
 ing. We gaze on William First, John Wycliffe, Henry 
 V, Queen Elizabeth, Benjamin Franklin, the Emperor 
 of China, Tennyson and scores of others. Mr. Grier 
 sits down to rest and two strange ladies approach. 
 "It is," says one. "No, he isn't," says the other. 
 The first one approaches more closely. "Yes, he is 
 one," she says. The second also approaches very 
 close, indeed. A sudden not possible-to-suppress 
 sneeze from Mr. G, a scream, and a rush across the 
 room by the two ladies finishes the scene. Miss 
 Gurley's Chicago nerve won't stand the "Chamber of 
 Horrors," so she is left and we go alone, down long 
 dark stairs, lighted by dim lanterns, past dungeon 
 doors where men die in agony, past rows of murder- 
 ers, death bed scenes, beheaded ladies, to the room 
 where are the axe that beheaded a thousand, the 
 instruments of torture of the Spanish Inquisition, the 
 ropes that hung murderers. It is curlding, horrible. A 
 side on the top of another bus through gaily lighted 
 streets and we sleep to dream of wax people in a 
 wax land. 
 
 40 
 
NOTABLE BUILDINGS 
 
 Three more notable buildings than Westminster 
 Abbey, St. Paul's Cathedral and the Parliament houses 
 would be hard to find in any city; one, the tomb of the 
 great dead, the next the place of worship for the 
 great livdng, the third, the working place of the 
 leaders of ^the nation, make them objects of interest 
 to all the great army of visitors in London. To be- 
 gin with the Parliament building. The favorite om- 
 nibusgreen in color takes us from the First Avenue 
 Hotel on High Holborn, through a narrow, dark 
 little cross street filled with stores containing all 
 sorts of law books, past the great law buildings, out 
 to the bustle and rush of one of the great arteries 
 of London. Down past the Hotel Cecil with its doz- 
 ens of waiting cabs, past the "American Quick Lunch 
 Place", where a real giant seven feet tall baked big 
 pancakes in a window and Americans inside ate 
 them while Americans outside gazed in smiling, we 
 go to Trafalgar Square. Here the great Landseer 
 Lions lie facing the National Gallery and the lovely 
 fountain before it, gazing calm-eyed on all the thous- 
 ands of vehicles and tens of thousands of people 
 that pass. We see here people from India, from 
 Burmah, from Australia, Scotch soldiers in kilts, 
 horse guards, volunteers, Japanese, Russians, French, 
 Italians, Swedes, Germans. A polyglot city, surely, is 
 London. A change of omnibus, a drive of ten min- 
 utes through still more crowded streets past the bar- 
 racks of the king's horse guards where two gorgeous 
 figures in shining black horses- mount guard motion- 
 less at each gate, past a fire company whose ap- 
 paratus is kept underground in the middle of the 
 crowded street while the company keeps watch from 
 a little house built over the stored apparatus, and 
 the beautiful airy square towers of the Parliament 
 building are in view. What splendid buildings! En- 
 closed by a high ornamental fence set off. by green 
 lawn on one side, the Thames back of them and the 
 everlasting stream of humanity crossing the fine 
 bridge at their river corner, they give an air of dig- 
 nity and beauty to the crowded streets. The great 
 entrance hall and splendid marble staircase add to 
 our impressions of the beauty of these palaces of 
 government. It is a sunshiny day and the rooms 
 are alive with the colors of the rich stained glass. 
 
 An officer takes us in charge and we go into the 
 
 41 
 
king's robing room in which he prepares to meet 
 parliament. It has two most beautiful paintings on 
 its walls one, Yokes' "Sir Tristram." Through the 
 royal gallery with its statues and paintings, through 
 the prince's chamber to the House of Lords we go, 
 chased off each leather covered couch, with which 
 rooms and corridors are lined, in which we try to 
 rest, by a stern policeman. Here in the House of 
 Lords is the same beauty in elaborate carvings, fres- 
 coes, paintings, stained glass. The high chairs art 
 surmounted by gilt crowns; that of the presiding of- 
 ficer is also. The room seems small considering its 
 use and has no conveniences of desk room as one 
 would expect. Out we go, with scores of other Amer- 
 icans, to the Peer's Lobby in which are the coat hang- 
 ers and hooks, each with the name of the peer above 
 it. We hunt up Lord Salisbury's not realizing how 
 death will soon take him to other duties and wider 
 life. Through the Peer's corridor with its fine pic- 
 tures, to the central hall we go, to look at the fine 
 carved ceiling. Many statues gleam white in it and 
 we realize that we are in the center of the place 
 in which are planned the workings of one of the 
 greatest governments the world has ever known. 
 
 The House of Commons corridor and lobby are a 
 repetition of the beauty of the Peer's side. The queer 
 canopied chairs of the door keepers of the house at- 
 tract us and the omnipresent policeman extracts us 
 from them and starts us through the door into the 
 house of commons. Long, red covered leather bench- 
 es, no place to write or put books, a narrow aisle sep- 
 arating one side from the other, beautifully carved 
 overhanging galleries, a splendid dark old oak ceil- 
 ing, rich reds and yellows in the great windows, make 
 up our impression of it. The chair of the presiding 
 officer is on the lowest floor space and the benches 
 rise in tiers from it. We see the room of the leader 
 of the house, the division lobby, the library, then go 
 to St. Stephen's ihall and porch. Most impressive is 
 the beauty of the celling, carved in fan traceries, up- 
 held by its slender clustered shafts. Westminster 
 hall shows another beautifully carved oak ceiling. 
 We then go down to see the crypt where, from 
 slender single shafts, springs another carved ceiling 
 in great arches. Here we see the spot where Guy 
 Fawkes put his fuse to fire the barrels of gun- 
 powder concealed underneath and meant to wreck the 
 
 42 
 
place. Much history has this part seen, for it was 
 built by Edward I. It is now fitted up as a beau- 
 tiful chapel. How one's history "comes alive" in such 
 a place! It is time to leave. Weeks would not ex- 
 haust the beauties and interest of the place and 
 why try to do it in hours? 
 
 Sunday morning sees us on top of the omnibus go- 
 ing to St. Paul's to service. The great chimes are 
 clashing and pealing as we come from the little 
 side alley into the old church yard, and crowds of 
 people hurry in at the great side door. A very pom- 
 pous beadle with a long silver crook ushers people tc 
 seats and the vast nave is half -filled by the audience, 
 mainly sight seers. 
 
 The gold and red of the new reredos shows 
 well against the somber plainness of the rest of 
 the vast edifice. The great dome seems to float in the 
 air high above us. So cold it is, that some of the 
 less devout take the little mats intended for kneeling 
 upon, lay them on the marble floor and set benumbed 
 feet upon them. The low cane seated chairs with the 
 stiff narrow back and a wide flat rail on top are 
 very uncomfortable. The chimes cease and the 
 great organ, built on both sides of the chancel fills 
 the vast space with its lovely song of Mendelssohn's 
 and we forget all the vastness, all the "white, gleam- 
 ing tablets and monuments, all the amazing height of 
 the great dome, in the flood of melody. Then there 
 rises the clear, sweet, pure, soaring voice of the bo? 
 soprano, "Hear Thou Our Prayer." It is so ex- 
 quisite, it seems angelic. Then the choir chants the 
 service which is antiphonal, the men answering th 
 clear, sweet, mellow voices of the boys in the grand, 
 centuries-old Church- of -England ritual. The music 
 is most impressive. When the "May the Souls of the 
 Departed Rest in Peace" comes sweet and strong 
 from the choir, "Rest in Peace" is echoed from floor, 
 walls ana dome of the great sanctuary and the 
 "House of the Lord" literally did "Sing His Praise." 
 After each phrase, the singers waited for the superb 
 response made by the cathedral. A short sermon by 
 the dean of St. Paul's, a lovely anthem, and the throng 
 walks down the longest nave in the world, past Wel- 
 lington's great monument, under the carved flowers 
 in stone that deck each pillar, into the sunshine of a 
 London Sabbath. 
 
 But the flower of the three buildings is West- 
 
 43 
 
minster. It is Saturday morning when the tower door 
 swing's open for our first visit. A burst of melody 
 from the splendid organ, the lovely voices of the 
 choir, light from the rich colored glass windows drift- 
 ing across white monument and tablet, the ghosts of 
 all English history crowding the space, between mon- 
 uments, such was our greeting from Westminster. 
 It is the splendily carved, impressive, dignified, beau- 
 tiful shrine of what a great people has done. Poet's 
 Corner where Scott, Goldsmith, Dickens, Bums, 
 Shakespeare, Tennyson, Jennie Lind and Handel bear 
 each other company in tablet or bust is crowded with 
 Americans. Henry VII.'s chapel with its fan-traceried 
 marble ceiling, the finest in the world, holds the sleep- 
 ing kings and queens and the coronation chair of 
 Edward VII, with its old Stone of Scone under it. 
 This chair is an object of great interest and always 
 has a crowd about it. We follow our fine looking 
 English curate through the other beautiful chapels, 
 go into the old chapter house, out into the old cloisters 
 that look out upon the quiet of the dean's yard and 
 hear, faintly, the giant roar of London as we think 
 of all the centuries of valor, cowardice, achievement 
 and failure which this stately and lovely place has 
 seen. An English woman with lips trembling with 
 grief, reads a little tablet set in the age blackened 
 stone of the old cloister. The names of great ones are 
 on either side. As the lady moves slowly away to 
 look out upon the quiet and peace of the cloister- en- 
 closed green yard, we read "Jane Lister, dear childe, 
 aged 9, 17." 
 
 Hearts are the same in all centuries and here 
 is an old, old heart break set for all who grieve for 
 children gone, in the time blackened walls of one of 
 the greatest monuments to human glory. Most 
 blessed the memory of a "dear childe," be the tab- 
 let in Westminster or elsewhere in this sad, old world. 
 
 HISTORIC PLACES IN LONDON 
 
 Saturday is our "busy day." In the forenoon we 
 see the Parliament buildings, eat lunch at an A. B. 
 C. restaurant, short for Areated Bread Company's 
 restaurant, where we pay two pennies for butter, 
 fivepence for bread, sixpence for a "lemon squash." 
 "Lemon squash" is a drink calculated to bring on 
 "perforation of the anatomy," since it is citric acid 
 
 44 
 
In water with not any sugrar. Everything is clean and 
 the girl waiters in white aprons and black dresses are 
 "slow but sure." 
 
 After luncheon the open landaus call for us, with 
 liveried driver on box, at the First Avenue Hotel and 
 the party arranges itself for a drive. It is pretty hard 
 to "keep next" in such a crowded street as High 
 Holborn. First is a low, peaked-gabled wooden 
 house the last bit of old London about five hundred 
 years old. It makes one feel young. Then at the 
 "parting of the ways" is Theodore Parker's church; 
 further down is all that is left of the old Newgate 
 Prison where debtors were confined and which Charles 
 Dickens made famous. St. Paul's shows its beautiful, 
 floating dome old "St. Martin's Le Grand" black 
 with age looks very small by compafrisonj The 
 beautiful perpendicular spire of Bow Bells church 
 shows against the blue and we understand why arch- 
 itects say it is one of the finest proportoned towers in 
 all England. Somebody talks about Dick Whittington 
 mayor of London and how everybody born within 
 sound of Bow Bells is a cockney. 
 
 Up a ilttle short street with pigeons walking se- 
 dately about on its old flagged pavement is the old 
 Guildhall where the governing body of London 
 has its sessions and the king, a few days before, had 
 given his great banquet to President Loubet. The 
 stained glass is very rich and makes beautiful colors 
 on the great ugly statues of Gog and Magog which 
 frown from one end of the hall as the guide tells us 
 what part of Guildhall escaped the Great Fire; where 
 President Lou-bet sat, where the Lord Mayor of Lon- 
 don sits at he great banquets. 
 
 A short distance down the street is a rather grimy- 
 looking, three story, stone house, with four gas posts 
 on its uncovered porch, which is the residence of the 
 Lord Mayor. He must be a man of strong nerves to 
 live where such a great and constant stream of people 
 and vehicles flows past. 
 
 Everybody looks hard at the gray stone building 
 (with iron bars at each window) which is the "com- 
 mercial center of the world" the Bank of England. 
 Across the street is the Royal Exchange and a few 
 prosperous looking old English gentlemen of portly 
 build, with high silk hats, white "mutton-chop" 
 whiskers very red cheeks and good clothes stroll 
 down its steps. 
 
 45 
 
Tramping passt go great groups of young, rather 
 thin men in kaiki uniform, with broad brimmed hat 
 caught up on one side, and rifle in hand. They are 
 the volunteers going out to Hyde Park to drill. They 
 look small and rather insignificant. 
 
 Here is old Distaff Lane of history. We pass the. 
 splendid Blackfriar's station and bridge then turn to 
 th3 Thames embankment. It is a very broad drive 
 along the Thames with a fine walk, walled in, next the 
 river. The Thames is a surprise in that it seems dead. 
 There is no traffic on it at all. Only a few barges lie 
 moored at the landings. 
 
 Here is the Temple church, Temple Bar, Somerset 
 House, where all wills are recorded, and the center of 
 such interests; Waterloo bridge Cleopatra's needle 
 between two sphinxes Whitehall court, the new Scot- 
 land Yards, where the detective work of the city is 
 done, St. James Park, the Foreign colonial offices with 
 the American flag flying from our own embassy, the 
 residence of the prime minister, a dingy looking, two 
 story place. Marlborough House, the residence of the 
 prince of Wales, where tents fill the yard and a bril- 
 liant garden party is in progress comes next. Then, 
 a litter later King Edward's palace with its very high 
 wall surmounted by spikes its sentries, in red coats 
 (in the sentry boxes), standing perfectly motionless, 
 to our great surprise. The gardens of the palace are 
 lovely with the greenest of sward, brightest of flow- 
 ers, and fine old trees, but the palace looks, not in the 
 least like a palace, but like the great, rambling old 
 house it is. What a fall to our dreams of the palace 
 in which a king must live. 
 
 We take a peep at Rotten Row later, where long 
 rows of horsemen and women ride solemnly on their 
 "docked" horses, under the fine trees, with no vehicle 
 to molest, for none are allowed on this drive. The 
 horses are beautiful, the people less so, the scene not 
 especially gay. Barrie's "Little White Bird" made us 
 look very interestedly at Kensington Gardens and well 
 did they repay our interest with rich bloom and lovely 
 trees of all kinds. We find out that the flats near are 
 called "mansions" and they have knockers and electric 
 bells, a queer mixture of ancient and modern. Here 
 are a fine group of buildings: The work houses the 
 Museum of Natural History, an immense place; the 
 Victoria and Albert Museum, the Museum of Fine 
 Arts; the Imperial Institute, the Duke of Westmin- 
 ster's town house. This youg man is the richest land 
 
 46 
 
owner in England and has just come of age. We are 
 dissappointed that we can see but little of the Prince 
 Albert Memorial, for what we can see of its gleaming 
 whiteness is lovely but the rest is and has been scaf- 
 folded for three years, being cleaned, and it is about 
 one-fourth done. Dozens of other interesting places 
 we see but mail carriers are making the 6 o'clock col- 
 lection in their coarse gray bags just ordinary bags 
 not mail pouches which they carry swung over the 
 shoulder, so to the hotel for our seven course dinner 
 which will leave us hungry, we go. We know we shall 
 go out into the street after it and buy a pound of 
 those great, walnut-sized, sweet delicate-flavored 
 strawberries for threepence (six cents) and eat every 
 one of them. 
 
 After, we go to old Drury Lane Theater to see Sir 
 Henry Irving in Sardou's "Dante." We find women in 
 box offices or "booking offices" as they are called, 
 women with black aprons and white caps acting as 
 ushers and selling programs for a six-pence (12 cents) 
 each. We also find that tickets to "the pit" what we 
 in America call "the parquet," are the cheapest being 
 one shilling (twenty-five cents.) We decided to sit in 
 the first balcony known to Londoners as "the family 
 circle," and pay six shillings accordingly. The the- 
 ater is about as large as McVicker's and is in red and 
 gold, with a draw curtain over the drop curtain, a-la- 
 Mansfield. 
 
 On the backs of the chairs are little boxes with 
 slots in them with the price to be put into the slot 
 specified. A shilling brings out on opera glass, a six- 
 pence chocolate bon bons. The girl ushers sell "lem- 
 on-squash" at a shilling a glass, also tea and coffee at 
 a six-pence per cup between acts. A fine orchestra of 
 40 pieces is playing the overture to "Poet and Peasant" 
 as we are seated and a moment after the curtain goes 
 up on the splendid stage setting of the first act. Those 
 who like to have "something doing" every ten minutes 
 in a play would certainly be delighted with "Dante" 
 and any playgoer who likes splendid costumes, action, 
 fine stage settings, elaborate scenic effects, careful at- 
 tention to detail, fine acting, certainly has all these. 
 From the tragic beginning with the starving miser in 
 the first act, through the awful death scene of the Car- 
 dinal in the third, to the whole staging of Dante's 
 "Inferno" in the last act, one sits stiff and breathless 
 with emotion. As the curtain goes down on the last 
 act, the audience rises and cheers, claps, waves hand- 
 
 47 
 
kerchiefs, calls, until Sir Henry has responded to six 
 such calls. At the seventh, he says as sadly as 
 though he were pronouncing a death sentence, "I 
 thank you," and stalks off. The streets are alight and 
 gay as we go back through the Old London toward our 
 hotel. The "Pubs" short for saloons are wide open. 
 We count, lined up at a bar, drinking, forty people, of 
 whom sixteen are children below sixteen years of age. 
 and women lurch along the streets. We had seen no 
 drunkenness in London before, though we had seen 
 plenty of drinking. Here is the secret of much of 
 London's poverty and misery though her poverty and 
 misery are no doubt, largely accountable for the drink- 
 ing. How much are we "civilized" after all? 
 
 How can one tell all that one does in such 
 an interesting place as London? Our party 
 worked industriously, but what we saw was as a grain 
 of sand on the seashore to what we did not see. 
 
 We saw the King and Queen, Princess Victoria, the 
 Prince of Wales, Lord Roberts, Lord Salisbury, Jo- 
 seph Chamberlain, dozens of army officers of high 
 rank all looking just as their pictures in magazine 
 and newspapers make them. No picture could do jus- 
 tice to the sweetness, grace and beauty of the Queen. 
 She is one's ideal of everything womanly and queenly, 
 bless her! The King looks the rather fat, very digni- 
 fied, Englishman of rank with a splendid shaped head. 
 The omnibus driver confided to us that "A King's all 
 very well, mum, but it will be a long time before we 
 'as a ruler we loves like old Queen Vic, if she was a 
 loidy." We ride ecstatic miles on the tops of omni- 
 buses in the seat next the driver; we see Mrs. Patrick 
 Campbell in her own theater in "The Second Mrs. 
 Tanqueray," and a most beautiful woman she is. Ev- 
 ery movement is grace itself and her acting ie finish- 
 ed, quiet, powerful; helped out by a most wonder- 
 fully pathetic velvety, flexible voice used as Modjeska 
 used hers. It is a heart-breaking play. 
 
 Sir Henry Irving's son plays in his theater, "The 
 Admirable Crichton" and makes many friends in the 
 doing it. The Music Halls are wonderfully interesting, 
 the fireworks out at Crystal Palace on the night of 
 "Bank Holiday" are most magnificent. Mrs. Alma 
 Jones, sister of Mr. Jones on First avenue, who is the 
 best maker of Edison records in the world, comes 
 down to the First Avenue and delights the party by 
 singing to us in her big, rich contralto voice. She 
 sings at Drury Lane theater the next week and says 
 
 -18 
 
she likee to do it and intends to come to America to 
 sing some day. We devoutly hope she may. It was 
 a most gracious act of courtesy to the party, by a 
 very busy woman and we thank both Mrs. Alma who 
 sang 1 to UB,, and Alice Jones of Cedar Rapids who 
 brought her, for a most enjoyable evening. We go 
 out to "Ampstead 'Eath" and see that great park with 
 its rolling- lawns, grazing sheep, little coster carts, 
 and thousands of Londoners enjoying a bit of country 
 and looking out over the splendid panorama of Lon- 
 don and its blue hills on the horizon from its highest 
 point. 
 
 We go down to Petticoat Lane Sunday morning and 
 see every article possible to name on sale in little carts 
 in the middle of the street or from the floors of the 
 single-room stores about 9 by 10 ft. on which the goods 
 are stored in heaps. 
 
 But the art galleries! The National, Tait's, The Na- 
 tional Portrait, The Dore Collection, the Svane Col- 
 lection, all gave us rapturous hours. "Christus" wae 
 on exhibition at The Dore gallery. As one walked to- 
 ward it the eyes were closed in the worn, dead face, 
 but suddenly they opned and body and heart beat 
 stopped for the instant, as those eyes looked straight 
 into one's soul with a look that seemed to make one 
 the sole author of all that sorrow and death. It is a 
 strange picture, indeed. The National Gallery, facing 
 Landseer's Great Lions, attracted us for its splendid 
 collection of Constable's landscapes; its Gainsbor- 
 roughs, its Greuze's "Girl with The Apple," its Ho- 
 garth's "Shrimp Girl," its Landseer's animals. its 
 Millaises, its Reynoldses, but most of all its wonderful 
 collection of Turners. Such glory of color as can not 
 be imagined, is his. One never knows of what beauty 
 color is capable until it glows for him on Turner's 
 canvasses. 
 
 The Tait Gallery makes one love Watts, Burne- 
 Jones, Rossetti, Landseer, Leighton. and many a less 
 known man as one had never expected to love any 
 painter's work. The hours in the galleries were hours 
 of unalloyed bliss stopped only because the floors be- 
 gan to come up and the walls to whirl, through one's 
 fatigue. 
 
 We rose in the early dawn and rushed to Covent 
 Garden market with Miss Gurley to see miles and 
 miles of fruit, vegetables, and flowers. Flowers of 
 every kind that ever grew in long, many colored, de- 
 liciously scented rows that stretched for tempting 
 
 4& 
 
block after block and lured us until a mad race for 
 breakfast resulted. A great handful of yellow sweet 
 peas was our trophy while Miss Gurley carried two 
 great bunches of brilliant and fragrant roses. The 
 ungrateful party received our flower offerings with 
 fierce reproaches that they had not been taken along; 
 all forgetful of the Herculean effort necessary to drag 
 one tired sightseer from her couch at that early hour, 
 let alone a party of twenty-five. 
 
 We went to "The Tower" one beautiful morning, en- 
 tered by The Traitor's Gate and walked toward The 
 Bloody Tower, past the gun carriage on which Eng- 
 lish seamen drew the casket of Queen Victoria at 
 that great funeral which gave all England the heart- 
 ache. We were taken in charge by an old soldier in 
 the uniform of "The Yeoman of the Guard." And 
 very queer he looked in his old "bonnet," and long 
 skirted waist, with spear held in hand as he strutted 
 before us with more dignity than ever any king had. 
 We went up into the White Tower planned by William 
 the Conqueror, in 1216, up to the King's Banqueting 
 Hall, we saw the axe that beheaded the unhappy 
 prisoners, the hundreds and hundreds of arms of all 
 kinds covering walls and ceiling, the many coats of 
 armor worn by the great in battle, knights, Henry the 
 Seventh, Henry the Eighth, Robert Dudley. Out in the 
 great court where hundreds of volunteers tramped 
 about drilling, we saw the spot where Anne Boleyn, 
 Queen Katherine Howard and poor Lady Jane Grey 
 were beheaded. Down in the little chapel of "St. Peter 
 in Chains" we went and walked up to the altar in 
 front of which lie, in one common grave, the bones of 
 the thirty-one nobles of England who were beheaded 
 in The Tower, including the three unhappy Queens, 
 Then we see the Crown Jewels and go away to a well 
 earned lunch, all the ghosts of our English History 
 having "come alive" and walked about with us in this 
 haunted place. 
 
 Luncheon would not have been so necessary had we 
 not gone up into the tower in which all the unhappy 
 prisoners were confined. Up steep, dark, worn wind- 
 ing stone stairs to the little low- ceiled rooms we went. 
 Such little slits of windows through the thick stone 
 walls. Such pathetic markings on the stone showing 
 hope deferred. Here, in this Beauchamp Tower Rob- 
 ert Dudley, Peverel, The Duke of Norfolk, Philip How- 
 ard, the four brothers of Dudley, Geffreye Poole, and a 
 long list of others have cut their own memorials into 
 
 50 
 
the walls of their prison. Under the stairs were found 
 the bones of the little Princess of The Tower, now 
 resting in Westminster. What misery these old walls 
 have hemmed in! What misery! 
 
 Luncheon drives away the ghosts and we go back to 
 L'ondon proper. We go to Lincoln's Inn Fields, a 
 beautiful old park, where Charles Dickens, Lamb and 
 many others of those who "see visions and interpret 
 them to other men" had sat and strolled. We sat, in 
 the waning twilight under one of the magnificent old 
 trees which dated back to those times and saw those 
 creatures of Charles Dickens' brain flit about in the 
 growing darkness unseen by the children playing gai- 
 ly in their midst. Just a square down is The Old 
 Curiosity Shop. Such a tiny little place! We get to 
 "Sairy Gamp's" house just in time, for it is being torn 
 down. The Old Curiosity Shop goes this spring. One 
 of the party remarked with a pleased air that she 
 "was so glad she came this summer. Everything eld 
 would be gone by next." 
 
 How can one tell all one did in such a historic, liter- 
 ary, musical treasury as London's. We took all sorts 
 of charming strolls with history unfolding itself at 
 each step. We haunted literary land marks. We were 
 ecstatic every moment and tears fell as we gazed our 
 last on London from the train that bore us toward old 
 and unique Oxford. 
 
 OXFORD AND HOME 
 
 Oxford, England, August 4, 1903. 
 
 Our Republican trip in England is ended and we 
 are now on one of our own, alone, in the Shakespeare 
 region. The train pulls into Oxford in the rain. The 
 platform is crowded with people, as there is a Uni- 
 versity Extension course of lectures for teachers to be 
 given and they are coming in great numbers, to take 
 advantage of it. They are a very jolly, talkative, 
 wide-awake set of people. One of them takes charge 
 of us to take us to see the Shelley Memorial and asks 
 eager questions about the way "we do it" in America. 
 No wonder people rave over Oxford, its beauty, its 
 quaintness, its charms! No description can make one 
 who has never been there see how lovely it all is. 
 
 We have a guide, all to ourselves, who walks us 
 about ten miles between 12:80 and 5:30 but we are all 
 unconscious of fatigue. There is too much to enjoy. 
 
As we start out on Broad street a cross in the mid- 
 dle of it attracts our attention and we find it marks 
 the spot where Ridley and Latirner were burned at the 
 stake in 1555 while Cranmer, who met the same fate 
 on the same spot later, looked on from his prison near. 
 We look at the beautiful Martyr's Cross built in mem- 
 ory of the three and go into the church of St. Mary 
 Magdalene to see the old prison door. An American 
 lady, a descendant of Latimer, was looking at it in a 
 very excited frame of mind over her ancestor, as we 
 entered. She said she had "never realized before how 
 horribly he had been treated." We find that Oxford 
 has 23 colleges and halls, each under its own manage- 
 ment which is superintended by a general board, and 
 about 3,000 students; the school year is three terms of 
 8 weeks from June to October. English students are 
 not so hard worked as the men in American universi- 
 ties, having more vacations and less work under pres- 
 sure. 
 
 We go to Trinity college, which graduated Green, 
 the English historian, Cardinal Newman, Sir William 
 Pitt, Brice, Freeman, Herschel. It is, as are all the 
 colleges, built on four sides of a beautiful quadrangle 
 with lovely, dark green English sward, ivy covering 
 all the walls and flowers blooming at their base. Its 
 chapel has some most exquisitely carved flowers in 
 wood by Gibbons adorning its altar walls and rail. The 
 dining hall, where all students must dine, has very 
 heavy oak tables, black with age, and long benches 
 without backs upon which to sit at table. The ceiling 
 is of the same black oak. The lime walk has most 
 beautiful old limes that have seen many a generation 
 of young men come and go. We go out and down 
 the street past "The Heads of the Caesars," as the 
 statues in front of the Bodleian library are called, to 
 the Sheldonian theater where degrees are conferred. 
 But the day before Joseph Choate, our ambassador to 
 England, had been given a degree. We stand upon 
 the same place in which he stood and wonder how he 
 felt. The dome shaped ceiling has very fine frescoes 
 and here is more oak carving. The place seems small 
 indeed for convocation and all stand except those for- 
 tunate enough to find seats in the gallery. 
 
 The Bodleian Ibrary has a curious tower showing 
 five styles of architecture, Tuscon, Doric, Ionic, Corin- 
 thian, Composite. It was built in 1602 and has a 
 
 52 
 
most beautiful old carved oak ceiling, a fine collection 
 of books (many very old) and a great museum. In 
 its picture gallery are portraits by the great portrait 
 painters of England. Just inside the entrance door is 
 a rough old oak chair made from the timbers of "The 
 Golden Hind" in which Sir Francis Drake sailed round 
 the world. We sat in it to rest a moment and be de- 
 voutly thankful we were not in The Hind. 
 
 Here is a fine Holbein of Woolsey, a Van Dyke's 
 Charles I, and five oil paintings of Luther and Eras- 
 mus. The Divinity School, despoiled by Cromwell who 
 used it as a stable, has an oak ceiling carved in the 
 same exquisite fan traceries that make Henry the 
 VII's chapel in Westminster so beautiful. Here 
 Cranmer, Latimer and Ridley were tried. It is hard 
 to forgive Cromwell for destroying the beautiful 
 stained glass of its chapel windows. We hope he has 
 discovered, by this time, the enormity of his doings. 
 
 We look with great interest on Heber's Tree which 
 shadowed his window in Braseurse college and go to 
 see the old brazen knocker which had been lost for 
 580 years and which Oxford bought a large estate to 
 recover. Its chapel is unlike the others in that it has 
 a most gorgeous Byzantine ceiling. At Lincoln col- 
 lege we looked with great interest at Wesley's Rooms 
 and his beautiful sweet-pea vine, covering half of one 
 side the long quadrangle and beautiful with its soft- 
 tinted, fragrant bloom. 
 
 Exeter chapel, like Sainte Chapelle in Paris, with 
 its queer, stiff Burne-Jones tapestries, designed by 
 Burne-Jones and designs carried out by Morris, be- 
 cause both were Exeter men showed the close tie be- 
 tween the college and its graduates. The college 
 brewery with its great vats of beer was rather a sur- 
 prise for us though we should have known that Ox- 
 ford makes both its own beer and its own (and the 
 world's) Bibles. 
 
 New College Chapel has a fine Reynolds' window 
 and windows by Rubens' pupils. The reredos is new, 
 3b fine specimen of modern wood carving and extends 
 from floor to ceiling. Beautiful are the old gardens 
 of this college which enclose part of the old city wall 
 built in 1643 during the civil war and younger by al- 
 most 300 years than the misnamed New College which 
 was founded in 1379. Is it any wonder that the Eng- 
 lish love England educated, as they are, with all the 
 
 53 
 
years of English history walking about college gar- 
 dens and walls? St. Peter's-in-the-East, an old llth 
 century church with the most grotesque gargoyles is 
 near and we view it with reverence. 
 
 Madeline chapel with its lovely tower and its Ad- 
 dison's walk, tree bordered, along its placid, grassy 
 meadows, seems so beautiful and serene; so sure of it- 
 self and its ways. The deer graze in the green tree- 
 crowded college park and the gray walls shut out the 
 rush of the outer world. 
 
 At Oriel is the exquisite Shelley Memorial; a nude, 
 snow-white, drooping, dead, figure with the 
 laurels of victory falling from the poor dead hand and 
 the laurel crown fallen, the stars looking down from 
 the blue arch of the sky above on the ending of 
 earth's effort for fame. No description could do jus- 
 tice to the matchless purity and beauty of it; Its pa- 
 thos, its hope, the splendid quadrangle of Christ col- 
 lege, its old and most beautiful chapel, part college, 
 part dathedral with its Saxon, Ncrman, Early Eng- 
 lish architecture; its most beautiful stained glass 
 dropping its soft colors on the whiteness of its group- 
 ed shafts, fill us with delight. 
 
 The old Broad Walk with its two hundred year old 
 trees, the old college kitchen with its door and lock 
 still in fine condition and used since 1525, the old 
 Town Tower with its bell that closes all college gates 
 at ten o'clock; the grave of Amy Robsart in St. Mary, 
 the Virgin's chapel, all waken again our ghosts of 
 English history. We sit, in the waning twilight and 
 listen to the service in old Christ church cathedral and 
 the day goes out in splendor as the sweet voiced 
 choir boys chant the most impressive service. Too 
 tired to feel more we go to our slumbers. 
 
 In the morning we go to University Extension lec- 
 ture, to a lecture on English, talk to the English 
 teachers, see the chained Bible of 1387 in Merton 
 chapel, walk Addison's walk, go down Broad Walk 
 to Christ church meadows, to see the lovely Isis and 
 its over arching trees. The next day sees us leaving 
 beautiful, enchanting, inspiring Oxford for Warwick. 
 
 At Warwick we see the splendid old Warwick 
 castle, the finest of the medieval English castles, with 
 its great portcullis, moat, high walls, lovely old parks 
 and gardens through which flows the Avon. We see 
 that part of the castle shown to visitors and Lady 
 
 54 
 
Warwick one of the beauties of England who is not al- 
 ways seen by them. She is stately, graceful, aristo- 
 cratic, gentle with the presence that is inherited from 
 centuries of rule. She is evidently, every inch a lady. 
 It is a liberal education in beauty and charm to have 
 seen such an one, yet many an American woman we 
 have seen is just as lovely, but no American woman 
 we ever saw had such a presence. 
 
 We go, one most glorious day, to see Kenilworth 
 castle, over a road like a clean city street, through 
 a country green and fresh, with splendid trees, with 
 hedge rows blooming with honeysuckle and jassamine 
 and glistening hedges of holly shutting in thatched 
 cottages with roofs coming almost to the ground. A 
 climb to the top of the old ruins gives a far reaching 
 view over a green tree clad country to dim blue hori- 
 zon. The old moat is crowded with trees, the tilting 
 yard glitters with holly, green leaf with white edge, 
 or yellow edge. What a splendid place this must have 
 been when Queen Elizabeth came in state with a re- 
 splendent retinue to visit it for ten days! 
 
 We climb about in Caesar's Tower with Its walls 
 16 feet thick and built in 1100; we stand in the little 
 room with its four small windows which Sir Walter 
 Scott makes Amy Robsart's prison; we look at the 
 great banqueting hall 90 by 45 feet where Queen Eliza- 
 beth dined with Dudley.Earl of Leicester, in the great- 
 est splendor. Probably an old Roman tower, then Sax- 
 on, it had passed through its centuries of history to 
 Its present condition, an ivy-clad, grass-grown beau- 
 tiful, picturesque old ruin. Within its walls King 
 John, Henry III, Henry IV, V, VI, VII, VIII had all 
 sheltered themselves. From it, Henry the VII start- 
 ed on that campaign that finished the "Wars of the 
 Roses." Here Edward II signed his abdication before 
 his brutal murder at Berkely Castle. The beautiful 
 Eleanor Cobham, Duchess of Gloucester, gazed 
 through the narrow windows of her prison in its tow- 
 er. Charles the First visited it on his way to the 
 battle of Edge Hill. Cromwell gave it to an officer 
 through whom it came to its present owner the Earl 
 of Clarevelow. A most fascinating old ruin it is, 
 with its crowds of English royalties and nobles, 
 knights and yeomen haunting it. 
 
 Next day we see St. Mary's church with its fine 
 chantry and carved ceiling, its "lodge chapel" and 
 
 55 
 
its old ducking stool which the lad in charge explain- 
 ed: "You puts the loidy (lady) in 'ere, then works 
 this h'end, so. The more the loidy scolds the more 
 you ducks 'er." 
 
 We see old Leicester Hospital with its quaint old 
 spandriels and its old sergeant who tells us "From 
 this 'ere balcony as far as h'eye can reach is the 
 Sharpshire 'ills." English lady of party, tall and thin 
 "Ohhh! Neow just fancy, Charlie!" to her small 
 husband "These 'ere are the coats of h'armces and 
 'ere the haitch (H) and h'ell (L) of the h'Earl of 
 Leicester who founded the 'ospital in 1300." The old 
 garden, the little low, carved oak house all were 
 quaintness, itself. A touching service in the chapel 
 with the old soldiers ended our visit here. 
 
 Next day sees us in Stratford on Avon. As the 
 train comes into the station an excited lowan says 
 to his son "Now, my son, we'll make a call on Shakes- 
 peare." He hurries "son" into a cab and off they go, at 
 a gallop, for their call which, we fear, will prove all 
 too short. We go to "The Red Lion Inn," made fa- 
 mous by Washington Irving's stay in it while he 
 wrote his "Sketch Book," and arrive at it only to find 
 that our admiration of a lifetime Mary Anderson de 
 JNavarro had left but half an hour before. She had 
 brought her priest to prove to him that such a man 
 as Shakespeare had really lived; and he had been 
 convinced. We drive over to Anne Hathaway's Cot- 
 tage and find it the little low thatched, small-paned 
 windowed place its pictures make it. It stood at the 
 end of its little garden with its flowers of every kind 
 that Shakespeare ever mentioned, shut in by its green 
 box hedge, sunning itself placidly in the bright Eng- 
 lish sunshine. A dark eyed, red -cheeked young girl 
 a descendant of Anne Hathaway with soft voice and 
 pleasant manner showed us the old room with its 
 ceiling of Shakespeare's time, its old settle, by the 
 fireplace, in which he may have sat when he called 
 its old blue china belonging to Anne, its little upper 
 sloping roofed bedroom, with its linen spun by Anne. 
 As we go back between lovely hedges of green we 
 meet "Marie Correlli," driving a span of fat little 
 ponies. She is "short, fat, forty" with much fluffy, 
 flaxen hair and bows graciously to our very deferential 
 greeting. Shakespeare's birthplace comes next. Two 
 little flaxen -haired lads, six or seven apparently, burst 
 
 56 
 
into a biography of Shakespeare with words in it as 
 long as themselves and repeat it for each penny 
 given them. Two others trot after us declaiming "The 
 quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth like 
 the gentle rain from Heaven," etc. They get more 
 pennies and much laughter from the amused Amer- 
 ican tourists of whom 30,000 annually visit the place. 
 The little rooms look exactly like the pictures we have 
 seen. Under the window of the little back room grows 
 rue and rosemary, fit emblems of the great poet's 
 life and in the garden back of it all the flowers of 
 Shakespeare. New Place where 30 years of this great 
 life were past; the grammar school in which the boy- 
 poet was educated; the theater built as his memorial 
 from which a lovely view of the winding Avon and 
 the Shakespeare church shows, all leave us in a state 
 of bliss. We chat with an old couple sixty and sixty- 
 five who have come all the way from Australia to 
 see the home of their favorite author. Such nice old 
 people as they are! The sky is crimson with the 
 sunset reflected in the placid Avon and we go to our 
 greatly needed rest. 
 
 The next morning being Sabbath we go to ser- 
 vice in Holy Trinity church where Shakespeare and 
 his family are buried. Holy Trinity is of the time of 
 Edward VI and stands amidst its old trees at the 
 end of a walk between old limes, past the old grave- 
 stones. The Avon glides near it and birds call in the 
 trees. It is all very peaceful and old. The interior is 
 of all styles of architecture and the light falls across 
 the chancel upon Shakespeare's bust and tomb 
 through beautiful stained glass. The morning rays 
 come through the window given by Americans. 
 
 A clatter of feet! All the children of the Sabbath 
 school troop in, boys on one side, girls on the other; 
 and at a given signal, drop upon their knees in what 
 is supposed to be prayer; but, for some of the boys, at 
 least, is a pinching game. These children must "be 
 good," with a vengeance for they go to Sabbath school 
 from 9 to 11 and to church from 11 to 12:30. The most 
 beautiful woman in the congregation was an Amer- 
 ican lady in black who stood superbly and sang a 
 beautiful, sweet alto. In the cfeoir was a little fair- 
 haired, blue-eyed lad, whose yellow curls were lighted 
 
 67 
 
by a rose colored ray from the window above him 
 and his up-raised face as he sang like an estatic bird, 
 looked like one of Van Dyke's angels. 
 
 "God Save the King" was the first hymn number 
 and it was very evident that the English people pres- 
 ent didn't know the words. It took American tourists 
 fresh from crossing in English vessels to carry it to a 
 triumphant conclusion. Then dame the old well known 
 lovely service and a great wave of home-sickness 
 surged over us. We knew for five homesick moments 
 the meaning of the Hebrew lament: "How can we 
 sing the songs of the Lord in a strange land?" In 
 the afternoon we go for a long drive with the Per- 
 sons of Pittsburg, through the beautiful country 
 about Stratford, walk across Charlcote Park, 
 where Shakespeare got into trouble about 
 the deer, down its mile-long avenue of 
 old lime trees, over a stile to our carriage again. 
 Under the evening sky, we walk across the fields to 
 Anne Hathaway's Cottage and as we stroll past it 
 in the gloaming it seems the form of Shakespeare 
 walks the fragrant old garden paths with beautiful 
 Anne. Morning gives us a view of the old John Har- 
 vard House where the idea of our American flag orig- 
 inated and afternoon sees us in Old Chester, Quaint, 
 beautiful Old Chester with its ancient walls, its lovely 
 cathedral, its "rows," its "God's Providence House," 
 its Derby House, old as the Roman occupation, with 
 the lovely Dee running through it, one could spend 
 delightful months studying it. Space forbids us say- 
 ing more. Then August 13 sees us aboard the Common- 
 wealth for our homeward trip and the opalescent, soft 
 blue-hazed shores of England fade from our view. 
 Friday finds us in an awful wind wihch puts every- 
 body flat on his back and evokes the following poetic 
 sentiments' from Mrs. Francelia Boynton of Chicago, 
 Illinois: 
 
 Rocked in the cradle of the deep, 
 I lay me down but not to sleep. 
 I long to turn me inside out 
 I sigh to be a water spout. 
 O, fle! Who says 'tis peaceful sleep, 
 Rocked in the cradle of the deep? 
 
Rocked in the cradle of the deep, 
 Just try my crib and if it fits, 
 'Tis thine! I'll take my bed and walk, 
 This cracked up "cradle" is all talk. 
 My poem's writ. Fetch pan and pail, 
 This horrid "cradle's" in a gale. 
 
 We found our fellow passengers most interesting; 
 ministers, doctors, lawyers, stenographers, Mormon 
 missionaries, English dancers for Hanlon's "Superba," 
 people who had traveled much and little. The sea 
 was rough most of the time but sometimes its shim- 
 mering light stretched to the sharp edge of "the 
 saucer's rim" and it was like a great opal. Beautiful 
 beyond thought is the eternal sea in its bright moods. 
 Day followed day until a stir of excitement told that 
 land was near and at 9 o'clock of August 20 the stars 
 and stripes floated in the still-lighted sky. Cheer 
 after cheer met its glories and we knew the rapture 
 of Wagner's splendid chorus, "Again, Dear Home, We 
 With Rapture Behold Thee." 
 
 After all, though our friends and our friends' 
 friends had given us the "glory and beauty of the 
 world" to see, nothing is so heart-satisfying as one's 
 own land, the home of the greatest nation upon which 
 the sun has yet shone. We breath Tiny Tim's prayer 
 upon it, "God bless us, every one." 
 

 

 
 
 
 
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