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Transcriber's Note

Sch?ne Aussicht

A Journal of Our Trip Abroad

Illustrated by the Author

New York The Knickerbocker Press 1901

PREFACE

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

It is amazing that one is not discouraged as they think of the better utterances upon these same subjects, which have become so constant, so multiplied, diffused, reported, repeated, stereotyped, telegraphed, published, and circulated, that books, pamphlets, speeches and reviews and reports are things that one tries to escape from. This effort will be characterized by haste and superficiality, caused partly by the lack of time and thought necessary to condense, or possibly a fear that its substance might disappear in a process of condensation. He who runs may read. In that great day of reckoning there will be charged to me so many golden hours lost between sunrise and sunset, for persistency in writing monotonous emotions while crossing the Atlantic for the first time.

NEVER MIND

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

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

"Worlds of water heaped up on high, Rolling like mountains in wild wilderness, Horrible, hideous, roaring with hoarse cry."

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

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

"This sea that bares her bosom to the moon."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the south side of the new colonnade rises the Royal Court Theatre, a handsome pile, with its rich boroque interior, where nothing but grand opera is played. From here we made a side trip to Frankfort-on-Main to hear "Tannh?user."

The Wiesbaden Springs have been known from Roman times. The waters are drunk mostly from Kochbrunnen Spring, which supplies the immense "Drink Halle." After consulting an eminent specialist, we found three glasses were the most taken per day; telling us to drink but one. This half-way disgusted us, who had been accustomed to ten or twelve pints per day. Then, too, to find it was specially beneficial for aged people, we became less impressed. Our environs were so charming here, that we lingered longer than at any place in the province. One delightful day was spent at Mainz, where we drove in a carry-all with a charming company. The conveyance, which held eleven persons, represented five nationalities--a Russian and his wife; the ex-President of the Argentine Republic, South America, with his wife and daughter ; an Englishman; several Germans, and ourselves. The daughter was one of the most exquisite pieces of femininity, both as to manner and dress, that it is your privilege to meet; her father, having served as minister to both Chili and Peru, possessed vast wealth; they were able to give us many ideas of South America's importance, both socially and financially. They were equally proud to say they were Americans.

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

THE RHINE

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

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

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

What shall we do? This was the question as we sat in a most delicious place in "Kur" Garden in one of those cozy nooks overlooking extensive grounds under grand old trees , listening to the band playing in its gilded bower, and surrounded by the choicest art, which for the time being paled the moon which was rising in the same regal splendor that characterizes her on the western hemisphere. Shall we continue our daily walks through winding ways up terraced hills, flanked by splendid masonry and hidden in trees, and palaces as a rich fa?ade for a background? Here the field sports were being indulged in by great numbers. Shall we sit here and dream in floods of golden sunlight, or shall we proceed to Munich by way of N?rnberg?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE VOW

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

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

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