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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.

The grotto is certainly worth mention. It is made in the side of a mountain, and the walk lies under a shaded arbor of continuous beauty. The entrance to the cave is one huge swinging rock, cut out of a mountainside, and hung on a pivot, so as to open and close itself. Within were the stalactites of the grotto, with their beautiful masses, out of which twinkled myriads of electric lights. On an artificial lake was an improvised stage with perfect appointments, where the King and his friends viewed the grand opera from his golden barge that Cleopatra could never have rivalled. Just outside of this grandeur, which no human soul inhabited, was a road-house, where the jolly mountaineers and tourists were eating and drinking, no doubt happier than the king and all his grandeur had ever been.

It is indeed a strange fate that seems to pursue King Leopold's family: one sensational climax after another; brought to death through violence in tragedies so unsavory that it has been found preferable to leave them enveloped with a veil of mystery. Surely a strange curse seems to rest upon the reigning house of Belgium. The curtain is constantly ringing down on Europe's royal life tragedies; dethroned, widowed by assassin, bereaved, and victims of all the fates and furies of Greek mythology; and now Victoria, Empress Frederick of Germany. Surely there has been little of late in royal and imperial annals to inspire common people with envy of the exalted personages born to the purple, and certainly will cause nobody to long for a crown.

We have now seen the German Alps,--the best time to see them is before visiting Switzerland,--and still have the pleasure before us of the loveliness of the Swiss Alpine heights.

SWITZERLAND

We were told here to defer our shopping until we went to Zurich, but a short distance away, situated on a lake to which it has given its name. We found it to be a busy, industrial city of 160,000 inhabitants, where all merchandise could be had cheaper than in any city in Europe. It had a prosperous appearance throughout.

Consul Gifford, stationed at Basel, says that Switzerland's trade figures are especially noteworthy. This diminutive republic, about half as large as the State of Maine, swallowed up in our big Texas, is commercially the most highly developed part of the world. These remarkable results, attained by a country without seaports, without coal or iron, in fact, without any considerable quantity of raw material for its manufactures, are truly wonderful.

PARIS

The question most frequently asked upon one's return from Continental Europe is, "Which city did you enjoy the more, Paris or London?" I could say which I enjoyed the more, but that would not be just to Paris; for, with the continued sight-seeing of months prior to our arrival at Paris, we, in a limited time, could not see Paris; then add to its innumerable charms and interests the Exposition of 1900, and it would be more honest to say what we did not see than to relate what we really saw; which, to tell the truth, was little, compared to its wealth of treasures and sights unseen. You are not there long until you realize that the cities disagree morally and physically. The disagreeable English Channel may cause the ill feeling between the two coasts. When we were taken for English people by the less observing public servants, we received scarcely civil attention; the contrast was quite marked when we were known as Americans, a fact apparently hard to disguise, it seems. The contrast between these two countries, lying so close together, could not be greater than between different continents, and the contrast between their capitals is even more decided. They cannot be called rivals, for each is so great in its own way. As we came into Paris from Lucerne it was early in the morning, before fashion's hour. The country showed the highest state of cultivation; in fact, the whole of Europe appears as a beautifully kept park. We noticed attractive roads leading everywhere through France--magnificent distances, with artistically formed shade trees, as trim and clean as though they adorned a delightful park, when they are, to all appearances, mere public highways. The French foliage is thin and a little sparse, the grass light in color, their landscape resembling our own in spring tone; a striking contrast to the massive English trees, which have a look of solidity in substance and color; the grass thick and as green as emerald. Their vegetable wealth seems as if it were tropical in luxuriance, hardened and solidified by northern influences. We had been told we had made a mistake by seeing the Continent first and England later, but I don't agree, and felt again we could congratulate ourselves, as we did, in seeing the Rhenish provinces before the Swiss Alps. A striking contrast in the habits of the people is shown in their eating and drinking. Paris is brilliant with caf?s, and the whole world seems to be out in one grand dress parade, sipping wine, coffee, and, very often, absinthe. They have what is known as the "absinthe hour," when almost everyone you meet seems to be under its influence or some other.

Every American on his maiden trip to Europe turns his mind in friendly delight and expectation to Paris with almost childlike confidence. "See Paris and die," causes many Americans to approach it with no lukewarm feeling. If you do not rave over it, something is the matter with you, not Paris; but with us it was, as in exaggerated expectations, more in the anticipation.

My chief regret being no time to realize my fondest hopes, as I must confess, my expectations were more joyous and confiding concerning Paris than any other spot. The rush of the Exposition caused the first disappointment, all hotel rates far in advance. It was in our everlasting search for an abiding-place that we discovered the size of Paris and its smells, where garlic fought for supremacy over other less desirable odors, resembling very closely the odors of the far East Side of New York. Then add to this the terrors of their language. We had stumbled through Germany with our German with American accent, but were sadly "up against it" here. Laboring under these disadvantages we could save neither time, money, nor energy; for the most of the last-named article was exhausted in our effort to make them understand where we wanted to go, and how.

When you compare the delicious cooking of the French with that of the Germans , it is in favor of the French, if you don't know exactly what it is, with its odds and ends. You realize a great deal for your money in variety and quantity, and it seems to satisfy your hunger. None of it is as good as our own home cooking, no matter what the epicurean may say to the contrary. One of the pleasant things of Paris is the exquisite gentlewomanhood that is shown you everywhere in the shopping district: no matter how tired they may be, the customer never sees it. A tact and delicious gaiety shown by the saleswomen called forth my lasting gratitude. Then, too, you "kinda" like Paris, when for fifty cents you can buy the glove you must pay two dollars for in our land of great industries. These and many other things make you repel the idea that we excel in everything. Far from it. Paris is wide awake when more puritanical cities are fast asleep. They seem not to want to be rushed to bed, nor hurried out in the morning. It is all less a moral affair with them than a physical and mental one; they move slowly, go to bed late, and consume equally as much time getting up. The crowded midnight streets, with their loud and singing parties driving by at every hour, affects one, if you have often heard it. The streets at eight o'clock in the morning have such a blank look that you think they have all left on a holiday. We had seen so much in Germany, where everything was bedecked and bepainted, that the Exposition had not the charm that it should have had, simply because it was a repetition on a larger scale of what we had been feasting on for weeks; even a thought of a palace, or the faintest hint of a museum or art gallery, caused a panic in our "household." There is truly such a thing as having too much of a good thing. My chief delight was to visit the most fashionable shopping districts, and cut out art entirely. Although the whole city seems to be given over to fashion as a means of filling its coffers, yet there is always one particular part or street that is the most exclusive, and where the most exclusive things are made and sold. The Rue de la Paix seems to be the headquarters for the most fashionable dressmaking and millinery. I think it was on this street that at least six hats were being trimmed for my inspection, which I never inspected. They are so willing and anxious to trim one exclusively for you, that, rather than disappoint them, I assented. "English spoken here," as you see quite often in their shops, means this--"Do you speak English?"--"Yas, a leedle," and here it ends. I visited Felix, the greatest of all designers, whose fame and work is enjoyed by the royalty of Europe, and extends as far as some of the Sultan's favorites and a few of the Mikado's court. He is on Rue de Honore. We learned when in company at Wiesbaden with the ex-President of the Argentine Republic and his wife and daughter for several weeks, that South American belles are among some of his most extravagant patrons, and it is certainly true, if they were fair representatives. Paquin's is one of the most imposing places, as so many modistes have little shops or a corner of a shop that has no resemblance to our business establishments. With or without ostentation, Paris can justly lay claim to being the capital of the world of dress.

The Exposition suffered only by comparison with our Fair of 1893, on account of the crowded condition of the buildings, and the necessary absence of the landscape beauty, which so greatly enhanced our Chicago Fair. The United States building , was especially unfortunate in this respect. The very best view of it, from the Alexandria Bridge was entirely shut off by the Turkish building, which stood directly in its way. The thing that I thought the most unattractive, was the treatment or color-scheme of the mural decoration on its portal; an unfortunate cold, slate-blue tone, as I remember it, against the severe white building made it lack warmth, and repelled rather than invited. The German and British buildings were much more imposing and artistic; especially is this true of their interiors, as both countries have priceless art treasures to draw upon. Valuable tapestries were hung upon their walls, and the best in their national museums were transferred to their buildings. Of course we had no such fund to draw upon. The part of the Exposition that impressed us most strongly was the two Art Palaces, which are to be permanent buildings, and are well worth a visit to the Exposition. No words could express the beauty and grandeur of these Art Palaces and the treasures they contained. We experienced deep gratification as we lingered near the statuary of MacMonnies and St. Gaudens, whose "grand prix" were as numerous as on the paintings in the United States exhibit. In front of this beautiful palace we listened to the harmonious strains of the national French air, which seemed to touch the heart of every born Frenchman, who not only uncovered his head, but arose to his feet and joined loudly and feelingly in his national hymn. As the last strain died away, leaving a pleasant and happy feeling with all, I was both glad and thankful for this privilege, and had a greater respect for the Frenchman.

Whistler's paintings at the Exposition are dreams of color; it is said "they are the pink of Fragonard, the brown of Rembrandt, the amber of Titian, the gray of Whistler"; that undefinable gray called "the gray of mist and of distance," is made of all the shades--a little white, a little blue, a little green. He is called the "symphonist of half tints," the "musician of the rainbow." "No other painter has understood as well the mysterious relations of painting to music--seven colors, as there are seven notes--and the way to play them with what might be named the sharps and flats of the prism. Even as a symphony made in D or a Sonata in A, Whistler's pictures are orchestrated according to a tone." "The Lady with the Iris," for example: the mauve flower placed in the hand of the woman is a note signifying that the portrait is a colored polyphony of lilacs and violets. The Luxembourg has Whistler's greatest work,--the portrait of his mother. A French art critic says concerning the picture: "What a bold and novel line is the one of that long body, hardly perceptible in its black gown! What a psychological penetration is in the face! The mind of the sitter colors with the pink of a sunset her cheeks that age has made pale. The whites of the picture--the white of the lace bonnet, the white of the handkerchief held in the hand with the gesture of a communicant--are infinitely chaste. Does not old age bring me back to initial purity? The deep black of the drapery, studded with small flowers, is significant. Behind it the entire life of the woman palpitates but disappears. To make an accord of those whites and blacks--the gray that adheres to the walls floats in a mist, extends the softness, makes uniform its tint of pale ashes, as if it were the ashes of years fled from a material heart." Whistler and Poe, it is said, are the greatest men of genius in Art that America has produced. The figures that they have created have the same haunting effect--apparitions emerging from the twilight of backgrounds. They are enigmatic personages. One does not know if they are entering life or going out of it.

LONDON

We were domiciled at Hotel Windsor, Westminster, where we had an opportunity of passing the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey whenever we went down town, which meant Trafalgar Square, the centre of the universe, it seems.

They can all rave about French cooking, but give me the substantial English meal,--"a dinner off the joint, sir,"--with what belongs to it, and a waiter to whom you can make known any other wants, and eating once more is a fascinating theme.

Each day in passing Westminster Abbey in our sight-seeing, we would naturally turn to it. The exterior of this ancient building shows the ravages of time, and particularly smoke. It was founded in the seventh century, was destroyed by the Danes, and rebuilt by Edward the Conqueror. As you know, from that day to this it has seen the coronation of the English sovereigns, many of whom lie buried in it, but that awakened no particular interest in me; my eyes involuntarily wandered to the monuments of the mighty men--a host of warriors, statesmen, poets, and artists who rested beneath its stones. Statues of many of them fill the edifice, dividing or perpetually disturbing the awe-inspiring beauty of the interior. The building consists of a nave, flanked with aisles, a transept, and a fine choir. In the southern transept, facing the beautiful rose window, with its splendid tints and shades, lies the Poets' Corner, containing the remains of many authors, marked by their busts. Between the Abbey and the river rises Westminster Hall, the old Parliament House--the greatest monument of English liberty. As one stands and views the handsome exterior of the west front of the Abbey, with its tall and stately towers, the entire edifice embellished with the richest tracery, and the morning sun bathing its rich old stone, which has stood in the storms for ages, it seems to tower away into heaven--a mass of carving and sculpture. Then as he views the interior, the old saints and martyrs who have stood there for ages , he feels as though he were in the best society of his lifetime. A great company, a mighty host, in attitudes of grace and pomp, as well as those of praise and worship. There they were, ranks on ranks, silent in stone. It required little fancy to feel that they had lived, and as we passed out of the holy sepulchre I looked back at the long procession which had such an irresistible influence, and tried to learn a lesson from their impressive patience as they awaited the Golden Day.

The Thames, the national highway of the greatest city in the world, seems to London what the elevated railway is to New York--its little steamers arriving at its numerous piers on almost as good schedule time as our own trains.

London is not a Venice, but London's busy river turns and turns again, and turns up at points least expected, and is crossed many times by some of the finest bridges in the world. London Bridge! The very centre of civilization, with the exception, perhaps, of Calcutta. There is not another city in the world whose bridge is trodden by so many feet as is London Bridge. At nine o'clock on a summer morning you see it at its busiest, and it is an interesting study to note the gradual improvement that each succeeding half hour brings in the worldly appearance of its motley crowd, which flocks to its occupation or its business.

"Proud and lowly, beggar and lord, Over the bridge they go; Hurry along, sorrow and song, All is vanity 'neath the sun. Velvet and rags, so the world wags, Until the river no more shall run."

We started to the beautiful Kew Gardens one fine day from Charing Cross pier, which is the very centre of hotel life in London--all streets and roads and omnibus lines emanate from Charing Cross. This is one of the most historically interesting reaches of the Thames. Along this channel have passed the Briton in his coracle, the Roman in his warship, the Anglo-Saxon and the Dane in their galleys--the Norman, the Tudor, and the Stuart in their resplendent barges. Youth, beauty, and gallantry, genius and learning, the courtier and the soldier, the prelate and the poet, the merchant and the 'prentice, have taken their pleasures on these waters through a succession of ages that form no mean portion of the world's history. Patriots and traitors have gone this way to their death in the sullen tower, kings and princes have proceeded by this silver path in bridal pomp or to festal banquets.

We steamed up the river, with every step of its banks replete with history, every step having been painted on canvas or commemorated in song from time immemorial, and not only still retains its charms, but has even added to them.

"O veil of bliss! O softly swelling hills, Heavens! What a goodly prospect spreads around, Of hills and dales, and woods and lawns."

We got off at the pier of Kew Gardens, where thousands land for a visit each day to this beautiful spot. No one can afford to miss this place, even if you are not entertained by the Duchess while there. There's not such a park anywhere. What splendid trees it has! The horse-chestnut, a rich mass from its base--whose branches rest on the ground, as those of so many trees do here--to its highest dome. Hawthorns, and a variety that sweep its turf, which is an emerald green, and so deep that you walk with a grateful sense of drawing life from its wonderful depths. On this beautiful turf the boys are playing cricket in great numbers, and the children are getting as intimate with this sweet-smelling earth as their nurses will allow. The beauty of the green is heightened by the masses of color from flowers in a state of perfection; the whole effect is one of luxury and solidity that we encounter nowhere else, and it was with regret that we harkened to the evening call, which was musical in its way, to quit the garden.

The Thames is beautiful here. While waiting for the boat, which was delayed by low tide, we entered a little cottage , and looked out over the beautiful green of a churchyard, where one of England's greatest painters, Gainsborough, lies in repose. He is still in the minds and hearts of not only his own people, but is appreciated by our American millionaire, Pierpont Morgan, to the extent of 0,000, the sum expended for the lost gem--the "Duchess of Devonshire." Truly, these people are surrounded by history, tradition, and romance five or six centuries old.

The National Gallery on Trafalgar Square, without taking Ruskin's word for it, is the most important collection of paintings in Europe. The most expensive purchases are the "Blenheim Raphael," "Blenheim Van Dyke," the "Pisani," "Veronese," the two "Correggios," and "Lord Radnor's" three. They are splendid specimens of the greatest of the English old masters and so many of their successors; whilst the large collection of Turner's is unrivalled and incomparable. In order to insure the high level of the National Gallery in point of quality, an act was passed in 1883 authorizing the sale of unsuitable works, thinning out the gallery in favor of provincial collections. The result of this wise weeding is that, though there are many galleries in which there are more pictures to be seen, there are none in which they are more really worth seeing. There is another way in which pictures interest the spectator in after ages: a painter inevitably shows us something of himself in his work. He shows us something of his age--of its costumes, its manner of life, and, if a portrait painter, the characters and physiognomy of its men and women. It is necessary to study them in historic order, as we find painting has in each school been a progressive one. I first studied the early Flemish pictures, which are a striking contrast to the Italian pictures. There is no feeling or beauty in them. What is it, then, that gives these pictures their worth, and causes their painters to be included among the greatest masters of the world? Look at the most famous Van Dyke; the longer you look the more you will see its absolute fidelity to nature in dress and detail, especially in portraiture. Here the men and women of the time are set down precisely as they lived. They were the first to discover the mixing of oil with colors, and made oil painting much more popular. Their pictures have an imperishable firmness, with exquisite delicacy.

The French painters were poorly represented here; especially did it seem so after viewing their wonderful exhibit at the Exposition. The Paris school is the chief centre of art teaching in the world; and is marked for its excessive realism and gross sensuality. This reminds me of one of their pictures exhibited at the Exposition--so shockingly realistic it should be barred from any exhibit; no place else would it be allowed to hang. Of course, the French are ideal painters as well; Claude Poussin and Greuze are striking contrasts.

The Portrait of "Gevartius," by Van Dyke, is considered by Van Dyke himself as his masterpiece, and before he gained his great reputation he carried it about with him from court to court to show what he could do as a portrait painter. I only wish I could reproduce it here, so as to show the liquid, living lustre of the eye that Van Dyke puts before you in this great portrait. Then there's Rembrandt's many pictures. He is the great master of the school who strive not at representing the color of the objects, but the contrasts of light and shade upon them. These effects he attains with magnificent skill and subtlety. The strong and solitary light, with its impenetrable obscurity around, is the characteristic feature of many of his best works, just such an effect as would be produced by the one ray of light admitted into the lofty chamber of a mill, from the small window, its ventilator. "The Woman Taken in Adultery" is a "tour de force" in the artist's specialty of contrasts of light and shade; there is a succession of these contrasts which gradually renders the subject intelligible. The eye falls at once on the woman who is dressed in white, passes then to the figure of Christ, which next to her is the most strongly lighted, and so on to Peter, to the Pharisees, to the soldiers, till at length it perceives in the mysterious gloom of the temple, the high altar, with the worshippers on the steps.

But I am naturally drawn back to Turner's wonderful room, possibly because it seems like associating again with dear old friends, for that which greets my vision as I enter is Turner's "Crossing the Brook," so much copied in the art school, although the original is as large again as the copy I attempted of J. O. Adams. It seems twice as valuable to me since I have had the privilege of noting the beautiful expression of tender diffused daylight over this wide and varied landscape. I think it was Charles Lamb who said, "My household gods are held down by stakes deeply driven, and they cannot be removed without drawing blood." After all, one's associates and co-workers go to make up an important part of one's life.

I could not leave without once more turning back to my old "T?m?raire." She, so I have read, was a ninety-eight-gun ship, was the second ship in Nelson's line at the battle of Trafalgar, 1805, and, having little provisions or water on board, was what sailors call "flying light." So as to be able to keep pace with the fast sailing "Victory," when the latter drew upon herself all the enemy's fire, the "T?m?raire" tried to pass her to take it in her stead, but Nelson himself hailed to her to keep astern. She lay with a French 74-gun ship on each side of her,--both her prizes,--one lashed to her mainmast and one to her anchor. She was sold out of the service at Sheerness in 1838, and towed to Rotherhithe to be broken up. The flag which braved the battle and the breeze no longer owns her. The picture was first exhibited at the Academy in 1839, with the above lines cited in the catalogue. Ruskin says this about it: "Of all the pictures, not visibly involving human pain, this is, I believe, the most pathetic ever painted; the utmost pensiveness which can ordinarily be given to a landscape depends on adjuncts of ruin, but no ruin was ever so affecting as this gliding of the vessel to the grave. This particular ship, crowned in the Trafalgar hour of trial with chief victory, surely if ever anything without a soul deserved honor or affection we owe them here. Surely some sacred care might have been left in our thoughts for her--some quiet space amid the lapse of English waters. Nay, not so; we have stern keepers to trust her glory to, the fire and the worm. Never more shall sunlight lay golden robe on her, nor starlight tremble on the waves that part at her gliding. Perhaps when the low gate opens to some cottage garden, the tired traveller may ask idly, 'Why the moss grows so green on the rugged wood?' And even the sailor's child may not answer, nor know, that the night dew lies deep in the war rents of the wood of the old 'T?m?raire.'" The spirit of the picture, the pathetic contrast of the old ship's past glory with her present end, is caught in the contrast of the sunset with the shadow. The cold, deadly shadows of the twilight are gathering through every sunbeam, and moment by moment as you look you will fancy some new film and faintness of the night has arisen over the vastness of the departing form. As I remember it, Mrs. Rose B. Stewart, of the Muncie Art School, and the writer had a fair copy of the same, thanks to J. O. Adams.

While there is entertainment and recreation in this delightful collection, yet for my own personal benefit, aside from a few pets, I prefer the study and the ownership of modern painters and the new school.

SCOTLAND

We pass castle after castle, tradition after tradition, vouching for persecutions and the price of blood paid. Here are the historical surroundings of Queen Mary and her imprisonment, her escape from the dungeon; there the royal property acquired by the Earl of Rosebery; then again a square tower resting on the northwest angle of this pile is replete with history. A mouldering gateway here surmounted by a crown and the initials and year "M.R., 1561," tradition claiming this as the birthplace of Cromwell's mother; and so on, until one is dizzy with dates and towers, almost every inch bearing some part in the history of a country during troublesome times. But as Sir Walter Scott is authority for a great part of this history, I will refer you to him as a much more reliable source of information, and will only attempt an outdoor description of this beautiful country, whose landscape lacks none of the fervor, picturesqueness, and sincerity which are ascribed to it--an appropriate background for its unequalled history in those turbulent days.

We were well satiated by this time with royal institutions, including palaces, schools of learning, museums of science and art, botanical gardens, and the zoos, with the exception of one monument in Edinburgh,--Scott's grand memorial,--one of the most beautiful on the handsomest street in the World,--Princess Street, Edinburgh,--which is unlike any other I had ever seen.

We took what is known as the "Scotch Flyer" from London to Edinburgh. Its schedule time in some places is seventy miles per hour. It was about a five-hundred-miles' run, devoid of interest. As we neared Edinburgh the grade became very steep, requiring two engines to pull us up--a very long train and crowded. The conductor told us this was its chronic condition. The English, next to Americans, are the greatest gad-abouts in the world. It is hard to decide which does its work the quickest, the "Scotch Flyer" or Scotch whiskey; while the social evil is offensive enough in London and Paris, here it assumes a downright animal coarseness; the effects of Scotch whiskey in Edinburgh is alarmingly apparent. We saw more men and real young boys beastly drunk there than in any place on the continent, the police taking no heed of their noise, apparently so accustomed to it that it went as a matter of course. Saturday afternoon is a half-holiday in Edinburgh; the whole city seems to scatter or seek the country highways and environs. Everybody visits the great Forth Bridge, said to be the greatest and grandest bridge in the world.

The strait, where this wonderful bridge crosses the Forth at Queensferry, has from time immemorial been recognized as the chief natural route of communication between its northern and southern shores. It was known among the Romans as the "Passage Strait." The inconvenience of being dependent in all kinds of weather upon boats for communication between the two sides of the coast had long been commented upon, and when any bold spirit talked of a bridge from one side to the other, he was looked upon as being highly visionary. The engineering problem involved in the condition at Queensferry was the most serious one. It was then proposed that a bridge formed upon the principle of the Tay Bridge be built; the design was by Sir Thomas Bouch, engineer of the ill-fated Tay Bridge. He proposed to hang his erection on piers 600 feet high and across the stream by two latticed girders of 16,000 feet each, held in position on the suspension principle. This plan involved a double bridge, one for each set of rails. When the Tay Bridge fell, there fell with it previously unshaken confidence in the great engineer, and the feeling against the Forth Suspension bridge became so pronounced that the Abandonment Act was the result. Those of us who are old enough will never forget the sensation produced as they read of this long train with its human freight signalling the time of its departure when leaving the station on one side, but which never signalled its arrival on the other side; never a vestige recovered from that grasping, merciless monster, the North Sea. In 1882 it was decided that plans should be made on the cantilever principle; a steel cantilever bridge should be made--a principle as old as the science of engineering. It had been practically known to the Chinese, but never before had it been applied on so magnificent a scale. A feature of the Paris Exposition was a design for a bridge crossing the English Channel by seventy cantilever spans, offered by an eminent firm as an alternative to the Channel tunnel, at an estimated cost of ?34,000,000 Sterling. This project, however, does not meet with the hearty approval of the Englishman, who wants neither done, having no desire to facilitate communication with the French.

Foreign engineers all favor this principle of the Forth Bridge, it is said, since the first publication of the design. Practically every big bridge throughout the world has been built on that principle. To form some opinion yourself, the total height of the structure from its base is fully 450 feet. Visitors can hardly appreciate its actual magnitude until they compare adjacent objects--ships, houses, human beings, etc. Its relative size is seen when in figures you compare it to all other chief erections in the world; higher than the domes of any of the great cathedrals of the world, or monuments of the old world. Its rail level would be as high above the sea as the castle esplanade was above Princess Street, the castle built on the highest overlooking bluff in Edinburgh, and the steel work of the bridge would soar two hundred feet higher. The bridge was formally inaugurated on the 4th of March, 1890, when the Prince of Wales, now the King of England, turned a tap clinching the last bolt; this declared the bridge open. Her Majesty was so much delighted with Sir John Fowler, chief engineer of this gigantic undertaking, and Mr. Benjamin Baker, his colleague in the engineering, that she created them Knights Commander of the Order of St. Michael and St. George. It has taken some time to speak of such a huge affair. We reached Queensferry by the daily coaches that run from Princess Street, carrying forty people on top.

The scenery en route is delightfully attractive and varied, and the interest is sustained throughout. In addition to the more commanding natural beauty of the scenery, the woods abound in picturesque vistas--Dalmeny Castle on one side, the seat of the Earl of Rosebery, and on the other side the seat of the Earl of Hopetoun; both are available to the public. But what interested us more than this tiresome pomp and display were the hundreds of beggars or mendicants that line or infest the public road, going through all sorts of antics, from simply standing on their heads in the mud in roadways to some very clever acrobatic feats; others singing and dancing for pennies that are thrown to them from the passing coaches. The most comical sight was a blind Highland fiddler and his bonnie lass fiddling, at the same time cursing some youngsters filled with Scotch whiskey, who were guying the poor souls beyond endurance. I have heard of all kinds of swearing, but never by note.

One need not move a step from Princess Street, Edinburgh, to be satisfied with his trip. It is the most beautiful street in the world. We stopped at Hotel Clarendon on Princess Street, just opposite the grand old castle, the scene of such bloody history. The scene from our window was unsurpassed, overlooking the gardens and grand promenade which form one side of this beautiful street, with the lofty and grand Scott Monument just beyond, and the Royal School of Design close by,--so pure in its Grecian architecture that one could imagine he was under the shade of the Parthenon. Holyrood Palace and Abbey, where the Queen's Park Drive commences, is the finest drive in Europe. The other side of the street teems with commercial interests, as busy a thoroughfare as you see in any great metropolis.

Brilliant color, quick movement, and over-anxious faces are the general rule. Too bracing an air in these Scottish Highlands to admit of sluggish movement. I imagined we would step out of the whirl of modern life when we left London and came up here, where one might breathe easier; but it seems a headland so blessed of two elements--the cool air and the sea--that one is energized, and I longed to stay under its influence and enjoy the physical loveliness of this promontory. One of our favorite walks was a ramble among Salisbury Crags and over Arthur's Seat. The view here of Edinburgh is grand. As you climb up to Arthur's Seat you pass over a beautiful plateau of rich meadow-land; this Sabbath day literally alive with men and boys playing all sorts of gambling games, from the shaking of dice or of craps to ace-high. We wound up the hill by terraces, great lengths affording views over the steep wall of rock of the beautiful city below. The air is pure and exhilarating. The city, with its many historical domes, spires, castles, and turrets, is seen to advantage here. As you stand beneath the thick, strong walls, supporting for ages these grand old castles of such great antiquity, you can but wonder if they are capable of carrying these vaulted roofs for generations yet to come. As one climbed these broad, flagged terraces and lounged on the emerald green turf, so deep and inviting, one can scarcely realize that in the same spots, over these steep bluffs, both monks and soldiers climbed centuries ago, and they are still perfectly intact, while in the last two thousand years, on the coasts, temples and palaces of two generations have tumbled into the sea. Old and young have been sitting on these rocks all the while, high above change, worry, and decay, gossiping and loving. There are groups of rocks standing on the edge of precipices like mediaeval towers, reminding one a little of the "Garden of the Gods" in Colorado, but not so phenomenal. We emerged upon a wild, rocky slope, barren of vegetation except little tufts of grass, the rocks rising up to the sky behind, as we stood upon the jutting edge of a precipice.

We are waiting in London for our vessel, where we are sitting before a Michigan roll-top desk, with a home-made door-mat under our feet, on a Nebraska swivel chair, dictating a letter on a Syracuse typewriter, signed by a New York fountain pen, and drying same with a blotter-sheet from New England, with a small amount of American brains in our head, and a still smaller amount of American coin in our pockets, ready and anxious to see New York, which in ten years hence will be the art centre of the world.

DEUTSCHLAND LOSES A MAN.

The Swift Liner Buffeted by Storms All the Way Across.

The record-holder Deutschland of the Hamburg-American Line had nothing but weather on the voyage she finished yesterday from Hamburg, Southampton, and Cherbourg. The disturbance began just after she left Cherbourg and kept up almost until she got within sight of the coast of Yankeeland. Despite wind and sea she made an hourly average of 21.16 knots, covering a course of 3,058 knots in 6 days and 33 minutes, thus establishing a reputation as a storm-defier.

While she was plunging through the crested seas at 7 o'clock on Wednesday night a part of the crew were ordered forward to put things shipshape. Eugen Sarazin, an able seaman of Russia, 19 years old, was the first man to respond to the order. As he got out on the open deck the Deutschland plunged into a giant comber. The forward deck of the ship looked for a moment like the beach of Coney Island on a stormy day. The young Russian was caught in the swirl and swept overboard. Shipmates who saw him disappear raised an alarm and the great liner was stopped. A lifeboat with four volunteer seamen, under Second Officer Franck, was lowered. It cruised about in the blackness nearly half an hour and found no trace of the luckless tar.

Capt. Albers of the Deutschland said the voyage was one of the roughest on record for September. The women passengers didn't have much pleasure. The ship was at times reduced to fifteen knots. The mighty combers through which she smashed scraped the paint off her bows.

Transcriber's Notes

Some presumed printer's errors have been corrected, including normalizing punctuation. Further corrections are listed below.

p. 21 bouvelard -> boulevard p. 45 Deutsche Madchen -> Deutsche M?dchen p. 48 directon -> direction p. 70 Amercan -> American p. 70 most of of the -> most of the p. 71 Champ ?lys?es -> Champs ?lys?es p. 81 Grindling Gibbons -> Grinling Gibbons p. 93 ninty-eight -> ninety-eight

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