The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Bundle of Letters From Over the Sea, by Louise B. Robinson.

Upon going in to dinner we were surprised to see there two ladies whom we met at Chamouni the day before, and who were travelling alone like ourselves. They told us they left at eight o’clock, after being assured that no others at the hotel desired to come with them, as far as was known; so they had a carriage to themselves as we did, when we should all have been glad to have made the trip together. Was that a mistake also? After dinner we continued our journey, with four other carriage loads in our train, which made the trip seem very social and jolly. We passed through a beautiful forest, and then into an opening past houses far apart, pasture lands, and fields of pretty wild flowers. Here we saw pansies growing wild in great profusion, and the lovely pink, and crimson yarrow. In our descent of the Col de Forclag we had a fine viem of the Rhone valley, and at about six P.M. reached Martigny. Switzerland is indeed mighty; and its great mountains, its lakes and valleys, make us cry out, in truth, ‘Great is Thy firmament, O Lord, and wonderful the works of Thy hand!’ Martigny is a small village in the valley, where we are to spend the night.

Thursday, July 12th, 1888.—We can see, in the distance, St. Bernard covered with snow, and would like to see the celebrated hospice, the self-sacrificing brothers and their noble dogs, but shall not take the time this season, but hope to, some time. Of the two great gifts, memory and hope, I know not which gives us the most satisfaction. There is but little of interest at Martigny—a good place to rest; and feeling entirely refreshed we left at nine A.M. for Interlaken in steam-cars, which seem quite a novelty to us now. I think I was rather glad to get out of the mountain region for a little while: one’s eyes grow weary with the looking up and the looking down, and the mind tired in the appreciating of so much sublimity at once. The country we came over was charming; fields of wild flowers of every color looking as if arranged by an artistic hand, and the hillsides covered with vineyards. Our road, for a long distance, kept near Lake Geneva; the water looked as deeply blue as a sapphire, and the sail-boats and steamers passing each other made a pleasing scene.

At Chillon we stopped to see the ‘Castle of Chillon.’ It is a picturesque old building, with turrets and towers, standing on a point of rock that extends out into the lake. The ring of iron to which Bonnivard was chained is still there; and the path which his feet wore in the stone floor, in the weary, solitary six years’ march back and forth over those few stones, is plainly visible.

‘Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,
And thy sad floor an altar, for ’twas trod,
Until his very steps have left a trace
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface;
For they appeal from tyranny to God.’

It would be almost impossible for one to keep from quoting Byron’s lines here, for everything we see brings them to mind, and on one of the pillars is his name, cut by his own hand. To look at the dungeons and cells makes one’s blood run cold, and even worse is the deep, deep hole down which prisoners, untried, were thrown to fall upon pointed iron stakes. And while these terrible horrors were being perpetrated below, above it all, Duke Victor Amadeus and his Duchess ate, slept, and enjoyed themselves. Could they have been human? We saw many implements of torture, which made our heads swim with pain even to look at them, and be told for what they had been used, and we gladly turned our backs upon it all and walked out into God’s sunshine, thanking Him, as never before, that we live in an age when such things are kept only as ancient curiosities. This portion of ‘clear, placid Leman’ and the country around it bring forcibly to mind many portions of Childe Harold’s pilgrimage.

Our next stopping place was at Lausanne, and at the station we met some Boston friends, seeing them just long enough for an affectionate greeting and to say good-by, every one of us

‘All kind o’ smily round the lips,
An’ teary round the lashes,’

for home faces are sweet to look upon, and our own language sweet to hear, in this far-away land. Here we changed cars for Berne, and of all the queer-looking towns, this is the queerest. Having but a few hours here, we are inclined to give the most of it to the bears. The city’s coat of arms is a bear, and pictures, carvings of, and stuffed bears meet one’s gaze everywhere, on clocks, fountains, towers, houses, and public buildings; and at a restaurant where we called for ice cream Bruin’s figure was served to us in chocolate. There is also a den containing about twenty live bears, who are sacredly cared for by the city government, and they walk about and climb poles with more dignity than common bears, as if fully realizing that they are ‘monarchs of all they survey.’ We were driven through the principal streets and thought the homes of the people looked very comfortable, with the outside balconies at the windows, and the red-covered cushions on them, as if inviting travellers to stop and rest. It happened to be cheese market day; and in the middle of a square were long tables covered with piles of cheese, of all shapes and colors, enough to provide the citizens of the whole world, for the rest of their lives, ‘cheese for their doughnuts.’ But the odor! It was not to us ‘of Araby blest.’ There is a great deal of beautiful carved woodwork here, and how we want to buy everything odd and pretty, but oh, those ‘duties’ to come. We went into the cathedral, which is a handsome one, and walked on its terrace, from which we had a fine view of the river Aar and distant mountain peaks. We then hastened to the old clock tower, to be there at just the time to hear and see the curious old clock strike the hour of six. A cock steps out and flaps his wings, an ogre eats a child, and has his pockets full of children in reserve to be similarly disposed of, a troop of bears march across the tower, and a man strikes the number of the hour on a big bell with a hammer. These, you understand, are all statues carved of wood, and move correctly every hour. A bearded man also turns an hourglass and counts the number of the hour by raising a sceptre and opening his mouth as if speaking. One needs to look very closely to see all the movements, and the whole is wonderfully ingenious, and it is indeed an ‘old clock,’ as it was built in the year 1191.

After leaving Berne, we changed cars twice before reaching the lake. I cannot understand why the railroad officials of Switzerland do not arrange matters to dispense with so much changing from one car to another, and also to shorten the delays, unless they are desirous of accommodating the women they employ, in giving them ample time to finish whatever they may be doing ere they blow that horn, which sounded like a ‘Swampscott fish horn,’ and which at several stations has seemed to be the order for us to move. At one station I saw a woman come through a gate with a horn or trumpet, or whatever it may be called, and partly raise it to her mouth as if to sound the signal for us to start, but suddenly, seeing a dog scratching up the earth in her garden, ran and beat the dog first, then returned and tooted loudly, and off we started. A short sail on Lake Thun, which seemed weird and lonely, as it was by this time quite dark, another car ride, and we see the lights of Interlaken, which speak to us of rest, for we are weary.

Interlaken, July 14th.—This is cheerful. Everything at our hotel, the Victoria, looked delightfully pleasant to us this morning as we tripped down stairs as good as new. ‘What a pretty front yard, and do see all of these huge hotels in a row; do you suppose they are all full?’ said F. Well, Interlaken does seem to have hotels enough to take in all the tourists of the world, but they are all well filled at this season. The shops are attractive, and the pretty girls in them, dressed in their native costumes, are very polite and seem perfectly willing to show their wares without urging one to buy. But the beautiful embroideries are temptation enough for one to spend money, without any words. We saw in every shop handkerchiefs more beautiful than in the last we entered, although we declared those there, when we looked at them, were the loveliest that could be made. And the exquisite embroidered soft white laces almost make one want to be a bride to wear them. Girls and women are sitting in the stores, on the steps, in their door yards, and in the parks, all busy embroidering. We have a good view of the Jungfrau from our hotel piazza. We have taken long walks in and about the town, and very pleasant ones. We wandered into a church and found that one half of the building was used by the Presbyterians and the other half by the Catholics. We were pleased to meet some friends from Boston here, who added much to the pleasure of our stay.

July 16th.—F. has been with Mr. F., one of our home friends, over the Wengern Alp to Grindelwald and Lauterbrunnen to see the glaciers and the ice-caves. I declined, not caring for another mule ride. They report having had a fine time, repaid fully by the sights they enjoyed, and rode horses instead of mules,—and horses do have some consideration for their riders. Evenings we have had ‘hops’ at our hotel and fine music, and after table d’hôte are always entertained by the orchestrian and the bright-looking little wooden man that wields the baton.

Lucerne, July 17th.—A short ride from Interlaken this morning early brought us to Lake Brienz, which we sailed across, stopping for a short time at Giessbach to see the falls, which are formed from numerous cascades. Their reputation is the greater part of them. We left the steamer at Brienz and took steam cars to travel over the Brunig Pass. Until this summer, travellers have been obliged to make this journey by carriage or mules. The new railroad is narrow, and the sides of the little cars are of glass, so that the scenery all about us can be easily seen. We crept cautiously, slowly along, up the zigzag road, higher and higher, through jagged rocks and under them, clasping each other’s hands and almost holding our breath, so fearfully grand did it all seem. The lovely Meiringen valley below, lying peacefully dotted with pretty villages and protected by high mountains on each side, seemed very far from us, and the river running through its centre looked like yards of silver ribbon unfurled to beautify some one’s bridal day. But when the descent is safely made we almost want to go back again, it was all so beautiful. The last two hours of our day’s travel was on Lake Lucerne, the loveliest bit of water in all Europe. A tall, gaunt, masculine-looking German woman happened to sit near us on the boat, and seemed to look upon us as ‘curiosities,’ and to feel it her duty on her native soil to give us some information. This woman had been all day at work in the mountains, but at what we could not understand. Coarse and repulsive-looking as she was, she had a good bit of the poetic temperament in her nature, and knew every mountain peak and bit of scenery in sight and the traditions connected with them. The peasant women of Switzerland, owing to their toilsome lives, wear a look of anxiety and hardness in their faces that a woman’s face ought never to have. And yet there is no country in the world, excepting our own, where women have done so much for the progression, education, and good of their sex. In Protestant Switzerland there is but little begging; in Catholic Switzerland beggars waylay you at every turn. It was nearly sundown when we crossed the lake, and Mt. Pilatus showed off well and did not disappoint us. The old German woman assured us that Pontius Pilate fled there from Jerusalem, heart-broken, and ended his life by throwing himself into the lake: ‘See, right in that spot,’ she said, ‘he threw himself!’ Then as if reflecting, added, ‘But Pilate did what was—what he had to do.’ All this she spoke in German, and I have given you the literal translation. Who shall say that woman was not a philosopher? Pointing in another direction she said, ‘That is where Kriss Kringle was born. Does he come down the chimneys in America? It is well for children to know him.’ And this woman of sentiment and feeling worked daily out of doors. The scenery from Lake Lucerne is indeed beautiful and is full of glorious associations, for it was about here that the struggle was made for the liberty and freedom of Switzerland and her people. The mountains all about us, the stately chateaux, the pretty chalets, old watch towers, castle ruins, and the green foliage about them, the beautiful lake, and the steamers going and coming, make a peaceful, restful scene. The sun sinks almost out of sight, and all at once, as a surprise, we turn, and are at the city of Lucerne.

LETTER VIII.

Lucerne is beautifully situated on both banks of the river Reuss, with the lake in front, and has many attractions, I think. The lake, this clear morning, looked so luring that the first thing we enjoyed was a sail to Fluellen, where we took carriage for Altorf, the village made classic forever by the heroic deeds of William Tell. The spots of ground where his son was placed and where Tell stood when he shot the apple from the boy’s head were shown us. In our school days, Tell was ever one of our favorite patriots, and we fear we always felt glad of that hidden second arrow, which was to have shot the tyrant Gessler if the first had killed his boy. On our return to Lucerne we saw the old castle of Hapsburg, once the summer home of Wagner. The king of the sights of the town is, however, the Lion of Lucerne. This piece of sculpture is, as everybody knows, a monument to the brave Swiss guards of whom we thought so much about at Versailles. The beast is twenty-eight feet long, magnificent in proportions, and cut out in relief on the face of the natural rock. He is wounded by a spear, and dying, but making a desperate struggle, even in death, to protect the shield of France. There is a pathetic expression in the expiring creature’s face that is almost human. Ivy and running vines cover the sides of much of the huge rock about him, and at its foot is a pond of clear water in which the whole is reflected. The lion was designed by Thorwaldsen, the noted Danish sculptor, who was born in Copenhagen, and whose Reliefs of the Seasons, and his Day and Night, are familiar to you from the photographs. ‘We cannot let our eagle scream here, F.,’ said I; ‘Cogswell fountains do not equal this.’

We went into the Glacier Garden and saw the bas-relief of Central Switzerland, modelled from nature by General Pfyffer one hundred and forty years ago; and were then driven to the old cathedral, where there is a fine organ handled by a noted organist every evening. It is quite the fashion for visitors in the place to flock there to hear the music after dinner; but we, not liking the rooms given us at our hotel, ‘The Swan,’ although undoubtedly they did for us the best they could, and as we could not get into the Schweizerhof at all, the best hotel in the place, have decided to leave this afternoon. Our last act of sight-seeing was the old covered bridge, in which there are over a hundred pictures, scenes of Switzerland’s history and pictures of saints, although some of them did not look very saintly. There are four bridges across the river,—two modern, and the other two very ancient and curious.

Went to Vitzman by boat, then took front seats on a platform car to ascend the Rigi. Only one car is sent up at a time, and that is driven by steam power. The railway seems to be the same as any narrow-gauge road, but between the outside rails are two other rails quite near each other, in which a cogwheel, which is under the engine, runs or works. We ascend slowly, leaving the lake and the towns far below us, and beyond and above us are the mountain peaks. We go through a tunnel and across a deep yawning ravine on an iron bridge; and the scenery is beautiful all around us, which we can fully enjoy at our ease, as there are no dangerous places and no frisky mules to distract one’s attention. We pass many tourists, but the path must appear almost endless to them, for it seems to us, even at our speed, that the top of the mountain grows farther away. But at last we reach our hotel, the Rigi Kulm, above the clouds. Would we could always rise above them so delightfully! It was very cold, so we put on all the wraps we had, and started out for views from the Rigi. Just imagine yourself on the very top of this high mountain, which juts up towards the heavens like a ‘popover’ in a hot oven. In the valley below we can count eight lakes, and the many towns so far below us look like the little wooden villages made of blocks for children to play with. Looking beyond in all directions, we see mountains towering up to the sky—Rocky Pilatus, the snow-clad range of the Bernese Alps, and the green Rigi group close about us. We see the rugged heights of the Silberhorn, the three peaks of the Wetterhorn, and, grandest of all, the Finsteraarhorn. What a personal interest we have in these peaks of Switzerland as soon as we know them.

The mountain was covered with travellers, like ourselves, enjoying the views and anticipating a gorgeous sunset, as there was scarcely a cloud to be seen. I sat on the grass near the edge of the mountain wondering at the extent of this magnificent panorama, when I felt a weight on my shoulder; turning quickly a cow raised her head from the resting place she had chosen and looked at me in a way that said, ‘Why did you move?’ A little later we met Mr. W., of New York, and his handsome German doctor, who added greatly to our pleasure during the rest of our stay here. Seeing a boy with some freshly picked wild flowers, and an edelweiss among them, I asked where he found it, and wandered off in the direction indicated, anxious to pick for myself one of these blossoms. We had bought them fresh, we had bought them dried, and the semblance of them in all sorts of ornaments, but not one had I seen growing. I clambered down the steep and rocky path, and was rewarded after a long search by finding two of these flowers which the Swiss love so well, and I victoriously exhibited them to my friends as I met them coming in search of me. We grouped ourselves on a high platform, built on the summit, which was already well crowded, to see the sun go down. But why do we get up here? we were high enough before. Because it is the thing to do, and here is glass of every color to look through. But I only wish to see it all in its natural colors. How the wind blows, and how cold it is! There goes the Doctor’s hat. No use to try to recover it; it is dashing on to see where the sun goes to. Put this wrap over your head, Doctor.

Look, look! The great ball of fire was sinking to the edge of the horizon, which was streaked gorgeously with crimson and gold. Golden tints fell far and near, upon valley, lakes, and mountains, and the white robes of the snow-clad peaks, were changed to rose. All voices were hushed, for a spectacle so sublime awakened in every one emotions too deep for words. Lower and lower, until only a great gold shield remained, and soon all light was gone, and the shadows covered us. ‘These are Thy works also, O God, for Thou didst make the heavens and the earth.’

Stiff with cold, we hurried to our hotel, whose lights twinkled cheerfully for us in the distance, and a good dinner, with warm drinks, soon thawed us into a comfortable condition. After dinner we tried to find a room heated sufficiently for us to remain in and not freeze, but there was none. Large, handsome parlors and corridors, but all as cold as ice-caves. The proprietors of this house make a great mistake in not providing fires for the comfort of their guests; and for the very lack of this necessity to one’s health, we decided to leave as early as possible in the morning. After a brisk promenade through the hall with our friends, we bade them good-night, promising to rise at the sound of the alpine horn and meet them in the parlor, to go out and see the rising of the sun, which they assured us would be far more wonderful than its setting. ‘Now you will be sure to be on hand,’ said Mr. W. ‘I would not have you miss it for anything. I have a fur coat here which I will unpack to put about you; you will have to rise at three o’clock, you know.’ ‘O yes, I will surely be ready. We have come far to see the sun rise on the Rigi, and I must not miss it. Good-night,’ and off we go to our room at the very top of the house. Just hear the wind roar.

Our chamber was cold, our chambermaid colder, and upon our asking her for more bed covering she undoubtedly reached the freezing-point somewhere, for she disappeared and we saw her not again. After prolonged and vigorous ringings of our bell, a petrified-looking boy appeared, but he manifested some signs of life as our money touched his palm, and we succeeded in coaxing him to bring us an extra feather bed. That bed was warm, and as our own was cold and clammy, I felt pretty sure the boy gave us his own bed. But I was grateful, and he was satisfied with the bargain.

‘Get up, and dress as soon as you can,’ said F., holding a ghostly candle in front of my face. ‘Up! why I had just got to sleep.’ ‘The alpine horn has sounded, and you must see the sun rise.’ ‘No, I am just beginning to get warm; what does it rise at this unheard-of time for?’ ‘There, Mr. W. is calling us outside our door; do come, hurry.’ ‘No!’ The horn tooted most unmusically. I was too tired and sleepy, with a bad cold thrown in, to care whether the sun ever rose or not. I had had too hard work to get a comfortable resting place, to have no benefit from it, so off F. went, and I knew no more until seven o’clock, when she exasperatingly informed me of what a delightful time they had, that the sun setting was not to be compared in glory to its rising, that it was a wonderful revelation, and that I had persistently refused to enjoy it. O dear! why will people always tell you that the sights you do not see are those the best worth seeing.

Thursday, July 19th, 1888.—Although we ordered our breakfast last night, it was not ready for us when we went to the dining-room. ‘Very sorry, some mistake,’ said the waiter; but that did not give us our breakfast, and it was nearly time for the car to leave. We choked down some cold bread and half-made coffee, and rushed, meeting a waiter just bringing our hot rolls and chops, which we had paid for when we settled our bill the night before. I took out a clean napkin from my bag, and took from him our breakfast, wrapped it in my napkin, and said good-morning to the half-dazed man, who ejaculated just one word, which sounded like ‘whew.’ Our friends were at the car to see us off, and tried to exchange their tickets for some that would take them our route, but could not, so good-bys were said, and off we pushed to descend the Rigi. We have been unusually fortunate in having such perfect weather for this mountain trip. This morning is lovely. We move cautiously down a road, on the opposite side from the one we went up, so all views are new to us. We soon reached Lake Zug. Our car conductor gracefully saluted us as we left his care to take the boat. These Swiss conductors have a pretty custom of always saluting each other when they meet, also.

We crossed the lake to the city of Zug. Had two hours to wait there, so walked about the queer little town. Wandered into a church where were several good pictures. On our way back to the station we stepped into a neat-looking wayside inn and called for a bottle of wine to go with our Rigi spoils for a luncheon. The proprietress and her fair daughter seemed much interested in us. We spread out our luncheon on a clean tablecloth, were served with delicious butter and honey, and enjoyed it at our leisure. With the curiosity of the sex, these women wondered who and what we were. Our dress was strange to them, and our language stranger. We told them we were from America, and were travelling to see their country. ‘Wo ist der Herr,’ asked the woman. ‘We have none,’ we answered. ‘Mein Gott!’ said she. We hear no more French spoken now; all German.

Our next stopping place was Zurich, where we had a good table d’hôte dinner, and then pushed on to Schaffhausen, where we alight for the Falls of the Rhine, and ride in a carriage about two miles to our hotel, ‘The Schweizerhoff.’ This house, with all its appointments, is the best we have yet seen in all Europe. It is situated in the midst of beautiful grounds, on the bank of the Rhine, with the falls in full sight. Our room was not only comfortable, but approached elegance, and the long windows opened on to a veranda where stood two large, soft easy-chairs, as if waiting to welcome us, and give us the best pictures of the country about. Making a hasty toilette, we went down stairs and out on to the piazza, where sat at their ease a distinguished-appearing company to see the falls, which our guidebook had told us were the largest in Europe.

In front of us, at the foot of the garden, ran the river, and a little to the right was a small rapid, apparently about as high as the fall of water that I used to see running a saw-mill on the East Taunton road, but not for an instant did we suppose that those were ‘the falls.’ ‘Will you please tell me where the Falls of the Rhine are?’ I asked a lady near me. The woman looked dazed, and turned toward me to see if I was blind, but politely answered, ‘Why, there they are!’ Impulsively, with a disgusted tone, I exclaimed, so disappointed was I, ‘Those the Rhine Falls! Well, just think of Niagara.’ ‘Sh—sh,’ said F., ‘you are forever waving the stars and stripes.’ If the house and place had not given us so much pleasure we should have felt our time wasted in coming here, but these exceed our expectations. The cuisine was simply perfect, and at table we were served by pretty, rosy-cheeked Swiss maids, dressed in white skirts, full-sleeved white waists and black velvet bodices, and looking as fresh and sweet as pinks. They moved, as if one person, to the sound of a bell, doing entirely away with long waits between courses, and every dish brought to us was most delicious.

Friday, July 20th.—We had our breakfast served on the broad piazza, fronting the Rhine, by our pleasant Swiss girl this morning, and the fragrance from the sweet flowers about us brought memories of the orange groves in Florida where we stood only a few months ago. Time and steam do wonders. Hoping to consider the falls a less disappointment on a closer approach to them, we decided to go to their very centre in a boat. About in the middle of them stands a rock, on which has been erected a pavilion, and to which boatmen are ready to take passengers at all times. We reached the landing safely, through currents and whirlpools, and the rapids themselves did appear of much greater magnitude on closer proximity, but I doubt their being the largest in Europe. The town of Schaffhausen is very ancient, with its queer old houses, gateways, and walls. On the old bell of the cathedral is an inscription, which translated means, ‘I call the living: I mourn the dead: I break the thunder;’ which it is said, prompted Schiller to write the exquisite verses of ‘The Song of the Bell.’

Saturday, July 21st.—Yes, the Schweizerhoff is a haven of rest, and had we time, we should like to tarry longer. We are close to Germany now, and must see something of it, but I fear the majestic scenery of Switzerland has spoiled us for any scenery of less beauty. The proprietors of these Swiss hotels have a custom of giving to each departing lady guest a bouquet. Mine this morning was unusually beautiful, and when I said to the giver, ‘We have really been charmed with your house,’ a pretty picture of the place was added to the first offering. To the omnibus in which we rode to the station from the hotel, was harnessed, as our leader, an immense cream-colored bull, a handsome creature, truly huge in his proportions. I doubt if I shall admire Paul Potter’s as much.

In our car we had as our only travelling companions two priests, with their long, flowing gowns and big hats. They continually prayed and crossed themselves for a while, and we feared that they did not realize that we were also two human beings and Christians, so entirely did they ignore us. But after a time they looked up, and we found an occasion to make a remark to them, which opened the way for a conversation, although a limited one, as they could not understand one word of English, and we stumbled much in German, but they were very bright, and looked over with us our German conversation book, and we made quite a merry party. Our route was through and over the Black Forest mountains, said to be the most picturesque of all mountains. We passed through numerous tunnels, some very long ones, and in utter darkness, as they did not light the cars at all, giving one a good chance to think of all the terrible accidents one ever heard of, and making one feel all the time as if something dreadful might happen. I never did like to be in the dark, unless as a tired child with my mother’s arms close about me. When not underground, which seemed but little of the time, the scenery we saw was bold and memorable. The whole region of this Black Forest is full of traditional stories, and we stretched our necks as we turned precipitous corners, hoping to get a glimpse of the ‘Black Huntsman’ dashing down the dizzy heights back of us or in the green valleys below. We saw two castles, and a huge monastery, ‘built on a rock’ on a high elevation. And now, being in the mood, I think I will tell you of something we saw later,—a cavern which is called ‘The Noble Lady’s Grave,’ and this is the story which shows why so named, as told to us, or at least the main points: ‘The husband of the lady left her alone in their home in the Black Forest, with only her attendants for society, and, of course, she being of noble birth, could not ‘chum’ much with her servants. He left her thus to join the Crusades. She pleaded with all a loving wife’s earnestness for him to remain with her, but without avail. It looks as if the knight cared more for glory than for his better half, but may be, let us be charitable, ‘he had business she could not understand,’ or perhaps ‘he had to meet a man,’ as many of the self-sacrificing husbands of our own time are obliged to do, greatly to their own discomfort, but ‘duty is duty, you know.’ At any rate he tore himself away from her clinging arms, in spite of tears and entreaties, undoubtedly hoping to cover himself with glory in the holy city. Perhaps he had wearied of the gloom, dismalness, and monotony of life in the Black Forest, and ‘needed a change.’ His wife, of course, had more resources for pleasure; she could do the mending of the family, tell the cook what to have for dinner, and go to church and give thanks for so brave a husband, and offer prayers for his welfare. The lonely, noble lady did all of these things most faithfully for a while, but they soon ceased to be entertaining, and life itself grew wearisome. There was no mail to be expected in those days, no letters to answer, no progressive euchre parties, no Browning clubs, no sewing circles, no amateur theatricals, and not even a neighbor to talk about, and no one to talk about the neighbors with. Poor forlorn woman! Worn and weary with the watching and the waiting, ‘He cometh not,’ she said. Her crusader most selfishly tarried too long. But one fine day somebody’s else crusader came along, and just as the noble lady was packing her ‘Saratoga’ to fly with him to the lands where loneliness and the ‘blues’ were unknown, her own lawful crusader appeared, killed her would-be rescuer, and shut the poor, out-of-patience wife up in this cave in the hillside, which was her prison living and her grave when dead.

After the descent of the Black Forest range was made, we struck into pretty, green valleys, where women, young girls, and children were making hay,—Gretchens and Maud Müllers. Oxen and cows were used instead of horses, and I saw two women harnessed into a hay-cart, which was loaded with hay, and a man riding comfortably on top, smoking his pipe. I would have liked to have seen him fall off, but I was told that men at home, in this part of the world, are so few, that the women give them the easy places, and work for them, and coddle and pet them to their hearts’ content. The large majority of the men are away at the barracks. The homes of the working people, just here, look as if intended to illustrate a revised edition of ‘the happy family.’ Human beings, both sexes, of several generations, judging from the very old looking women and the few old men, and the little babies we see, with horses, cattle, sheep, pigs, and hens, all live under one outside upper roof, having perhaps the choice of apartments inside. The door-yards look neat, but without exception, every house has somewhere near the never-to-be-missed fertilizer pile, often higher than the house, and generally the bigger the house the bigger the pile. Stocks up, they sell; stocks down, they buy. Financial excitements, you see, are necessary even here. The houses are never painted, and the roofs are covered with straw. At one station where we changed cars we saw a group of Alsatian women with the genuine Alsatian bows on their heads instead of bonnets. The bows were made of some black material, and I think must have measured fully one yard from one end to the other.

LETTER IX.

Of the wonderful clock I will tell you a little. This astronomical clock is in the south transept, and tells not only the time of the day but indicates every event connected with astronomical phenomena, like the changes of the moon, the seasons, the church calendar, and so forth. A child strikes the quarter of the hour, a youth the half hour, a young man the third quarter, and an aged man, tottering slowly, comes and touches the bell with his staff, and passes on, soon followed by the figure of Death, who strikes the full hour with a human bone; and just then, the figures representing the twelve Apostles march in front of a statue of the Saviour, who bends to give each one his blessing, and a cock crows loudly thrice, while another figure—Time—turns an hour-glass, for running of the sand to indicate the next hour. It is all extremely ingenious and interesting. The clock has been partly reconstructed, as it is said the original, made in 1448, was partially destroyed by the maker. The legend runs that the genius who invented and made this wonderful structure of mechanism for Strassburg was urged to make one for another town. The Strassburgers becoming jealous, sent for the clock-maker, and requested him to give his promise that he would never make another; but this he refused to do, which so angered them they gave an order to have the poor man’s eyes put out. Hearing of this terrible crime which was soon to be inflicted upon him, he offered to make a few necessary repairs on the clock before losing his eyesight. As soon as he had done this, his eyes were forever destroyed, but at the same moment a crash from the clock was heard—weights, bells, and figures fell to the ground, for the man had destroyed instead of repairing his work. The clock just escaped being again destroyed at the time of the bombardment by the Germans in 1870. The cathedral was greatly damaged, but has been well repaired. One cannot wonder that the French feel bitterly toward the Germans for taking from them, with Alsace, this city so rich in its churches, but such is war. And long ago, when this same place was a free German town, Louis XVI. captured it for France, and now Germany claims it again. French and German seem to be about equally spoken here.

We met E. W. in the street to-day, and a pleasant surprise was her face. In this strange country, mere acquaintances seem like dear friends, and dear friends dearer than ever before. I wish I could hear your voice to-day, but I know you are with us in thought, and glad that these days are so filled with brightness for us, but we must not forget that they cannot always last; we are so apt to, just as in summer we forget that flowers so soon wither; but the fragrance of their fallen leaves remains with us long, as will the sweet memories of these gliding hours.

Holland Hotel, Baden Baden, July 23d, 1888.—At four P.M. we reached here from Strassburg. Our hotel is one of the best, and after settling our baggage in our spacious, handsomely furnished room, we went out to reconnoitre. The town is lovely,—beautiful streets, buildings, shops, and grand old shade trees everywhere, and just now the place is crowded with people, driving, walking, flirting, and sauntering through the streets, stores, and gardens, bareheaded. This reminds me more of Saratoga in the summer season than any place I have before seen, although there is not the display of dress here, or the taste displayed in what dress there is, that we see in our American watering-places. In fact, so far, I have had to come to the conclusion that European ladies show very little good judgment and no style in dress, with the one exception of the Parisians. The Duchess of Baden, who is the daughter of the good old Emperor William, lives very near our hotel, and other members of the royal family of Germany are here, but are, of course, all in deep mourning for the dearly loved and much-lamented late Emperor Frederick.

After an excellent dinner we went to the ‘Conversation Haus,’ a large, fine building in the midst of beautiful grounds, where everybody goes evenings to hear the fine music and see the people. What else they go for I cannot positively say, but am told that there is still some gambling carried on somewhere within the walls of this building; but we saw only its elegant drawing-rooms, ball and reception rooms, rich in appearance as pictures and gilt, velvet, and silk furnishings could make them. If any gambling is done here, or about here, in these days it is done secretly, for when the German Government awakened to the fact that accomplished scoundrels from all over the world met here to carry on their nefarious practice, it suppressed all gambling, greatly to the credit of the Government, for by so doing thousands of dollars that were left here annually were spent in some other country than Germany. When this was done it was feared that the prosperity of Baden was over, but it did not prove so. The place is too lovely to be neglected by travellers, and now, many of the wealthier and most respected Europeans spend a portion of the summer here. There are over twenty large hotels and more small ones, and they are now all well filled.

July 24th.—This morning we visited the ‘Trink Halle,’ an elegant building, which is decorated with frescoes illustrating many of the old German legends of the Black Forest. People flock here mornings to drink the waters as they do at Congress Spring at Saratoga. Crowds of people were present drinking the vile stuff as if they enjoyed it, but I found it the least palatable of any mineral water I ever tasted. The Fraülein who, at her leisure, at last waited upon us, acted as if it were a great condescension on her part to allow us to taste the horrid liquid, but she did not hesitate to take our money. I observed the same spirit in all of the female employees in the town with whom we had anything to do. They did not seem to wish us to see anything or to buy anything; and in one store where we looked at a garment, after hearing the price, I remarked to my companion that it would not cost much less, if any, than at home, if we paid duties, and the girl, understanding English, said, ‘You could probably buy it elsewhere for less,’ and continued the reading of a book she held in her hand. With such indifferent clerks I should not suppose sales would be very large; but all merchandise was dear at Baden excepting the little things found at the booths out of doors and in the two rows of stores leading to the Conversation Haus. These were very attractive, and everything for sale in them, from magnificent diamonds and gems of all kinds, exquisite engravings and photographs, down to buttons and hair pins, and the gentlemanly proprietors and clerks were very polite.

We next went to the Friedrichsbad, the finest bathing establishment in the whole world. It is built of red and white stone, and is artistically decorated with carvings. But the attendants there, the women, were as disagreeable as the sex were at the Trink Halle; but as they were remarkably good looking, they may have been placed there for ornament instead of use, and the mistake our own in expecting them to give us any information. We did not see the private baths, as it was not the hour to show them, but we did succeed in seeing the magnificent round, white, marble-lined swimming bath by waylaying the only man we saw in the establishment and asking him to show it to us.

We took a carriage to visit the ‘Alt Schloss,’ or old castle, now a ruin and a very picturesque one, and then to the ‘Neue Schloss,’ where the Grand Duke of Baden lives a part of the time. This is a home fit for the gods—a grand castle, on an eminence overlooking the town and a beautiful country round about it. It is surrounded by magnificent grounds, and contains many valuable paintings and a gallery of antiques. You remember the Duke’s wife is the daughter of old Emperor William, and now, since the Emperor Frederick’s death, she is his only child living. As none of the royal family were in the castle all of the apartments were shown us, all attractive and rich in furnishings and finishings, with lovely views of the beautiful valley of Baden Baden from the windows. We next followed our guide down, down, into the dungeons below, made in the rock on which the castle stands. All around us were instruments of torture, and near us a deep excavation where condemned persons were formerly thrown alive, and from which no cry for help could be heard. We were glad to turn our backs upon these places of old-time cruelty and try to forget the barbarity of old margraves in admiration of the late loved emperors of the country, William and Frederick, both of whom have recently gone to their reward.

These German duchies are small, very small, kingdoms. The duchy of Baden is not as large as our State of Massachusetts, but the Grand Duke lives in a kingly manner. He not only has his palaces here, but has one at Carlsruhe, a short distance from here, one in Freiburg, one in Heidelberg, and three or four others, and each one must require an immense revenue to be cared for as they are. Now, just think of the taxes the people must have levied upon them to keep up all this grandeur. Supposing we had to, by being more largely taxed, pay our governors a sum sufficient to live in such luxury, I think we should soon rebel, and if we did not, I should fear our honest Puritan blood had run out. From the ‘Neue Schloss’ we visited the pretty Greek church, which is a gem, and finished our drive along the Lichtenthal Allée, the beautiful avenue, shaded by magnificent trees and filled with carriages of every description in which were seated lovely women, with gay dresses and sparkling gems. Promenaders from all parts of the world walking up and down, bands of music playing, and bright and brilliant is the scene. Yes, Baden is delightful, and we have been cared for with much thoughtfulness at our hotel and recommend it to all who come this way.

Willbad Springs, Germany, July 25th, 1888.—I do not imagine that you ever heard of this place, but it is worth hearing about. It is a small watering-place, with natural springs, hot and cold, these springs being considered by many the very fountains to dip in to ensure the everlasting duration of youth, strength, and beauty. And here we are visiting our own relatives, who have come from Dresden to tarry a while for the benefit of the waters. How glad we were to see them all—our own kith and kin! Cousin E. and his pretty little ‘foreign’ niece were at the station to meet us, and you may well believe our tongues did run fast for a while. Aunt M. is an encyclopedia of a most charming edition, and has delighted us with stories of her experiences in living and travelling on this continent and with her cordiality towards us. Hundreds of people are here, as the country about is attractive, and then, too, the sick, lame, deaf, and blind come to be made whole. ‘Let us bathe in these wonderful waters,’ said F. Here, as at Baden, there is a fine building in which the baths are fitted up, with all the conveniences, and the water brought into them from the natural springs. What a furnace there must be here in the bowels of good mother earth, and how well regulated to keep this water and send it to her children of just the right temperature for a bath. I could not possibly think of any irregularity of my body that needed doctoring, but was advised that when ‘in Rome I should do as the Romans do,’ and was told also by one of the pleasant assistants (very different from the class at Baden) that many American ladies had derangements of the liver, and I undoubtedly would have some time, being an American, and these baths were a sure preventive as well as a sure cure. I had never thought much about my liver, as it had never called for special attention, but feeling that here was the grand opportunity for ‘taking time by the forelock,’ plunged in. Result: stayed a day longer at Willbad than was my intention. They make very good gruel at Willbad! I had no right to the healing properties of Willbad waters, for there was nothing wrong with my constitution. The waters took their own way of revenging imposition.

July 26th, 1888.—Have been in the house all day. This evening half of our household went to the opera and the rest of us listened to some fine music in the Park. The band was a splendid one, and the programme contained choice selections, such as we should have to pay a dollar or two to hear at home. How full of music these Germans are, and how soulfully they execute! We have just decided not to go with E. to Bayreuth to the Wagner Festival, but to take the time to see more of this country, for this we cannot have at home, but we can have Wagner’s music, and, better still, our own Symphony and Gericke. We lingered in the drawing-room of our relatives late, hating to say ‘good-night,’ for the morning will be the beginning of a longer parting. And when shall we all meet again. Adieus must be said, and when we thanked our friends for the pleasant time with them they said, ‘But we have done so little!’ Ah! life is made up of little things; loving words, smiles, and kindly acts win the heart always.

Hotel de l’Europe, Heidelberg, Germany, July 27th, 1888.—On our way here from Willbad we stopped for a few hours at Carlsruhe, which is one of the residences of the Court of Baden and is the capital of the grand duchy of Baden. We are getting tired of palaces, so, instead of visiting the very magnificent one at Carlsruhe, spent what time we had in the palace gardens and in the botanical garden, the orangery, and the hothouses. The flowers are about the same as we have at similar places at home, with a few plants and blossoms strangers to us. We reached Heidelberg at five P.M. and were considered distinguished arrivals, I am sure, for a carpet was spread awaiting our footsteps from the carriage to the hotel door and several gentlemen in dress suits stood in a line with folded arms and bowed very low to us as we passed along. Now, this was delightful! They never do that at Parker’s or Young’s when we go there. This hotel is fine, standing in the centre of a pretty garden. We have a luxurious room and on the first floor. We are getting to like the single beds, one apiece, that we have everywhere over here very much, for if one does feel like taking the ‘spoon fashion’ position, there is no one with coequal rights near to object. Nor are the employees as attentive at the home hotels. Here we no sooner get settled in our rooms than the polite portier appears, takes our names and residence; no going to the office to register here, and the letters U. S. A. act like magic, for are not the United States of America overrun with millionaires, and so many of them resort to travel purposely to get rid of a portion of their troublesome, superfluous incomes. ‘Would we like a glass of wine brought to our room? Is our room satisfactory? Perhaps we would like a special maid during our stay, which he hopes will be long. When it suits us to allow him, it will give him much pleasure to tell us about the city and what to visit and the pleasantest way to see all.’ Well, really, these portiers are invaluable, and although there may be some grasping ones, who impose upon strangers, we have found nearly all of great assistance and apparently well satisfied with what we have given them, which has never been more than we felt that they deserved for service rendered.

We took a drive about the city, which is a long, narrow place sandwiched in between the river Neckar and the hills, on the highest one of which stands the ruins of the old castle. We were driven through a long avenue, with pretty trees on each side and some residences, but more stores, and the sidewalks filled with people. This street is called the Anlage; and is the principal boulevard of the city. We saw the ‘Helig Geist Kirche’—Church of the Holy Ghost, into which the people of Heidelberg were driven, crowded in like animals, so closely that they could not move, by the French army in the time of Louis XIV., and left there to suffer, until the steeple took fire as the town was being burned. This old structure has had many critical changes in its history, and is now divided by a thick wall, on one side of which the Roman Catholics worship, and on the other the Protestants. Our driver was a talker, and told us much we understood, and more that we did not, of the places of interest we passed. ‘Now show us the university buildings,’ we said, and he soon halted in front of an old, plastered or stuccoed structure, that resembled barracks more than a renowned seat of learning, and was a great disappointment to us. A drive over an old stone bridge, from the farther end of which we had a charming view of the castle perched on the mountain side, overhanging the town, with its towers, battlements and arches, a regal ruin in truth, and back to our hotel, ended our first sight of Heidelberg.

We had scarcely entered our room when a band of musicians stationed themselves directly under our window and struck up the ‘Wedding March’ from Lohengrin, and it was exquisitely played too, and on fine instruments. We came to the conclusion that we were supposed to be brides on our wedding tour, and had commenced disciplining our ‘better halves’ by leaving them at home, as we find it is a source of great wonder to the Europeans, and especially to the English and the Germans, that the American wives travel about so much without their husbands. One lovely German lady, in Baden, in speaking on this subject, said to me, ‘And what do these husbands left alone do?’ ‘Do?’ I answered, ‘why, they not only attend to their own business matters, but they run the house, take care of the children, and write daily love letters to their absent wives, and love them better than ever, if possible, when they reach home again. You must believe,’ I said, ‘that American husbands are the best in the world, and that with us, in all grades of life, wives are treated with tenderness and consideration, and as equals.’ She looked a little incredulous, and I could not wonder when I thought of the pitiable sights of her country, that are before us daily, of women, bronze faced, half dressed, working in the fields, digging, hoeing, pushing the plough; in the towns breaking stone, sawing wood, and bending beneath heavy loads of many kinds, carried on head or back, while their husbands take their ease, at the barracks, perhaps, and when at home take the money earned by their wives. One of the worst features, too, of this condition of things is that the women do not rebel; if their husbands take them into the gardens on Sunday, and drink beer with them, often paid for with the little earnings of the overworked wives, they are satisfied. Poor things, they have never known anything better. Amongst the poor of Germany, matrimony was not commenced right. I think the military laws of the country are to blame greatly for the degradation of the women of the so-called lower classes. A man who is or has been in the army considers it beneath him to do honest labor, but not beneath him to allow his wife to do it.

July 28th, 1888.—Life is a glorious gift, and a morning so bright and lovely as this makes one thankful! Immediately after breakfast we went to the castle, of which we have had views from a distance, and of which all our lives we have heard so much. There it stood, massive and grand, the most magnificent architectural ruin in the world. It is a ruin, but there is very much more of the original building left than of Kenilworth, that has walls only left; this has halls, rooms, and chapels, some of which have been restored. There is a moat around it, after crossing which we passed under and through a picturesque gateway, from which ivy and wild vines were waving, and entered the courtyard. The façade is of three stories, and on it are allegorical figures, statues, medallions, and stone carvings. Tradition gives Michael Angelo as the architect of this façade. Ball-rooms and banquet-halls were shown to us, some containing paintings in a fairly good state of preservation, which seems more remarkable when we consider that they have been there since long before America was discovered. Of the woman who acted as our guide we asked many questions, for one feels so much more interest in the history of a place when on the spots talked of. She was well informed, and told us what we had often read, that the castle was built in the thirteenth century, and that for several hundred years the Counts Palatine lived here in royal magnificence, and that at one period eighteen hundred persons formed the family, or the Court, of the Elector. No wonder they needed fireplaces large enough to roast oxen whole. The building was several times partly destroyed by armies, but was rendered useless to live in by lightning, at last.

What jolly times the high in power and the old sprigs of royalty in those days meant to have! One would have surely a dull imagination, or no imagination at all, who could here wander from room to room and not see with the mind’s eye the revellings of the long ago. The big tun in the cellar is hogshead-shaped, and really will hold forty-nine thousand gallons, and has been twelve times filled with the best wines. Can you comprehend such an amount, and a receptacle huge enough to contain it? The ‘Elizabethan Bau’ still shows that Frederick V. brought his bride, Elizabeth of England, to a princely home. But the silence and the decay of these ‘banquet halls deserted’ remind us forcibly of the brevity of the power and glory of this life, and should be a lesson to us to prepare for the life to come, which only is lasting. The wonderful beauty of the castle itself, the romantic situation, and the exquisite landscape views from its rich stone terrace, will be choice pictures in our memories for many a day.

There are but few attractive shops in Heidelberg; plenty of bologna sausages and pretzels; portraits and photographs of the two dead emperors everywhere, and many of the new Emperor William. ‘The king is dead. Long live the king.’ The city seems full of soldiers, all with black crape on their arms, and the citizens—men, women, and children—wear it also. Everything shows to us that we are indeed in Germany.

In our walks and drives in the town we have looked for the university students, and we have seen them—plenty of them, with faces cut and scarred, court-plastered and bandaged. What an abominable custom is this: to allow these naturally fine looking young men to make each other so hideous and repulsive in appearance for the rest of their lives. The American students here have nothing whatever to do with this disgraceful custom, and yet the Germans know well they are no cowards. A student from New York gave evidence of his willingness to risk his life, in a really noble act, by jumping into the River Neckar and saving the life of a child who had fallen from the bridge here, a short time ago. These German students are formed into five sections, or corps, and the members of each corps wear caps alike, so that it may be known by all who see them to which corps they belong. The colors are white, yellow, red, blue, and green, and the members of one corps never allow themselves to be in the least friendly with members of any other corps, for they may have to haggle them with swords within the next twenty-four hours. These corps students, we are told, belong to the most aristocratic families of Germany, and yet at the slightest provocation, and indeed with no provocation at all, they fight each other like wild cats. Very recently one of the red caps, by mistake, took a book belonging to a white cap, was challenged for so doing, and was slashed with his opponent’s sword unmercifully. I tell you this, as told to us, to show you how little it takes to cause a duel. If the members of the corps do not challenge each other, the president of a corps challenges for them—fight they must, or be forever branded as cowards, and to show the slightest sign of being afraid to do so would make life in Heidelberg unbearable for them forever after. In the duel, no matter how seriously one is hurt—his ear may be cut off, or his nose split—he must not wince or show a sign of the ‘white feather.’ Now is not this disgusting? Brave they say it makes them! Thank God, our young men show their bravery in nobler directions! Seeing students everywhere in our strolls about town, I wondered when they studied, and asked many questions in regard to the rules of the university. It seems rules are few. Heidelberg University gives to all who choose to hear, at a very small charge, lectures on all the sciences and arts, delivered by men of great wisdom; so if students wish to learn, they have great opportunities. If they are indifferent, everybody else is in regard to them; they can do as they please. We heard a great deal of their capacity for, and indulgence in, beer drinking, but saw little of it.

In the old castle there is a banquet-room where they congregate for their revels often. This grand old ruin now belongs to the Duke of Baden.

We have made some purchases of leather goods here—pocket-books, card-cases, and so forth, extremely pretty and cheap—and they all bear the impress of the castle; so you shall see many views of it when we get home. At our hotel to-day a young American girl heard of the sudden death of her father, and refused to be comforted. Poor dear child, how our hearts went out in sympathy for her. And how hard it is for us all, amid the sorrows and griefs of this life, to keep always God’s love for us in view.

LETTER VII.

LETTER VIII.

LETTER IX.