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Title: Over the Ocean - or, Sights and Scenes in Foreign Lands
Author: Guild, Curtis
Language: English
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                         OVER THE OCEAN;
                        SIGHTS AND SCENES
                                IN
                          FOREIGN LANDS.

                                BY
                          CURTIS GUILD,

            EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COMMERCIAL BULLETIN.

                              BOSTON:
                   LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS.
                             NEW YORK:
                   LEE, SHEPARD AND DILLINGHAM.
                               1871.


     Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871,
                       BY LEE AND SHEPARD,
    In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

           Cambridge: Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.

          Stereotyped at the Boston Stereotype Foundry,
                       No. 10 Spring Lane.



PREFACE.


The following pages are the record of the fruition of years of desire
and anticipation; probably the same that fills the hearts of many who
will read them--a tour in Europe.

The habits of observation, acquired by many years' constant occupation
as a journalist, were found by the author to have become almost second
nature, even when the duties of that profession were thrown aside for
simple gratification and enjoyment; consequently, during a journey of
nearly seven months, which was enjoyed with all the zest of a first
tour, the matter which composes this volume was prepared.

Its original form was in a series of sketches in the columns of the
Boston Commercial Bulletin. In these the writer attempted to give as
vivid and exact an idea of the sights and scenes which he witnessed as
could be conveyed to those who had never visited Europe.

Whether describing Westminster Abbey, or York Minster,
Stratford-on-Avon, or the streets of London; the wonders of the Louvre,
or the gayeties and glitter of Paris; the grandeur of the Alpine passes;
the quaintness of old continental cities; experiences of post
travelling; the romantic beauties of the Italian lakes; the underground
wonders of Adelsberg, or the aqueous highways of Venice,--the author
aimed to give many minute particulars, which foreign letter-writers deem
of too little importance to mention, but which, nevertheless, are of
great interest to the reader.

That the effort was, in some measure, successful, has been evinced by a
demand for the sketches in permanent form, sufficient to warrant the
publication of this volume.

In so presenting them, it is with the belief that it may be pleasant to
those who have visited the same scenes to revisit them in fancy with the
writer, and with a hope that the volume may, in some degree, serve as a
guide to those who intend to go "over the ocean," as well as an
agreeable entertainment to the stay-at-homes.

      C. G.



CONTENTS.


                                                                  PAGE
    CHAPTER I.

    Going Abroad.--What it costs.--Hints to Tourists.--Life
    on board Ship.--Land Ho!--Examining Luggage.--The Emerald
    Isle.--Blarney Castle.--Dublin.--Dublin Castle.--St.
    Patrick's Cathedral.--Cheap John's Paradise.--Phoenix
    Park.--Across the Irish Sea.--Railroad travelling in
    England.--Guard _vs._ Conductor.--Word to the Wise.--
    Railroad Stations.--An Old English City.--Chester
    Cathedral.--The City Walls.                                   1-28


    CHAPTER II.

    Chester to Liverpool.--An English Breakfast.--A Trial of
    Patience.--Liverpool Docks.--St. George's Hall.--Poverty
    and Suffering.--The Lake District.--Home of the Poets.--
    Keswick.--An English Church.--The Druids' Temple.--
    Brougham Hall.--A Roadside Inn.                              28-46


    CHAPTER III.

    Edinburgh.--Historic Streets.--Edinburgh Castle.--Bonnie
    Dundee.--Rooms of Historic Story.--The Scottish Regalia.
    --Curiosities of the Old City.--Holyrood Palace.--Relics
    of the Past.--Holyrood Abbey.--Antiquarian Museum.--Scott
    and Scotland.--Hawthornden.--Roslin Chapel.--Melrose
    Abbey.--The  Abbey Hotel.--Abbotsford.--Stirling Castle.--
    The Tournament Field.--Field of Bannockburn.--Lady of the
    Lake Scenes.--Scotch Lakes and Hills.                        47-79


    CHAPTER IV.

    Glasgow Cathedral.--Vestiges of Vandalism.--Bible Stories
    in Colored Glass.--The Actor's Epitaph.--Tam O'Shanter's
    Ride.--Burns's Cottage.--Kirk Alloway.--A Reminder from
    the Witches.--Bonnie Doon.--Newcastle-on-Tyne.--York.--
    Beauties of York Minster.--Old Saxon Relics.--Sheffield.--
    The Cutlery Works.--English Mechanics.--English Ale.--
    Chatsworth.--Interior of the Palace.--Sculpture Gallery.--
    Landscape Effects.--Grand Conservatory.--Haddon Hall.       80-115


    CHAPTER V.

    Kenilworth.--Stratford on Avon.--Interesting Mementos.--
    Stratford Church.--Shakespeare's Safeguard.--Warwick
    Castle.--Dungeon and Hall.--Warder's Horn and Warwick
    Vase.--Leicester's Hospital.--Beauchamp Chapel.--Mugby
    Junction.--Oxford.--The Mitre Tavern.--Bodleian Library.
    --Literary Treasures.--Curiosities and Rarities.--Story
    of an Old Portrait.--Queen Bess on Matrimony.--Addison's
    Walk.--Boating on the Isis.--Martyr's Memorial.            116-151


    CHAPTER VI.

    London.--Feeing Servants.--Railway Porters.--London
    Hotels.--Sights in London Streets.--Cabs and Cab-drivers.
    --London Shops.--Hints to Buyers.--A London Banking-house.
    --Routine _vs._ Courtesy.--Westminster Abbey.--Tombs of
    Kings and Warriors.--Poets' Corner.--Tributes to Genius.
    --Penny Steamboat Trip.--Kew Gardens.--The Star and
    Garter.                                                    152-185


    CHAPTER VII.

    The Original Wax Works.--London Theatres.--Full Dress at
    the Opera.--Play Bills.--A Palace for the People.--Parks
    of London.--Zoölogical Gardens.--The Tower of London.--The
    Silver Key.--Site of the Scaffold.--Knights in Armor.--
    Regalia of England.--St. Paul's.--The Whispering Gallery.
    --Up into the Ball.--Down into the Crypt.--Gog and Magog.
    --Bank of England.--Hampton Court Palace.--The Gardens and
    People.--Windsor Castle.--Windsor Parks.--London
    Newspapers.--The Times.--The British Museum.--
    Bibliographical Curiosities.--Egyptian Galleries.--A
    Wealth of Antiquities.--Original Magna Charta.--Priceless
    Manuscripts.                                               185-246


    CHAPTER VIII.

    From London to Paris.--Grand Hotels.--The Arch of Triumph.
    --Paris by Gaslight.--Site of the Guillotine.--
    Improvements in Paris.--The Bastille.--The Old Guard.--The
    Louvre.--Gallery of  Masterpieces.--Relics of Napoleon I.
    --Palais Royal.--Jewelry.--French Funeral.--Père La Chaise.
    --Millions in Marble.--Tomb of Bonaparte.--Versailles.--
    Halls of the Crusades.--Gallery of the Empire.--Gallery of
    Battles.--Theatre in the Palace.--Fountains at Versailles.
    --Notre Dame.--Sainte Chapelle.--The Madeleine.--The
    Pantheon.--Les Champs Elysées.--Cafés Chantants.--The
    Jardin Mabille.--The Luxembourg.--Palace of St. Cloud.--
    Shops in Paris.--Bargains.                                 246-309


    CHAPTER IX.

    Good by to Paris.--Church of St. Gudule.--Field of
    Waterloo.--Brussels Lace.--Antwerp.--The Cathedral Spire.
    --Dusseldorf.--Cologne Cathedral.--Riches of the Church.
    --Up the Rhine.--Bridge of Boats.--Coblentz and
    Ehrenbreitstein.--Stolzenfels.--Legendary Castles.--Bingen
    on the Rhine.--Roman Remains.--Mayence.--Wiesbaden.--
    Gambling Halls.--Frankfort-on-the-Main.--Heidelberg Castle.
    --The Great Tun.--The King's Seat.--Baden-Baden.--Sabbath
    Amusement.--Satan's Snare baited.--Among the Gamblers.--
    Scene at the Table.--Strasburg Cathedral.--Strasburg
    Clock.--Clock at Basle.--Swiss Railways.--Travelling in
    Switzerland.--Zurich and its Scenery.                      309-375


    CHAPTER X.

    The Righi.--Guides and Alpenstocks.--Climbing the Alps.--
    Night on the Mountain Top.--The Yodlyn.--Lucerne.--
    Wonderful Organ Playing.--A Sail on Lake Lucerne.--Scene
    of Tell's Archery.--The St. Gothard Pass.--The Devil's
    Bridge.--The Brunig Pass.--A Valley of Beauty.--Interlaken.
    --Staubbach Waterfall.--Glaciers and Avalanches.--An
    Illuminated Waterfall.--Berne.--The Freiburg Organ.--Lake
    Leman.--The Prison of Chillon.--Geneva.--Swiss Washerwomen.
    --Glaciers by Moonlight.--Sunrise on Mont Blanc.--Valley of
    Chamouny.--View from Flegère.--Climbing again.--Crossing
    the Sea of Ice.--The Mauvais Pass.--Under a Glacier.--The
    Tête Noir Pass.--Italian Post Drivers.--The Rhone Valley.
    --Simplon Pass.--Gorge of Gondo.--Fressinone Waterfall.--
    Domo d'Ossola.--An Italian Inn.--Lake Maggiore.--Milan
    Cathedral.--A Wonderful Statue.--Death and Dross.--The La
    Scala Theatre.--Lake Como.--Italian Monks.--Madesimo
    Waterfall.                                                 376-450


    CHAPTER XI.

     The Splügen Pass.--The Via Main.--Tamina Gorge.--Falls of
    Schaffhausen.--Munich.--Galleries of Paintings.--Grecian
    Sculpture restored.--A Bronze Giant.--Hall of the Colossi.
    --The Palace.--Basilica of St. Boniface.--Salzburg.--
    Aquarial Wonders.--Visiting Lilliput.--Vienna.--Judging by
    Appearances.--Royal Regalia.--Cabinet of Minerals.--The
    Ambras Museum.                                             450-475


    CHAPTER XII.

    Superb Mausoleum.--The Strauss Band.--Summer Palace.--
    Imperial Gallery.--Vienna Leather Work.--Shops and Prices.
    --The Cave of Adelsberg.--Underground Wonders.--Nature's
    Imitation of Art.                                          476-487


    CHAPTER XIII.

    Venice.--Gondolas and Gondoliers.--Shylock.--The Rialto.--
    The Giant's Staircase.--The Lion's Mouth.--Terrible
    Dungeons.--Square of St. Mark.--The Bronze Horses.--Church
    of St. Mark.--Titian's Monument.--Canova's Monument.--
    Cathedrals and Pictures.--Florence.--Art in the Streets.--
    The Uffizi Gallery.--Old Masters in Battalions.--Hall of
    Niobe.--Cabinet of Gems.--Michael Angelo's House.--The
    Duomo.--The Campanile.--Church of Santa Croce.--Michael
    Angelo's Statuary.--Florentine Mosaics.--Medicean Chapel.
    --Pitti Palace.--Halls of the Gods.--The Cascine.--Powers,
    the Sculptor.                                              487-530


    CHAPTER XIV.

    Tower of Pisa.--The Duomo.--Galileo's Lamp.--The
    Baptistery.--Campo Santo.--Over the Apennines.--Genoa.--
    Streets of Genoa.--Pallavicini Gardens.--Water Jokes.--
    Turin to Susa.--Mt. Cenis Pass.--Paris again.--Down in the
    Sewers.                                                    531-548


    CHAPTER XV.

    Sic transit.--English Rudeness.--Wonders of London.--
    Looking towards Home.--Last Purchases.--English
    Conservatism.--Reunion of Tourists.--All aboard.--Home
    again.                                                     549-558



OVER THE OCEAN.



CHAPTER I.


Do you remember, dear reader, when you were a youngster, and studied a
geography with pictures in it, or a "First" or "Second" Book of History,
and wondered, as you looked upon the wood-cuts in them, if you should
ever see St. Paul's Cathedral, or Westminster Abbey, or London Bridge,
or go to the Tower of London, and into the very room in which the poor
little princes were smothered by the order of their cruel uncle Richard,
by the two rude fellows in a sort of undress armor suit, as depicted in
the Child's History of England, or should ever see the Paris you had
heard your elders talk so much of, or those curious old Rhine castles,
of which we read so many startling legends of robber knights, and fair
ladies, and tournaments, and gnomes, and enchanters? What a realm of
enchantment to us, story-book readers, was beyond the great blue ocean!
and how we resolved, when we grew to be a man, we would travel all over
the world, and see every thing, and buy ever so many curious things in
the countries where they grew or were made. Even that compound which
produced "the finest jet black ever beheld," was to us invested with a
sort of poetic interest in boyhood's day, for the very stone jug that we
held in our hand had come from London,--"97 High Holborn,"--and there
was the picture of the palatial-looking factory on the pink label.

LONDON! There was something sonorous in the sound, and something solid
in the very appearance of the word when written. When we were a man,
didn't we mean to go to London!

Years added to youth dissipated many of these air-built castles, and
other barriers besides the watery plain intervene between the goal of
one's wishes, and Europe looks further away than ever. "Going to Europe!
Everybody goes to Europe nowadays," says a friend. True, and in these
days of steam it is not so much of an event as formerly; indeed, one
would judge so from many of his countrymen that he meets abroad, who
make him blush to think how they misrepresent Americans.

The Great Expositions at London and Paris drew from our shores every
American who could by any manner of means or excuse leave business, and
obtain funds sufficient to get over and back, if only for a six weeks'
visit. The Exposition brought out to Paris and to Europe, among the
swarm of Americans who went over, many such, and some who had scarcely
visited beyond the confines of their native cities before crossing the
Atlantic. These people, by their utter inexperience as travellers, and
by their application of the precept inculcated in their minds that money
would answer for brains, was a substitute for experience, and the only
passport that would be required anywhere and for anything, became a
source of mortification to their countrymen, easy game for swindling
landlords and sharp shop-keepers, and rendered all the great routes of
travel more beset with extortions and annoyances than ever before.

But about "going to Europe." When one decides to start on a pleasure
trip to that country for the first time, how many very simple things he
wishes to know, that correspondents and people who write for the papers
have never said anything about. After having once or twice gone over in
a steamship, it never seems to occur to these writers that anybody else
will want to become acquainted with the little minutiæ of information
respecting life on board ship during the trip, and which most people do
not like to say they know nothing about; and novices, therefore, have to
clumsily learn by experience, and sometimes at four times the usual
cost.

Speaking of cost, let me say that this is a matter upon which hardly any
two tourists will agree. How much does it cost to go to Europe? Of
course the cost is varied by the style of living and the thoroughness
with which one sees sights; by thoroughness I mean, besides expenditure
of time, the use of extra shillings "_pour boires_," and the skilful
dispensation of extra funds, which will gain admission to many a
forbidden shrine, insure many an unexpected comfort, and shorten many a
weary journey.

There is one popular error which one quickly becomes disabused of, and
that is, that everything abroad is dirt cheap, and it costs a mere song
to live. Good articles always bring good prices. Many may be cheaper
than at home, it is true, but they are by no means thrown away, and good
living in Paris cannot be had, as some suppose, for three francs a day.

If one is going abroad for pleasure, and has a taste for travelling, let
him first decide what countries he wishes to visit, the routes and time
he will take, and then from experienced tourists ascertain about what it
would cost; after having learned this, add twenty per cent. to that
amount, and he will be safe.

Safe in the knowledge that you have enough; safe in being able to make
many little purchases that you will never dream of till you reach Regent
Street, the Boulevards, the "Piazza San Marco," the Florence mosaic
stores, or the Naples coral shops. Safe in making little side excursions
to noted places that you will find on your route, and safe from the
annoying reflection that you might have done so much better, and seen so
much more, if you had not limited the expenditure to that very amount
which your friend said would take you through.

These remarks of course apply only to those who feel that they can
afford but a fixed sum for the journey, and who ought always to wait
till they can allow a little margin to the fixed sum, the more
completely to enjoy the trip.

I have seen Americans in French restaurants actually calculating up the
price of a dinner, and figuring out the price of exchange, to see if
they should order a franc's worth more or less. We may judge how much
such men's enjoyment is abridged.

On the other hand, the class that I refer to, who imagine that money
will pass for everything, increase the cost of travel to all, by their
paying without abatement the demands of landlords and shopkeepers. The
latter class, on the continent, are so accustomed, as a matter of
course, to being "beaten down" in the price, that it has now come to be
a saying among them, that he who pays what is at first demanded must be
a fool or an American. In Paris, during the Exposition, green Englishmen
and freshly-arrived Americans were swindled without mercy. The jewelry
shops of the Rue de la Paix, the Grand Hotel, the shops of the Palais
Royal, and the very Boulevard cafés fleeced men unmercifully. The
entrance of an American into a French store was always the occasion of
adding from twenty to twenty-five per cent. to the regular price of the
goods. It was a rich harvest to the cringing crew, who, with smirks,
shrugs, bows, and _pardonnez moi's_ in the oiliest tones, swindled and
cheated without mercy, and then, over their half franc's worth of black
coffee at the restaurant, or glass of absinthe, compared notes with each
other, and boasted, not how much trade they had secured or business they
had done, but how much beyond the legitimate price they had got from the
foreign purchaser, whom they laughed at.

All the guide-books and many tourists exclaim against baggage, and urge
the travelling with a single small trunk, or, as they call it in
England, portmanteau. This is very well for a bachelor, travelling
entirely alone, and who expects to go into no company, and will save
much time and expense at railway stations; but there is some comfort in
having wardrobe enough and some space for small purchases, even if a
little extra has to be paid. It is the price of convenience in one
respect, although the continual weighing of and charging for baggage is
annoying to an American, who is unused to that sort of thing; and one
very curious circumstance is discovered in this weighing, no two scales
on the continent give the same weight of the same luggage.

Passage tickets from America to Europe it is, of course, always best to
secure some time in advance, and a previous visit to the steamer may aid
the fresh tourist in getting a state-room near the centre of the ship,
near the cabin stairs, and one having a dead-light, all of which are
desirable things.

Have some old clothes to wear on the voyage; remember it is cold
at sea even in summer; and carry, besides your overcoat and warm
under-clothing, some shawls and railway rugs, the latter to lie round on
deck with when you are seasick.

There is no cure for seasickness; keep on deck, and take as much
exercise as possible; hot drinks, and a hot water bottle at the feet are
reliefs.

People's appetites come to them, after seasickness, for the most
unaccountable things, and as soon as the patient 'hankers' for anything,
by all means let him get it, if it is to be had on board; for it is a
sure sign of returning vigor, and in nine cases out of ten, is the very
thing that will bring the sufferer relief. I have known a delicate young
lady, who had been unable to eat anything but gruel for three days,
suddenly have an intense longing for corned beef and cabbage, and, after
eating heartily of it, attend her meals regularly the remainder of the
voyage. Some make no effort to get well from port to port, and live in
their state-rooms on the various little messes they imagine may relieve
them, and which are promptly brought either by the stewardess or bedroom
steward of the section of state-rooms they occupy.

The tickets on the Cunard line express, or did express, that the amount
received includes "stewards' fees;" but any one who wants to be well
served on the trip will find that a sovereign to the table steward, and
one to the bedroom steward,--the first paid the last day before reaching
port, and the second by instalments of half to commence with, and half
just before leaving,--will have a marvellously good effect, and that it
is, in fact, an expected fee. If it is your first voyage, and you expect
to be sick, speak to the state-room steward, who has charge of the room
you occupy, or the stewardess, if you have a lady with you; tell him you
shall probably need his attention, and he must look out for you; hand
him half a sovereign and your card, with the number of your room, and
you will have occasion to experience most satisfactorily the value of
British gold before the voyage is over. If a _desirable_ seat at the
table is required in the dining-saloon--that is, an outside or end seat,
where one can get out and in easily,--or at the table at which the
captain sometimes presides, a similar interview with the saloon steward,
a day or two before sailing, may accomplish it.

Besides these stewards, there are others, who are known as deck
stewards, who wait upon seasick passengers, who lie about the decks in
various nooks, in pleasant weather, and who have their meals brought to
them by these attentive fellows from the cabin table. It is one phase of
seasickness that some of the sufferers get well enough to lie languidly
about in the fresh, bracing air, and can eat certain viands they may
fancy for the nonce, but upon entering the enclosed saloon, are at once,
from the confined air or the more perceptible motion of the ship,
afflicted with a most irrepressible and disagreeable nausea.

Well, the ticket for Liverpool is bought, your letter of credit
prepared, and you are all ready for your first trip across the water.
People that you know, who have been often, ask, in a _nonchalant_ style,
what "boat" you are going "over" in; you thought it was a steamer, and
the easy style with which they talk of running over for a few weeks, or
should have gone this month, if they hadn't been so busy, or they shall
probably see you in Vienna, or Rome, or St. Petersburg, causes you to
think that this, to you, tremendous undertaking of a first voyage over
the Atlantic is to be but an insignificant excursion, after all, and
that the entire romance of the affair and the realizing of your
imagination is to be dissolved like one of youth's castles in the air.
So it seems as you ride down to the steamer, get on board, pushing amid
the crowds of passengers and leave-taking friends; and not until a last,
and perhaps, tearful leave-taking, and when the vessel fairly swings out
into the stream, and you respond to the fluttering signal of dear ones
on shore, till rapid receding renders face and form indistinguishable,
do you realize that you are fairly launched on the great ocean, and
friends and home are left behind, as they never have been before.

One's first experience upon the great, awful Ocean is never to be
forgotten. My esteem for that great navigator, Christopher Columbus, has
risen one hundred per cent. since I have crossed it, to think of the
amount of courage, strength of mind, and faith it must have required to
sustain him in his venturesome voyage in the frail and imperfect crafts
which those of his day must have been.

Two days out, and the great broad sweep of the Atlantic makes its
influence felt upon all who are in any degree susceptible. To the
landsman, the steamship seems to have a regular gigantic see-saw motion,
very much like that of the toy ships that used to rise and fall on mimic
waves, moved by clock-work, on clocks that used to be displayed in the
store windows of jewellers and fancy dealers. Now the bows rise with a
grand sweep,--now they sink again as the vessel plunges into an
advancing wave,--up and down, up and down, and forging ahead to the
never-ceasing, tremulous jar of the machinery. In the calmest weather
there is always one vast swell, and when wind or storm prevails, it is
both grand and terrible.

The great, vast ocean is something so much beyond anything I ever
imagined,--the same vast expanse of dark-blue rolling waves as far as
the eye can reach,--day after day, day after day,--the great ship a mere
speck, an atom in the vast circle of water,--water everywhere. The very
wind sounds differently than on land; a cheerful breeze is like the
breath of a giant, and a playful wave will send a dozen hogsheads of
water over the lofty bulwarks.

But in a stiff breeze, when a great wave strikes like an iron avalanche
against the ship, she seems to pause and shudder, as it were, beneath
the blow; then, gathering strength from the unceasing throb of the
mighty power within, urges her way bravely on, while far as the eye can
reach, as the ship sinks in the watery valleys, you see the great black
tossing waves, all crested with spray and foam, like a huge squadron of
white-plumed giant cavalry. The spray sometimes flies high over the
smoke-stack, and a dash of saline drops, coming fiercely into the face,
feels like a handful of pebbles. A look around on the vast expanse, and
the ship which at the pier seemed so huge, so strong, so unyielding,
becomes an atom in comparison,--is tossed, like a mere feather, upon old
Ocean's bosom; and one realizes how little is between him and eternity.
There seem to be no places that to my mind bring man so sensibly into
the presence of Almighty God as in the midst of the ocean during a
storm, or amid the grand and lofty peaks of the Alps; all other feelings
are swallowed up in the mute acknowledgment of God's majesty and man's
insignificance.

If ever twelve days seem long to a man, it is during his first voyage
across the Atlantic; and the real beauty of green grass is best
appreciated by seeing it on the shores of Queenstown as the steamer
sails into Cork harbor.

Land again! How well we all are! A sea voyage,--it is nothing. Every one
who is going ashore here is in the bustle of preparation.

We agree to meet A and party in London; we will call on B in
Paris,--yes, we shall come across C in Switzerland. How glib we are
talking of the old country! for here it is,--no three thousand miles of
ocean to cross now. A clear, bright Sunday morning, and we are going
ashore in the little tug which we can see fuming down the harbor to meet
us.

We part with companions with a feeling of regret. Seated on the deck of
the little tug, the steamer again looms up, huge and gigantic, and we
wonder that the ocean could have so tossed her about. But the bell
rings, the ropes are cast off, the tug steams away, our late companions
give us three parting cheers, and we respond as the distance rapidly
widens between us.

Custom-house officials examine your luggage on the tug. American
tourists have but very little trouble, and the investigation is slight;
cigars and fire-arms not forming a prominent feature in your luggage,
but little, if any, inconvenience may be anticipated.

This ordeal of the custom-house constitutes one of the most terrible
bugbears of the inexperienced traveller. It is the common opinion that
an inspection of your baggage means a general and reckless overhauling
of the personal property in your trunks--a disclosure of the secrets of
the toilet, perhaps of the meagreness of your wardrobe, and a laying of
profane hands on things held especially sacred. Ladies naturally dread
this experience, and gentlemen, too, who have been foolish enough to
stow away some little articles that custom-house regulations have placed
under the ban. But the examination is really a very trifling affair; it
is conducted courteously and rapidly, and the traveller laughs to
himself about his unfounded apprehensions.

The tug is at the wharf; the very earth has a pleasant smell; let us get
on _terra firma_. Now, then, a landsman finds out, after his first
voyage, what "sea legs" on and sea legs off, that he has read of so much
in books, mean.

He cannot get used to the steadiness of the ground, or rather, get at
once rid of the unsteadiness of the ship. I found myself reeling from
side to side on the sidewalk, and on entering the Queen's Hotel, holding
on to a desk with one hand, to steady myself, while I wrote with the
other. The rolling motion of the ship, to which you have become
accustomed, is once more perceptible; and I knew one friend, who did not
have a sick day on board ship, who was taken landsick two hours after
stepping on shore, and had as thorough a casting up of accounts for an
hour as any of us experienced on the steamer at sea. The Cunard steamers
generally arrive at, or used to arrive at, Queenstown on Sunday
mornings, and all who land are eager to get breakfast ashore. We tried
the Queen's Hotel, where we got a very fair breakfast, and were charged
six or eight shillings for the privilege of the ladies sitting in a room
till the meal was ready for us--the first, and I think the only,
positive swindle I experienced in Ireland. After breakfast the first
ride on an English (or rather Irish) railway train took us to Cork. The
road was through a lovely country, and, although it was the first of
May, green with verdure as with us in June--no harsh New England east
winds; and one can easily see in this country how May-day came to be
celebrated with May-queens, dances, and May-poles.

To us, just landed from the close steamer, how grateful was the
fragrance of the fresh earth, the newly-blossomed trees, and the hedges
all alive with twittering sparrows! The country roads were smooth, hard,
and clear as a ball-room floor; the greensward, fresh and bright, rolled
up in luxuriant waves to the very foot of the great brown-trunked trees;
chapel bells were tolling, and we saw the Irish peasantry trudging along
to church, for all the world as though they had just stepped out of the
pictures in the story-books. There were the women with blue-gray cloaks,
with hoods at the back, and broad white caps, men in short corduroys,
brogues, bobtail coats, caubeens and shillalah; then there was an
occasional little tip-cart of the costermonger and his wife, drawn by a
donkey; the jaunting-car, with half a dozen merry occupants, all forming
the moving figures in the rich landscape of living green in herbage, and
the soft brown of the half moss-covered stone walls, or the corrugated
stems of the great trees.

We were on shore again; once more upon a footing that did not slide from
beneath the very step, and the never-ending broad expanse of heaving
blue was exchanged for the more grateful scene of pleasant fields and
waving trees; the sufferings of a first voyage had already begun to live
in remembrance only as a hideous nightmare.

A good hotel at Cork is the Imperial Hotel; the attendance prompt, the
chamber linen fresh and clean, the viands well prepared.

The scenery around Cork is very beautiful, especially on the eastern
side, on what is known as the upper and lower Glanmere roads, which
command fine views. The principal promenade is a fine raised avenue, or
walk, over a mile in length, extending through the meadows midway
between two branches of the River Lee, and shaded by a double row of
lofty and flourishing elms.

Our first walk in Ireland was from the Imperial Hotel to the Mardyke.
Fifteen minutes brought us to the River Lee; and now, with the city
proper behind us, did we enjoy the lovely scene spread out to view.

In the month of May one realizes why Ireland is called the Emerald
Isle--such lovely green turf, thick, luxurious, and velvety to the
tread, and so lively a green; fancy New England grass varnished and
polished, and you have it. The shade trees were all in full leaf, the
fruit trees in full flower; sheep and lambs gamboling upon the
greensward, birds piping in the hedges, and _such_ hedges, and
laburnums, and clambering ivy, and hawthorn, the air perfumed with
blossoms, the blue sky in the background pierced by the turrets of an
old edifice surrounded by tall trees, round which wheeled circles of
cawing rooks; the little cottages we passed, half shrouded in beautiful
clambering Irish ivy, that was peopled by the nests of the brisk little
sparrows, filling the air with their twitterings; the soft spring
breeze, and the beautiful reach of landscape--all seemed a realization
of some of those scenes that poets write of, and which we sometimes
fancy owe their existence to the luxuriance of imagination.

Returning, we passed through another portion of the city, which gave us
a somewhat different view; it was nearly a mile of Irish cabins. Of
course one prominent feature was dirt, and we witnessed Pat in all his
national glory. A newly-arrived American cannot help noticing the
deference paid to caste and position; we, who treat Irish servants and
laborers so well as we do, are surprised to see how much better _they_
treat their employers in Ireland, and how little kind treatment the
working class receive from those immediately above them.

The civil and deferential Pat who steps aside for a well-dressed couple
to pass, and touches his hat, in Cork, is vastly different from the
independent, voting Pat that elbows you off the sidewalk, or puffs his
fragrant pipe into your very face in America. In Ireland he accepts a
shilling with gratitude, and invocation of blessings on the donor; in
America he condescends to receive two dollars a day! A fellow-passenger
remarked that in the old country they were a race of Touch-hats, in the
new one of Go to ----. I found them here obliging and civil, ready to
earn an honest penny, and grateful for it, and much more inclined to
"blarney" a little extra from the traveller than to swindle it out of
him.

I made an arrangement with a lively driver to take us to the celebrated
Blarney Castle in a jaunting-car--a delightful vehicle to ride in of a
pleasant spring day, as it was on that of our excursion. The cars for
these rides are hung on springs, are nicely cushioned, and the four
passengers sit back to back, facing to the side; and there being no
cover or top to the vehicle, there is every opportunity of seeing the
passing landscape.

No American who has been interested in the beautiful descriptions of
English and Irish scenery by the British poets can realize their
truthfulness until he looks upon it, the characteristics of the scenery,
and the very climate, are so different from our own. The ride to Blarney
Castle is a delightfully romantic one, of about six miles; the road,
which is smooth, hard, and kept in excellent order, winds upon a side
hill of the River Lee, which you see continually flashing in and out in
its course through the valley below; every inch of ground appears to be
beautifully cultivated. The road is lined with old brown stone walls,
clad with ivy of every variety--dark-green, polished leaf, Irish ivy,
small leaf, heart leaf, broad leaf, and lance leaf, such as we see
cultivated in pots and green-houses at home, was here flourishing in
wild luxuriance.

The climate here is so moist that every rock and stone fence is clad
with some kind of verdure; the whole seems to satisfy the eye. The old
trees are circled round and round in the ivy clasp; the hedges are in
their light-green livery of spring; there are long reaches of pretty
rustic lanes, with fresh green turf underneath grand old trees, and
there are whole banks of violets and primroses--yes, whole banks of such
pretty, yellow primroses as we preserve singly in pots at home.

There are grand entrances to avenues leading up to stately estates,
pretty ivy-clad cottages, peasants' miserable, thatched cabins, great
sweeps of green meadow, and the fields and woods are perfectly musical
with singing birds, so unlike America: there are linnets, that pipe
beautifully; finches, thrushes, and others, that fill the air with their
warblings; skylarks, that rise in regular circles high into the air,
singing beautifully, till lost to vision; rooks, that caw solemnly, and
gather in conclaves on trees and roofs. Nature seems trying to cover the
poverty and squalor that disfigures the land with a mantle of her own
luxuriance and beauty.

Blarney Castle is a good specimen of an old ruin of that description for
the newly-arrived tourist to visit, as it will come up to his
expectation in many respects, in appearance, as to what he imagined a
ruined castle to be, from books and pictures. It is a fine old building,
clad inside and out with ivy, situated near a river of the same name,
and on a high limestone rock; it was built in the year 1300. In the
reign of Elizabeth it was the strongest fortress in Munster, and at
different periods has withstood regular sieges; it was demolished, all
but the central tower, in the year 1646.

The celebrated Blarney Stone is about two feet below the summit of the
tower, and held in its place by iron stanchions; and as one is obliged
to lie at full length, and stretch over the verge of the parapet, having
a friend to hold upon your lower limbs, for fear an accidental slip or
giddiness may send you a hundred feet below, it may be imagined that the
act of kissing the Blarney Stone is not without its perils. However,
that duty performed, and a charming view enjoyed of the rich undulating
country from the summit, and inspection made of some of the odd little
turret chambers of the tower, and loopholes for archery, we descended,
gratified the old woman who acts as key-bearer by crossing her palm with
silver, strolled amid the beautiful groves of Blarney for a brief
period, and finally rattled off again in our jaunting-cars over the
romantic road.

The Shelborne House, Dublin, is a hotel after the American style, a good
Fifth Avenue sort of affair, clean, and well kept, and opposite a
beautiful park (Stephens Green). Americans will find this to be a house
that will suit their tastes and desires as well, if not better, than any
other in Dublin. Sackville Street, in Dublin, is said to be one of the
finest streets in Europe. I cannot agree with the guide-books in this
opinion, although, standing on Carlisle Bridge, and looking down this
broad avenue, with the Nelson Monument, one hundred and ten feet in
height, in the centre, and its stately stores on each side, it certainly
has a very fine appearance. Here I first visited shops on the other side
of the water, and the very first thing that strikes an American is the
promptness with which he is served, the civility with which he is
treated, the immense assortment and variety of goods, and the effort of
the salesmen to do everything to accommodate the purchaser. They seem to
say, by their actions, "We are put here to attend to buyers' wants; to
serve them, to wait upon them, to make the goods and the establishment
attractive; to sell goods, and we want to sell goods." On the other
hand, in our own country the style and manner of the clerks is too often
that of "I'm just as good, and a little better, than you--buy, if you
want, or leave--we don't care whether we sell or not--it's a
condescension to inform you of our prices; don't expect any attention."

The variety of goods in the foreign shops is marvellous to an American;
one pattern or color not suiting, dozens of others are shown, or
anything will be made at a few hours' notice.

Here in Dublin are the great Irish poplin manufactures; and in these
days of high prices, hardly any American lady leaves Dublin without a
dress pattern, at least, of this elegant material, which can be
obtained in the original packages of the "Original Jacobs" of the trade,
Richard Atkinson, in College Green, whose front store is a gallery of
medals and appointments, as poplin manufacturer to members of royal
families for years and years. The ladies of my party were crazy with
delight over the exquisite hues, the splendid quality, the low
prices--forgetting, dear creatures, the difference of exchange, and the
then existing premium on gold, and sixty per cent. duty that had to be
added to the rate before the goods were paid for in America.
Notwithstanding the stock, the hue to match the pattern a lady had in
her pocket was not to be had.

"We can make you a dress, if you can wait, madam," said the polite
shopman, "of exactly the same color as your sample."

"How long will it take to make it?"

"We can deliver it to you in eight or ten days."

"O, I shall be in London then," said the lady.

"That makes no difference, madam. We will deliver it to you anywhere in
London, carriage free."

And so, indeed, it was delivered. The order was left, sent to the
factory by the shopman, and at the appointed time delivered in London,
the lady paying on delivery the same rate as charged for similar quality
of goods at the store in Dublin, and having the enviable satisfaction of
showing the double poplin that was "made expressly to her order"--one
dress pattern--"in Dublin."

I mention this transaction to show what pains are taken to suit the
purchaser, and how any one can get what he wants abroad, if he has the
means to pay.

This is owing chiefly to the different way of doing business, and also
to the sharper competition in the old countries. For instance, the
Pacific Mills, of Lawrence, Mass., would never think of opening a retail
store for the sale of their goods on Washington Street, Boston; and if
an English lady failed to find a piece of goods of the color that suited
her, of manufacturing sixteen or eighteen yards to her order, and then
sending it, free of express charge, to New York.

The quantity and variety of goods on hand are overwhelming; the prices,
in comparison with ours, so very low that I wanted to buy a ship-load.
Whole stores are devoted to specialities--the beautiful Irish linen in
every variety, Irish bog-wood carving in every conceivable form,
bracelets, rings, figures, necklaces, breast-pins, &c. I visited one
large establishment, where every species of dry goods, fancy goods,
haberdashery, and, I think, everything except eatables, were sold. Three
hundred and fifty salesmen were employed, the proprietors boarding and
lodging a large number of them on the premises.

The shops in Dublin are very fine, the prices lower than in London, and
the attendance excellent.

"But Dublin--are you going to describe Dublin?"

Not much, dear reader. Describing cities would only be copying the
guide-book, or doing what every newspaper correspondent thinks it
necessary to do. Now, if I can think of a few unconsidered trifles,
which correspondents do not write about, but which tourists, on their
first visit, always wish information about, I shall think it doing a
service to present them in these sketches.

The Nelson Monument, a Doric column of one hundred and ten feet high,
upon which is a statue eleven feet high of the hero of the Nile, always
attracts the attention of visitors. The great bridges over the Liffey,
and the quays, are splendid pieces of workmanship, and worth inspection,
and of course you will go to see Dublin Castle.

This castle was originally built by order of King John, about the year
1215. But little of it remains now, however, except what is known as the
Wardrobe Tower, all the present structure having been built since the
seventeenth century. Passing in through the great castle court-yard, a
ring at a side door brought a courteous English housekeeper, who showed
us through the state apartments. Among the most noteworthy of these was
the presence-chamber, in which is a richly-carved and ornamental throne,
frescoed ceilings, richly-upholstered furniture, &c., the whole most
strikingly reminding one of those scenes at the theatre, where the
"duke and attendants," or the "king and courtiers," come on. It is here
the lord lieutenant holds his receptions, and where individuals are
"presented" to him as the representative of royalty. The great ball-room
is magnificent. It is eighty-two feet long, and forty-one wide, and
thirty-eight in height, the ceiling being decorated with beautiful
paintings. One represents George III., supported by Liberty and Justice,
another the Conversion of the Irish by St. Patrick, and the third, a
very spirited one, Henry II. receiving the Submission of the Native
Irish Chiefs. Henry II. held his first court in Dublin in 1172.

The Chapel Royal, immediately adjoining, is a fine Gothic edifice, with
a most beautiful interior, the ceiling elegantly carved, and a beautiful
stained-glass window, with a representation of Christ before Pilate,
figures of the Evangelists, &c. Here, carved and displayed, are the
coats-of-arms of the different lord lieutenants from the year 1172 to
the present time. The throne of the lord lieutenant in one gallery, and
that for the archbishop opposite, are conspicuous. This edifice was
completed in 1814, and cost forty-two thousand pounds. It was the first
Church of England interior I had seen over the ocean, and its richness
and beauty were impressive at the time, but were almost bleached from
memory by the grander temples visited a few weeks after. The polite
housekeeper, whom, in my inexperience, I felt almost ashamed to hand a
shilling to, took it, nevertheless, very gratefully, and in a manner
that proved that her pride was not at all wounded by the action.

In obedience to the advice of an Emeralder, that we must not "lave
Dublin widout seein' St. Patrick's Church," we walked down to that
celebrated cathedral. The square which surrounds it is as much a
curiosity in its way as the cathedral itself. The whole neighborhood
seemed to consist of the dirtiest, quaintest tumble-down old houses in
Dublin, and swarmed with women and children.

Hundreds of these houses seemed to be devoted to the sale of old junk,
sixth-hand clothing, and fourth-hand articles of every description
one could name or think of--old tin pots and kettles, old rope,
blacking-jugs, old bottles, old boots, shoes, and clothing in every
style of dilapidation--till you could scarcely say where the article
ended being sold as a coat, and became rags--iron hoops, old furniture,
nails, old hats, bonnets, cracked and half-broken crockery. It verily
seemed as if this place was the rag fair and ash-heap of the whole
civilized world. The contents of six American ash-barrels would have
given any one of these Cheap John stores a stock that would have dazzled
the neighborhood with its magnificence.

You could go shopping here with two-pence. Costermongers' carts, with
their donkeys attached, stood at the curbstones, ragged and half-starved
children played in the gutters, great coarse women stood lazily talking
with each other, or were crouched over a heap of merchandise, smoking
short pipes, and waiting or chaffering with purchasers. Little filthy
shops on every hand dealt out Ireland's curse at two-pence a dram, and
"Gin," "Choice Spirits Sold Here," "Whiskey," "Spirits," were signs that
greeted the eye on their doorposts. The spring breeze was tainted with
foul odors, and there was a busy clatter of tongues from the seething
and crowded mass of humanity that surged round in every direction.

Upon the farther corner of the third side of the square, where the
neighborhood was somewhat better, we discovered the residence of the
sexton who had charge of the church--a strong Orangeman, bitterly
opposed to the Romish church, and with a strong liking for America,
increased by the fact of having a brother in the American Union army,
who rose from sergeant to colonel in one of the western regiments.

"Think o' that, sir! Ye might be as brave as Julyus Sayzer in the
English army, and sorra a rise would ye get, except ye'd be sated on a
powdher magazine whin it exploded."

The legend is, that this church was originally built by St. Patrick,
and the sexton took me into a little old crypt at the end of one of the
aisles of the nave--all that remains of that portion of the church,
which it is averred was built A. D. 540. This crypt was floored with
curious old tiles, over a thousand years old, put down and the fragments
matched together with great labor and expense, and the flooring worth
more money than a covering of an "aven layer o' guineas" upon it.

The old stone font, A. D. 1190, the old carved chest for vestments,
and the curious stone coffins, relics of the old church, were
interesting. Among the monuments in the church, Archbishop Whately's
magnificently-carved marble sarcophagus, surmounted by his full-length
effigy, was particularly noticeable; Swift's monument, Stella's tablet,
and the economical tablet put up in memory of Duke Schomberg by Swift.

Here in St. Patrick's Cathedral are displayed the stalls, arms, and
banners of the Knights of St. Patrick, the army "memorials" of the India
and China British regiments, with the flags they carried from 1852 to
1857 in their campaigns. Upon the wall was suspended the cannon shot
that killed Schomberg at the memorable battle of the Boyne in 1690, and
the spurs that he wore at the time. Schomberg's remains are interred at
Westminster Abbey.

My first ride in an old country park was in the Phoenix Park, Dublin
a--beautiful pleasure-ground of over eighteen hundred acres in extent. I
imagined how laughable it must have seemed to the Prince of Wales, when,
at the review he attended on Boston Common, he politely assented to the
remark of a militia officer, that "this great area" (the Common parade
ground) "was well adapted for displays of large bodies of troops," as I
sat looking at the parade ground of _this_ park, a clear, unbroken
greensward of six times the size.

Think of riding over drives or malls fifty feet wide, and from three to
five miles in length, lined with gas-lights to illuminate it at night,
herds of hundreds of deer sporting on the open sward, or under the
great, sturdy trees, which are grouped in twos, threes, or clusters, for
landscape effect, and the turf beneath them thick, green, and
luxuriant; and then, again, there are rustic, country-like roads, shady
dells, and rustic paths in the beautiful park; a great monument erected
to Wellington by his countrymen at a cost of one hundred thousand
pounds, will attract attention, and so will the numerous fashionable
turnouts that roll over the well-kept roads every pleasant spring
afternoon.

From Dublin to Kingston is a pleasant little ride by rail. Kingston is
on St. George's Channel, or the lower part of the Irish Sea, and
directly opposite Holyhead, Wales. At Kingston we took steamer for the
passage across. The steamers of this line carry the royal mail, are
built for strength and speed, and are splendid boats, of immense power,
said to be the strongest and swiftest in Great Britain, and run at
the rate of sixteen miles an hour. Fortunately, the passage was
comparatively a smooth one, and we disembarked in good condition upon
the opposite shore, where we took train for Chester. An English railway
carriage--its form is familiar to all from frequent description; but
think of the annoyance of having to look after your luggage, to see it
safely bestowed on the top of the car, or in a luggage van, and to be
obliged to look out that it is not removed by mistake at any of the
great stations you do not stop at, or that it _is_ removed when you _do_
stop.

A few words on railway travelling in England: it differs from ours
essentially. First, the cars on English roads are not so convenient,
comfortable, or even so private as the American car. In the English
first-class carriage, four persons must sit facing four persons;
consequently four must perforce ride backwards, and the four are placed
so as to stare directly at their opposite neighbors,--sometimes
unpleasant, if all are not acquainted, especially at lunch time, &c.
Then, in the English carriage, four persons only of the eight can get a
fair view of the scenery, and two of these are riding backwards. These
four "govern" the windows, and lower or close at their pleasure. I have
been nearly smothered, as well as thoroughly chilled, by happening to
have people of adverse temperaments get the window seats, till I
learned how to travel by rail in England, of which, hints anon.

There are no means of heating the English railway carriage, and they are
not tightly joined, especially the second-class ones. Hence the "railway
rugs," &c., one hears so much about. But then, it must be confessed, the
danger of the American stove renders it a rather unpopular affair. The
second-class car is a plain, substantial carriage, and the larger
portion of the passengers travel in it. The first-class car is more
luxurious, upholstered more plentifully, supplied with racks for light
baggage, and curtains at the windows. The English have not even reached
the improvement of the sliding blind, which we have in America, so
useful in excluding the sun's rays and admitting the air, the substitute
being a flapping silk curtain. The second-class car has no curtain or
shade to the window whatever. The absence of the signal rope is
noticeable, and no man nowadays will remain in an English railway
carriage, if one or two other men come in that he does not know. Is it
not singular that so simple an arrangement as the signal rope to the
engine driver should not have been applied, after all the murders, and
assaults, and casualties, that have occurred on English railway trains,
and proved its necessity?

Not at all. It is an American invention--a novelty. An Englishman does
not believe in novelties, in innovations, or in American inventions.
After he has tried every other thing he can think of as a substitute,
and finds he can get nothing so simple and effectual, he will adopt it;
and then it will be claimed as an English invention--invented by an
Englishman; just as they claim the invention of the revolver, steamboat,
and I don't know but the sewing-machine.

The English locomotives have no protection upon them for the
engine-driver and fireman. These men are exposed, without shelter, and
must have a rough time of it in bad weather. The "guard," who occupies
the place of the American conductor, but by no means fills it, is always
recognizable by his uniform; and at the stations, the numerous porters
which it is necessary for the company to employ to handle baggage, owing
to the absence of the check system, are also in uniform. These men are
invariably civil, ready to serve, and understand their position and
duties thoroughly.

On some of the English railroads that I travelled over, it seemed as
though the only duty the company thought they had to perform, was to
simply carry you over their road; and the ignorance of some of the under
employés was positively amazing. Seated in the carriage, you might ride
twenty miles past the station at which you wished to stop without
knowing it, if you chanced to be on the off side.

There was no conductor to pass and repass _through_ the train, to look
out that you debarked at the proper station; no list of towns on the
back of your railroad check; no shout of "Passengers for Chester!
Chester!" when the train stopped; and the guard knew nothing of any
other train except his own, or any other distance over the road, or of
how to connect with any other train.

The passenger is left to himself, and is never told by the guard to
"change cars here for ----." That, you have to know yourself, and look
out and have the railway porter get your luggage (not _baggage_) off, or
it will carried on, as they have no check system--another American
affair, which it won't do to adopt too readily.

Luggage is weighed, and, beyond a certain amount, charged for; but any
portmanteau one can get under the seat is free; and it is astonishing
what big valises some men carry. And in the absence of the check system,
this is, of course, the safest way.

Comparatively little luggage is lost or stolen. One reason why it is not
stolen is, that there is a law here which _punishes_ thieves, and does
not allow them liberty for a stipulated sum, known as _bail_ in America.

The price in the first-class carriage, on the fast or express trains, is
about a third higher than the second. A third class is still cheaper.
The parliamentary or slow trains have cheaper rates than the express.

The division of "classes" is, in many respects, an excellent
arrangement. It affords to him who desires better accommodations, and
has the means to pay for them, the opportunity of enjoying them; and it
does not force the poor man, the laborer or emigrant, to ride in a
richly upholstered carriage, where he feels he is out of place, when he
would prefer to save his money, and have less gilding and upholstery.

One very soon finds, in England, the deference paid to class and to
wealth, and nowhere sooner than on the railway train. It is presumed, on
the expensive routes, that those riding in first-class carriages are
"first-class" people, and the guard's manner to the passengers in the
different carriages is an index of English education in this matter. As
he appears at the window of the first-class carriage, he politely
touches his hat:--

"All are for London in this compartment? Thank you."

To the second-class: "Tickets, please."

To the third-class: "Now, then, tickets. Look alive here, will you?"

The first-class passenger finds that his wants are better attended to,
his questions answered deferentially; he is allowed to take almost any
amount of small luggage into the car with him, much of which would be
excluded from the second-class, if an attempt were made to carry it in.
And O, the potency of the English shilling!

Each car seats eight; but we will suppose that there are a party of four
travelling together, and desire no more passengers in the compartments.
Call the guard to the window, put your hand in your pocket, looking him
in the eye significantly. He will carelessly drop his own hand within
the window opening inside the car. You drop a shilling in the hand.
"This car is occupied."

"Quite so, sir."

Touching his hat, he locks the car door, and when other people come
trying the door, he is conveniently out of the way, or informs the
applicant, "Third carriage forward for London, sir," and by a dozen
ingenious subterfuges keeps you free from strangers, so much that you
betray yourself to him as an American by giving him another shilling at
your journey's end; and, although smoking "is strictly forbidden in
first-class carriages," a party of three or four smokers, by the
judicious use of a couple of shillings, may have one all to themselves
for that purpose.

The railway stations in England are very fine, and much superior to
those in America, although we are improving ours, especially in the
great cities. In the great English cities and towns, the stations are
vast iron, glass-roofed structures, kept in excellent order. The
waiting-rooms are divided into first, second, and third class, and the
door opening upon the platform is not opened until a certain time before
the train starts. Porters in uniform take the luggage to the train, and
the "guard" who acts as conductor knows nothing about any railway train
connections or line beyond his own. The passenger is supposed to know
all that sort of thing, and he who "wants to know, you know," is at once
recognized as an American.

The country stations are beautiful little rustic affairs, with gardens
of roses and sweetbrier, honeysuckles and flowering shrubs about them.
Some have the name of the station sown in dwarf flowers upon the bank
outside, presenting a very pretty appearance in spring and summer, and
contrasting very agreeably with the rude shanties we find in America,
with their tobacco-stained floors within, and bare expanse of yellow
sand outside.

We rattled through Wales in an express train, a romantic view of wild
Welsh mountains on one side, and the beating and heaving ocean dashing
up on the other, sometimes almost to the very railway track. We ran
through great tunnels, miles in length, whirled at the rate of fifty
miles an hour through the great slate-quarrying district and Bangor,
past the magnificent suspension bridge over Menai Straits, by the
romantic old castle of Conway, with its shattered battlements and
turrets looking down at the sea, which dashes up its foam-crested waves
ceaselessly at its rocky base, the old red sandstone walls worn and
corroded with time; on, past thatched huts, rustic cottages, and green
landscape, till the panting train halted at the great modern railway
station in that oldest of English cities, Chester.

This station is one of the longest in England, being ten hundred and
fifty feet long, and having wings, a kind of projecting arcades, with
iron roofs, to shelter vehicles waiting for trains. From this
magnificent modern-built station a cab carried us, in a few minutes, on
our route to the hotel (Grosvenor House), into an old street that looked
as though we had got into a set scene at the theatre, representing a
street in Windsor for Falstaff and the Merry Wives to appear in; houses
built in 1500, or years before, the street or sidewalks passing right
under some of them; quaint old oddities of architecture, with curious
inscriptions in abbreviated old English on their carved cross-beams, and
their gables sticking out in every direction; curious little windows
with diamond-shaped panes set in lead; and houses looking as though the
hand of time had squeezed them together, or extracted the juice from
them like sucked oranges, and left only the dried rind, half shrunken
from its original shape, remaining.

The great curiosity, however, in Chester, is the Chester Cathedral, and
the old walls that encompass the city. I never realized the force of the
expression "the corroding tooth of time" till I saw this magnificent old
cathedral: portions of it which were once sharply sculptured in various
designs are now worn almost smooth by age, the old red sandstone looking
as though time had sand-papered it with gritty hail and honeycombed its
stones with melting rains; but the whole was surrounded with a mellow,
softened beauty of groined arches, beautiful curves, dreamy old
cloisters, and quaint carving, that invested even the ruined portion
with a hallowed beauty. The stained-glass windows, both old and modern,
are glorious colored wonders; the chapel where the services are now held
is the same where, a thousand years ago, dreamy old monks told their
beads; and there are their stalls or seats, so contrived as to afford
but partial rest, so that if the sitter slumbered they fell forward with
his weight, and threw him to the floor.

The antique wood carving upon the seats and pews here, now blackened and
hardened almost to ebony in appearance, is very fine, excellently
executed, and well preserved. High above ran around the nuns' walk, with
occasional openings, whence the meek-eyed sisterhood could hear service
below without being seen themselves as they came from their quiet
cloisters near at hand, a quadrangle of one hundred and ten feet square,
in which were four covered walks looking upon the enclosed garden, now a
neglected greensward, where several forgotten old abbots slumber
peacefully beneath great stone slabs with obliterated inscriptions.

The curious grope into some of the old cells, and most of us go down
under the building in the crypt, where the massive Gothic pillars, that
support the pile, still in perfect preservation, bring vividly to mind
those canvas representations of prison scenes one sees upon the stage.

Inside the cathedral were numerous very old monuments and mementos of
the past; among others an immense tapestry wrought by nuns hundreds of
years ago, and representing Elymas struck with blindness. The enormous
size of these cathedrals strikes the "fresh" American tourist with
wonder. Fancy churches five times as large as ours, and the height
inside from sixty to one hundred feet from the stone floor to the arched
ceiling, lighted with glorious great windows of stained glass, upon
which the stories of the Bible are told in colored pictures, and south,
east, west, transepts, nave, and choir, crowded with relics of the past,
that you have read of in the story-books of youth, and again upon the
pages of history in maturer years; artistic sculptures, old monuments,
statues, carvings, and curious remains.

In the chapter-house connected with the cathedral, we were shown the
colors carried by the Cheshire regiment on the field of Waterloo; and it
was interesting for me to grasp with my sacrilegious American hand one
of the colors borne by a British regiment in America during the war of
the Revolution.

We also visited the ecclesiastical court-room in which the Bishop of
Chester, in 1554, tried a Protestant minister, George Marsh, and
sentenced him to be burned for heresy. The seats of the judges and chair
of the accused are still preserved and shown to the visitor, who
generally desires to sit in the martyr's seat, and finds it, even for a
few minutes, an uncomfortable one.

The Chester Cathedral is said to have been founded in the year 200, and
was used as a place of safety against the Danes in 800. It was well
kept, and ruled by abbots, and its history well preserved from the time
of King William Rufus, who was killed in New Forest, 1093, down to 1541.

The old walls of Chester are the great attraction of the city; in fact,
Chester is the only city in Great Britain that has preserved its old
walls entire: they enclose the city proper, and are about two miles in
circumference, affording a delightful promenade and prospect of the
surrounding country. The walls are squarely built of a soft red
freestone, something like that used for our "brown stone front" houses,
though apparently not so hard a material, and vary from twelve to forty
feet in height. A fresh tourist from a new country like our own begins
to feel he is communing with the past, as he walks over these old walls,
erected A. D. 61, and finds their chronology to read thus:--

    A. D.
      61--Walls built by Romans.
      73--Marius, King of the Britons, extended the walls.
     607--The Britons defeated under the walls.
     907--The walls rebuilt by daughter of Alfred the Great.
    1224--An assessment for repairing the walls.
    1399--Henry of Lancaster mustered his troops under these walls.
    1645--The Parliamentary forces made a breach in these walls.

So that it will be seen they have looked down upon some of the most
eventful scenes of history; and as we strolled along, thinking what a
feeble obstacle they would prove against the formidable engines of
modern warfare, we came to a tower called the Phoenix Tower; and an
inscription upon it informs the visitor that upon this tower King
Charles I. stood in 1645, and witnessed the defeat of his army on Rowton
Moor, four miles off, then a barren field, but now a smiling plain of
fields and cottages, looking very unlike a barren moor, or the scene of
a sanguinary combat. In this old tower a curious, antiquary sort of old
fellow keeps a motley collection of curiosities, among which were
Havelock's spurs, buckles of Queen Mary's time, bean from tree planted
by Washington (!), and a great, staring, size-of-life wood-cut of
Abraham Lincoln, besides coins, relics, &c., that were labelled to
interest, but whose genuineness might not stand the test of too close an
investigation.



CHAPTER II.


It is a comparatively short ride from Chester to Liverpool, and of
course we went to the Adelphi Hotel, so frequently heard mentioned our
side of the water; and if ever an American desires a specimen of the
tenacity with which the English cling to old fashions, their lack of
what we style enterprise, let him examine this comfortable, curious,
well kept, inconvenient old house, or rather collection of old
residences rolled into a hotel, and reminding him of some of the
old-fashioned hotels of thirty years ago at the lower part of the city
of New York.

Upon the first day of my arrival I was inexperienced enough to come down
with my wife to the "ladies' coffee-room" as it is called, before
ordering breakfast. Let it be kept in mind that English hotels generally
have no public dining and tea rooms, as in America, where a gentleman
with ladies can take their meals; that solemn performance is done by
Englishmen in the strictest privacy, except they are travelling alone,
when they take their solitary table in "the coffee-room," and look glum
and repellent upon the scene around at intervals of the different
courses of their well-served solitary dinner. Public dining-rooms,
however, are gradually coming into vogue at English hotels, and at the
Star and Garter, Richmond, I dined in one nearly as large as that of the
St. Nicholas, Fifth Avenue, or Parker House, crammed with chattering
guests and busy waiters; but that was of a pleasant Sunday, in the
height of the season, and the price I found, on settling the bill, fully
up to the American standard.

But at the Adelphi I came down in the innocence of my heart, expecting
to order a breakfast, and have it served with the American promptitude.

Alas! I had something to learn of the English manner of doing things.
Here was the Adelphi always full to overflowing with new arrivals _from_
America and new arrivals _for_ America, and here was its ladies'
coffee-room, a small square parlor with five small tables, capable of
accommodating, with close packing, fifteen people, and the whole room
served by one waiter. The room was full on my arrival; but fortunately,
while I was hesitating what course to pursue, a lady and gentleman who
had just finished breakfast arose, and we sat down at the table they had
vacated.

In the course of ten minutes the waiter cleared the table and spread a
fresh cloth. "'Ave you hordered breakfast, sir?"

"No! Bring me mutton chops, coffee, and boiled eggs, and hot biscuit,
for two."

"Beg pardon, sir; chops, heggs, coffee--a--biscuits, aren't any
_biscuits_, sir; send out and get some, sir."

Biscuits. I reflected; these benighted Britons don't understand what an
American hot biscuit is. "No biscuits! Well, muffins, then."

"Muffins, sir; yes, sir;" and he hastened away.

We waited five, ten, fifteen minutes; no breakfast. One party at another
table, who were waiting when we came in, were served with their
breakfast; in five minutes more a fresh plate of muffins to another
party; five more, and the waiter came to our table, put on two silver
forks, a salt-cellar, and castor, and smoothed out some invisible
wrinkles in the table linen, and went away; five minutes more, and he
was hustling among some knives at a sideboard.

"Waiter!"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you going to bring my breakfast?"

"Yes, sir; d'reckly, sir; chops most ready, sir."

Chops, always call 'em chops; never call for a _mutton_ chop in England;
the word is superfluous, and stamps you as an untravelled, inexperienced
Yankee at once.

Five minutes more, and he appeared, bearing a tray with the breakfast,
just thirty-five minutes after the order had been given for it. How long
would a hotel in America be patronized that made its guest wait one half
that time for four times as elaborate a repast?

I soon learned how to manage this matter better, especially as there are
no printed bills of fare, and the list comprises a very few standard
dishes. My plan was, on first rising in the morning, to write my order
for breakfast on a scrap of paper, ring for the chambermaid, hand it to
her with instructions to have that breakfast ready in the ladies'
coffee-room directly.

The English "directly" signifies the "right away" of America, or, more
correctly, immediately.

In half an hour afterwards, when we descended, the waiter, whose memory
had been strengthened by the judicious investment of a shilling, had the
cloth laid, and met us with, "Breakfast d'reckly, sir; Number 19; yes,
sir."

The breakfast, when it _did_ come, was perfect; the coffee or tea
excellent, pure and unadulterated; the chops,--not those American
affairs with one bite of meat the size of half a dollar, tough and ill
cooked, but large as the palm of one's hand,--cooked as they can only be
cooked in England; the muffins hot and smoking; the eggs fresh and
excellent; so that the old-fashioned framed engravings, mahogany
furniture, cramped quarters, and style of the past were forgotten in the
appeal to that god of the Englishman, the stomach.

All the viands at the Adelphi were of the best description, and
admirably cooked, but the bill of fare was limited to very few articles.
A sight of one of the printed bills of our great American hotels would
have driven the waiter crazy, while the utter disregard of time, or
rather of the value of time, in an English hotel, is the first thing
that strikes a newly-arrived American and stirs up his irritability.

Eating, with a Briton, is a very serious and solemn thing, and the
dinner one of the most important social ceremonies in the kingdom. You
cannot, if you will, in England, precipitate yourself into dyspepsia
with the ease that it is possible to do it in America. First, because
people will not be hurried into eating at railroad speed, and next,
because there is better cooking of standard dishes and fewer knickknacks
at the hotel tables than in America.

That inevitable pork fat that flavors everything after one gets west of
Buffalo, and a little off the line of travel that leads you through the
great hotels in the great cities in America,--that saleratus bread,
hayey tea, clammy pie-crust, and great whity-gray, soury baker's
bread,--that we, who have travelled at home, are so familiar with, give
place in England to articles prepared in a very different style. I have
often thought, when travelling at the West, that it was a sin for people
in the midst of such luxurious plenty to abuse it so abominably in
preparing it for the table.

With all the prejudices of a raw tourist upon his first visit, I must
acknowledge that during two months' constant travel in England and
Scotland, I never sat down to a single ill-cooked or badly-served meal;
and I have tested humble roadside inns in the country, as well as the
more pretentious hotels of the great cities. The bread of all kinds is
close-grained, sweet, well baked, and toothsome; the chops served
sometimes on napkins in hot dishes; muffins hot, with fresh, sweet
butter; butter served in thin pats, ornamented with parsley; broiled
chicken garnished with thin slices of delicately broiled ham, so thin
and free from grease as not to make a spot upon the pure damask table
linen; the dropped eggs upon crisp toast, are a triumph of gastronomic
art, and I need say no word in praise of English roast beef.

But there is one dish which can be had in perfection only in America,
and that is an American beefsteak. It is almost impossible to get a
decent beefsteak in England, out of the city of London, and there only
at a few well-known restaurants celebrated for that specialty. They
would think it almost sacrilege to cut beef into what is known in
America as sirloin or tenderloin steaks; and, with the few exceptions
above named, the art of broiling a steak in the American style, and
serving it with the thin, dry-fried potatoes, is unknown. But a truce to
the department of _cuisine_.

The one thing we all have most heard of in Liverpool is its great docks,
which are the grand and characteristic feature, indicating forcibly its
great commercial activity and enterprise by their magnitude, solidity,
and extent. These immense receptacles of merchandise extend for six
miles along the river, and have an enclosure of two hundred and
fifty-four acres, a quay space of over eighteen miles; then upon the
other side of the river are the Birkenhead docks, enclosing one hundred
and sixty-seven acres, and having a quay space of over nine miles,--thus
giving to Liverpool four hundred and twenty-one acres of enclosed docks,
and twenty-seven miles of quay space.

The enormous heaps of every species of merchandise seen at these places,
great ships from every part of the world, the perfect forest of masts,
immense storehouses, cargoes that in the general mass seem but mounds of
tea-chests, hillocks of coffee-bags, heaps of grain, piles of lumber, or
fragments of machinery in these great areas, but which in reality would
provision an army, build a navy, and outfit a manufacturing city, give
one the impression that Liverpool is the _entrepôt_ of the world, and
some idea of the enormous commerce of Great Britain.

Each dock has a chief, or master, who directs the position of all ships,
and superintends the flood-gates at the docking and undocking of
vessels; and strict regulations are enforced for the prevention of fire
and the preservation of property. The sea walls in front of some of
these docks are magnificent specimens of masonry, and each dock is
designated by a name; our American ships, I believe, favor that known as
Waterloo Dock. All the docks are surrounded by huge bonding warehouses
and merchandise sheds.

The Free Museum, which we visited in Liverpool, contains the largest and
finest collection of ornithological specimens in the world. It was
indeed superb, and I never saw such splendid taxidermical skill as was
displayed in the mounting and arranging of this vast collection of
thousands and thousands of birds, of every species (it seemed), from
every country in the known world.

For instance, there was every species of eagle known to exist,--gray,
white, bald, harpy, &c.,--poised, at rest, in flight, and in various
positions, as in life; every species of owl,--the gigantic, judge-like
fellow, horned, snowy, gray, black, white, and dwarf; every falcon,--a
magnificent set of specimens of this kind, as there was also of the crow
family, which were represented not only by elegant black specimens, but
by light-blue, and even white ones; every species of sea bird, from the
gigantic albatross to the Mother Cary's chicken; rare and curious birds;
great cassowaries; the biggest ostrich I ever saw,--he could have
carried a full-grown African upon his back with ease; great emus; a
skeleton of the now extinct dodo; a collection of every species of
pheasant, including specimens of the Himmalayan pheasant, the most
gorgeous bird in the whole collection, whose plumage actually glistened
and sparkled with glorious tints, like tinsel or precious stones--a
gorgeous combination of colors. Over _one hundred different varieties_
of humming-birds were displayed, and the same of parrots, who were in
green, blue, yellow, white, pink, and every uniform of feather that
could be imagined; magnificent lyre-birds, with tall, erected tail, in
exact form of Apollo's fabled lyre.

Great condors from South America; a brilliant array of every species of
birds of paradise; a whole army of toucans; a brilliant array of
flamingoes and all the vulture tribe; in fact, every kind of a bird you
had ever heard, seen pictures or read of, and very many you never had
heard of, were presented in this most wonderful collection; and one
pleasing feature besides the astonishing life-like positions they were
placed in, was the admirable neatness and order of the whole; not a
stain marred the clear plate glass of the great cases, not a speck of
dust could be seen in or about them; and upon the pedestal of each
specimen was pasted a label, in good plain English characters, giving
the English name of it, the country it came from, and, in many
instances, its habits, &c., so much better than the presumption acted
upon in some museums, that all the visitors are scientific Latin
scholars.

Besides this collection in the Museum, was one of minerals and corals,
and another of preserved specimens of natural history. In this last we
saw the entire skeleton of a large humpback whale, an entire skeleton of
the gigantic Irish elk (species extinct) discovered in an Irish bog, a
two-horned rhinoceros's head as big as a common hogshead, an enormous
and splendidly-mounted specimen of the gorilla, larger than any, I
think, that Du Chaillu exhibited in America, and a vast number of other
interesting curiosities I have not space to enumerate, the whole of
which was open free to the public, for pleasure or scientific study.

St. George's Hall, Liverpool, occupies a commanding position, and
presents a fine architectural appearance; the eastern side of it is four
hundred and twenty feet long, and has fifteen elegant Corinthian
columns, each forty-five feet in height. Within the portico are some
fine specimens of sculpture; the great saloon is one hundred and
sixty-seven feet long by seventy-seven feet high, and, it may be
interesting to Bostonians to know, contains the great organ of
Liverpool, which is _not so fine_ a one as the Boston one. The hall is
used for public meetings, musical festivals, &c.,--very much for the
same purposes as Boston Music Hall. In the immediate vicinity of St.
George's Hall are the famous Liverpool lions, colossal stone monsters,
the equestrian statue of Prince Albert, and other objects of interest.

It was in Liverpool that I first saw that evidence of real, terribly
suffering poverty that we read so much of as prevailing in the streets
of some of the great cities of England. I don't know but as squalid
misery might be found in New York city; but there need be but very
little of suffering by any one in America who has health and strength
sufficient to do a day's work. In Liverpool I saw groups of poor
creatures in the street, with starvation written in their countenances;
and one evening, having occasion to go to the telegraph office from the
hotel, I found that the streets absolutely swarmed with women, who were
actually annoying to the stranger by their persistent importunities.
Upon one occasion, being awakened by the sound of voices at one o'clock
at night, I looked across the square from my window, and there, opposite
an illuminated gin-shop, stood a group of three poor children, droning
through a song, in hopes of extracting a penny or two from those in or
about it; the oldest of the three could not have been a dozen years old,
and the youngest a little ragged girl of six.

There are people that one meets here whose appearance is an anguish to
the aching heart. We saw a poor woman, in a sleazy calico dress, with a
colorless, wan face, walking wearily up an ascent in one of the streets,
one afternoon, looking as if hope were dead within her heart; and
thinking it a case of need, my friend thrust a half crown into her hand,
saying, "Here! I think you need that." The poor creature looked at him
for a moment, and, without saying a word, burst into a flood of tears.
My experience with a little youngster of six, whose whole clothing was a
sort of tow shirt, and who persistently begged for a penny, which I at
last gave him, was somewhat different, for he dashed off with a shout,
and, as I paused on the corner of the street, an army of young
ragamuffins seemed to start out from every nook and cranny, with
outstretched arms and rags fluttering in the breeze, and shrill cries of
"Gi' me one, gi' me a penny," so that I was glad to take refuge in the
cab I had signalled.

From Liverpool, instead of starting directly for London, I concluded to
go to Scotland, passing through the Lake district _en route_. If the
reader will look at a good map of England and Scotland, and find Solway
Firth, which is on the west coast, and then look at the country
immediately south of it, occupying a portion of the counties of
Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Lancaster, he will see that it is full of
lakes and mountains, and will find, on visiting it, that its picturesque
attractions are unequalled in any other part of England. Additional
interest is imparted to the Lake district from its being the haunt and
home of many of England's most celebrated modern poets; and inspired,
doubtless, by its lovely views and quiet beauty of landscape, from here
have emanated some of their best compositions.

We left the main road in our journey westward at a place called
Oxenholme, and there took a 'bus, which carried us down to Lake
Windermere. This lake is a beautiful, irregular sheet of water, eleven
miles in length and about a mile wide, and numerous little islands add
to its picturesque appearance, the scenery being soft and graceful; the
gentle slopes and eminences that surround it, and the numerous
country-seats and cottages peeping from the wooded slopes, combining to
render it one of those pictures of quiet beauty that English poets
delight to sing of. The hotel that we rested at was perched upon a
commanding eminence, from which a delightful view of the lake and
surrounding scenery was obtained.

The pretty village of Bowness, near by, attracted my attention, this
being my first experience in an English country village; and its
appearance was in many respects novel, and unlike what I had expected.
First, I was struck at the entire absence of wooden houses; wood is
scarce here; the houses are all built of stone, about the color of our
stone walls in the country towns of New England, the stones about two
feet square, and irregular in shape. A little rustic porch of wood, with
the bark on, is sometimes built before the door, and this is overrun
with ivy, or some climbing and flowering plant. Some of the more
pretentious houses had stone porches; but all round and about them was
twined the beautiful ivy, honeysuckle, or other plants, from in and out
of which hopped and twittered the sparrows.

The village streets were quite narrow, and some as crooked as the letter
S, but all scrupulously clean. There were no great brush heaps, chips,
dirt-piles, or worn-out tin ware about any of these charming little
cottages or their vicinity; the appearance is as if the place had just
been thoroughly swept up and put in holiday trim. One reason for this
is, I suppose, that everything here is utilized that a penny can be
realized upon, and what we make a litter with about an American house of
the kind, is here either sold, or turned to account in some other way;
but certainly this air of extreme neatness, which I noticed in many
English villages, must, in a degree, account for some of their tourists'
disgust in America. I have not seen a man spit on the floor here since I
set foot in England, and the floors even of the village ale-houses are a
striking contrast to those of our New England country taverns: spitting
appears to be an American national habit.

After a quiet rest at this charming spot, we chartered a "dog cart," and
started on a ride of twenty-three miles, for Keswick; and of the
charming drives I have had, this surpasses all. The road ran along Lake
Windermere to Ambleside, Grassmere to Rydal Lake and Rydal Mount,
Nab-Scar up Dunmail Rise, in sight of Helvellyn, and past Thirlemere.

The views were beautiful--high hills, with little green-shored lakes set
in among them, like flashing brilliants; pretty little English villages,
like those already described; country-seats; little rustic arched stone
bridges, with dark, cool trout-streams running beneath them; grand
country-seats, with their imposing entrances and porters' lodges; old
ivy-clad churches, and here and there a tall grove of trees, with the
rooks cawing in their branches. The bridges, walls, cottages, and
churches, with their dark stone-work relieved by clustering ivy, had a
softened and pleasing appearance to the eye, while the fields and
meadows were a vivid green, and swarming with sheep and young lambs
frisking about them, or on the lawns and hill-sides.

The road continually gave us long reaches of these views, such as I had
never seen before, except in paintings, or in the better class of
English illustrated books. We passed Dove's Nest, where Mrs. Hemans
lived for a year; saw Miss Martineau's pleasant and picturesque
residence, Wordsworth's house at Rydal Mount, and went to the little
cottage on the borders of Grassmere Lake, where he dwelt when young, and
wrote much of his best poetry; then to the humble cottage, not far from
the lake shore, where De Quincey lived.

We drove to the churchyard in the little village of Grassmere, to visit
Wordsworth's grave,--a charming spot,--the little church situated near a
swift little stream, spanned by arched stone bridges, and surrounded by
scenery of rustic beauty. The grave of the poet is marked by a plain
stone, upon which are inscribed his own and his wife's name; and not far
from it is the grave of Hartley Coleridge. The secluded and beautiful
spot seemed a fitting resting-place for the poet; the gentle babble of
the little stream, the peaceful rustle of the grass in the churchyard,
and the modest little daisies that bloomed upon the graves, all seemed
to lend a tranquil and dreamy calm to the place, that made it appear as
if hallowed to the poet's repose.

Keswick, our next halting-place, is situated in a delightful vale,
between Derwentwater, or Keswick Lake, and Bassenthailewater, and
surrounded by an amphitheatre of hills. The elegant Keswick Hotel is
situated in a charming position, just out of the town, and in the centre
of the great circle of hills--one of the finest and best-kept houses of
the kind in all England. From its great coffee-room, or, as we should
call it, dining-room, which runs nearly half the length of one side of
the house, and the promenade, or balustrade, which extends the whole
length, is a most charming view, and the grounds of the house, which are
quite extensive, are laid out quite handsomely. First came an elegant,
close-shaven lawn, running one hundred feet from the hotel walk; then a
green terrace, descended by ornamental stone steps; then a broad gravel
walk, or mall, running round the estate; and from this another broad,
green lawn, sloping gently down to the little Greta River, a stream of
about twenty feet in width at this point, spanned, here and there, with
arched stone bridges, and dashing off into several noisy little
waterfalls.

From this little park of the hotel there is a pretty view of the village
of Keswick, with its dark stone-work houses, and English church tower,
rising above. Beyond, on every side in the huge circle, rise the lofty
hill-tops, and here and there elegant country-seats and villas sit
enthroned, midway as it were in the mountain's lap, and some high up
towards the breezy peaks. The verdant sides of the hill are pencilled
off, as it were, with hedges, marking the division lines of property,
and a winding road occasionally throws its brown tracks out amid the
green.

The Keswick Hotel is built of lighter colored stone than is generally
used for houses there, and is finished off in such an expensive and
ornamental style as to look quite like an English hall or country-seat.
It is owned, I think, by the railroad company whose road passes here.
The station is directly adjoining the house, and is reached by a
glass-roofed walk, thirty or forty feet long. And here let me remark,
that the excellent system, good management, and entire absence of noise,
shrieking, puffing, blowing, whistling, and all sorts of disturbance
that render a location near a railroad station in America so
objectionable, were most striking. I never should have taken note of any
arrival or departure of trains from any noise of them; for, save the
distant whistle as they approached, there was nothing to indicate their
presence.

The house is kept admirably. Such neatness, such thoroughness, and such
courteous attention, and such an incomparable _cuisine_ are, after one
gets accustomed to English deliberation, most gratifying to the tourist.
There can be but few better places for the American traveller to see and
enjoy English country life, and beautiful English scenery, than Keswick,
and at this beautiful house, in the month of May.

We rambled round through the quaint village of Keswick, and of a Sunday
morning took our way over two little stone bridges, on through a deep,
shady English lane, with the trees arching overhead, and the hedges
green at its side, to Crossthwaite Church, built several hundred years
ago, and with its rustic churchyard, beautiful and green, containing the
graves of the poet Southey and his wife. I sat upon an old slab in the
churchyard, and watched the pretty, rustic picture, as the bells sweetly
chimed, and the villagers came to church; some up the green lane by twos
and threes, others across the fields and over stiles, threading their
way among the churchyard mounds to the rural church.

Wordsworth describes in one of his poems the English rural church so
perfectly that I cannot forbear making the extract, it was so
appropriate to this, which stood amid

        "The vales and hills whose beauties hither drew
              The poet's steps."

In fact, Wordsworth's description might well be taken as a correct one
of almost any one of the picturesque English country churches that the
tourist sees here in the rural districts.

        "Not framed to nice proportions was the pile,
        But large and massy, for duration built;
        With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld
        By naked rafters, intricately crossed,
        Like leafless underboughs in some thick grove,
        All withered by the depth of shade above.
        Admonitory texts inscribed the walls,
        Each in its ornamental scroll enclosed;
        Each also crowned with winged heads--a pair
        Of rudely painted cherubim. The floor
        Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise,
        Was occupied by oaken benches ranged
        In seemly rows; the chancel only showed
        Some inoffensive marks of earthly state
        And vain distinction. A capacious pew
        Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined;
        And marble monuments were here displayed
        Upon the walls; and on the floor beneath
        Sepulchral stones appeared, with emblems graven,
        And foot-worn epitaphs, and some with small
        And shining effigies of brass inlaid."

The marks of earthly state and vain distinction in the church were two
old stone effigies of Lord Derwentwater and his wife, died in 1527, with
a very legible inscription in brass setting forth that fact, and a white
marble effigy and monument to Southey.

In the churchyard is a plain black slate tombstone over the poet's
grave, on which is inscribed, "Here lies the body of Robert Southey, LL.
D., Poet Laureate. Born August 12, 1774; died March 21, 1843. For forty
years resident in this parish. Also, of Edith, his wife, born May 20,
1774; died November 16, 1837." Returning home, we passed "Greta Hall,"
the poet's residence, situated in Keswick, a plain mansion, upon a
slight elevation just back from the street, commanding a good view of
the surrounding scenery, and with a pleasant, grassy slope in front, and
beautiful shrubbery round and about its well-kept grounds.

Another pleasant walk was one taken up a winding road on the hill-side,
to a spot containing some of the Druidical remains found in different
parts of England. This is known here as the Druids' Temple, and consists
of a great circle of upright stones, six or eight feet in height, and
set up at regular intervals, with two or three placed together at one
side of the circle, as if for a gigantic altar. The spot for this temple
was admirably chosen by the ancient priests of the oak and mistletoe for
their mysterious rites, being upon a sort of natural platform, or hill
shaped like a truncated cone, while all round rises a natural circle of
lesser hills.

From Keswick to Penrith is a pleasant ride by rail. Near the station in
Penrith are the ruins of an old castle, for a long time the residence of
the Duke of Gloster, afterwards Richard III. From this spot we started
on a pleasant walk for Brougham Hall, the seat of Lord Brougham, about
two and a half miles distant, passing on the way a curious formation in
a field, denominated King Arthur's Round Table. It very much resembles
places in waste land in America, where a travelling circus has left its
ring-mark, that becomes overgrown with turf, only the circle was much
larger. This field and formation were carefully preserved by the owner,
it being, as we were informed, one of those places where the Knights of
King Arthur's time used to exercise themselves in the practice of
horsemanship and feats of arms. Perhaps it was.

Brougham Hall is situated upon a hill not far from the ruins of Brougham
Castle, and is an old and picturesque building, commanding, from its
elevated position, extensive views of the surrounding country. The place
was invested with a peculiar interest, as being the residence of one of
England's greatest orators and statesmen. His voice, since our visit to
his beautiful home, however, has been hushed forever, and he has laid
him down to sleep with the humblest.

Owing to its situation and prospects, the English guide-books style this
castle the "Windsor of the North." The grounds are beautifully laid
out--a broad lawn, bounded by a grove of old trees, with the rooks
cawing and circling about them; the great paved court-yard of the
castle, upon which the stables and servants' rooms looked out; a tower
on the stables, with clock and bell. From this, a Gothic arched gateway
opened into another square and more pretentious court-yard, upon which
the inner windows of his lordship's family looked. On one side of this
court-yard, the castle wall was completely covered with a thick, heavy
mass of beautiful ivy, the window spaces and turrets all being cut out
in shape, giving it a novel and picturesque appearance. In the centre of
this court-yard was a pretty grass plat.

The other front of the castle looked out upon the estate, and the view
from the windows upon this side was lovely. The fine lawn and trimly
laid out grounds, the gradually sloping landscapes stretching down to
the little River Eamont, winding on its tortuous way, and spanned, as
usual, by the pretty arched bridges, and the hills of Ullswater for a
background, made a charming prospect. There were so many novel and
interesting things to see in the different apartments of the castle,
that description will in some degree appear but tame.

We first went into the armor-room, used on great occasions as a
dining-hall. The apartment was not very large, but the walls and niches
were filled with rare and curious arms and armor of various periods, and
that had been used by historic personages. Here we were shown the skull
of one of Lord Brougham's ancestors, carefully preserved under a glass
case--a Knight Templar, who fought in the first crusade; this skull was
taken, together with a spur, from his coffin a few years ago, when the
tomb was opened, where he was found lying with crossed feet, as a good
Knight Templar should lie. At one end of this hall was a little raised
gallery about five feet from the floor, separated from the room by a
high Gothic screen, through which a view of the whole could be obtained.
This platform led to an elegant little octagon chamber, a few steps
higher up, occupied by Lord Brougham's son as a sort of lounging and
writing room. In this apartment were a few choice and beautiful
pictures; one of dogs fighting, presented to Lord Brougham by Louis
Napoleon, some original Titians, Vandykes, Tintorettos, Hogarth, &c.

We next visited the drawing-room, which was hung all over with beautiful
Gobelin tapestry, wrought to represent the four quarters of the globe in
productions, fruit, flowers, vegetation, and inhabitants--a royal gift
and an elegant sight. Here were also displayed a fine Sevres dessert
service, the gift of Louis Philippe, the great purses of state presented
to Lord Brougham when he was chancellor, as a sort of badge or insignia
of office. These were rigged on fire-frame screens, and were heavily
gold-embroidered affairs, twenty-four inches square or more, and worth
over three hundred pounds each. Here also was a glass case filled with
gifts made to Lord Brougham by different distinguished personages, such
as gold snuff-boxes from different cities, watches, a miniature, taken
from life, of the great Napoleon, presented by Joseph Bonaparte, &c.

The library, which was well stocked with choice books, was another
elegant room, most artistically arranged. Here portraits of great
writers, by great artists, occupied conspicuous positions; and among
other noteworthy pictures in this room was one of Hogarth, painted by
himself, a portrait of Voltaire and others.

The ceilings of these apartments were laid out in squares or diamond
indentation, elegantly frescoed, or carved from the solid oak, the color
formed to harmonize with the furniture and upholstery. The ceiling of
the drawing-room was occupied by the different quarterings of the coat
of arms of the Brougham family, in carved work of gold and colors, one
to each panel, very elaborately finished.

When we were escorted to the sleeping apartments, new surprises awaited
us. Here was one complete suite of rooms,--chambers, dressing-room,
closet, &c.,--all built and furnished in the early Norman style; the
old, carved, black, Norman bedstead, hundreds of years old; gilt leather
tapestry on the walls, decorated with Norman figures of knights, horses
and spearmen; huge Norman-looking chairs; great brass-bound oaken
chests, black with age and polished by the hand of time; rude tables;
chests of drawers; the doors and windows with semicircular arched
head-pieces, the former of massive black oak, with huge brass
chevron-shaped hinges, quaint door-handles, and bolts of the period
represented, and the various ornaments of zigzag, billet, nail-head,
&c., of Norman architecture appearing in every direction. Something of
the same style is seen in some of our Episcopal churches in America, but
it is more modernized. Here the Norman rooms were Norman in all details,
the dark, old wood was polished smooth as steel, the brass work upon the
doors and old chests gleamed like beaten gold, and the whole picture of
quaint, old tracery of arches and narrow windows, tapestry, carving, and
massive furniture, conveyed an impression of wealth, solidity, and
substantial beauty.

From the Norman rooms we passed into the Norman gallery, a corridor of
about fifty feet long and sixty feet wide, upon the sides of which are
painted a complete copy of the wonderous Bayeaux tapestry, wrought by
Matilda, queen of William I., and representing the conquest of
England--the only perfect copy said to have been made. The different
sleeping apartments were each furnished in different styles; in one was
an elegantly carved bedstead, of antique design, which cost four hundred
guineas, and was a present to Lord Brougham.

Lord Brougham's own study, and his favorite resort for reading, writing,
and thinking, was one of the plainest, most unpretending rooms in the
whole building; the furniture of the commonest kind, the pictures old
impressions of Hogarth's, Marriage a la Mode, and the Industrious and
Idle Apprentice, in cheap frames, and that familiar to Americans, of
Humboldt in his study. Two battered hats, hung upon a wooden hat-tree in
the corner,--hats that Punch has made almost historical, and certainly
easily recognizable wherever seen,--completed the picture of the simple
apartment where one of the greatest statesmen of the present generation
was wont to muse upon the affairs of one of the mightiest nations of the
world, at whose helm his was the guiding hand.

Returning on our way to the railway station, we lunched in the tap-room
of a little wayside inn, "The White Hart," just one of those places that
we Americans read of in English novels, and which are so unlike anything
we have at home, that we sometimes wonder if the description of them is
not also a part of the writer's creation. But here was one just as if it
had stepped out of an English story book; the little room for guests had
a clean tile floor ornamented with alternate red and white chalk
stripes, a fireplace of immense height and width, round which the
village gossips probably sipped their ale o' winter nights, the wooden
chairs and benches and the wooden table in the centre of the room,
spotlessly clean and white from repeated scrubbings; half a dozen long
clay tobacco pipes were in a tray on the table for smokers, clustering
vines and snowy curtains shaded the windows, and there was an air of
quiet comfort and somnolency about the place quite attractive to one who
was fatigued with a long and dusty walk.

The landlady entered with snowy apron, broad, clean cap, and of a figure
suggestive of the nutritious quality of English ale or good living, and,
like the Mrs. Fezziwig of Dickens,--

    "One vast, substantial smile."

"What will you please to horder, sir?"

"Can we have some ale and crackers?"

"Hale, sir? Yes, sir. Bread and cheese, sir?" (_interrogatively_).

"Yes; bread and cheese."

"Two mugs and bread and cheese, Mary," said the landlady, as she bustled
out through the passage to a little wicket enclosure, behind which we
caught through the opening door the flash of tankards in gleaming rows,
and in a moment more "Mary" tripped in with two beer mugs, shining like
silver, and the snowy foam rising high and bubbling in creamy luxuriance
over their brims upon the little tray that bore them.

Good English home-brewed is said to be better than that served in
America; perhaps it may be that we "'aven't got the 'ops" to make as
good as they brew in England, or it may be that tasting it while the
spring breeze is blowing the perfume from the hedgerows and meadows in
at the windows of little road-side inns, which command a pretty rustic
view of gentle slope, green valley, and cool shade trees, has something
to do with one's judgment of it. The attack upon the ale of old England
and the loaf of sweet, close-grained bread and cheese, involved the
enormous outlay of ten pence, to which we added two more for Mary, an
even shilling, for which she dropped a grateful courtesy, and we
strolled on through the antiquated little town of Penrith, visiting the
churchyard and seeing the giant's grave, a space of eight feet between a
gigantic head and foot stone, each covered with nearly obliterated Runic
inscriptions.



CHAPTER III.


From Penrith we were whirled away over the rails to Edinburgh. Edinburgh
is certainly a wonder--a wonder of historic interest, a wonder of
curious old buildings, and a wonder of magnificent new ones. Here we
were in the very place that Walter Scott has made us long and long to
see, and were to visit the scenes that were sung in his matchless
minstrelsy, and painted in his graphic romances. Here was the city where
Knox, the Reformer, preached, and Mary, Queen of Scots, held her brief
and stormy reign. Here we were to see Holyrood, Edinburgh Castle, and a
hundred scenes identified with Scottish history, the very names of which
served to help the melodious flow of the rhythm of Scott's entrancing
poems. With what wondrous charms does the poet and novelist invest
historic scenes! How memory carried us back to the days when the Tales
of a Grandfather held us chained to their pages, as with a spell! How
the Waverley Novels' scenes came thronging into imagination's eye, like
the half-forgotten scenes of happy youth, when we read of the bold
Scottish champions, the fierce Highlanders, and the silken courtiers,
the knights, battles, spearmen, castles, hunts, feasts, and pageants, so
vividly described by the Wizard of the North!

Here we are at a hotel on Princes Street, right opposite the Scott
Monument, a graceful structure of Gothic arches and pinnacles, and
enshrining a figure of Sir Walter and his favorite dog. The view, seen
from Princes Street, reminds one very much of the pictures of Athens
Restored, with its beautiful public buildings of Grecian architecture.
Between Princes Street, which is in the new, and the old city is a deep
ravine or valley, as it were, now occupied by the tracks of the
railroad, and spanned by great stone-arched bridges. An immense
embankment, called the Mound, also connects the old and new city, its
slopes descending east and west into beautiful gardens towards the
road-bed. Upon the Mound are the Royal Institution, Gallery of Fine
Arts, the former a sort of Pantheon-looking building, and both with
plenty of space around them, so that they look as if placed there
expressly to be seen and admired.

Princes Street, which is one of the finest in Great Britain, runs east
and west. It is entirely open upon the south side, and separated only by
a railing from the lovely gardens that run down into the hollow I have
mentioned, between the old and new town. Looking across the hollow, we
see the old city, where the historic steeples of St. Giles and others
mingle among the lofty houses in the extended panoramic view, the
eastern end of which is completed by the almost impregnable old castle,
rich in historic interest, which lifts its battlements from its rocky
seat two hundred feet above the surrounding country, and is a grand and
picturesque object. The city, both old and new, appears to be built of
stone resembling our darkest granite. The old town is built upon a
ridge, gradually ascending towards the castle, and is a curious old
place, with its lofty eight and ten-story houses, its narrow lanes,
called "wynds," or "closes," and swarming population.

The "closes" are curious affairs, being sort of narrow enclosures,
running up in between lofty buildings, with only one place of ingress
and egress, that could, in old times, be closed by a portcullis, the
remains of some of them being still in existence, and were built as
defences against incursions of the Highlanders.

Here in the old town are many streets, the names of which will be
recognized by all familiar with Scott--the High Street, Grass Market,
Cow Gate, and Canon Gate. We went, one afternoon, and stood in the Grass
Market, amid a seething mass of humanity that fills it. Lofty old houses
rise high about on all sides, every one with a history, and some of them
two or three hundred years old--houses the windows of which were oft
packed with eager faces to see the criminal executions here. Some of
these houses, Scott says in his Heart of Mid-Lothian, were formerly the
property of the Knights Templars and Knights of St. John, and still
exhibit, on their points and gables, the cross of those orders in
iron--houses that looked down on the furious mob that hung Captain
Porteous upon the dyer's pole, over the very spot where we stood. Then,
walking down towards the other extremity, we entered the Canon Gate,
extending down the hill towards Holyrood Palace--Canon Gate, which was
the residence of the wealthy canons of the church when Holyrood was an
abbey, and after the Reformation the abode of the Scottish aristocracy.
At one end of the old city stands Holyrood, at the other the castle rock
rears its rugged height.

The new city is beautifully laid out in broad streets and squares, which
are adorned with imposing buildings, monuments, and bronze statues of
celebrated men; but I am not to give a guide-book description of
Edinburgh, although there is so much that interests in its streets and
buildings that one is almost tempted to do so.

The very first visit one desires to make is to the lofty old castle that
overlooks the city. It is situated on an elevated basaltic rock, and is
separated from the town by an esplanade about three hundred feet wide,
and three hundred and fifty long. The castle is said to have been
founded in the year 617, and contains many curious relics of antiquity,
and is fraught with historic interest, having been the scene of so many
crimes, romantic adventures, captivities, and sieges, within the past
three or four hundred years--scenes that have been the most vivid in the
pages of history, and formed an almost inexhaustible theme for the most
graphic pictures of the novelist.

Among the most notable captures will be recollected that of the Earl of
Randolph, nephew to Robert Bruce. And also, when in the possession of
the English King Edward I., thirty brave fellows, guided by a young man
called William Frank, who had often climbed up and down the Castle Rock
to visit his sweetheart, ventured one night, in their heavy iron armor,
with their swords and axes, to scale the most precipitous side
overhanging the West Princes Street Gardens, and, succeeding, quickly
overcame the garrison. In 1341, when the castle was again held by the
English, Sir William Douglas and Sir Simon Fraser took it by stratagem
and surprise in broad daylight, having sent in a cart loaded with wine,
which was dexterously overturned in the gateway, so that the gate could
not be closed when the Scottish soldiers rushed forward to the attack.

The broad esplanade before the castle affords a fine view, and is used
as a place for drilling the troops, the castle having accommodations for
two thousand men. We passed across this, and by the statue of the Duke
of York, son of George III., and uncle of Queen Victoria, and the
monumental cross, erected in memory of the officers of the Highland
regiment who fell in the years 1857 and 1858, in the Indian Rebellion
War. On over the moat and drawbridge, and through the old portcullis
gate, over which was the old prison in which the Earl of Argyle, and
numerous adherents of the Stuarts, were confined previous to their
execution, and after passing beneath this, were fairly within the
castle. One point of interest was the old sally-port, up which Dundee
climbed to have a conference with the Duke of Gordon, when on his way to
raise the Highland clans in favor of King James II., while the
convention were assembled in the Parliament House, and were proceeding
to settle the crown upon William and Mary.

Dundee, accompanied by only thirty picked men, rode swiftly along a
street in the old city, nearly parallel to the present line of Princes
Street, while the drums in the town were beating to arms to pursue him;
and leaving his men in a by-place, clambered up the steep rock at this
point, and urged the duke to accompany him, but without effect. Scott's
song of "Bonnie Dundee" tells us,--

        "Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street,
        The bells they ring backward, the drums they are beat;
        But the provost, deuce man! said, 'Just e'en let him be,
        For the town is well rid of that de'il o' Dundee.'"

Dundee rode off towards Stirling, with the threat that,--

        "If there's lords in the Southland, there's chiefs in the North;
        There are wild dunnie vassals, three thousand times three,
        Will cry, 'Hey for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee!'"

From what is known as the Bomb Battery an excellent view of Edinburgh is
obtained. Here is a curious piece of early artillery, of huge size,
designated Mons Meg, made at Mons in Brittany, in 1476, of thick iron
bars hooped together, and twenty inches diameter at the bore. Near this
is the Chapel of Queen Margaret, a little Norman building eight hundred
years old, used by Margaret, Queen of Malcolm III., daughter of Edward
the Outlaw, and granddaughter of Edmund Ironside, who, it will be
remembered, disputed the crown of England for so many years with Canute.

One of the most interesting, as well as one of the oldest rooms, was a
little irregular-shaped apartment, known as Queen Mary's Room, being the
room in which James VI. was born, in 1566. The original ceiling remains,
with the initials J. R. and M. R., surmounted by a crown, and wrought
into the panels. From the window of this little room, it is said, the
infant king was let down to the street, two hundred and fifty feet
below, by means of a rope and basket, and carried off secretly to
Stirling Castle, to be baptized in the Roman Catholic faith. When James
made his first visit to Scotland, in 1617, after his accession to the
English throne, he caused the royal arms to be elaborately painted on
the wall, and underneath his mother's prayer, which still remains in
quaint old English letters, somewhat difficult to decipher:--

        "Lord Jesu Chryst that crownit was with Thornse
        Preserve the birth quhais Badyie heir is borne.
        And send hir Sonne successive to reigne stille
        Lang in this Realme, if that it be Thy will.
        Als grant O Lord quhat ever of Hir proseed
        Be to Thy Glorie, Honer and Prais sobied."

The view from the windows, here at the east and south sides of the old
castle, is varied and romantic. The curious old houses in the Grass
Market, far down below; the quaint, blackened old streets of the old
city; the magnificent towers of Herriot's Hospital against the blue sky;
and stretching beyond the city, the fine landscape, with the familiar
Borough moor, where the Scottish hosts were wont to muster by clans and
chieftains,--form a scene of picturesque beauty not soon forgotten.

The armory of the castle contains many interesting weapons of ancient
warfare. Among the most notable was a coat of mail worn by one of the
Douglases in Cromwell's time; Rob Roy's dagger; some beautiful steel
pistols, used by some of the Highland followers of Prince Charles Stuart
at the battle of Culloden; and cuirasses worn by the French cuirassiers
at Waterloo. The crown room contains the regalia of Scotland, and the
celebrated crown of Robert Bruce. The regalia of Scotland consist of a
crown, sceptre, and sword of state, the latter a most beautiful piece of
workmanship, the scabbard elegantly ornamented with chased and wrought
work, representing oak leaves and acorns, and which was a present from
Pope Julius II. to James IV. Particular interest attaches to these
regalia, from the fact of their discovery through Scott's exertions, in
1818, after a disappearance of about one hundred and eleven years. The
crown is the diadem that pressed the valiant brow of Robert the Bruce,
and the devoted head of Mary, and was placed upon the infant brow of her
son. Charles II. was the last monarch who wore this regal emblem, which
is connected with so many stirring events in Scottish history.

From Edinburgh Castle, a gradually descending walk, through some of the
most interesting portions of the old city, will take the visitor to
Holyrood Palace and Abbey,--quite a distance, but which should be walked
rather than rode, if the tourist is a pedestrian of moderate powers, as
it is thronged with so many points of historic interest, to which I can
only make a passing allusion. The High Street, as it is called, is one
of the principal through which we pass, and in old times was considered
very fine; but its glory departed with the building of the new portion
of the city, and the curious old "closes," in the streets diverging from
it, are the habitations of the lowest class of the population.

Bow Street, which, if I remember rightly, runs into Grass Market from
High Street, was formerly known as West Bow, from an arch or bow in the
city wall. We passed down this quaint old street, which used to be the
principal avenue by which carriages reached the upper part of the city.
It was a curve of lofty houses, filthy kennels, and noisy children,
spirit-shops, groceries, and garbage; yet up this street had ridden, in
old times, Anne of Denmark, James I., Charles I., Oliver Cromwell,
Charles II., and James II. It was down this street that the Earl of
Argyle and Marquis of Montrose were dragged, in the hangman's cart, to
execution in the Grass Market, which is situated at its foot, and to
which I have previously alluded. Porteous was also dragged down through
this street to execution, by the rioters who took him from his jailers.

In the old city we visited a court called Dunbar's Close, where, after
the victory of Dunbar, some of Cromwell's soldiers were quartered. Here
remains a carved inscription, said to bear the oldest date in the city.
It reads as follows:

         =Y faith in Christ.
        Onlie Savit, MDCLII.=

St. Giles Church, in High Street, is a notable building, and was, in
popish times, the cathedral of the city, named after St. Giles,
Edinburgh's patron saint. I will not tire the reader with a visit to its
interior; but it was here that took place that incident, which every
school-boy recollects, of Jenny Geddes throwing her stool at the head of
the officiating clergyman, upon his attempt to read the liturgy as
prescribed by Archbishop Laud, and which it was proposed to introduce
into Scotland.

The "Solemn League and Covenant" was sworn to and signed in this church,
in 1643. Just within the railings surrounding the old church stands the
shaft of the old cross of Edinburgh; and the site of the Tollbooth,
which figures in Scott's novels, is marked, near by, by the figure of a
heart in the pavement--"The Heart of Mid-Lothian." Numerous other points
of historic interest might be enumerated, did space permit. We must, as
we pass rapidly on, not forget to take a view of the quaint old
rookery-looking mansion of John Knox, the Reformer, with a steep flight
of steps, leading up to a door high above the sidewalk, and the
inscription upon it, which I could not read, but which I was informed
was

          =Lufe God above all, and
        Your Neighbour as Yourself=,

and the massive-looking old Canon Gate Tollbooth, erected in the reign
of James VI. On we go through the Canon Gate, till we emerge in the open
space in front of that ancient dwelling-place of Scottish royalty,
Holyrood Palace.

Holyrood Palace is interesting from the numerous important events in
Scottish history that have transpired within its walls. It is a great
quadrangular building, with a court-yard ninety-four feet square. Its
front is flanked with double castellated towers, the tops peaked, and
looking something like the lid of an old-fashioned coffee-pot, or an
inverted tin tunnel, with the pipe cut off. The embellishments in front
of the entrance to the palace and the beautiful fountain were completed
under the direction, and at the expense, of the late Prince Albert. The
palace is said to have been founded by James IV., quite early in the
year 1500, and it was his chief residence up to the time of his death,
at Flodden, in 1513. Some of the events that give it its historic
celebrity are those that transpired during the life of Mary, Queen of
Scots, who made it her ordinary residence after her return to her native
country, in 1561. It was here that Mary was married to Darnley, and we
were shown the piece of stone flagging upon which they knelt during the
ceremony, and which we profaned with our own knees, with true tourist
fervor; here that Rizzio, or, as they spell it in Scotland, Riccio, was
murdered in her very presence; here that she married Bothwell, endured
those fiery discussions with the Scotch Reformers, and wept at the rude
and coarse upbraidings of John Knox; here that James VI. brought his
queen, Anne of Denmark, in 1590, and had her crowned in the chapel;
here, also, was Charles I. crowned, and here, after the battle of
Dunbar, in 1650, did Cromwell quarter a part of his forces.

In modern times, George IV. visited the palace in 1822, granting, after
his departure, over twenty thousand pounds for repairs and improvements;
and in 1850, Queen Victoria, Prince Albert, and the royal children made
a visit there, and since that time she stops annually on her way to and
from her Highland residence at the Castle of Balmoral, for a brief
period here at old Holyrood.

To those familiar at all, from reading history or the romances and
poems, with those events in which this old pile occupies a prominent
position, it of course possesses a great interest.

In the broad, open space before the palace, the elaborate fountain, with
its floriated pinnacles, figures, &c., will attract attention, although
it ill accords with the old buildings. The most interesting apartments
in the palace are those of Mary, Queen of Scots.

Passing in at the entrance gate, and buying tickets at a little office
very much like a theatrical ticket office, we visited the more ancient
part of the palace, and entered first Lord Darnley's rooms. These were
hung with fine specimens of ancient tapestry, upon which Cupids are
represented plucking fruit, and throwing it down to others; oak trees
and leaves, Cupids plucking grapes, &c. Another scene was a lake and
castle, with fruit trees and Cupids; also figures of nude youngsters,
turning somersaults and performing different antics. Another room
contains two pieces of tapestry, telling the story of the flaming cross
that appeared to Constantine the Great, the motto, _In hoc signo
vinces_, embroidered on the corner of the hangings; Darnley's elegant
armor, &c. Other fine pieces of tapestry are in Darnley's bed-room and
dressing-room. Portraits of Scottish kings also adorn the walls.

We were then shown Queen Mary's private staircase, that by which Darnley
admitted the conspirators up from a little turret room to assassinate
Rizzio. Mary's audience chamber is a room about twenty feet square, the
ceiling divided into panelled compartments, adorned with initials and
armorial bearings, and the walls hung with tapestry, upon which were
wrought various scenes, now sadly faded by the withering breath of time.
These tapestry hangings the curious traveller soon becomes accustomed
to, and the more, I think, one sees of them, the more he admires
them--the scenes of ancient mythology or allegorical design so
beautifully wrought as to rival even oil paintings in beauty of color
and design, and exciting a wonder at the skill and labor that were
expended in producing with many colored threads these wondrous loom
mosaics. In the audience chamber stands the bed of Charles I., and upon
this couch Prince Charles, the unfortunate descendant of the former
occupant, slept in September, 1745, and the Duke of Cumberland, his
conqueror, rested upon the same couch. Cumberland, yes, we recollect
him; he figured in Lochiel's Warning, Campbell's beautiful poem--

        "Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain."

Some rich old chairs of the same period, and other furniture, are also
in this room, which was the scene of Mary's altercation with Knox.

Looking upon the antique bed, one can see how, despite care, the hand of
time leaves its indelible impress upon all that is of man's creation.
You can scarcely imagine how time affects an old state bed. No matter
what be the care or exclusion from sunlight, the breath of time leaves
its mark; the canopy and hangings gradually fade and deaden, the very
life seems to be extracted, and they look like an old piece of husk or
dried toast, light, porous, and moulding; the wood-work, however, grows
dark, and apparently as solid as iron; the quaint carving stands out in
jetty polish, rich and luxuriant--a study and a wonder of curious and
fantastic art and sculpture in wood.

Queen Mary's room is hung with a beautiful piece of tapestry,
representing the fall of Phaeton; half hidden by this tapestry is the
door opening upon the secret stair by which Rizzio's murderers entered;
upon the wall hang portraits of Mary at the age of eighteen, portraits
of Queen Elizabeth and King Henry VIII., presented her by Elizabeth;
here also was furniture used by the queen, and the baby linen basket
sent her by Elizabeth.

From here we enter that oft-described apartment so celebrated in
Scottish history--the queen's supper room, where Rizzio was murdered.
Its small size generally excites astonishment. Here, into this little
room, which half a dozen persons would fill, rushed the armed
conspirators, overturning the table and dragging their shrieking victim
from the very feet of the queen, as he clung to her dress for
protection, stabbing him as they went beneath her very eyes, forcing him
out into the audience chamber, and left him with over fifty ghastly
wounds, from which his life ebbed in a crimson torrent, leaving its
ineffaceable stain, the indelible mark upon the oaken floor, not more
indelible than the blackened stain which rests upon the names of the
perpetrators of this brutal murder.

Adown the little staircase which the conspirators passed, we go through
a low door into the court-yard. Over the top of this little door, a few
years ago, in a crevice of the masonry, an antique dagger-blade was
discovered by some workmen; and as the murderers escaped through this
door, it was surmised that this was one of the very daggers used in the
assassination.

But we leave the place behind, and enter the romantic ruins of the old
abbey. How interesting are these picturesque ruined remains of the
former glory and power of the church of Rome in England! Their
magnificent proportions, beauty of architecture, and exquisite
decoration bespeak the wealth of the church and the wondrous taste of
those who reared these piles, which, in their very ruin, command our
admiration. The abbey is immediately adjoining the palace,--its front a
beautiful style of early English architecture, and the noble,
high-arched door, with cluster pillars, elaborately sculptured with
fret-work figures of angels, flowers, vines, &c.,--one of those
specimens of stone carving that excite wonder at the amount of patient
work, labor, and skill that must have been required in their production.

The abbey was founded in 1128, and the fragment which remains formed the
nave of the ancient building. Here are the graves of David II., James
II., Darnley, and that of the ill-starred Rizzio, and other eminent
personages, some of whom, judging from the ornaments upon the marble
slabs of their graves, were good Freemasons and Knights Templars,--the
perfect ashler, setting maul, and square upon the former, and the
rude-cut figures of reclining knights, with crossed feet and upraised
hands, upon others, indicating the fact.

But the gairish sun shines boldly down into the very centre of what was
once the dim-lighted, solemn old abbey, with its cool, quiet cloisters,
that scarce echoed to the monk's sandalled footstep, and the
gracefully-pointed arches, supported by clusters of stone pillars, throw
their quaint shadows on the greensward, now, where was once the chapel's
stone pavement; the great arched window through which the light once
fell in shattered rainbows to the floor, stands now, slender and
weird-like, with its tracery against the heaven, like a skeleton of the
past; and the half-obliterated or undecipherable vain-glorious
inscriptions upon the slabs, here and there, are all that remain of this
monument of man's power and pride--a monument beautiful in its very
ruins, and romantic from the halo of associations of the dim past that
surround it.

The new city, to which I have referred, is a creation of the last
hundred years, the plans of it being published in 1768. The two great
streets are George Street and Princes Street, the former filled with
fine stores, and adorned with statues of William Pitt, George IV., and
many public buildings and beautiful squares.

Here, in Edinburgh, we began to hear the "burr" of the Scotch tongue.
Many of the salesmen in the stores where tourists go to buy Scotch linen
or Scotch pebble jewelry, the Scotch plaids which were temptingly
displayed, or the warm under-clothing which New Englanders appreciate,
seemed to have their tongues roughened, as it were, to a sort of
pleasant whir-r in speaking the English language.

Up from one end of Princes Street rises Calton Hill, with its unfinished
national monument, designed to represent the classical Parthenon at
Athens; and in one respect it does, being a sort of ruin, or, I may say,
a fragment of ruin, consisting of a dozen splendid Doric columns,--for
the monument which was to commemorate the Scotchmen who fell at Waterloo
was never finished. Here also is a round monument to Nelson, and a dome,
supported by pillars, a monument to Professor Dugald Stewart; while a
monument to Burns is seen upon the Regent's Road, close at hand. The
view of the long vista of Princes Street from Calton Hill, in which the
eye can take in at one sweep the Scott monument, the splendid
classical-looking structures of the Royal Institution and National
Gallery, the great castle on its rocky perch, and then turning about on
the other side and viewing the square, solid old palace of Holyrood,
with the fragment of ruined abbey attached, and rising high above them
the eminence known as Arthur's Seat, and the winding cliffs of Salisbury
Crags, forms a panoramic scene of rare beauty and interest.

Speaking of interest, I cannot leave Edinburgh without referring to the
interesting collection of curious relics at the Antiquarian Museum.
Think of standing in John Knox's pulpit, and thumping, with your
curious, wonder-seeking hand, the same desk that had held his Bible, or
been smitten by his indignant palm, as he denounced the church of Rome,
nearly three hundred years ago; of looking upon the very stool that
Jenny Geddes launched at the head of the Dean of St. Giles, when he
undertook to introduce the liturgy into Scotland, in 1565; and seeing
one of the very banners of the Covenanters that had been borne amid the
smoke and fire of their battles; nay, there, in a glass case, we saw the
old Scotch Covenant itself, with the signatures of Montrose, Lothian,
and their associates. Here also were Gustavus Adolphus's spurs, Robert
Burns's pistols, the very glass that Prince Charlie drank from before
the disastrous battle of Culloden; the original draft of inquiry into
the massacre of Glencoe, dated 1656, original autographic letters from
Charles VI., Prince Charles Edward Stuart, Cromwell, and Mary, Queen of
Scots. This was reading Scottish history from the original documents.

Here was the flag of Scotland that flouted the breeze at the battle of
Dunbar, in 1650, the pikes of Charles II.'s pikemen, and the old
Scottish six-ell spears; nails from the coffin and a portion of the very
shroud of Robert Bruce, the blue ribbon of Prince Charlie, worn as
Knight of the Garter, in 1745, and the very ring given to him by Flora
Macdonald at parting. Among the horrors of the collection is "the
Maiden," a rude guillotine of two upright posts, between which a loaded
axe blade was hoisted by a cord, and let fall upon the devoted neck
beneath. By this very instrument fell the Regent Morton, in 1581, Sir
John Gordon, in 1644, the Earl of Argyle, in 1685, and many others--a
bloody catalogue.

The collection of ancient implements, coins, seals, medallions, weapons,
&c., was interesting as well as valuable and extensive, comprising many
that have been exhumed from ancient ruins, and antique relics, more or
less connected with the history of the country. The Free National
Gallery contains a noble collection of elegant pictures by eminent
artists of old and modern times, and a fine statue of Burns.

The ride up Salisbury Crags to the eminence known as Arthur's Seat,
which rises behind Holyrood eight hundred feet high, is one of the great
attractions to the tourist; the drive to it by the fine carriage road,
known as "Queen's Drive," is delightful, and the view of the city and
surrounding country from the elevated road very picturesque. There is a
romantic little path here, on Salisbury Crags, running by the ruins of
St. Anthony's Chapel, that Walter Scott used to walk when working out
the plot of some of his novels, and the now broad road was then but a
winding path up the crags; the chapel, it will be remembered, figures in
the Heart of Mid-Lothian.

The elegant monument, nearly in front of the Royal Hotel, in the Princes
Street Gardens, erected in memory of Walter Scott, and known as the
Scott Monument, is familiar to most American readers, from engravings.
It is a splendid Gothic tower, and said to be "a recollection of the
architectural beauties of Melrose Abbey."

I cannot help reflecting here, in the native land of Scott, what the
present generation owes to him for preserving the history, traditions,
and romance of their country to undying fame; for investing them with
new interest to the whole civilized world; for strengthening Scottish
national traits, inculcating new pride to preserve the relics of their
bravery and noble deeds among all classes, high and low.

Thousands and thousands of the Scotch people are to-day indebted to the
labors of this indefatigable, industrious, and wonderful man for their
daily bread. I have been through enormous publishing houses here, or, I
might more appropriately style them, vast book factories, where editions
of his works, in every conceivable style, are issued. Year after year
the never-tiring press throws off the same sheets, and yet the public
are unsatisfied, and call for more; new readers step yearly into the
ranks vacated by those who went before them; and the rattle of the press
readily beats to quarters, each season, a fresh army of recruits.

The poems, couplets, pictures, carved relics, guide-books, museums,
ruins, &c., which his magic pen has made profitable property, are
something marvellous. Fashions of brooches, jewelry, plaids, dress, and
ornaments to-day owe their popularity to his pen, and what would be
forgotten ruins, nameless huts, or uninviting wastes, it has made the
Meccas of travellers from all nations.

As an illustration of the latter fact, I met a man upon the battlements
of Edinburgh Castle, from Cape Town, Africa, whose parents were Scotch,
but who for years had been an exile, who in far distant countries had
read Scott's Waverley novels and Scott's poems till the one wish of his
heart was to see old Scotland and those scenes with which the Wizard of
the North had inflamed his imagination, and who now, at fifty years of
age, looked upon his native land the first time since, when a boy of
eight years, he

                "ran about the braes,
        And pu'd the gowans fine."

He was now realizing the enjoyment he had so many years longed
for,--looking upon the scenes he had heard his father tell and his
mother sing of, enjoying the reward of many years of patient toil, made
lighter by the anticipation of visiting the home of his fathers; and I
was gratified to find that, unlike the experiences of many who are so
long in exile, the realization of his hopes was "all his fancy painted"
it, and he enjoyed all with a keen relish and enthusiastic fervor.

It is a pleasant seven mile ride from Edinburgh out to Rosslyn Castle,
and the way to go is to take Hawthornden, as most tourists do, _en
route_. This place--a delightful, romantic old ivy-covered mansion--is
perched upon a high precipice, eighty or one hundred feet above the
River Esk ("where ford there was none"), in a most delightfully romantic
position, commanding a view of the little stream in its devious windings
in the deep, irregular gully below; the gardens and walks, for a mile
about and above the river, are charmingly rural and tastefully arranged.
One can well imagine that Drummond, the Scottish poet and historian, the
friend of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and Drayton, drew inspiration from
this charming retreat. Jonson is said to have walked all the way from
London to make a visit here.

Under the mansion we visited a series of curious caves, hollowed from
the solid rock, and connected with each other by dark and narrow
passages, very much like those subterranean passages told of in
old-fashioned novels, as existing beneath old castles. One of these
rocky chambers had a little window cut through its side, half concealed
by ivy, but commanding a view of the whole glen. Here, the guide told
us, Robert Bruce hid for a long time from his enemies; and I was
prepared to hear that this was the scene of the celebrated spider
anecdote of the story-books. We got no such information, but were shown
a long, two-handed sword, however, said to have belonged to the Scottish
king, which I took pleasure in giving a brandish above my head, to the
infinite disgust of the guide, who informed me, after I had laid down
this formidable weapon, that visitors were not allowed to handle it.

It may be as well to state that the authenticity of this sword, and also
the correctness of the story that Bruce ever hid there, are questioned.
One of the chambers has regular shelves, like book-shelves, cut in the
rock, and this is styled Bruce's Library. Passing out into the grounds
of the house, we descended, by a pretty rustic pathway, to the valley,
and along by the side of the Esk River, which babbled over its rocky bed
at our feet. If this Esk is the same one that Young Lochinvar swam, he
did not accomplish anything to boast of; for during a walk of over two
miles at its side, I saw no part over twenty feet wide, and no very
dangerous depth or current.

Our romantic walk brought us to the ruins of Rosslyn Castle, but little
of which remains, except a triple tier of vaults and some masses of
masonry, its position being on a sort of peninsular rock, overhanging
the picturesque glen of the Esk we had just traversed; and the massive
stone bridge which spans the ravine forms the only connection between
the opposite bank and the castle.

Rosslyn Chapel, or Roslin,--for they spell it both ways here,--was
founded by William, the third earl of Orkney, in 1446, who had conferred
on him by James II. the office of Grand Master of the Scottish
Freemasons, which continued hereditary in the family of his descendants
till 1736, when it was resigned into the hands of the Scottish Lodges.
The chapel is one of the most elaborately decorated specimens of
architecture in the kingdom, and, besides its celebrity in history, and
the interest that Scott has invested it with, is a building of peculiar
interest to members of the fraternity of Freemasons. It is impossible to
designate the architecture by any familiar term; it is distinguished,
however, by its pointed Gothic arches and a profusion of ornament, the
interior being a wonder of decoration in stone carving, particularly the
pillars, which are pointed out to the visitor as its chief wonders, and
some of which bear the mark master mason's "mark."

The interior of the chapel is divided into a centre and two side aisles,
and the two rows of clustered pillars which support the roof are only
eight feet in height. The capitals of these pillars are decorated with
the most beautifully chiselled foliage, running vines, and ornaments,
and on the friezes masonic brethren are represented feeding the hungry,
clothing the naked, visiting the sick, &c.; there are also a number of
allegorical figures, representing the seven deadly sins.

But the marvel of the whole is the Apprentices' Pillar, which, according
to the familiar legend, was left unfinished by the master mason, while
he went to Rome to study designs to enable him to perfect it in a
suitable manner. During his absence, an "entered apprentice," fired with
ambition, completed it after designs of his own, which so enraged the
master on his return, that, in a fit of rage, he killed him with a blow
on the head with a setting-maul. The pillar is a clustered column,
surrounded by an exquisitely-wrought wreath of flowers, running from
base to capital, the very poetry of carving. Above this pillar is the
following inscription:--

        =Forte est vinum, fortior est rex, fortiores sunt mulieres;
                        super omnia vincit veritas.=

Which is, "Wine is strong, the king is stronger, women are strongest;
above all things, truth conquers."

We stood upon the ponderous slab that was the door to the vault beneath,
in which slumber the barons of Roslin, all of whom, till the time of
James VI., were buried uncoffined, but in complete armor--helm,
corselet, and gauntlets. Scott's familiar lines came to mind,--

        "Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie,
          Each baron, for a sable shroud,
        Sheathed in his iron panoply."

It seems, however, that some of the descendants of the "barons" had a
more modern covering than their "iron panoply;" for, about two years
ago, upon the death of an old earl, it was decided to bury him in this
vault; and it was accordingly opened, when two huge coffins were found
at the very entrance, completely blocking it up, and which would have
broken in pieces in the attempt to move them. The present earl,
therefore, ordered the workmen to close the old vault, and his father's
remains were interred in a new one in the chancel, built about eighty
years ago, where the inscription above his remains tells us that "James
Alexander, third Earl, died 16th June, 1866."

Bidding adieu to this exquisite little building, we will take a glance
at another, or rather the ruins of another, that owes much of its fame
also to the interest with which Walter Scott has invested it--one which
he loved to visit, and much of whose beautiful architectural
ornamentation he caused to be copied into his own Abbotsford. I refer to
Melrose Abbey; and, as no tourist ever thinks of leaving Scotland
without seeing it, a sketch of our visit may possibly be but a new
version of an oft-told story; but now that I have seen it, I am never
tired of thinking and reading of its wondrous beauty.

Melrose is thirty-five miles from Edinburgh by rail; and on arrival at
the station, we were at once pounced upon by a number of drivers of
vehicles in waiting, who were desirous of securing us, or of having us
secure them, for a drive to Melrose Abbey, Abbotsford, or Dryburg Abbey,
and if we had not been cautioned, we should have been warned by a card
which was thrust into my hand, and which I give for the benefit of other
tourists who may go that way, informing them that the "Abbey Hotel,"
herein mentioned, is less than five minutes' walk from the little
railroad station.


"THE ABBEY HOTEL, ABBEY GATE, MELROSE.

    "This hotel is situated upon the abbey grounds, and at the
    entrance to the 'far-famed ruins.' Parties coming to the hotel,
    therefore, are cautioned against being imposed upon by
    cab-drivers at the railroad station and elsewhere, as this is
    the only house which commands the views of Melrose Abbey.

     "An extensive addition having been lately built to this
     establishment, consisting of suites of sitting and bed-rooms,
     it is now the largest and most handsome hotel in Melrose.

        "One-horse carriage to Abbotsford and back      6s. 6d.
            "         "     to Dryburg and back         7s. 6d.

     "These charges include everything."

Upon the reverse we were treated to a pictorial representation of this
"most handsome hotel," an unpretending, two-story mansion, which, we
were informed, was kept by Archibald Hamilton, who also kept various
"horses, gigs, and phaetons for hire; wines and foreign and British
spirits for sale." A rush of twenty visitors would have overrun the
"establishment," to which "an extensive addition" had been made. The
Abbey Hotel was a comfortable English inn, and we found, on arriving at
it, that it almost joined on to the very abbey itself; while another
little building, the dwelling of the widow and two daughters who showed
the ruins, as we found, for a consideration, was close by--too close, it
seemed to us, to this glorious old structure, which, even in its ruins,
is an object of universal admiration, its magnificence and gracefulness
entitling it to be ranked as one of the most perfect works of the best
age of this description of ecclesiastical architecture.

Melrose was built in 1146, destroyed by the English in 1322, and rebuilt
with two thousand pounds sterling, given by Robert Bruce, in 1326--a sum
of money equal to about fifty thousand pounds at the present time. So
much for its history. But let us pay the sexton's pretty daughter her
shilling, for here she is with the key that unlocks the modern
iron-railing gate that excludes strangers who do not pay for the
privilege; and following her a few steps, we are in the midst of the
grand and glorious ruins of the old abbey that we are familiar with in
song and story, and from the many counterfeit presentments that we have,
time and again, gazed upon in luxurious illustrated books, or upon the
walls of art galleries at home.

        "The darkened roof rose high aloof,
        On pillars lofty, light, and small;
        The key-stone that locked each ribbed aisle
        Was a fleur-de-lis, or a quatre-feuille.
        The corbels were carved grotesque and grim,
        And the pillars with clustered shafts so trim,
        With base and with capital flourished around,
        Seemed bundles of lances which garlands had bound."

As we came into the midst of this glorious old structure, we actually
stood silent for some time, so filled were we with admiration at its
wondrous beauty. To be sure, the blue arch of the heavens is now its
only roof, and from the shattered walls rooks or jackdaws fly noisily
overhead; but, then, the majestic sweep of the great Gothic arches, that
vista of beauty, a great Gothic aisle still standing, fifty feet long,
and sixty feet from floor to key-stone, the superb columns, and the
innumerable elegant carvings on every side, the graves of monarch,
knight, and wizard, marked with their quaint, antique inscriptions at
your feet, and

            "The cloister galleries small,
        Which at mid height thread the chancel wall,"

all form a scene of most charming and beautiful effects.

And we stood there, with the blue sky looking in through the shattered
arches, the noisy rooks flying hither and thither on their morning
calls, the turf, soft, green, and springy, sprinkled here and there with
wild flowers, in the centre of the ruin, while festoons of ivy waved in
the breeze, like tapestry hung about the shattered windows and crumbling
columns.

Here was the place, and the day was one of those quiet, dreamy spring
days, on which tourists could sit

        "Them down on a marble stone,"

and read bold Deloraine's visit to the wizard's grave, as described by
Scott in the Lay of the Last Minstrel. And here is his grave, an
unpoetical-looking place enough now, and perhaps less wonderful since
Branksome's knight wrenched it open, and took away the magic volume from
Michael Scott's dead clasp. Here is the spot where Robert Bruce's heart
was buried; here the grave of the Earl of Douglas, "the dark Knight of
Liddesdale," and of Douglass, the hero of Chevy Chase; while quaint and
Latin inscriptions on the walls and the time-worn slabs record the
resting-place of once proud, but now extinct families and forgotten
heroes, all now one common dust.

We must not forget the great windows of the abbey, more especially the
EAST WINDOW. I write it in large letters, for it is an architectural
poem, and it will live in my memory as a joy forever, it is such a thing
of beauty. The lightness of its proportions and beauty of its tracery at
once impress the beholder; and all around the sides and above it are
quaint and wonderfully-executed sculptures in the stone-work--statues,
chain and crown; figures on carved pedestals, beneath canopies of
wrought stone, while wreaths and sculptured flowers are artistically
wrought in various directions.

The exterior of the abbey presents remarkable symmetry, and a profusion
of embellishment in sculptured stone-work, and is built in the usual
form of such structures--a Latin cross. The nave, in its present ruined
condition, is two hundred and fifty-eight feet long, by seventy-nine in
breadth. The transept is one hundred and thirty feet long, and
forty-four in breadth, which will give some idea of the size of these
splendid old edifices of the Romish church. The ornamental carving, with
which the whole edifice is so profusely decorated, would afford study
for a month, and consists, besides delicately-chiselled flowers and
plants, of grotesque and curious figures of monks, saints, nuns, demons,
&c.

Among other sculptures is that of a man seated cross-legged, upholding a
pedestal on his shoulders, his features expressing pain at the heavy
weight; a group of musicians playing on various instruments and
performing different antics; a man with his head in his hand; monks with
rosaries, cooks with knife and ladle, grinning heads, and women with
faces veiled and busts displayed; effigies of the apostles, rosettes,
ribbed work, bouquets of flowers, scallop shells, oak leaves, acorns,
lilies and plants; in fact, the faithfulness with which well-known
plants have been represented by the sculptor has long been the subject
of comment of the historian and antiquarian; and "in this abbey," says
an historian, "there are the finest lessons and the greatest variety of
Gothic ornaments that the island affords, take all the religious
structures together."

What must it have been when nave, and transept, and aisle were perfect,
when the great windows were perfect glories of colored glass, the
carvings fresh from the sculptor's chisel, and the chant of a hundred
monks floated through the lofty arches! In those times when these holy
men gave their hearts and hands to the extending and embellishing of
those temples erected to the great Architect of the Universe, by that
wonderful order of men, the Freemasons, and did it with an enthusiasm
and taste which proved that they deemed a love of the beautiful not
incompatible with the love of religion! It was then that religious
fervor expressed itself in grand creations, and all the arts of the age
were controlled and made to contribute to the one great art of the age,
Architecture, as evinced in these wondrous works of their hands that
they have left behind--models of artistic skill and beauty unexcelled as
yet by those who have come after them.

Melrose Abbey is a place that I would have enjoyed spending a week at
instead of a single day, which was all too short for proper study and
examination of the curious specimens of the sculptors' and builders'
arts one encounters in every part of the ruins; but we must up and away.

A carriage to Abbotsford and back was chartered, and we were soon
rattling over the pleasant road on our way to the home of Sir Walter
Scott, about three miles distant. It is in some respects a curious
structure, half country-seat, half castle, "a romance of stone and
lime," as its owner used to call it. We did not catch sight of its
castellated turrets, till, driving down a slight declivity from the main
road, we were at the very gates; entering these, a beautiful walk of a
hundred and fifty feet, along one aisle of the court-yard, and
commanding a fine view of a portion of the grounds, the garden front,
led us to the house itself.

At different points about the grounds and house are various stone
antiquities, and curiosities gathered from old buildings, which one must
have a guide-book to explain. Melrose Abbey and the old city of
Edinburgh appear to have been laid under contribution for these
mementos--the door of the old Tollbooth from the latter, and a stone
fountain, upon which stood the old cross of Edinburgh, being conspicuous
objects. Abbotsford is a lovely place, and seems to be situated in a
sort of depression among the hills, and by them, in some degree,
sheltered from any sweeping winds. Besides being of interest as the
residence of Scott, it is a perfect museum of curiosities and relics
identified with Scottish history.

The entrance hall is richly panelled in oak taken from the palace of
Dunfermline, and the roof with the same. All along the cornice of the
roof of this hall are the coats of arms of the different clans of the
Border, painted in colors, on small armorial shields, an inscription
stating,--

"=These be the coat armoires of the clanns and chief men of name, wha
keepit the marchys of Scotland in the auld tyme for the Kynge. Trewe men
were they in their defence. God them defendyt.="

Here are also three or four complete suits of tilting armor, set up and
looking as though still occupied by the stern warriors who once owned
them: one grasps a huge two-handed sword, captured at the battle of
Bosworth Field; another a broad claymore taken from the dead grasp of a
Highlander, who fell with

        "His back to the field and his feet to the foe,"

on the disastrous field of Culloden; the breastplates and trappings of
two of Napoleon's celebrated French cuirassiers, whose resistless charge
trampled down whole battalions, but who were swept from their saddles by
hundreds, as these two were by the leaden hail of the English infantry
squares at Waterloo. Here also were stout old lochaber axes, English
steel maces, battle-axes, and other weapons, many with histories, and
from the bloody fields whose horrors are a prominent feature on the
pages of history.

But the most interesting rooms of all, to me, were the study and library
of Sir Walter; and among the most interesting relics were the plain,
unpretending suit of clothes last worn by him, his walking-sticks, his
shoes, and his pipes; and in his study the writing-table at which he
wrote, and the great leather-covered chair in which he sat. The library
is quite a large apartment, some fifty or sixty feet in length,
handsomely decorated, and with its deep, broad windows looking out upon
the River Tweed. It is completely lined with books from floor to
ceiling--in all, some twenty thousand.

Here are also many curiosities; among others, the silver urn presented
by Lord Byron, which rests on a stand of porphyry; Marie Antoinette's
clock; very curious and richly carved ebony arm-chairs, presented by
George IV.; a glass case contained Rob Roy McGregor's purse, a piece of
Robert Bruce's coffin, a purse wrought by Joanna Baillie, a small case
by Miss Martineau, two gold bees, each as big as a hen's egg, taken from
Napoleon's carriage, a portfolio that once belonged to Napoleon,
miniature portrait of Prince Charlie, ("Wha'll be King but Charlie?"),
snuff-box of George IV., the seal of Mary, Queen of Scots, a little box
from Miss Edgeworth, and other relics and momentos.

In the armory, among other curiosities, we saw the musket of that
redoubtable outlaw Rob Roy, Claverhouse's pistol, a sword that was given
to the Marquis of Montrose by Charles I., James VI.'s hunting flask,
pair of pistols found in Napoleon's carriage at the battle of Waterloo,
the armor of one of the old Scottish kings, General Monk's pistols, keys
of the old Tollbooth, &c.

Among the more striking pictures upon the walls of the different rooms
were the portrait of the head of Mary, Queen of Scots, upon a charger,
said to have been taken a few hours after her execution, the sad, pale
features of which haunted my imagination for many an hour afterwards.
Then there were the stern, heavily-moulded features of Cromwell, Charles
XII., the lion of Sweden, and Claverhouse, Charles II., and a
long-bearded old ancestor of Sir Walter's, who allowed his beard to grow
after the execution of Charles I.; and a collection of original etchings
by Turner and other artists, the designs for the "Provincial Antiquities
of Scotland." But from all these we sauntered back reverentially to the
little study, with its deep arm-chair, and its table and books of
reference, and its subdued light from the single window; for here was
the great author's work-room. A garrulous guide and three or four
curious friends allow a dreamer, however, no time for thought and
reflection while there is sight-seeing to be done; so we were escorted
over a portion of the prettily laid-out grounds, and then took our
leave, and our carriage, and soon left Abbotsford behind us.

Edinburgh, Melrose, and Abbotsford seen, we must next have a look at
Stirling Castle. So, after a ride of thirty-six miles from Edinburgh, we
are eating the well-cooked mutton chops that they serve at the Golden
Lion, in Stirling, and, after being duly fortified with good cheer, wend
our way up through the steep streets to the castle on its rocky perch.
This strong old castle, standing directly upon the brow of a precipitous
rock, overlooks one of the most extended and beautiful landscapes in the
kingdom--the beautiful vale of Menteith, the Highland mountains in the
distance, Ben Lomond, Benvenue, Ben Lodi, and several other "Bens;" the
River Forth, winding its devious course through the fertile valley, the
brown road, far below at our feet, running along to the faintly-marked
ruins of Cambuskenneth Abbey, and the little villages and arched
bridges, form a charming view.

The eye here takes in also, in this magnificent prospect, no less than
twelve of Scotland's battle-fields, including one of Wallace's fierce
contests, and Bannockburn, where Bruce gained the independence of
Scotland in 1314.

James II. and James V. were born in Stirling; and I looked at the little
narrow road which goes down behind the castle with some interest, when I
was told it furnished King James V. the fictitious name, "Ballangeich,"
he was in the habit of assuming when he went among his subjects in
disguise. Theatre-goers will remember the play of the "Gude Man of
Ballangeich," and the "King of the Commons," and that he was the king
who was hero in those plays, and also the "James Fitz-James" of Scott's
Lady of the Lake. And, speaking of the Lady of the Lake, the beautiful
view from the battlements of Stirling Castle, three hundred feet above
the valley, recalled Roderic Dhu's reply to James:--

        "Saxon, from yonder mountain high,
        I marked thee send delighted eye
        Far to the south and east, where lay,
        Extended in succession gay,
        Deep waving fields and pastures green,
        With gentle slopes and groves between;
        Those fertile fields, that softened vale,
        Were once the birthright of the Gael."

The outer gates of the castle are said to have been built by the old
Romans, and were strong enough for ancient batteries, but not for modern
artillery. The marks of the cannon shot fired by General Monk when he
attacked the castle, directing the whole fire of his artillery at one
point till he battered down a portion of the wall, and the breach
through which William Wallace entered, are points of interest. So was
the dark, secure, stone cell into which we peeped, where Rob Roy is said
to have been confined. The outer works of the castle were erected in
Queen Anne's time, and that known as the Palace, built by James V. The
little room known as the Douglass Room, with its adjoining closet, is
one of the "lions" of the castle, for it was here that the Earl of
Douglass--the "Black Douglass"--met King James II. under promise of safe
conduct; and after a fierce discussion, in which the king vainly tried
to induce him to abandon a compact he had made with other chiefs, he
stabbed the earl, in a fit of passion. The nobles attendant on the king,
concealed in the little antechamber, rushed in and completed the murder,
throwing the body from the window--which is pointed out to us--into the
garden beneath.

Not far from the castle is the "Lady's Rock," a small hill from which
the ladies of the Scottish court, and other favored ones, could look
down upon the tournament field, a hundred feet below. And as we sat
there, and looked upon the form of the lists, still visible upon the
turf below, marked by the green ridges, it was easy to imagine what an
animated and beautiful scene it must have presented when filled with
knights and squires, steeds and men; for it was here that James was
forced to award Douglass the prize, as the victor in the feats of
strength at the Scottish sports.

        "The gray-haired sires, who know the past,
        To strangers point the Douglass cast,
        And moralize on the decay
        Of Scottish strength in modern day."

This beautiful vale has witnessed many a joust and tournament. This vale
at our feet, this "Lady's Rock," and the lady's seat, which makes for us
a sort of rocky throne, as we sit here and muse on Scotland's history
and Scotland's poet, are the very ones he speaks of as

        "The vale with loud applauses rang,
        The Lady's Rock sent back the clang."

Near the Lady's Rock is a modern cemetery, beautifully laid out, and
containing statues of Knox and Henderson, and other handsome monuments.
The old churchyard of Grayfriars contains many curious monuments, and
here, on an old sun-dial, I found this inscription:--

        "I mark time; dost thou?
        I am a shadow; so art thou."

It was in Grayfriars that James VI. was crowned, and Knox preached the
coronation sermon.

No tourist will think of leaving Stirling without taking a ride to the
field of Bannockburn, a short distance. The scene of a battle which
occurred more than five hundred and fifty years ago cannot be expected
to preserve many features of its former character; the only one which is
of particular interest is the "Bore Stone," a fragment of rock with a
small cavity, in which the Scottish standard is said to have been
raised; it is clamped all over with iron bars, to prevent relic-hunters
from carrying what remains of it away.

The story of the battle is one of the most familiar ones in Scottish
history to both young and old readers, and your guide will indicate to
you points where the Scotch and English forces were disposed, where the
concealed pits were placed into which plunged so many of the English
cavalry, the point where Bruce stood to watch the battle, nay, the very
place where

        "The monarch rode along the van,
        The foe's approaching force to scan,"

when Sir Henry Boune, thinking, as the Bruce was mounted on a slight
palfrey, far in advance of his own line, to ride him down with his heavy
war horse, set his lance in rest, and dashed out from the English lines
with that intent.

        "He spurred his steed, he couched his lance,
        And darted on the Bruce at once,"

thinking to distinguish himself and have his name in history. He did so,
but not in the manner, probably, he had anticipated; for

        "While on the king, like flash of flame,
        Spurred to full speed, the war horse came!
        But swerving from the knight's career,
        Just as they met, Bruce shunned the spear.

            *       *       *       *       *

        High in his stirrups stood the king,
        And gave his battle-axe the swing;
        Such strength upon the blow was put,
        The helmet cracked like hazel-nut;"

and so began the battle of Bannockburn, which ended in the defeat of one
hundred thousand English by thirty thousand Scots, raising Bruce from a
hunted rebel to the rank of an independent sovereign. It was the most
important battle the Scots ever won, and the most severe defeat the
English ever experienced in Scotland.

Another pleasant little excursion was a walk to Cambuskenneth Abbey,
crossing the River Forth by an old ferry, where we had to hail the
ferry-man from the other side. We did not have to say,--

        "Boatman, do not tarry!
        And I'll give thee a silver pound
        To row us o'er the ferry,"--

for the old fellow came over, rowed three of us across, and demanded
_three half-pence_ for the service; so we were liberal, and gave him
double fare. The only part of the abbey remaining is a Gothic tower, and
a few remnants of walls, and the foundation lines of nave and transept,
which are visible. A few years ago, when some excavations were being
made here, the site of the high altar was found, and beneath it the
supposed coffin and skeleton of James III. They were re-interred, and a
handsome square sarcophagus marks the spot, bearing an inscription,
which tells the visitor that Queen Victoria erected it in 1861, in
memory of her ancestors.

While at Stirling we had the opportunity of seeing a real Highland
regiment, who were quartered there, in their picturesque, unmilitary
dress,--kilt, bare legs, plaid stockings, crown of feathers, &c.,--a
most uncomfortable and inconvenient dress for service in the field, I
should imagine. I also had an opportunity of hearing native Scotch
songs, sung by a Scotch minstrel, as I never heard them sung before. It
was a still, quiet moonlight night, in one of the streets, and the
wandering minstrel accompanied himself on a violin. I never heard
ballad-singing better or more effectively rendered. The singer's voice
was a pure, flexible tenor, and as he sung, "Flow gently, sweet Afton,"
there was hardly a finger moved in the crowd that stood about him; but
when he gave a pathetic Scotch ballad, in which the tear was in his
voice, he brought it into the eye of more than one of his auditors; and
the hearty manner in which many a poor, ragged fellow crowded up to give
him a ha'penny at the close, showed how deeply they were touched, and
how grateful they felt towards one who could interpret their national
melodies so well.

From Stirling we will make a detour through that charming scenery of
Scotland which Scott so frequently mentions in his Lady of the Lake,
especially in the ride of Fitz-James after the stag, which at eve had
"drunk his fill,"

        "Where danced the moon on Monan's rill."

But first an unromantic railroad ride of sixteen miles must be taken;
and not unromantic, either, for there are many pleasant spots and points
of historic interest on the route,--the Bridge of Allan, a pleasant
village, which is a popular watering-place not far from Stirling, being
one;--through Donne,

        "The bannered towers of Donne,"

and on by the rippling stream of the River Forth.

        "They bathe their coursers' sweltering sides,
        Dark Forth, within thy sluggish tides."

And we might go on with half the poem in the same manner, such is the
charm which Scott's poetry has lent to this part of the country.

At the rugged-looking little stone-built town of Callander we left the
train, and climbed into a sort of open wagon stagecoach, similar to
those sometimes used at the White Mountains, which held sixteen of us,
and had a spanking team driven by an expert English "whip;" and we were
whirled away, for a ride of twenty miles or more, through the lake
country and "the Trossachs" to Loch Katrine. The word "trossachs," I was
told by a communicative Scotchman, signified "bristles," and the name
was suggested by the species of coarse furze which abounds in the passes
of this rough and hilly country. The wild mountain scenery reminded me
often of our own White Mountains; and the reaches of view, though giving
pretty landscape scenes, showed a country rather sterile for the
husbandman--better to shoot over than plough over.

At last we reached a little sort of hollow in the hills, where Lake
Vennachar narrows down to the River Teith, and came to where the stream
swept round a little grassy point of land; and here our coach stopped a
moment for us to look,--

        "For this is Coilantogle Ford,"--

which, it will be recollected, was

        "Far past Clan Alpine's outmost guard,"

and the scene of the combat between Fitz-James and Roderic Dhu. "And
there," said an old Scotchman, pointing to the little grassy peninsula,
"is the very place where the fight took place"--a borrowed stretch of
the imagination, inasmuch as the poet himself imagined the combat.

But we whirled away past Vennachar, mounted a little eminence, from
whence we had a grand panoramic view of hills, lake, road, and river,
with Benvenue rising in the background; and as we rattled down the hill
the road swept round with a curve near to a little village that I
recognized at once from the pictures in illustrated editions of Scott's
poems--Duncraggan's huts, one of the points at which the bearer of the
fiery cross paused on his journey to raise the clans.

        "Speed, Malise, speed! the lake is past,
        Duncraggan's huts appear at last."

And passing this, we soon rolled over a little single-arched bridge--the
bridge of Turk.

        "And when the Brigg of Turk was won,
        The headmost horseman rode alone."

On over the Brigg of Turk, past Loch Achray, and we come to the
Trossachs Hotel, commanding a good view of the black-looking "loch," and
the rocky peak of Ben A'an. Between this point and Loch Katrine, a mile,
are the "Trossachs." All the drives and scenery in the immediate
vicinity are delightful; and the hotel, which is a fine castellated
building, must be a most pleasant place for summer resort.

Embarking upon a little steamer named Rob Roy, on Loch Katrine, we sail
close by Ellen's Isle, and sweep out into the middle of the lake--a
lovely sheet of water, and reminding the American tourist of Lake
George. A delightful sail on this lake carried us to Stronachlachar.
There we disembark, and take carriage again through the valley to Loch
Lomond, passing on the road the hut in which Helen McGregor, Rob Roy's
wife, was born, and also a fort built to check the incursions of the
McGregors, and at one time commanded by General Wolfe--the same who
afterwards fell at the capture of Quebec. Then, descending to
Inversnaid, we came to Loch Lomond, with the dark mountains looking down
upon its waters.

That there is some wind among these Scotch hills we had ample
opportunity of ascertaining; for so furiously did the gusts pour down
upon the lake, that they lashed it into foam-capped waves, and sent the
sheets of spray so liberally over the boat as to make us glad to
contemplate this pride of the Scottish lakes, its hills, and thirsty
islands from the cabin windows. Disembarking once more at Balloch,
situated at the southern extremity of the lake, the train was in waiting
which took us to Glasgow, passing Dumbarton on our route, and giving us
a fine view of Dumbarton Castle, situated upon the two high peaks of
Dumbarton Rock, five hundred and sixty feet high, and noted as being the
place of confinement of William Wallace. The highest peak of the rock is
called Wallace's Seat, from this circumstance.



CHAPTER IV.


Glasgow Cathedral, situated on the highest ground in the metropolis of
Scotland, looks over the spires, domes, and crowded masonry of a city of
half a million inhabitants. A view from its tower, over two hundred feet
in height, takes in the valley of the River Clyde, with woods, and
hedges, and pleasant meadows, and the river itself rolling on its way
towards the ocean. The Renfrewshire Hills, the neighboring town of
Paisley, Dumbarton Rock, and the Argyleshire Mountains, and a ruin or
two, with the waving ivy, green upon the shattered walls, complete the
distant picture; while spread beneath, at our very feet, is the busy
city itself, with its factories, its furnaces, and great masses of
high-storied houses, and stretching along by the water side the great
quay wall of fifteen thousand feet in length, with vessels ranged two or
three abreast before it.

This fine old cathedral is an elegant Gothic structure, and was built in
1136. It is remarkable from being one of the few churches in Scotland
that have been preserved in a comparatively perfect state, and its
annals for the past seven hundred years have been well preserved and
authenticated; but with these I must have but little to do, for once
immersed in the curious records of these old ecclesiastical edifices, so
celebrated in history, and so wondrous in architectural beauty, and we
shall get on all too slowly among the sights and scenes in foreign
lands.

The grand entrance to the Glasgow Cathedral is at the great doorway at
one end of the nave, and we enter a huge church, three hundred and
nineteen feet long by about sixty wide, divided by a splendid screen, or
rood loft, as it is called, separating the nave from the choir, that
most sacred part of the Roman Catholic edifices, where the principal
altars were erected, and high mass was performed. The carving and
ancient decoration here are in a fine state of preservation, and
the majestic columns which support the main arches, with their
beautifully-cut foliaged capitals of various designs, are an
architectural triumph.

The crypts beneath this cathedral are in an excellent state of
preservation, and at one time were used for purposes of worship. In
Catholic times these old crypts were used for the purposes of sepulture
for prelates and high dignitaries of the church; but nearly all traces
of the monuments of these worthies were swept away in the blind fury
which characterized the Reformation in its destruction of "monuments of
idolatry;" and so zealous, or, we may now say, fanatical, were the
Reformers, that they swept to swift destruction some of the finest
architectural structures in the land, and monuments erected to men who
had been of benefit to their race and generation, in one general ruin.
The tourist, as he notes the mutilation of the finest works of
architectural skill, and the almost total destruction of exquisite
sculpture and historical monuments, which he constantly encounters in
these ecclesiastical buildings, finds himself giving utterance to
expressions anything but flattering to the perpetrators of this
vandalism.

An effigy of a bishop, with head struck off and otherwise mutilated, is
now about all of note that remains of the monuments here in the crypt.
It is supposed to be the effigy of Jocline, the founder of this part of
the cathedral, which is about one hundred and thirty feet in length, and
sixty-five wide, with five rows of columns of every possible form, from
simple shaft to those of elaborate design, supporting the structure
above. The crypts are, it is said, the finest in the kingdom. But the
great wonder of Glasgow Cathedral is its stained-glass windows, which
are marvels of modern work, for they were commenced in 1859, and
completed in 1864, and are some of the finest specimens of painted-glass
work that the Royal Establishment of Glass Painting, in Munich, has ever
produced.

These windows are over eighty in number; but forty-four of them are
_great_ windows, twenty-five or thirty feet high, and each one giving a
Bible story in pictures. The subjects begin with the Expulsion from
Paradise, and continue on in regular order of Bible chronology. Besides
these are coats of arms of the different donors of windows, in a circle
of colored glass at the base, as each was given by some noted person or
family, and serves as a memento of relatives and friends who are
interred in the cathedral or its necropolis. Besides the leading events
of biblical history, from the Old Testament portrayed, such as Noah's
Sacrifice, Abraham offering Isaac, the Offer of Marriage to Rebekah, the
Blessing of Jacob, the Finding of Moses, &c., there are figures of the
apostles, the prophets, illustrations of the parables of our Saviour,
and other subjects from the Holy Scriptures, all beautifully executed
after designs by eminent artists.

But space will not permit further description of this magnificent
building. Scott says this is "the only metropolitan church, except the
Cathedral Kirkwall, in the Orkneys, that remained uninjured at the
Reformation." It owes its preservation from destruction somewhat to the
fact that James Rabat, who was Dean of Guild when its demolition was
clamored for, was a good Mason, and saved this work of the masters' art
by suffering the "idolatrous statues" of saints to be destroyed on
condition of safety to the building.

At the rear of the cathedral rises the Necropolis, a bold, semicircular
eminence, some three hundred feet in height, and formed in regular
terraces, which are divided into walks, and crowded with elegant and
costly modern monuments; too crowded, in fact, and reminding one more of
a sculpture gallery than a cemetery. Among the most conspicuous of these
monuments was a fine Corinthian shaft and statue to John Knox, and on
the shaft was inscribed,--

    "When laid in the ground, the regent said, 'There lieth he who
    never feared the face of man, who was often threatened with dag
    and dagger, yet hath ended his days in peace and honor.'"

A magnificent square sarcophagus, erected to James Sheridan Knowles,
bore his name.

        "Died November, 1862."

A fine monument to John Dick, Professor of Theology and Minister of
Grayfriars Church, Edinburgh; another to William McGarvin, author of the
"Protestant." One erected to a favorite Scotch comedian attracted my
attention from the appropriateness of its design and epitaph. The
designs were elegantly-cut figures of Comedy and Tragedy, in marble, a
medallion head in bass-relief, probably a likeness of the deceased, and
the mask, bowl, and other well-known emblems of the histrionic art. The
epitaph was as follows:--

        "Fallen is the curtain; the last scene is o'er,
        The favorite actor treads life's stage no more.
        Oft lavish plaudits from the crowd he drew,
        And laughing eyes confessed his humor true.
        Here fond affection rears this sculptured stone,
        For virtues not enacted, but his own--
        A constancy unshaken unto death,
        A truth unswerving, and a Christian's faith.
        Who knew him best have cause to mourn him most;
        O, weep the man more than the actor lost.
        Unnumbered parts he played, yet to the end
        His best were those of husband, father, friend."

The deceased's name was John Henry Alexander, who died December 15,
1851.

From Glasgow we took rail to Ayr, on a pilgrimage to Burns's birthplace,
and, at five o'clock of a pleasant afternoon, arrived at that little
Scotch town, and as we rode through the streets, passed by the very
tavern where "Tam O'Shanter" held his revel with "Souter Johnny"--a
clean little squat stone house, indicated by a big sign-board, on which
is a pictorial representation of Tam and his crony sitting together, and
enjoying a "wee drapit" of something from handled mugs, which they are
holding out to each other, and, judging from the size of the mugs, not a
"wee drapit" either; for the old Scotsmen who frequent these taverns
will carry off, without winking, a load beneath their jackets that would
floor a stout man of ordinary capacity.

A queer old town is Ayr, and at the hotel above mentioned the curious
tourist may not only sit in the chairs of Tam and Johnny, but in that
Burns himself has pressed; and if he gets the jolly fat old landlord in
good humor,--as he is sure to get when Americans order some of his best
"mountain dew,"--and engages him in conversation, he may have an
opportunity to drink it from the very wooden cup, now hooped with
silver, from which the poet himself indulged in potations, and drained
inspiration.

As we ride over the road from the town of Ayr--

        "Auld Ayr, whom ne'er a town surpasses
        For honest men and bonnie lasses"--

to Burns's birthplace, and Alloway Kirk, we find ourselves upon the same
course traversed by Tam O'Shanter on his memorable ride, and passing
many of those objects which, for their fearful associations, gave
additional terror to the journey, and kept him

            "glowering round wi' prudent cares,
        Lest bogles catch him unawares."

A pleasant ride we had of it, recalling the verses, as each point
mentioned in the ballad, which is such a combination of the ludicrous
and awful, came into view and was pointed out to us.

                                  "The ford
        Whare in the snaw the Chapman smoored,
        And past the birks and meikle stane,
        Whare drunken Charlie brake neck-bane;
        And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
        Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn;
        And near the thorn aboon the well,
        Whare Mungo's mither hanged hersel."

But let us stop at the poet's cottage--the little one-story
"clay-biggin" it originally was, when, in 1759, Robert Burns was born
there, consisting only of a kitchen and sitting-room; these still
remain, and in a little recess in the former is a sort of bunk, or bed,
where the poet first saw light; that is, what little of it stole in at
the deep-set window of this little den; additional rooms have been built
on to the cottage, including a large one for society meetings and
anniversary dinners; the little squat thatched cot is the Mecca of
thousands of travellers from all parts of the world, as the visitors'
book reveals.

An old Scotch woman, who was busy with her week's ironing, her work, for
a few moments, to show us the rooms and sell a stereoscopic view, and
then returned to her flat-irons. An old fellow, named "Miller" Goudie,
and his wife, used to occupy the cot. He now rests in Alloway
churchyard, and, as his epitaph says,--

        "For forty years it was his lot
        To show the poet's humble cot;
        And, sometimes laughin', sometimes sobbin',
        Told his last interview with Robin:
        A quiet, civil, blithesome body,
        Without a foe, was Miller Goudie."

A framed autograph letter of Burns, and a picture of him at a masonic
assembly, adorn the walls of the large room, and are about all of
interest in it. A short distance beyond the cottage, and we come to
"Alloway's auld haunted Kirk,"--a little bit of a Scotch church, with
only the walls standing, and familiar to us from the many pictures we
had seen of it.

Here it was that Tam saw the witches dance; and there must have been the
very window, just high enough for him to have looked in from horseback:
just off from the road is the kirk, and near enough for Tam to hive seen
the light through the chinks, and bear the sound of mirth and dancing.
Of course I marched straight up to the little window towards the road,
and peeped in at the very place where Tam had viewed the wondrous sight;
but such narrow and circumscribed limits for a witches' dance! Why,
Nannie's leap and fling could not have been much in such a wee bit of a
chapel, and I expressed that opinion audibly, with a derisive laugh at
Scotch witches, when, as if to punish scepticism, the bit of stone
which I had propped up against the wall to give me additional height,
slipped from beneath my feet, bringing my chin in sharp contact with the
window-sill, and giving me such a shock altogether, that I wondered if
the witches were not still keeping guard over the old place, for it
looks weird enough, with its gray, roofless walls, the dark ivy about
them flapping in the breeze, and the interior choked with weeds and
rubbish.

In the little burial-ground of the kirk is the grave of the poet's
father, marked by a plain tombstone, and bearing an epitaph written by
Burns. Leaving the kirk, a few hundred yards' walk brings us to

        "The banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,"

and the "auld brigg" spanning it, over which Tam O'Shanter's mare
Maggie, clattered just in time to save him from the witch's vengeance,
losing her tail in the struggle on the "keystane." The keystone was
pointed out to us by a little Scotch lassie, as we stood on the bridge,
admiring the swift stream, as it whirled under the arches, and the old
Scotch guide told us "Tam had eight mair miles to gang ere he stopit at
his own door-stane."

Near this bridge is the Burns Monument, a sort of circular structure,
about sixty feet high, of Grecian architecture. In a circular apartment
within the monument is a glass case, containing several relics, the most
interesting of which is the Bible given by Burns to his Highland Mary.
It is bound in two volumes, and on the fly-leaf of the first is
inscribed the following text, in the poet's handwriting: "And ye shall
not swear by my name falsely; I am the Lord." (Levit. xix. 12.) And on
the leaf of the second, "Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt
perform unto the Lord thine oaths." (Matt. v. 33.) In both volumes the
poet has inscribed his autograph, and in one of them there rests a
little tress of Highland Mary's hair.

The grounds--about an acre in extent around the monument--are prettily
laid out, and in a little building, at one extremity, are the original,
far-famed figures of Tam O'Shanter and Souter Johnny, chiselled out of
solid freestone by the self-taught sculptor Thom; and marvellously
well-executed figures they are, down to the minutest details of hose and
bonnet, as they sit with their mugs of good cheer, jollily pledging each
other. This group, and that of Tam riding over the bridge, with the
witch just catching at Maggie's tail, are both familiar to almost every
American family, and owe their familiarity, in more than one instance,
to the representations of them upon the cheap little pitchers of
Wedgwood ware, which are so extensively used as syrup pitchers wherever
buckwheat cakes are eaten.

The ride back to Ayr, by a different route, carries us past some
pleasant country-seats, the low bridge of Doon, and a lovely landscape
all about us.

But we visited the classic Doon, with its banks and braes so "fresh and
fair," as most of our countrymen do--did it in a day, dreamed and
imagined for an hour in the little old churchyard of Kirk Alloway,
leaned over the auld brig, and looked down into the running waters, and
wondered how often the poet had gazed at it from the same place, or
sauntered on that romantic little pathway by its bank, where we plucked
daisies, and pressed them between the leaves of a pocket edition of his
poems, as mementos of our visit. We did not omit a visit to the "twa
brigs" that span the Ayr. The auld brig,--

        "Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet,"--

was erected in the fourteenth century, and was formerly steep and
narrow, but has been widened and improved within the past fifteen years.
The new one, which is about two hundred yards from it, was built in
1788, and from it a good view of the river and the old bridge is
obtained.

A ride round the town shows us but little of special interest to write
of; a fine statue of William Wallace, cut by Thom, in front of a Gothic
building, known as Wallace Tower, being the most striking object that
met our view. From Ayr to Carlisle, where we saw the castle which Bruce
failed to take in 1312, which surrendered to Prince Charles Stuart in
1745, and which was the scene of such barbarities on the conquered on
its being retaken by the Duke of Cumberland. The old castle, or that
portion of it that remains, with its lofty, massive tower and wall,
makes an imposing appearance, and is something like the pictures of
castles in the story-books. In one portion of it are the rooms occupied
by Mary, Queen of Scots, on her flight to England, after the battle of
Langside.

The old red freestone cathedral, built in the time of the Saxons, where
sleeps Dr. Paley, once archdeacon, and where is a monument erected to
his memory, claimed a modicum of our time, after which we passed through
Newcastle-on-Tyne, celebrated, as all know in these modern days, as a
port of shipment for coal, and busy with its glass-houses, potteries,
iron and steel factories, and machine shops, and owing its name to the
fact that Robert, son of William the Conqueror, built a new castle here
after his return from a military expedition. The old donjon keep and
tower still stand, massive and blackened, not with the smoke of battle,
but of modern industry, which rises, in murky volumes, from many
chimneys.

On we speed, leaving Newcastle, its dingy buildings and murky cloud,
behind, and whirl over the railroad, till we reach the beautiful vale
that holds the "Metropolis of the North of England," as the guide-books
style it,--the ancient city of York,--with its Roman walls, and its
magnificent minster; a city, which, A. D. 150, was one of the greatest
of the Roman stations in England, and had a regular government, an
imperial palace, and a tribunal within its walls. York, which carries us
back to school-boy days, when we studied of the wars of the Roses, and
the houses of York and Lancaster--York, whose modern namesake, more than
seventeen hundred years its junior, in the New World, has seventeen
times its population.

York--yes, in York one feels that he is in Old England indeed. Here are
the old walls, still strong and massy, that have echoed to the tramp of
the Roman legions, that looked down on Adrian and Constantine the Great,
that have successively been manned by Britons, Picts, Danes, and Saxons,
the latter under the command of Hengist, mentioned in the story-legends
that tell of the pair of warlike Saxon brothers, Hengist and Horsa, the
latter, whose name in my youthful days always seemed to have some
mysterious connection with the great white-horse banner of the Saxon
warriors, that was wont to float from the masts of their war ships.

It was in York that the first Christmas was ever kept in England. This
was done by King Arthur and his nobility when he began to rebuild the
churches, in the year 500, that the Saxons had destroyed.

York was once a place where many Jews dwelt. We all remember Isaac of
York, in the story of Ivanhoe; and the great massacre of this people
there in 1490, when over two thousand fell victims to popular fury.

But I am not going to give a chronological history of this interesting
city, for there is scarcely an American reader of English history but
will recall a score of noteworthy events that have occurred within its
ancient walls.

The great and crowning wonder here to the tourist is, of course, the
cathedral, or the minster, as it is called. This magnificent and
stupendous pile, which occupied nearly two hundred years in erection,
and has stood for three hundred years since its completion, is, without
doubt, one of the most magnificent Gothic structures in the world, and
excels in beauty and magnificence most ecclesiastical buildings of the
middle ages. After a walk through a quaint old quarter of the city, and
a stroll on the parapets of the great wall, through some of the gates,
with the round, solid watch-towers above them, pierced with arrow-slits
for crossbowmen, or having, high above, little turrets for sentinels, I
was in the mood for the sight of the grand old cathedral, but not at all
prepared for the superb and elegant proportions of the pile which
suddenly appeared to view, as I turned a corner of a street.

The length of this majestic pile is five hundred and twenty-four feet,
and its breadth two hundred and twenty-two, and the height of its two
square and massive towers one hundred and ninety-six feet. I got a west
view of the building first, which is what I should suppose was properly
its front, consisting of the two tall square towers, with the main
entrance between them, surmounted by a great Gothic window, exhibiting a
magnificent specimen of the leafy and fairy-like tracery of the
fourteenth century. Tall, pointed arches are above it, and the two
towers are also adorned with windows, and elaborate ornamentation. To
the rear of them, at the end of the nave and between the two transepts,
rises the central tower two hundred and thirteen feet. There is a fine
open space in front of this glorious west front, and no lover of
architecture can come upon it for the first time without standing
entranced at the wondrous beauty of the building in proportion,
decoration, and design.

Churches occupied the site of York Cathedral centuries before it. One
was built here by King Edwin, in 627; another in 767, which stood till
1069; but the present building was founded in 1171, and completed in the
year 1400.

The expectations created by an external view of its architectural
grandeur and rich embellishments are surpassed upon an examination of
the interior, a particular description of which would require almost a
volume to give space to. We can only, therefore, take a glance at it.

First, there is the great east window, which, for magnitude and beauty
of coloring, is unequalled in the world. Only think of a great arch
_seventy-five feet high_, and over thirty feet broad, a glory of stained
glass! The upper part is a piece of admirable tracery, and below
it are over a hundred compartments, occupied with scriptural
representations--saints, priests, angels, &c. Each pane of glass is a
yard square, and the figures two feet three inches in length. Right
across this great window runs what I supposed to be a strong iron rod,
or wire, but which turned out to be a stone gallery, or piazza, a bridge
big enough for a person to cross upon, and from which the view that is
had of the whole interior of this great minster--a vista of Gothic
arches and clustered columns of more than five hundred feet in length,
terminated by the great west window, with its gorgeous display of
colored glass--is grand beyond description. The great west window
contains pictured representations of the eight earliest archbishops of
York, and eight saints, and other figures. It was put up in 1338, and is
remarkable for its richness of coloring.

Besides the great east and west windows, there are sixteen in the nave
and fifteen in the side aisles. In the south transept, which is the
oldest part of the building, high up above the entrance, in the point of
the arch, is the great "marigold window," formed of two concentric
circles of small arches in the form of a wheel, the lights of which give
it the appearance of the flower from which it is named, the diameter of
this great stone and glass marigold being over thirty feet. Then, in the
north transept, opposite, is another window of exquisite coloring--those
warm, deep, mellow hues of the old artisans in colored glass, which the
most cunning of their modern successors seek in vain to rival. It
appears, as it were, a vast embroidery frame in five sections, each
section a different pattern of those elaborate traceries and exquisite
hues of needle-work with which noble ladies whiled away their time in
castle-bower, while their knights fought the infidel in distant clime.
This noble window is known as the "Five Sisters," from the fact that the
pattern is said to have been wrought from designs in needle-work of five
maiden sisters of York.

The story of these sisters is told by Dickens in the sixth chapter of
Nicholas Nickleby. This magnificent window is fifty-seven feet in
height, and it was put in in the year 1290. The other windows I cannot
spare space to refer to; suffice it to say the windows of this cathedral
present a gorgeous display of ancient stained glass not to be met with
in any similar building in the world. In fact, the minster exhibits more
windows than solid fabric to exterior view, imparting a marvellous
degree of lightness to the huge structure, while inside the vastness of
the space gives the spectator opportunity to stand at a proper distance,
and look up at them as they are stretched before the view like great
paintings, framed in exquisite tracery of stone-work, with the best
possible effect of light. The glass of these windows, I was informed by
the verger who acted as our guide, was taken out and hidden during the
iconoclastic excitement of Cromwell's time, and they are now the only
ones that have preserved the ancient glass intact in the kingdom. The
most valuable are protected by a strong shield of extra plate glass
outside.

From the painted glories of the windows the visitor's eye sweeps over
the vast expanse of clustered pillars, lofty Gothic arches, and splendid
vistas of Gothic columns on every side. In the great western aisle, or
nave, a perspective view of full three hundred feet of columns and
arches is had; and standing upon the pavement, you look to the grand
arched roof, which is clear ninety-nine feet above, and the eye is
fairly dazed with the immensity of space. The screen, as it is called,
which separates the nave from the choir, rises just high enough to form
a support for the organ, without concealing from view the grand arches
and columns of the choir, which stretch far away, another vista of two
hundred and sixty-four feet, before the bewildered view of the visitor,
who finds himself almost awe-struck in the very vastness and sublimity
of this grand architectural creation.

The screen is a most elaborate and superb piece of sculpture, and is
ornamented with the statues of the English kings, from the time of
William the Conqueror to Henry VI., fifteen in number. The great choir,
with its exuberant display of carving, richly-ornamented stalls, altar,
and side aisles, screened with carved oak, is another wonder. Here I had
the pleasure of listening to the choral service, performed by the full
choir of men and boys attached to the cathedral; and I stood out among
the monuments of old archbishops and warriors of five hundred years
agone, and heard that sweet chant float upon the swelling peals of the
organ, away up amid the lofty groined arches of the grand old minster,
till its dying echoes were lost amid the mysterious tracery above, or
the grand, full chorus of powerful voices made the lofty roof to ring
again, as it were, with heavenly melody. There was every appeal to the
ear, the eye, the imagination; and I may say it seemed the very poetry
of religion, and poetry of a sublime order, too.

An attempt even at a description of the different monuments of the now
almost forgotten, and many entirely forgotten, dignitaries and
benefactors of the church that are found all along the great side
aisles, would be a useless task. Some are magnificent structures of
marble, with elegantly-sculptured effigies of bishops in their
ecclesiastical robes. Others once were magnificent in sculptured stone
and brass, but have been defaced by time and vandalism, and, in their
shattered ruin, tell the story of man's last vanity, or are a most
striking illustration of what a perishable shadow is human greatness.

The Chapter-house attached to York Minster is said to be the most
perfect specimen of Gothic architecture in the world, and is certainly
one of the most magnificent interiors of the kind I ever gazed upon. The
records of the church give no information as to whom this superb edifice
was erected by, or at what period, and the subject is one of dispute
among the antiquaries, who suppose it must have been built either in the
year 1200 or 1300. It is a perfect octagon, of sixty-three feet in
diameter, and the height from the centre to the middle knot of the roof
sixty-seven feet, without the interruption of a single pillar,--being
wholly dependent on a single key-pin, geometrically placed in the
centre.

Seven squares of the octagon have each a window of stained glass, with
the armorial bearings of benefactors of the church, the eighth octagon
being the entrance; below the windows are the seats, or stalls, for the
canons and dignitaries of the church, when they assemble here for
installations and other purposes. The columns around the side of this
room are carved, in the most profuse manner, with the most singular
figures, such as an ugly old friar embracing a young girl, to the
infinite delight of a group of nuns, grotesque figures of men and
animals, monks playing all sorts of pranks, grinning faces, &c. The
whole formation of this exquisitely-constructed building shows a
thorough geometric knowledge in the builders, and the entrance to it is
by a vestibule, in the form of a mason's square.

In the vestries we had an opportunity of seeing many and
well-authenticated historical curiosities. The most ancient of these is
the famous Horn of Ulphus, the great Saxon drinking horn, from which
Ulphus was wont to drink, and by which the church still holds valuable
estates near York. With this great ivory horn, filled with wine, the old
chieftain knelt before the high altar, and, solemnly quaffing a deep
draught, bestowed upon the church by the act all his lands, tenements,
&c., giving to the holy fathers the horn as their title deed, which they
have preserved ever since; and their successors permit sacrilegious
Yankees, like myself, to press their lips to its brim, while examining
the old relic.

A more modern drinking-cup is the ancient wooden bowl, which was
presented by Archbishop Scrope--who was beheaded in the year 1405--to
the Society of Cordwainers in 1398, and by them given to the church in
1808. This more sensible drinking-cup has silver legs and a silver rim,
and not only is it well adapted for a jorum of punch, but the good
archbishop made it worth while to drink from it, according to the
ancient inscription upon it, in Old English characters, which reads,--

    =Richarde arch beschope Scroope grant unto all tho that drinkis
    of this cope ILti days to pardon.=

Besides this, we had the pleasure of grasping the solid silver crosier,
given by Queen Catharine, widow of King Charles II. to her confessor, a
staff of weight and value, seven feet in length, elegantly wrought in
appropriate designs. We were also shown the official rings found in the
forgotten tombs of archbishops, in repairing the church pavement,
bearing their dates of the eleventh and twelfth centuries. The antique
chair in which the Saxon kings were crowned is here--a relic older than
the cathedral itself; and as "uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,"
uncomfortable must have been the seat of him that wore it also, if my
few minutes' experience between its great arms is worth anything; but,
still, it was something to have sat in the very chair in which the
bloody Richard III. had been crowned,--for both he and James I. were
crowned in this chair,--thinking at the time, while I mentally execrated
the crooked tyrant's memory, of the words Shakespeare put into his
mouth:--

        "Is the chair empty? Is the sword unswayed?
        Is the king dead? the empire unpossessed?
        What heir of York is there alive but we?
        And who is England's king but great York's heir?"

Here we were shown an old Bible, presented by King Charles II., the old
communion plate, which is five hundred years old, the old vestment
chest, of carved oak, of the time of Edward III., with the legend of St.
George and the Dragon represented upon it, a Bible of 1671, presented by
James I., and other interesting antiquities.

I concluded my visit to this glorious old minster by ascending the
Central or Lantern Tower, as it is called, which rises to a height of
two hundred and thirteen feet from the pavement, and from which I had a
magnificent view of the city of York and the surrounding country.

Although forbearing an attempt to enter upon any detailed descriptions
of numerous beautiful monuments in the cathedral, I cannot omit
referring to the many modern memorials of British officers and soldiers
who have perished in different parts of the world, fighting the battles
of their sovereign. Here is one to six hundred officers and privates of
the nineteenth regiment of foot, who fell in Russia, in 1854-5; another
to three hundred officers and privates of the fifty-first, who fell at
Burmah, in 1852-3; a monument to three hundred and seventy-three of the
eighty-fourth, who perished during the mutiny and rebellion in India in
1857, '8 and '9; a memorial slab to six hundred officers and men of the
thirty-third West York, or Wellington's Own, who lost their lives in the
Russian campaign of 1854-6; a beautiful, elaborate monument to Colonel
Moore and those of the Inniskillen Dragoons, who perished with him in a
transport vessel at sea, &c.

There is not a church or cathedral, not in ruins, that the tourist
visits in Great Britain, but that he reads the bloody catalogue of
victims of England's glory recorded on mural tablets or costly
monuments, a glory that seems built upon hecatombs of lives, showing
that the very empire itself is held together by the cement of human
blood,--blood, too, of the dearest and the bravest,--for I have read
upon costly monuments, reared by titled parents, of noble young
soldiers, of twenty-two and twenty years, and even younger, who have
fallen "victims to Chinese treachery," "perished in a typhoon in the
Indian Ocean," "been massacred in India," "lost at sea," "killed in the
Crimea." They have fallen upon the burning sands of India, amid the
snows of Russia, or in the depths of savage forests, or sunk beneath the
pitiless wave, in upholding the blood-red banner of that nation. This
fearful record that one encounters upon every side is a terrible and
bloody reckoning of the cost of the great nation's glory and power.

From the glories of York Minster, from the pleasant and dreamy walks on
delightful spring days, upon its old walls, and beneath its antique
gateways, its ruined cloisters of St. Leonard's, founded by Athelstane
the Saxon, and the stately ruins of St. Mary's Abbey, with the old
Norman arch and shattered walls, we will glance at an English city under
a cloud, or, I might almost say, under a pall, for the great black
banner that hangs over Sheffield is almost dark enough for one, and in
that respect reminds us of our own Pittsburg, with the everlasting coal
smoke permeating and penetrating everywhere and everything.

The streets of Sheffield have the usual grimy, smoky appearance of a
manufacturing place, and, apart from the steel and cutlery works, there
is but little of interest here. One cannot help observing, however, the
more abject squalor and misery which appear in some of the poorer
neighborhoods, than is ever seen in similar towns or cities in America.
The spirit shops, with their bold signs of different kinds of liquors,
and the gin saloons, with their great painted casks reared on high
behind the counter, at which women serve out the blue ruin, are visible
explanations of the cause of no small portion of the misery.

I found the cutlery works that I visited conducted far differently than
we manage such things in America, where the whole work would be carried
on in one great factory, and from year to year improvements made in
machinery, interior arrangements, &c.; but here the effort seems to be,
on the part of the workmen, to resist every advance or improvement
possible.

We visited the great show-rooms of Rogers & Sons, where specimens of
every description of knives, razors, scissors, cork-screws, boot-hooks,
&c., that they manufacture, were exhibited, a very museum of steel work;
and a young salesman was detailed to answer the questions and show the
same, including the celebrated many-bladed knife, which has one blade
added for every year.

A visit to Joseph Elliot & Son's razor works revealed to us the manner
in which many of the manufacturers carry on their business. We found the
workmen not all together in one factory, but in different buildings. In
one was where the first rough process of forging was performed; from
thence, perhaps across a street, the blades received further touches
from other workmen, and so on, till, when ready for grinding and
polishing, they were carried to the grinding and polishing works, some
distance off, and finally returned to a building near the warerooms, to
be joined to the handles, after which they were papered and packed,
immediately adjoining the warerooms proper, where sales were made and
goods delivered.

I was surprised, in visiting the forges where the elastic metal was beat
into graceful blades, to find them little dingy nooks and corners in a
series of old rookeries of buildings, often badly lighted, cramped and
inconvenient, and difficult of access. No American workmen would work in
such a place; but in watching the progress of the work, we saw
instances of the skill and thoroughness of British mechanics, who have
devoted their life to one particular branch of manufacture--the
precision of stroke in forging, the rapidity with which it was done, to
say nothing of the reliability, which is one characteristic of English
work.

In that country, where the ranks of every department of labor are so
crowded, there seems to be an ambition as to who shall do the best work,
who shall be he that turns out the most skilfully wrought article; and
of course the incentive to this ambition is a permanent situation, and a
workman whom the master will be the last to part with in dull times.
Then, again, in the battle for life, for absolute bread and butter,
people are only too glad to make a sacrifice to learn a trade that will
provide it. No boy can set up as a journeyman here after a couple of
years' experience, as they do in America. There are no such bunglers in
every department of mechanical work as in our country. To do
journeyman's work and earn journeyman's pay, a man must have served a
regular apprenticeship, and have learned his business; and he has to pay
his master for giving him the opportunity, and teaching him a trade, by
which he can work and receive a journeyman's pay--which is right and
proper. The compensation may be in the advantage the master gets from
good work at a low figure in the last years of the apprenticeship, or in
some kinds of business in a stipulated sum of money paid to him. Yet in
England he gets some return, instead of having his workman, as is
generally the case in America, as soon as he ceases to spoil material
and becomes of some value, desert him _sans cérémonie_.

The difficulty, in America, lies in the enormous demand for mechanical
labor, so large that many are willing and obliged to receive inferior
work or none at all, in the haste that all have to be rich, the boy to
have journeyman's wages, the journeyman to be foreman, and foreman to be
contractor and manager, and the abundant opportunity for them all to be
so with the very smallest qualifications for the positions.

It is the thorough workmanship of many varieties of British goods that
makes them so much superior to those of American manufacture; and we may
talk in this country as much as we please about its being snobbish to
prefer foreign to American manufactured goods, yet just as long as the
American article is inferior in quality, durability, and finish to the
foreign article, just so long will people of means and education
purchase it. I believe in encouraging American manufactures to their
fullest extent; but let American manufacturers, when they _are_
encouraged by protection or whatever means, prove by their products that
they are deserving it, as it is gratifying to know that many of them
have; and in this very article of steel, the great Pittsburg steel
workers, such as Park Bros. & Co., Hussey, Wells, & Co., Anderson, Cook,
& Co., and others in that city and Philadelphia, whose names do not now
occur to me, have actually, in some departments of their business,
beaten the British manufacturers in excellence and finish, proving that
it can be done in America. When visiting the great iron works, forges,
and factories in Pittsburg, I have frequently encountered, in the
different departments, skilled workmen from Birmingham, Sheffield, and
other English manufacturing towns, who, of course, were doing much
better than at home, and whose thorough knowledge of their trade never
failed to be the burden of the managers' commendation.

A razor is beaten out into shape, ground, tempered, polished, and
finished much more speedily than I imagined; and as an illustration of
the cheapness at which one can be produced, very good ones are made by
Rogers & Sons for six shillings a dozen, or sixpence each. This can be
done because they are made by apprentices, whose wages are comparatively
trifling. A very large number of these razors go to the United States.
Rogers' knives and razors of the finer descriptions generally command a
slight advance over those of other manufacturers, although there are
some here even in Sheffield whose work is equally good in every respect.

The Messrs. Elliot's razors are celebrated for their excellence both in
England and this country. In visiting their works I was received by one
of the partners, a man who owns his elegant country-house, and enjoys a
handsome income, but who was in his great wareroom, with his workman's
apron on--a badge which he seemed to wear as a matter of course, and in
no way affecting his position; and I then remembered one American
gentleman, who, after rising to affluence, was never too proud to wear
his apron if he thought that part of his dress necessary about his
business, and he a man we all remember _sans reproche_--the late Jonas
Chickering, the great piano manufacturer of Boston.

At Needham Brothers' cutlery works we saw table knives beaten out of the
rough steel with an astonishing rapidity, passed from man to man, till
the black, shapeless lump was placed in my hand a trenchant blade, fit
for service at the festive board. Both here and at Elliot & Sons' razor
works we saw invoices of handsome cutlery in process of manufacture for
the American market.

The grinders and polishers here receive the highest wages, on account of
the unhealthy nature of the employment, which has frequently been
described, the fine particles of steel affecting the lungs so that the
grinders are said to be short-lived men, and their motto "a short life
and a merry one," as I was informed; the "merry" part consisting of
getting uproariously drunk between Saturday night and Tuesday morning.
These grinders are also exceedingly jealous of apprentices, and I
shrewdly suspect in some degree magnify the dangers of their calling, in
order that their numbers may be kept as few, and wages as high, as
possible.

A vast deal of ale is drank in Sheffield, as may well be imagined; and
the great arched vaults which form the support to a bridge, or causeway,
out from the railway station to the streets of the city, are filled with
hundreds on hundreds of barrels of this popular English beverage. And in
truth, to enjoy good ale, and get good ale, one must go to England for
it; the butler on the stage who said, "They 'ave no good hale in
Hamerica, because they ain't got the opps," spoke comparatively, no
doubt; but at the little English inns, upon benches beneath the branches
of a great tree, or in cleanly sanded little public-house parlors at
the windows, looking out upon charming English landscapes, the frothing
tankards are especially inviting and comforting to those using them;
while, per contra, the foul, stale effluvia from the sloppy dens in this
city, which were thronged when the men were off work, the bluff,
bloated, and sodden appearance of ardent lovers of the ale of England,
were evidence that its use might be abused, as well as that of more
potent fluids.

There is comparatively little of historical interest in Sheffield to
attract the attention of the tourist. There was an old castle erected
there at an early period, and, at a place called Sheffield Manor-house,
Mary, Queen of Scots, passed over thirty years of her imprisonment;
but the chief interest of the place is, of course, its cutlery
manufactories, and its reputation for good knives dates back to the
thirteenth century, when it was noted as the place where a kind of knife
known as "Whittles" were made. The presence of iron ore, coal, and also
the excellent water power near the city, make it a very advantageous
place for such work. The great grinding works in the city, where the
largest proportion of that work is done, are driven by steam power.
Besides cutlery in all its branches, Sheffield turns out plated goods,
Britannia ware, brass work, buttons, &c., in large quantities.

Leaving the smoke, hum, clatter, and dingy atmosphere of a great English
manufacturing city, we took rail, and sped on till we reached
Matlock-Bath. Here debarking, we took an open carriage for Edensor, a
little village belonging to the Duke of Devonshire, and situated upon a
portion of his magnificent estate, the finest estate of any nobleman in
England. And some idea of its extent may be gathered from the fact that
its pleasure park contains two thousand acres. Our ride to this estate,
known as Chatsworth, was another one of those enjoyable experiences of
charming English scenery, over a pleasant drive of ten miles, till we
entered upon the duke's estates, and drove across one corner, for
a mile or more, to a pretty little road-side inn, where we were
welcomed by a white-aproned landlord, landlady, and waiter, just
such as are described by the novel writers, and people to whom the
hurried, bustling, imperious manner of go-ahead Americans seems most
extraordinary and surprising.

The Duke of Devonshire's landed property is just such a one as an
American should visit to realize the impressions he has received of a
nobleman's estate from English stories, novels, and dramatic
representations. Here great reaches of beautiful greensward swept away
as far as the eye could reach, with groups of magnificent oaks in the
landscape view, and troops of deer bounding off in the distance. Down
the slope, here and there, came the ploughman, homeward plodding his
weary way, in almost the same costume that Westall has drawn him in his
exquisite little vignette, in the Chiswick edition of Gray's poems.
There, in "the open," upon the close-cut turf, as we approached the
village, was a party of English boys, playing the English game of
cricket. Here, in a sheltered nook beneath two tall trees, nestled the
cottage--the pretty English cottage of one of the duke's gamekeepers.
The garden was gay with many-colored flowers, three chubby children were
rolling over each other on the grass, and a little brook wimpled on its
course down towards groups of clustering alders, quarter of a mile away.
Farther on, we meet the gamekeeper himself, with his double-barrelled
gun and game-pouch, and followed by two splendid pointers. There were
hill and dale, river and lake, oaks and forest, wooded hills and rough
rocks, grand old trees,--

        "The brave old oak,
        That stands in his pride and majesty
        When a hundred years have flown,"

and upon an eminence, overlooking the whole, stands the palace of the
duke, the whole front, of twelve or thirteen hundred feet, having a
grand Italian flower garden, with its urns, vases, and statues in full
view over the dwarf balustrades that protect it; the beautiful Grecian
architecture of the building, the statues, fountains, forest, stream,
and slope, all so charmingly combined by both nature and art into a
lovely landscape picture, as to seem almost like a scene from fairy
land.

But here we are at Edensor, the little village owned by the duke, and in
which he is finishing a new church for his tenantry, a very handsome
edifice, at a cost of nearly fifteen thousand pounds. This Edensor is
one of the most beautiful little villages in England. Its houses are all
built in Elizabethan, Swiss, and quaint styles of architecture, and
looking, for all the world, like a clean little engraving from an
illustrated book.

I hardly know where to commence any attempt at description of this
magnificent estate; but some idea may be had of its extent from the fact
that the park is over nine miles in circumference, that the kitchen
gardens and green-houses cover twenty acres, and that there are thirty
green-houses, from fifty to seventy-five feet long; that, standing upon
a hill-top, commanding a circuit view of twelve miles, I could see
nothing but what this man owned, or was his estate. Through the great
park, as we walked, magnificent pheasants, secure in their protection by
the game laws upon this vast estate, hardly waddled out of our path. The
troops of deer galloped within fifty paces of us, sleek cattle grazed
upon the verdant slope, and every portion of the land showed evidence of
careful attention from skilful hands.

We reached a bridge which spanned the little river,--a fine, massive
stone structure, built from a design by Michael Angelo,--and crossing
it, wound our way up to the grand entrance, with its great gates of
wrought and gilt iron. One of those well-got-up, full-fed, liveried
individuals, whom Punch denominates flunkies, carried my card in, for
permission to view the premises, which is readily accorded, the steward
of the establishment sending a servant to act as guide.

Passing through a broad court-yard, we enter the grand entrance-hall--a
noble room some sixty or seventy feet in length, its lofty wall adorned
with elegant frescoes, representing scenes from the life of Cæsar,
including his celebrated Passing of the Rubicon, and his Death at the
Senate House, &c. Passing up a superb, grand staircase, rich with
statues of heathen deities and elegantly-wrought columns, we went on to
the state apartments of the house. The ceilings of these magnificent
rooms are adorned with splendid pictures, among which are the Judgment
of Paris, Phaeton in the Chariot of the Sun, Aurora, and other
mythological subjects, while the rooms themselves, opening one out of
the other, are each rich in works of vertu and art, and form a vista of
beauty and wonder. Recollect, all these rooms were different, each
furnished in the most perfect taste, each rich in rare and curious
productions of art, ancient and modern, for which all countries, even
Egypt and Turkey, had been ransacked.

The presents of kings and princes, and the purchases of the richest
dukes for three generations, contributed to adorn the apartments of this
superb palace. Not among the least wonderful works of art is some of the
splendid wood-carving of Gibbon upon the walls--of game, flowers, and
fruit, so exquisitely executed that the careless heap of grouse, snipe,
or partridges look as though a light breeze would stir their very
feathers--flowers that seem as if they would drop from the walls, and a
game-bag at which I had to take a close look to see if it were really a
creation of the carver's art.

Upon the walls of all the rooms are suspended beautiful pictures by the
great artists. Here, in one room, we found our old, familiar friend,
Bolton Abbey in the Olden Time, the original painting by Landseer, and a
magnificent picture it is. In another room was one of Holbein's
portraits of Henry VIII., and we were shown also the rosary of this
king, who was _married so numerously_, an elegant and elaborately-carved
piece of work. In another apartment was a huge table of malachite,--a
single magnificent slab of about eight feet long by four in width,--a
clock of gold and malachite, presented to the duke by the Emperor
Nicholas, worth a thousand guineas, a broad table of one single sheet of
translucent spar.

In the state bedroom was the bed in which George II. died. Here also
were the chairs and foot-stools that were used by George III. and his
queen at their coronation; and in another room the two chairs in which
William IV. and Queen Adelaide sat when they were crowned, and looking
in their elaborate and florid decoration of gold and color precisely
like the chairs placed upon the stage at the theatre for the mimic
monarchs of dramatic representations. In fact, all the pomp, costume,
and paraphernalia of royalty, so strikingly reminds an American of
theatric display, that the only difference seems that the one is shown
by a manager, and the other by a king.

Then there were numerous magnificent cabinets, ancient and modern,
inlaid with elegant mosaic work, and on their shelves rested that rich,
curious, and antique old china of every design, for which the wealthy
were wont to pay such fabulous prices. Some was of exquisite beauty and
elegant design; others, to my unpractised eye, would have suffered in
comparison with our present kitchen delf. Elegant tapestries, cabinet
paintings, beautifully-modelled furniture, met the eye at every turn;
rare bronze busts and statues appropriately placed; the floors one sheet
of polished oak, so exactly were they matched; and the grand entrance
doors of each one of the long range of beautiful rooms being placed
exactly opposite the other, give a vista of five hundred and sixty feet
in length.

Then there was the great library, which is a superb room over a hundred
feet long, with great columns from floor to ceiling, and a light gallery
running around it. Opening out of it are an ante-library and cabinet
library--perfect gems of rooms, rich in medallions, pictures by
Landseer, &c., and, of course, each room containing a wealth of
literature on the book-shelves in the Spanish mahogany alcoves. In fact,
the rooms in this edifice realize one's idea of a nobleman's palace, and
the visitor sees that they contain all that unbounded wealth can
purchase, and taste and art produce. I must not forget, in one of these
apartments, a whole set of exquisite little filigree, silver toys, made
for one of the duke's daughters, embracing a complete outfit for a
baby-house, and including piano, chairs, carriage, &c., all beautifully
wrought, elaborate specimens of workmanship, artistically made, but, of
course, useless for service.

In one of the great galleries we were shown a magnificent collection
of artistic wealth in the form of nearly a thousand original
drawings--first rough sketches of the old masters, some of their
masterpieces which adorn the great galleries of Europe, and are
celebrated all over the world.

Only think of looking upon the _original designs_, the rough crayon,
pencil, or chalk sketches made by Rubens, Salvator Rosa, Claude
Lorraine, Raphael, Titian, Correggio, Michael Angelo, Nicolas Poussin,
Hogarth, and other great artists, of some of their most celebrated
works, and these sketches bearing the autographic signatures of the
painters! This grand collection of artistic wealth is all arrayed and
classified into Flemish, Venetian, Spanish, French, and Italian schools,
&c., and the value in an artistic point of view is almost as
inconceivable as the interest to a lover of art is indescribable. The
tourist can only feel, as he is compelled to hurry through such
treasures of art, that the brief time he has to devote to them is but
little better than an aggravation.

An elegant private chapel, rich in sculpture, painting, and carving,
affords opportunity for the master of this magnificent estate to worship
God in a luxurious manner. Scenes from the life of the Saviour, from the
pencils of great artists, adorn the walls--Verrio's Incredulity of
Thomas; an altar-piece by Cibber, made of Derbyshire spar and marble,
with figures of Faith and Hope, and the wondrous wood carving of Gibbon,
are among the treasures of this exquisite temple to the Most High.

Next we visit the Sculpture Gallery, in which are collected the choicest
works of art in Chatsworth: the statues, busts, vases, and bronzes that
we have passed in niches, upon cabinets, on great marble staircases, and
at various other points in the mansion, would in themselves have formed
a wondrous collection; but here is the Sculpture Gallery proper, a lofty
hall over one hundred feet in length, lighted from the top, and the
light is managed so as to display to the best advantage the treasures
of art here collected. I can only mention a few of the most striking
which I jotted down in my note-book, and which will indicate the value
of the collection: Discobulus, by Kessels; upon the panels of the
pedestal, on which this statue is placed, are inlaid slabs of elegant
Swedish porphyry, and a fine mosaic taken from Herculaneum; a colossal
marble bust of Bonaparte, by Canova; Gott's Venus; two colossal lions
(after Canova), cut in Carrara marble, one by Rinaldi and the other by
Benaglia--they are beautifully finished, and the weight of the group is
eight tons; bust of Edward Everett, by Powers; the Venus Genetrix of
Thorwaldsen; five elegantly finished small columns from Constantinople,
surmounted by Corinthian capitals cut in Rome, and crowned with vases
and balls, all of beautiful workmanship; a statue of Hebe, by Canova; a
colossal group of Mars and Cupid, by Gibson; Cupid enclosing in his
hands the butterfly; an image of Psyche, the Grecian emblem of the soul,
an exquisite piece of sculpture, by Finelli; a bass-relief of three
sleeping Cupids, also most life-like in execution; Tadolini's Ganymede
and Eagle; Bartolini's Bacchante with Tamborine; a superb vase and
pedestal, presented by the Emperor of Russia; Venus wounded by treading
on a rose, and Cupid extracting the thorn; Endymion sleeping with his
dog watching, by Canova; Achilles wounded; Venus Filatrice, as it is
called, a beautiful spinning girl, one of the most beautiful works in
the gallery--the pedestal on which this figure stands is a fragment from
Trajan's Forum; Petrarch's Laura, by Canova, &c. From the few that I
have mentioned, the wealth of this collection may be imagined. In the
centre of the room stands the gigantic Mecklenburg Vase, twenty feet in
circumference, sculptured out of a single block of granite, resting on a
pedestal of the same material, and inside the vase a serpent coiled in
form of a figure eight, wrought from black marble.

I have given but a mere glance at the inside of this elegant palace: in
passing through the different grand apartments, the visitor, if he will
step from time to time into the deep windows and look upon the scene
without, will see how art has managed that the very landscape views
shall have additional charm and beauty to the eye. One window commands a
close-shaven green lawn over a hundred feet wide and five hundred long,
as regular and clean as a sheet of green velvet, its extreme edge rich
in a border of many-colored flowers; another shows a slope crossed with
walks, and enlivened with vases and sparkling fountains; another, the
natural landscape, with river and bridge, and the background of noble
oak trees; a fourth shows a series of terraces rising one above the
other for hundreds of feet, rich in flowering shrubs and plants, and
descending the centre from the very summit, a great flight of stone
steps, thirty feet in width, down which dashes a broad, thin sheet of
water like a great web of silver in the sunshine, reflecting the marble
statues at its margin, till it reaches the very verge of the broad
gravel walk of the pleasure-grounds, as if to dash in torrents over it,
when it disappears, as by magic, into the very earth, being conveyed
away by a subterranean passage to the river.

After walking about the enclosed gardens immediately around the palace,
which are laid out in Italian style, with vases, statues, and fountains,
reminding one strikingly of views upon theatrical act-drops on an
extended scale, we came to several acres of ground, which appeared to
have been left in a natural state; huge crags, abrupt cliffs with
dripping waterfall falling over the edge into a silent, black tarn at
its base, curious caverns, huge boulders thrown together as by some
convulsion, and odd plants growing among them.

In and about romantic views, our winding path carried us until we were
stopped by a huge boulder of rock that had tumbled down, apparently from
a neighboring crag, directly upon the pathway. We were about to turn
back to make a _détour_, as clambering over the obstacle was out of the
question, when our guide solved the difficulty by pressing against the
intruding mass of rock, which, to our surprise, yielding, swung to one
side, leaving passage for us to pass. It was artificially poised upon a
pivot for this purpose. Then it was that we learned that the whole of
this apparently natural scenery was in reality the work of art; the
rocky crags, waterfall and tarn, romantic and tangled shrubbery, rustic
nooks, odd caverns, and mossy cliffs, nay, even old uprooted tree, and
the one that, with dead foliage, stripped limbs, that stood out in bold
relief against the sky, were all artistically placed,--in fact the whole
built and arranged for effect; and on knowing this, it seemed to be a
series of natural models set for landscape painters to get bits of
effect from.

Among the curiosities in this natural artificial region was a wonderful
tree, a sort of stiff-looking willow, but which our conductor changed by
touching a secret spring into a _veritable_ weeping willow, for fine
streams of water started from every leaf, twig, and shoot of its copper
branches--a most novel and curious style of fountain.

But we must pass on to the great conservatory, another surprise in this
realm of wonders. Only think of a conservatory covering more than an
acre of ground, with an arched roof of glass seventy feet high, and a
great drive-way large enough for a carriage and four horses to be driven
right through from one end to the other, a distance of two hundred and
seventy-six feet, as Queen Victoria's was, on her visit to the estate.

Before the erection of the Crystal Palace at Sydenham, this conservatory
was the most magnificent building of the kind in England, and was
designed and built by Paxton, the duke's gardener, afterwards the
architect of the Crystal Palace. Here one might well fancy himself, from
the surroundings, transferred by Fortunatus's wishing cap into the
tropics. Great palm trees lifted their broad, leafy crowns fifty feet
above our heads; slender bamboos rose like stacks of lances; immense
cactuses, ten feet high, bristled like fragments of a warrior's armor;
the air was fragrant with the smell of orange trees; big lemons plumped
down on the rank turf from the dark, glossy foliage of the trees that
bore them; opening ovoids displayed stringy mace holding aromatic
nutmegs; wondrous vegetation, like crooked serpents, wound off on the
damp soil; great pitcher-plants, huge broad leaves of curious colors,
looking as if cut from different varieties of velvet, and other
fantastic wonders of the tropics, greeted us at every turn. Here was the
curious sago palm; there rose with its clusters of fruit the date palm;
again, great clusters of rich bananas drooped pendent from their
support; singular shrubs, curious grasses, wonderful leaves huge in size
and singular in shape, and wondrous trees _as large as life_, rose on
every side, so that one might readily imagine himself in an East Indian
jungle or a Brazilian forest,--

        "And every air was heavy with the sighs
        Of orange groves,"--

or the strong, spicy perfume of strange trees and plants unknown in this
cold climate.

Over seventy thousand square feet of glass are between the iron ribs of
the great roof of this conservatory, and within its ample space the soil
and temperature are carefully arranged to suit the nature and characters
of the different plants it contains, while neither expense nor pains are
spared to obtain and cultivate these vegetable curiosities in their
native luxuriance and beauty.

I will not attempt a particular description of the other green-houses.
There are thirty in all, and each devoted to different kinds of fruits
or flowers--a study for the horticulturist or botanist. One was devoted
entirely to medicinal plants, another to rare and curious flowering
plants, gay in all the hues of the rainbow, and rich with perfume; a
Victoria Regia house, just completed, of octagon form, and erected
expressly for the growth of this curious product of South American
waters; magnificent graperies, four or five in all, and seven hundred
feet long, with the green, white, and purple clusters depending in every
direction and in various stages of growth, from blossom to perfection;
pineries containing whole regiments of the fruit, ranged in regular
ranks, with their martial blades erect above their green and yellow
coats of mail. Peach-houses, with the pink blossoms just bursting into
beauty, were succeeded by the fruit, first like vegetable grape-shot,
and further on in great, luscious, velvet-coated spheroids at maturity,
as it drops from the branches into netting spread to catch it.

In the peach-houses is one tree, fifteen feet high, and its branches
extending on the walls a distance of over fifty feet, producing, some
years, over a thousand peaches. Then there are strawberry-houses,
apricot, vegetable, and even a house for mushrooms, besides the
extensive kitchen gardens, in which every variety of ordinary
vegetable is grown; all of these nurseries, gardens, hot-houses, and
conservatories are well cared for, and kept in excellent order.

The great conservatory is said to have cost one hundred thousand pounds;
it is heated by steam and hot water, and there are over six miles of
piping in the building. The duke's table, whether he be here or at
London, is supplied daily with rare fruits and the other products of
these _hot-beds of luxury_.

But the reader will tire of reading, as does the visitor of viewing, the
endless evidences of the apparently boundless wealth that almost
staggers the conception of the American tourist fresh from home, with
_his_ ideas of what constitutes wealth and power in a republican
country.

After having visited, as we have, one of the most magnificent modern
palaces of one of the most princely of modern England's noblemen, it was
a pleasant transition to ride over to one of the most perfect remnants
of the habitations of her feudal nobility, Haddon Hall, situated in
Derbyshire, a few miles from Chatsworth.

This fine old castellated building is one from which can be formed a
correct idea of those old strongholds of the feudal lords of the middle
ages; indeed, it is a remnant of one of those very strongholds, a
crumbling picture of the past, rich in its fine old coloring of chivalry
and romance, conjuring up many poetic fancies, and putting to flight
others, by the practical realities that it presents in the shape of what
would be now positive discomfort in our domestic life, but which, in
those rude days, was magnificence.

Haddon Hall is in fact a very fine example of an old baronial hall in ye
times of old, and portions of the interior appear as though it had been
preserved in the exact condition it was left by its knightly occupants
three hundred years ago.

The embattled turrets of Haddon, rising above the trees, as it stood on
its rocky platform, overlooking the little River Wye and the surrounding
country, seemed only to be wanting the knightly banner fluttering above
them, and we almost expected to see the flash of a spear-head in the
sunlight, or the glitter of a steel helmet from the ancient but
well-preserved walls. We climbed up the steep ascent to the great arched
entrance, surmounted with the arms, in rude sculpture, of the Vernon
family, who held the property for three centuries and a half; and
beneath that arch, where warlike helmets, haughty brows, and beauteous
ladies, the noblest and bravest blood of England have passed, passed we.

No warder's horn summons the man-at-arms to the battlements above; no
drawbridge falls, with ringing clang, over the castle moat, or pointed
portcullis slowly raises its iron fangs to admit us; but for hundreds of
years have hundreds of feet pressed that threshold of stone--the feet of
those of our own time, and of those who slumbered in the dust hundreds
of years ere we trod the earth; and we mark, as we pass through the
little door, cut through one of the broad leaves of the great gates,
that in the stony threshold is the deep impression of a human foot, worn
by the innumerable steppings that have been made upon the same spot by
mailed heels, ladies' slippers, pilgrims' sandals, troopers' boots, or
the leather and steel-clad feet of our own time. Passed the portal, and
we were in the grand, open court-yard, with its quaint ornaments of
stone carving, its stone pavement, and entrances to various parts of the
building.

There is a picture, entitled "Coming of Age in the Olden Time," which is
familiar to many of my readers, and which is still common in many of our
print-stores; an engraving issued by one of the Scotch Art Unions, I
believe, which was brought forcibly to my mind, as I stood in this old
court-yard of Haddon Hall, there were so many general features that were
similar, and it required no great stretch of the imagination for me to
place the young nobleman upon the very flight of steps he occupies in
the picture, and to group the other figures in the parts of the space
before me, which seemed the very one they had formerly occupied; but my
dreams and imaginings were interrupted by a request to come and see what
remained of the realities of the place.

First, there was the great kitchen, all of stone, its fireplace big
enough to roast an ox; a huge rude table or dresser; the great trough,
or sink, into which fresh water was conducted: and an adjoining room,
with its huge chopping-block still remaining, was evidently the larder,
and doubtless many a rich haunch of venison, or juicy baron of beef, has
been trimmed into shape here. Another great vaulted room, down a flight
of steps, was the beer cellar; and a good supply of stout ale was kept
there, as is evinced by the low platform of stone-work all around, and
the stone drain to carry off the drippings. Then there is the
bake-house, with its moulding-stone and ovens, the store-rooms for corn,
malt, &c., all indicating that the men of ye olden times liked good,
generous living.

The Great Hall, as it is called, where the lord of the castle feasted
with his guests, still remains, with its rough roof and rafters of oak,
its minstrel gallery, ornamented with stags' antlers; and there, raised
above the stone floor a foot or so, yet remains the dais, upon which
rested the table at which sat the nobler guests; and here is the very
table itself, three long, blackened oak planks, supported by rude X
legs--the table that has borne the boars' heads, the barons of beef,
gilded peacocks, haunches of venison, flagons of ale, and stoups of
wine. Let us stand at its head, and look down the old baronial hall: it
was once noisy with mirth and revelry, music and song: the fires from
the huge fireplaces flashed on armor and weapons, faces and forms that
have all long since crumbled into dust; and here is only left a
cheerless, barn-like old room, thirty-five feet long and twenty-five
wide, with time-blackened rafters, and a retainers' room, or servants'
hall, looking into it.

Up a massive staircase of huge blocks of stone, and we are in another
apartment, a room called the dining-room, used for that purpose by more
modern occupants of the Hall; and here we find portraits of Henry VII.
and his queen, and also of the king's jester, Will Somers. Over the
fireplace are the royal arms, and beneath them, in Old English
character, the motto,--

        =Drede God, and honor the King.=

Up stairs, six semicircular steps of solid oak, and we are in the long
gallery, or ball-room, one hundred and ten feet long and eighteen wide,
with immense bay-windows, commanding beautiful views, the sides of the
room wainscoted in oak, and decorated with carvings of the boar's head
and peacock, the crests of the Vernon and Manners families; carvings of
roses and thistles also adorn the walls of this apartment, which was
said to have been built in Queen Elizabeth's time, and there is a
curious story told of the oaken floor, which is, that the boards were
all cut from _one_ tree that grew in the garden, and that the roots
furnished the great semicircular steps that lead up to the room. The
compartments of the bay-windows are adorned with armorial bearings of
different owners of the place, and from them are obtained some of those
ravishing landscape views for which England is so famous--silvery
stream, spanned by rustic bridges, as it meandered off towards green
meadows; the old park, with splendid group of oaks; the distant village,
with its ancient church; and all those picturesque objects that
contribute to make the picture perfect.

We now wend our way through other rooms, with the old Gobelin tapestry
upon the walls, with the pictured story of Moses still distinct upon its
wondrous folds, and into rooms comparatively modern, that have been
restored, kept, and used within the past century. Here is one with
furniture of green and damask, chairs and state bed, and hung with
Gobelin tapestry, with Esop's fables wrought upon it. Here, again, the
rude carving, massive oak-work, and ill-constructed joining, tell the
olden time.

But we must not leave Haddon Hall without passing through the ante-room,
as it is called, and out into the garden on Dorothy Vernon's Walk. On
our way thither the guide lifts up occasionally the arras, or tapestry,
and shows us those concealed doors and passages of which we have read so
often in the books; and now that I think of it, it was here at Haddon
Hall that many of the wild and romantic ideas were obtained by Mrs.
Radcliff for that celebrated old-fashioned romance, "The Mysteries of
Udolpho."

The "garden of Haddon," writes S. C. Hall, "has been, time out of mind,
a treasure store of the English landscape painter, and one of the most
favorite 'bits' being 'Dorothy Vernon's Walk,' and the door out of which
tradition describes her as escaping to meet her lover, Sir John Manners,
with whom she eloped." Haddon, by this marriage, became the property of
the noble house of Rutland, who made it their residence till the
commencement of the present century, when they removed to the more
splendid castle of Belvoir; but to the Duke of Rutland the tourist and
those who venerate antiquity, owe much for keeping this fine old place
from "improvements," and so much of it in its original and ancient form.

That the landscape painters had made good and frequent use of the garden
of Haddon I ascertained the moment I entered it. Dorothy's Walk, a fine
terrace, shaded by limes and sycamores, leads to picturesque flights of
marble steps, which I recognized as old friends that had figured in many
a "flat" of theatrical scenery, upon many an act-drop, or been still
more skilfully borrowed from, in effect, by the stage-carpenter and
machinist in a set scene. Plucking a little bunch of wild-flowers from
Dorothy's Walk, and a sprig of ivy from the steps down which she hurried
in the darkness, while her friends were revelling in another part of the
hall, we bade farewell to old Haddon, with its quaint halls, its
court-yards, and its terraced garden, amid whose venerable trees

                                      "the air
        Seems hallowed by the breath of other times."



CHAPTER V.


Kenilworth Castle will in many respects disappoint the visitor, for its
chief attraction is the interest with which Walter Scott has invested it
in his vivid description of the Earl of Leicester's magnificent pageant
on the occasion of the reception of his royal mistress, Queen Elizabeth.
And the host of visitors who make the pilgrimage to this place, so
hallowed by historical associations, may be classed as pilgrims doing
homage to the genius of Scott. I find, on looking up Kenilworth's
history, that it was here that "old John of Gaunt, time-honored
Lancaster," dwelt; here also his son Bolingbroke, afterwards Henry IV.,
and Prince Hal, when he was a jovial, roistering sack-drinker; here
Henry VI. retired during the Jack Cade rebellion; Richard III. has held
high revel in the great hall; Henry VII. and bluff Hal VIII. have
feasted there with their nobles; but, after all, the visitor goes to see
the scene where, on the 9th of July, 1575, was such a magnificent fête
as that described by the novelist.

We walked through the village and on towards the castle, through the
charming English scenery I have described so often, the gardens gay with
roses and the banks of the roadside rich with wild flowers, a fair blue
sky above, and the birds joyous in the hedges and woods. This was the
avenue that led towards the Gallery Tower, through which rode Elizabeth
with a cavalcade illuminated by two hundred wax torches of Dudley's
retainers, the blaze of which flashed upon her sparkling jewels as she
rode in stately style upon her milk-white charger--the avenue now a
little rustic road, with a wealth of daisies on its banks; proudly rode
Leicester at her side, who, Scott says, "glittered, like a golden image,
with jewels and cloth of gold."

On we go to where the long bridge extended from the Gallery Tower to
Mortimer's Tower, which the story tells us was light as day with the
torches. A mass of crumbling ruins is all that remains of the two towers
now; and after passing by the end of a great open space, known as the
Tilt Yard, we come in sight of the principal ruins of the castle. We go
through a little gateway,--Leicester's gateway; R. D. is carved on the
porch above it,--and we are in the midst of the picturesque and
crumbling walls, half shrouded in their green, graceful mantle of ivy.
Here we find Cæsar's Tower, the Great Hall, Leicester's Buildings, the
Strong Tower, which is the Mervyn's Tower of the story, the one into
which the unfortunate Amy Robsart was conveyed while waiting for a visit
from Leicester during the festivities of the royal visit.

The Great Hall was a room of magnificent dimensions, nearly one hundred
feet long by fifty broad, and, as one may judge from its ruins,
beautiful in design. One oriel of the many arched windows is a beautiful
bit of picturesque ruin, and through it a most superb landscape view is
commanded. You are shown "The Pleasance," the place in the little garden
near the castle which was the scene of Queen Elizabeth's encounter with
Amy Robsart, and which still is called by the same name. The part of the
castle built by the Earl of Leicester in 1571, known as Leicester's
Buildings, are crumbling to decay, and is far less durable than some of
the other massive towers.

The outer walls of Kenilworth Castle encompassed an area of seven acres;
but walls and tower, great hall and oriel, are now but masses of ruined
masonry, half shrouded in a screen of ivy, and giving but a feeble idea
of what the castle was in its days of pride, when graced by Queen
Elizabeth and her court, and made such a scene of splendor and regal
magnificence as to excite even the admiration of the sovereign herself.
Time has marked the proud castle with its ineffable signet, and
notwithstanding the aid of imagination, Kenilworth seems but a mere
ghost of the past.

From Kenilworth Castle we took train for Stratford-on-Avon,--the place
which no American would think of leaving England without visiting,--a
quiet little English town, but whose inns have yearly visitors from half
the nations of the civilized world, pilgrims to this shrine of genius,
the birthplace of him who wrote "not for a day, but all time." A quaint,
old-fashioned place is Stratford, with here and there a house that might
have been in existence during the poet's time; indeed, many were, for I
halted opposite the grammar school, which was founded by Henry IV., and
in which Will Shakespeare studied and was birched; the boys were out to
play in the little square close, or court-yard, and as I entered through
the squat, low doorway, which, like many of these old buildings in
England, seems compressed or shrunk with age, I was surrounded by the
whole troup of successors of Shakespeare, the gates closed, and my
deliverance only purchased by payment of sixpence.

That antique relic of the past, the poet's birthplace, which we at once
recognize from the numerous pictures we have seen of it, I stood before
with a feeling akin to that of veneration--something like that which
must fill the mind of a pilgrim who has travelled a weary journey to
visit the shrine of some celebrated saint.

It is an odd, and old-fashioned mass of wood and plaster. The very means
that have been taken to preserve it seem almost a sacrilege, the fresh
paint upon the wood-work outside, that shone in the spring sunlight, the
new braces, plaster and repairs here and there, give the old building
the air of an old man, an octogenarian, say, who had discarded his
old-time rags and tatters for a suit of new cloth cut in old style; but
something must, of course, be done to preserve the structure from
crumbling into the dust beneath the inexorable hand of time, albeit it
was of substantial oak, filled in with plaster, but has undergone many
"improvements" since the poet's time.

The first room we visit in the house is the kitchen with its wide
chimney, the kitchen in which John Shakespeare and his son Will so often
sat, where he watched the blazing logs, and listened to strange legends
of village gossips, or stories of old crones, or narratives of field
and flood, and fed his young imagination to the full with that food
which gave such lusty life to it in after years. Here was a big
arm-chair--Shakespeare's chair, of course, as there was in 1820, when
our countryman Washington Irving visited the place; but inasmuch as the
_real_ chair was purchased by the Princess Czartoryska in 1790, one
cannot with a knowledge of this fact feel very enthusiastic over this.

From the kitchen we ascend into the room in which the poet was born--a
low, rude apartment, with huge beams and plastered walls, and those
walls one mosaic mass of pencilled autographs and inscriptions of
visitors to this shrine of genius. One might spend hours in deciphering
names, inscriptions, rhymes, aphorisms, &c., that are thickly written
upon every square inch of space, in every style of chirography and in
every language: even the panes of glass in the windows have not escaped,
but are scratched all over with autographs by the diamond rings of
visitors; and among these signatures I saw that of Walter Scott. At the
side of the fireplace in this room is the well-known actor's pillar, a
jamb of the fireplace thickly covered with the autographs of actors who
have visited here; among the names I noticed the signatures of Charles
Kean, Edmund Kean, and G. V. Brooke. Visitors are not permitted now to
write upon any portion of the building, and are always closely
accompanied by a guide, in order that no portion of it may be cut and
carried away by relic-hunters.

The visitors' book which is kept here is a literary as well as an
autographic curiosity; it was a matter of regret to me that I had only
time to run over a few of the pages of its different volumes filled with
the writing of all classes, from prince to peasant, and in every
language and character, even those of Turkish, Hebrew, and Chinese. The
following, I think, was from the pen of Prince Lucien:--

        "The eye of genius glistens to admire
        How memory hails the soul of Shakespeare's lyre.
        One tear I'll shed to form a crystal shrine
        For all that's grand, immortal, and divine."

And the following were furnished me as productions, the first of
Washington Irving, and the second of Hackett, the well-known comedian,
and best living representative of Falstaff:--

        "Of mighty Shakespeare's birth the room we see;
          The where he died in vain to find we try;
        Useless the search, for all immortal he,
          And those who are immortal never die."

        "Shakespeare, thy name revered is no less
        By us who often _reckon_, sometimes _guess_.
        Though England claims the glory of thy birth,
        None more appreciate thy page's worth,
        None more admire thy scenes well acted o'er,
        Than we of states unborn in ancient lore."

The room in which the poet was born remains very nearly in its original
state, and, save a table, an ancient chair or two, and a bust of
Shakespeare, is without furniture; but another upper room is devoted to
the exhibition of a variety of interesting relics and mementos. Not the
least interesting of these was the rude school desk, at which Master
Will conned his lessons at the grammar school. A sadly-battered affair
it was, with the little lid in the middle raised by rude leather hinges,
and the whole of it hacked and cut in true school-boy style. Be it
Shakespeare's desk or not, we were happy in the belief that it was, and
sat down at it, thinking of the time when the young varlet crept "like a
snail unwillingly to school," and longed for a release from its
imprisonment, to bathe in the cool Avon's rippling waters, or start off
on a distant ramble with his schoolmates to Sir Thomas Lucy's oak groves
and green meadows.

Next we came to the old sign of "The Falcon," which swung over the
hostelrie of that name at Bedford, seven miles from Stratford, where
Shakespeare and his associates drank too deeply, as the story goes,
which Washington Irving reproduces in his charming sketch of
Stratford-on-Avon in the Sketch Book. Here is Shakespeare's jug, from
which David Garrick sipped wine at the Shakespeare Jubilee, held in
1758; an ancient chair from the Falcon Inn, called Shakespeare's Chair,
and said to have been the one in which he sat when he held his club
meetings there; Shakespeare's gold signet-ring, with the initials W. S.,
enclosed in a true-lover's knot. Among the interesting documents were a
letter from Richard Quyney to Shakespeare, asking for a loan of thirty
pounds, which is said to be the only letter addressed to Shakespeare
known to exist; a "conveyance," dated October 15, 1579, from "John
Shackspere and Mary his wyeffe" (Shakespeare's parents) "to Robt. Webbe,
of their moitye of 2 messuages or tenements in Snitterfield;" an
original grant of four yard lands, in Stratford fields, of William and
John Combe to Shakespeare, in 1602; a deed with the autograph of Gilbert
Shakespeare, brother of the poet, 1609; a declaration in an action in
court of Shakespeare _v._ Philip Rogers, to recover a bill for malt sold
by Shakespeare, 1604.

Then there were numerous engravings and etchings of various old objects
of interest in and about Stratford, various portraits of the poet,
eighteen sketches, illustrating the songs and ballads of Shakespeare,
done by the members of the Etching Club, and presented by them to this
collection. Among the portraits is one copied in crayon from the Chandos
portrait, said to have been painted when Shakespeare was about
forty-three, and one of the best portraits extant--an autographic
document, bearing the signature of Sir Thomas Lucy, the original Justice
Shallow, owner of the neighboring estate of Charlecote, upon which
Shakespeare was arrested for deer-stealing. These, and other curious
relics connected with the history of the poet, were to us possessed of
so much interest that we quite wore out the patience of the good dame
who acted as custodian, and she was relieved by her daughter, who was
put in smiling good humor by our purchase of stereoscopic views at a
shilling each, which can be had in London at sixpence, and chatted away
merrily till we bade farewell to the poet's birthplace, and started off
adown the pleasant village street for the little church upon the banks
of the River Avon, which is his last resting-place.

However sentimental, poetical, or imaginative one may be, there comes a
time when the cravings of appetite assert themselves; and vulgar and
inappropriate as it was, we found ourselves exceedingly hungry here in
Stratford, and we went into a neat bijou of a pastry cook's--we should
call it a confectioner's shop in America, save that there was nothing
but cakes, pies, bread, and pastry for sale. The little shop was a model
of neatness and compactness. Half a dozen persons would have crowded the
space outside the counter, which was loaded with fresh, lightly-risen
sponge cakes, rice cakes, puffs, delicious flaky pastry, fruit tarts,
the preserves in them clear as amber, fresh, white, close-grained
English bread, and heaps of those appetizing productions of pure,
unadulterated pastry, that the English pastry baker knows so well how to
prepare. The bright young English girl, in red cheeks, modest dress, and
white apron, who served us, was, to use an English expression, a very
nice young person, and, in answer to our queries and praises of her
wares, told us that herself and her mother did the fancy baking of pies
and cakes, a man baker whom they employed doing the bread and heavy
work. The gentry, the country round, were supplied from their shop. How
long had they been there?

She and mother had always been there. The shop had been in the family
over _seventy years_.

"Just like the English," said one of the party, aside. "It's not at all
astonishing they make such good things, having had seventy years'
practice."

And this little incident is an apt illustration of how a business is
kept in one family, and in one place, generation after generation, in
England; so different from our country, where the sons of the poor
cobbler or humble artisan of yesterday may be the proud aristocrat of
to-day.

There is nothing remarkable about the pleasant church of Stratford,
which contains the poet's grave. It is situated near the banks of the
Avon, and the old sexton escorted us through an avenue of trees to its
great Gothic door, which he unlocked, and we were soon before the
familiar monument, which is in a niche in the chancel. It is the
well-known, half-length figure, above which is his coat of arms,
surmounted by a skull, and upon either side figures of Cupid, one
holding an inverted torch, and the other a skull and a spade. Beneath
the cushion, upon which the poet is represented as writing, is this
inscription:--

        "JVDICIO PYLIVM GENIO SOCRATEM ARTE MARONEM TERRA TEGIT
        POPVLVS MOERET OLYMPVS HABET.

        "Stay, passenger; who goest thou by so fast?
        Read, if thou canst, whom envious death has plast
        Within this monument: Shakespeare, with whome
        Qvicke natvre died; whose name doth deck ys tombe
        Far more than cost; sith all yt he hath writt
        Leaves living art but page to serve his witt.

            "Obiit Ano Doi, 1616.
            Ætatis 53, Die 23 Ap."

This half-length figure, we are told, was originally painted after
nature, the eyes being hazel, and the hair and beard auburn, the dress a
scarlet doublet, slashed on the breast, over which was a loose,
sleeveless black gown; but in 1793 it was painted all over white.

In front of the altar-rails, upon the second step leading to the altar,
are the gravestones (marble slabs) of the Shakespeare family, among them
a slab marking the resting-place of his wife, Anne (Anne Hathaway); and
the inscription tells us that

              "Here lyeth interred the body of Anne,
        wife of William Shakspeare, who depted this life the
        6th day of Avg: 1623, being of the age of 67 years."

Another slab marks the grave of Thomas Nash, who married the only
daughter of the poet's daughter Susanna, one that of her father, Dr.
John Hall, and another that of Susanna herself; the slab bearing the
poet's celebrated epitaph is, of course, that which most holds the
attention of the visitor, and as he reads the inscription which has
proved such a safeguard to the remains of its author, he cannot help
feeling something of awe the epitaph is so threatening, so almost like a
malediction.

        "Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare
        To digg the dust encloased heare:
        Bleste be ye man yt spares thes stones,
        And cursed be he yt moves my bones."

And it is doubtless the unwillingness to brave Shakespeare's curse that
has prevented the removal of the poet's remains to Westminster Abbey,
and the fear of it that will make the little church, in the pleasant
little town of Stratford, his last resting-place. I could not help
noticing, while standing beside the slab that marked the poet's grave,
how _that_ particular slab had been respected by the thousands of feet
that had made their pilgrimage to the place; for while the neighboring
slabs and pavement were worn from the friction of many feet, this was
comparatively fresh and rough as when first laid down, no one caring to
trample upon the grave of Shakespeare, especially after having read the
poet's invocation,--

        "Bleste be ye man yt spares thes stones;"

and so with uncovered head and reverential air he passes around it and
not over it, although no rail or guard bars his steps,--that one line of
magic power a more effectual bar than human hand could now place there.

The little shops in the quaint little streets of Stratford, all make the
most of that which has made their town famous; and busts of Shakespeare,
pictures, carvings, guide-books, engravings, and all sorts of mementos
to attract the attention of visitors, are displayed in their windows. A
china ware store had Shakespeare plates and dishes, with pictorial
representations of the poet's birthplace, Stratford church, &c., upon
them, so that those inclined could have Shakespeare plates from sixpence
to three shillings each, illustrating their visit here.

How often I had read of the old feudal barons of Warwick, and their
warlike deeds, which occupy so conspicuous a place in England's history!
There were the old Saxon earls, and, most famous of all, the celebrated
Guy, that every school-boy has read of, who was a redoubtable warrior in
the time of Alfred the Great, and doubtless has in history grown in
height as his deeds have in wonder, for he is stated to have been a
Saxon giant nine feet high, killed a Saracen giant in single combat,
slain a wild boar, a green dragon, and an enormous dun cow, although why
killing a cow was any evidence of a warrior's prowess I am unable to
state. But we saw at the porter's lodge, at the castle, as all tourists
do (and I write it as all tourists do), a big rib of something,--it
would answer for a whale or elephant,--which we were told was the rib of
the cow aforesaid; also some of the bones of the boar; but when I asked
the old dame, who showed the relics, if any of the scales of the dragon,
or if any of his teeth, had been preserved, she said,--

"The dragon story mightn't be true; but 'ere we 'ave the cow's ribs and
the boar's bones, and there's no disputin' them, you see."

So we didn't dispute them, nor the great tilting-pole, breastplate, and
fragments of armor said to have belonged to Guy, or the huge
porridge-pot made of bronze or bell-metal, which holds ever so many
gallons, and which modern Earls of Warwick sometimes use on great
occasions to brew an immense jorum of punch in. Guy's sword, which I
took an experimental swing of, required an exercise of some strength,
and both hands, to make it describe a circle above my head, and must
have been a trenchant blade in the hands of one able to wield it
effectively.

Old Guy was by no means the only staunch warrior of the Earls of
Warwick. There was one who died in the Holy Land in 1184; another, who
stood by King John in all his wars with the barons; another, who was
captured in his castle; another, Guy de Beauchamp, who fought for the
king bravely in the battle of Falkirk; and another, who, under the Black
Prince, led the van of the English army at Cressy, and fought bravely
at Poietiers, till his galled hand refused to grasp his battle-axe, and
who went over to France and saved a suffering English army at Calais in
1369, and many others, who have left the impress of their deeds upon the
pages of history.

The old town of Warwick dates its foundation about A. D. 50, and its
castle in 916. Staying at the little old-fashioned English inn, the
Warwick Arms, two of us had to dine in solemn state alone in a private
room, the modern style of a table d'hote not being introduced in that
establishment, which, although well ordered, scrupulously neat and
comfortable, nevertheless, in furniture and general appearance, reminded
one of the style of thirty years ago.

Of course the lion of Warwick is the castle, and to that old stronghold
we wend our way. The entrance is through a large gateway, and we pass up
through a roadway or approach to the castle, which is cut through the
solid rock for a hundred yards or more, and emerging into the open
space, come suddenly in view of the walls and magnificent round
cylindrical towers.

First there is Guy's Tower, with its walls ten feet thick, its
base thirty feet in diameter, and rising to a height of one hundred
and twenty-eight feet; Cæsar's Tower, built in the time of the
Norman conquest, eight hundred years old, still strong and in good
preservation, and between these two the strong castle walls, of the same
description that appear in all pictures of old castles, with the spaces
for bowmen and other defenders; towers, arched gateways, portcullis,
double walls, and disused moat attest the former strength of this noted
fortification.

As the visitor passes through the gate of the great walls, and gets, as
it were, into the interior of the enclosure, with the embattled walls,
the turrets and towers on every side of him, he sees that the castle is
a tremendous one, and its occupant, when it was in its prime, might have
exclaimed with better reason than Macbeth, "Our castle's strength will
laugh a siege to scorn."

The scene from the interior is at once grand and romantic, the velvet
turf and fine old trees in the spacious area of the court-yard harmonize
well with the time-browned, ivy-clad towers and battlements, and a
ramble upon the broad walk that leads around the latter is fraught with
interest. We stood in the little sheltered nooks, from which the
cross-bowmen and arquebusiers discharged their weapons; we looked down
into the grass-grown moat, climbed to the top of Guy's Tower, and saw
the charming landscape; went below Cæsar's Tower into the dismal
dungeons where prisoners were confined and restrained by an inner
grating from even reaching the small loophole that gave them their
scanty supply of light and air; and here we saw where some poor fellow
had laboriously cut in the rock, as near the light as he could, the
record of his weary confinement of years, with a motto attached, in
quaint style of spelling; and finally, after visiting grounds, towers,
and walls, went into the great castle proper, now kept in repair,
elegantly furnished and rich in pictures, statues, arms, tapestry, and
antiquities.

The first apartment we entered was the entrance, or Great Hall, which
was hung with elegant armor of all ages, of rare and curious patterns:
the walls of this noble hall, which is sixty-two feet by forty, are
wainscoted with fine old oak, embrowned with age, and in the Gothic
roofing are carved the Bear and Ragged Staff of Robert Dudley's crest;
also, the coronet and shields of the successive earls from the
year 1220. Among the curiosities here were numerous specimens of
old-fashioned fire-arms, and one curious old-fashioned revolving pistol,
made two hundred years before Colt's pistols were invented, and which I
was assured the American repeatedly visited before he perfected the
weapon that bears his name. The same story, however, was afterwards told
me about an old revolver in the Tower of London, and I think also in
another place in England, and the exhibitors seemed to think Colonel
Colt had only copied an old English affair that they had thrown aside:
however, this did not ruffle my national pride to any great degree,
inasmuch as I ascertained that about all leading American inventions of
any importance are regarded by these complacent Britons as having had
their origin in their "tight little island." There were the English
steel cross-bows, which must have projected their bolts with tremendous
forces; splendid Andrea Ferrara rapiers, weapons three hundred years
old, and older, of exquisite temper and the most beautiful and intricate
workmanship, inlaid with gold and silver, and the hilt and scabbards of
elegant steel filigree work. Among the curious relics was Cromwell's
helmet, the armor worn by the Marquis Montrose when he led the
rebellion, Prince Rupert's armor, a gun from the battle-field of Marston
Moor, a quilted armor jacket of King John's soldiers; magnificent
antlered stags' heads are also suspended from the walls, while from the
centre of the hall one can see at a single glance through the whole of
the grand suite of apartments, a straight line of three hundred and
thirty feet. From the great Gothic windows you look down below, one
hundred and twenty feet distant, to the River Avon, and over an
unrivalled picturesque landscape view--another evidence that those old
castle-builders had an eye to the beautiful as well as the substantial.
Looking from this great hall to the end of a passage, we saw Vandyke's
celebrated picture of Charles I. on horseback, with baton in hand, one
end resting upon his thigh. I had seen copies of it a score of times,
but the life-like appearance of the original made me inclined to believe
in the truth of the story that Sir Joshua Reynolds once offered five
hundred guineas for it. Vandyke appears to have been a favorite with the
earl, as there are many of his pictures in the ravishing collection that
adorns the apartments of the castle.

The apartments of the castle are all furnished in exquisite taste, some
with rich antique furniture, harmonizing with the rare antiques, vases,
cabinets, bronzes, and china that is scattered through them in rich
profusion, and to attempt to give a detailed description would require
the space of a volume. The paintings, however, cannot fail to attract
the attention, although the time allowed to look at them is little
short of aggravation. There is a Dutch Burgomaster, by Rembrandt; the
Wife of Snyder, by Vandyke, a beautiful painting; Spinola, by Rubens;
the Family of Charles I., by Vandyke; Circe, by Guido; A Lady, by Sir
Peter Lely; a Girl blowing Bubbles, by Murillo; a magnificently executed
full-length picture of Ignatius Loyola, founder of the Jesuits,
originally painted by Rubens for the Jesuits' College of Antwerp, and so
striking as to exact exclamations of admiration even from those
inexperienced in art. One lovely little room, called the Boudoir, is
perfectly studded with rare works of art--Henry VIII. by Hans Holbein,
Barbara Villiers by Lely, Boar Hunt by Rubens, A Saint by Andrea del
Sarto, Road Scene by Teniers, Landscape by Salvator Rosa. Just see what
a feast for the lover of art even these comparatively few works of the
great masters afford; and the walls of the rooms were crowded with them,
the above being only a few selected at random, as an indication of the
priceless value of the collection.

In the Red Drawing-room we saw a grand Venetian mirror in its curious
and rich old frame, a rare cabinet of tortoise shell and ivory, buhl
tables of great richness, and a beautiful table that once belonged to
Marie Antoinette, besides ancient bronzes, Etruscan vases, &c. In the
Cedar Drawing-room stood Hiram Powers's bust of Proserpina, and superb
tables bearing rare vases and specimens of wonderful enamelled work, and
a species of singular china and glass ware, in which raised metal
figures appeared upon the surface, made by floating the copper and other
metal upon glass--now a lost art. An elegant dish of this description
was shown to us, said to be worth over a thousand pounds--a costly piece
of plate, indeed.

We now come to the Gilt Drawing-room, so called because the walls and
ceiling are divided off into panels, richly gilt. The walls of this room
are glorious with the works of great artists--Vandyke, Murillo, Rubens,
Sir Peter Lely. Rich furniture, and a wonderful Venetian table, known as
the "Grimani Table," of elegant mosaic work, also adorn the apartment.
In an old-fashioned square room, known as the State Bedroom, is the bed
and furniture of crimson velvet that formerly belonged to Queen Anne.
Here are the table that she used, and her huge old travelling trunks,
adorned with brass-headed nails, with which her initials are wrought
upon the lid, while above the great mantel is a full-length portrait of
Anne, in a rich brocade dress, wearing the collar of the Order of the
Garter, painted by Sir Godfrey Kneller.

The great dining-hall, besides some fine pictures and ancient Roman
busts, contains a remarkable piece of modern workmanship, which is known
as the "Kenilworth Buffet," and which we should denominate a large
sideboard. It is an elaborate and magnificent specimen of wood-carving,
and was manufactured by Cookes & Son, of Warwick, and exhibited in the
great exhibition of 1851. The wood from which it was wrought was an oak
tree which grew on the Kenilworth estate, and which, from its great age,
is supposed to have been standing when Queen Elizabeth made her
celebrated visit to the castle. Carvings upon it represent the entry of
Queen Elizabeth, surrounded by her train, Elizabeth's meeting with Amy
Robsart in the grotto, the interview between the queen and Leicester,
and other scenes from Scott's novel of Kenilworth; also carved figures
of the great men of the time--Sidney, Raleigh, Shakespeare, and Drake,
and the arms of the Leicester family, and the crest, now getting
familiar, of the Bear and Ragged Staff, with other details, such as
water-flowers, dolphins, &c. This sideboard was presented by the town
and county of Warwick to the present earl on his wedding day.

But we must not linger too long in these interesting halls of the old
feudal barons, or before their rich treasures of art. Time is not even
given one to sit, and study, and drink in, as it were, the wondrous
beauty and exquisite finish of the artistic gems on their walls; so we
take a parting glance at Tenier's Guard-room, the Duchess of Parma by
Paul Veronese, Murillo's Court Jester, a splendidly-executed picture of
Leicester by Sir Anthony Moore, the Card-players by Teniers, the Flight
into Egypt by Rubens, a magnificent marble bust, by Chantrey, of Edward
the Black Prince, in which the nobleness and generosity of that brave
warrior were represented so strikingly as to make you almost raise your
hat to it in passing. Before leaving we were shown the old "warder's
horn," with the bronze chain by which it was in old times suspended at
the outer gate of the castle; and as I grasped it, and essayed in vain
to extract a note beyond an exhausted sort of groan from its bronze
mouth, I remembered the many stories in which a warder's horn figures,
in poem, romance, history, and fable. I think even Jack the Giant killer
blew one at the castle gate of one of his huge adversaries. An
inscription on the Warwick horn gives the date of 1598.

Leaving the apartments of the castle, and passing through a portcullis
in one of the walls, and over a bridge thrown across the moat, we
proceeded to the green-house, rich in rare flowers and plants, and in
the centre of which stands the far-famed Warwick Vase. The shape of this
vase is familiar to all from the innumerable copies of it that have been
made. It is of pure white marble, executed after pure Grecian design,
and is one of the finest specimens of ancient sculpture in existence.
While looking upon its exquisite proportions and beautiful design, we
can hardly realize that, compared with it in years, old Warwick Castle
itself is a modern structure. The description of it states the
well-known fact that it was found at the bottom of a lake near Tivoli,
by Sir William Hamilton, then ambassador at the court of Naples, from
whom it was obtained by the Earl of Warwick. Its shape is circular, and
its capacity one hundred and thirty-six gallons. Its two large handles
are formed of interwoven vine-branches, from which the tendrils, leaves,
and clustering grapes spread around the upper margin. The middle of the
body is enfolded by a panther skin, with head and claws elegantly cut
and finished. Above are the heads of satyrs, bound with wreaths of ivy,
the vine-clad spear of Bacchus, and the well-known crooked staff of the
Augurs.

Leaving the depository of the vase, we sauntered out beneath the shade
of the great trees, and looked across the velvet lawn to the gentle Avon
flowing in the distance, and went on till we gained a charming view of
the river front of the castle, with its towers and old mill, the ruined
arches of an old bridge, and an English church tower rising in the
distance, forming one of those pictures which must be such excellent
capital for the landscape painter. On the banks of the Avon, and in the
park of the castle, we were shown some of the dark old cedars of
Lebanon, brought home, or grown from those brought home, from the Holy
Land by the Warwick and his retainers who wielded their swords there
against the infidel.

Some of the quiet old streets of Warwick seemed, from their deserted
appearance, to be almost uninhabited, were it not for here and there a
little shop, and the general tidy, swept-up appearance of everything. A
somnolent, quaint, aristocratic old air seemed to hang over them, and I
seemed transported to some of those quiet old streets at the North End,
in Boston, or Salem of thirty years ago, which were then untouched by
the advance of trade, and sacred to old residents, old families, whose
stone door-stoops were spotlessly clean, whose brass door-knobs and
name-plates shone like polished gold, and whose neat muslin curtains at
the little front windows were fresh, airy, and white as the down of a
thistle.

I stopped at a little shop in Warwick to make a purchase, and the swing
of the door agitated a bell that was attached to it, and brought out,
from a little sombre back parlor, the old lady, in a clean white cap,
who waited upon occasional customers that straggled in as I did. How
staid, and quaint, and curious these stand-still old English towns,
clinging to their customs half a century old, seem to us restless,
uneasy, and progressive Yankees!

Our next ramble was down one of these quiet old streets to the
ancient hospital, founded by Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, in
1571, for a "master and twelve brethren," the brethren to be either
deserving retainers of the earl's family, or those who had been
wounded under the conduct of Leicester or his heirs. These "brethren"
are now appointed from Warwick and Gloucester, and have an allowance
of eighty pounds, besides the privilege of the house. The edifice is a
truly interesting building, and is one of the very few that escaped a
general conflagration of the town of Warwick in 1694, and is at this
time one of the most perfect specimens of the half-timber edifices
which exist in the country. Quaint and curious it looks indeed,
massive in structure, brown with age, a wealth of useless lumber about
it, high-pointed overhanging gables, rough carvings along the first
story, a broad, low archway of an entrance, the oak trimmings hardened
like iron, and above the porch the crest of the Bear and Ragged Staff,
the initials R. L., and the date 1571.

And only to think of the changes that three hundred years have wrought
in the style of architecture, as well as comfort and convenience in
dwelling-houses, or in structures like this! We were almost inclined to
laugh at the variegated carving of the timber-work upon the front of
this odd relic of the past, as suggestive of a sign of an American
barber's shop, but which, in its day, was doubtless considered elegant
and artistic.

It stands a trifle raised above the street, upon a sort of platform, and
the sidewalk of the street itself here passes under the remains of an
old tower, built in the time of Richard II., and said to have been on
the line of walls of defence of the city. The hinges, on which the great
gate of this part of the fortification were hung, are still visible, and
pointed out to visitors.

Let us enter Leicester's magnificent hospital, an ostentatious charity
in 1571; but how squat, odd, and old-fashioned did the low-ceiled little
rooms look now! how odd the passages were formed! what quaint, curious
old windows! how rich the old wood-work looked, saturated with the
breath of time! and here was the great kitchen, with its big
fireplace--the kitchen where a mug of beer a day, I think, is served,
and where the "brethren" are allowed to smoke their long, clay pipes; a
row of their beer tankards (what a national beverage beer is in
England!) glittered on the dresser. Here also hung the uniform which the
"brethren" are obliged by statute always to wear when they go out, which
consists of a handsome blue broadcloth gown, with a silver badge of a
Bear and Ragged Staff suspended on the left sleeve behind. These badges,
now in use, are the identical ones that were worn by the first brethren
appointed by Lord Leicester, and the names of the original wearers, and
the date, 1571, are engraved on the back of each; one only of these
badges was ever lost, and that about twenty-five years ago, when it cost
five guineas to replace it. In what was once the great hall is a tablet,
stating that King James I. was once sumptuously entertained there by Sir
Fulke Greville, and no doubt had his inordinate vanity flattered, as his
courtiers were wont to do, and his gluttonous appetite satisfied.
Sitting in the very chair he occupied when there, I did not feel that it
was much honor to occupy the seat of such a learned simpleton as
Elizabeth's successor proved to be.

Very interesting relics were the two little ancient pieces of embroidery
preserved here, which were wrought by the fair fingers of the ill-fated
Amy Robsart, wife of Leicester; one a fragment of satin, with the
everlasting Bear and Staff wrought upon it, and the other a sort of
sampler, the only authentic relic of anything belonging to this unhappy
lady known to exist.

At the rear of the hospital is a fine old kitchen garden, in which the
brethren each have a little portion set apart to cultivate themselves,
and where they can also enjoy a quiet smoke and a fine view at the same
time; and this hospital is the most enduring monument that Leicester has
left behind him: his once magnificent abode at Kenilworth is but a heap
of ruins, and the proud estate, a property of over twenty miles in
circumference, wrested from him by the government of his time, never
descended to his family. Mentioning monuments to Leicester, however,
reminds us of the pretentious one erected to him in the chapel of St.
Mary's Church, which we visited, in Warwick, known as the Beauchamp
Chapel, and which all residents of these parts denominate the "Beechum"
Chapel--named from the first Earl of Warwick of the Norman line, the
founder (Beauchamp).

The chapel is an elegant structure, the interior being fifty-eight feet
long, twenty-five wide, and thirty-two high. Over the doorway, on
entering, we see the arms of Beauchamp, supported on each side by
sculptures of the Bear, Ragged Staff, oak leaves, &c. The fine old
time-blackened seats of oak are richly and elaborately carved, and
above, in the groined roof, are carved shields, bearing the quarterings
of the Earls of Warwick; but the great object of interest is the tomb of
the great Earl of Warwick, which this splendid chapel was built to
enshrine. It is a large, square, marble structure, situated in the
centre of the building, elegantly and elaborately carved with ornamental
work, and containing, in niches, fourteen figures of lords and ladies,
designed to represent relatives of the deceased, while running around
the edge, cut into brass, is the inscription, in Old English characters.
Upon the top of this tomb lies a full-length bronze or brass effigy of
the great earl, sheathed in full suit of armor,--breastplate, cuishes,
greaves, &c.,--complete in all its details, and finished even to the
straps and fastenings; the figure is not attached, but laid upon the
monument, and its back is finished as perfectly as the front in all its
equipments and correctness of detail. The head, which is uncovered,
rests upon the helmet, and the feet of the great metal figure upon a
bear and a griffin. Above this recumbent figure is a sort of rail-work
of curved strips and thick transverse rods of brass, over which, in old
times, hung a pall, or curtain, to shield this wondrous effigy from the
dust; and a marvel of artistic work it is, one of the finest works of
the kind of the middle ages in existence, for the earl died in 1439; and
another curious relic must be the original agreement or contract for its
construction, which, I was told, is still in existence.

Robert Dudley, Queen Elizabeth's Leicester, has an elaborately-executed
monument in the chapel, consisting of a sort of altar-tomb, beneath a
canopy supported by Corinthian pillars. Upon the tomb are recumbent
effigies of Leicester and his Countess Lettice, while an inscription
sets forth the many titles of the deceased, and concludes that, "his
most sorrowful wife, Lætitia, through a sense of _conjugal love and
fidelity_, hath put up this monument _to the best and dearest of
husbands_."

I have heard of the expression "lying like a tombstone," before I ever
saw Robert Dudley's monument; but it seemed now that I must be before
the very one from whence the adage was derived, unless all of that which
is received by the present generation as the authentic history of this
man and the age in which he lived be thrown aside as a worthless fable.
Indeed, there were those of the generation fifty years ago who felt an
equal contempt at this endeavor to send a lie down to posterity, for in
an odd old, well-thumbed volume of a History of the Town of Warwick,
published in 1815, which I found lying in one of the window-seats of the
Warwick Arms, where I seated myself to wait for dinner on my return, I
found this passage, which is historical truth and justice concentrated
into such a small compass, that I transferred it at once into my
note-book. Having referred to the Earl of Leicester's (Robert Dudley's)
monument, the writer goes on as follows:--

"Under the arch of this grand monument is placed a Latin inscription,
which proclaims the honors bestowed with profusion, but without
discernment, upon the royal favorite, who owed his future solely to his
personal attractions, for of moral worth or intellectual ability he had
none. Respecting his two great military employments, here so powerfully
set forth, prudence might have recommended silence, since on one
occasion he acquired no glory, as he had no opportunity, and on the
other the opportunity he had he lost, and returned home covered with
deep and deserved disgrace. That he should be celebrated, even on a
tomb, for conjugal affection and fidelity, must be thought still more
remarkable by those who recollect that, according to every appearance of
probability, he poisoned his first wife, disowned his second,
dishonored his third before he married her, and, in order to marry her,
murdered her former husband. To all this it may be added, that his only
surviving son, an infant, was a natural child, by Lady Sheffield. If his
widowed countess did really mourn, as she here affects, it is believed
that into no other eye but hers, and perhaps that of his infatuated
queen, did a single tear stray, when, September 4, 1588, he ended a
life, of which the external splendor, and even the affected piety and
ostentatious charity, were but vain endeavors to conceal or soften the
black enormity of its guilt and shame."

In the chapel are monuments to others of the Warwicks, including one to
Leicester's infant son, who is said to have been poisoned by his nurse
at three years of age, and who is called, on his tomb, "the noble Impe
Robert of Dudley," and another to Ambrose Dudley, Earl of Warwick,
brother to Leicester, and honorably distinguished, as a man, for his
virtues, as the other for his crimes.

We go from Warwick to Oxford by rail; but I must not omit to mention
that in one of our excursions not far from Warwick, as the train stopped
at Rugby junction, the "Mugby junction" that Dickens has described, we
visited the refreshment-room, and got some _very good_ sandwiches, and
were very well served by the young ladies at the counter; indeed,
Dickens's sketch has been almost as good an advertisement for the "Mugby
sandwiches" as Byron's line, "Thine incomparable oil, Macassar," was for
Rowland's ruby compound; and the young ladies have come to recognize
Americans by their invariably purchasing sandwiches, and their inquiry,
"Where is the boy?"

From Warwick, on our way to Oxford, we passed near Edgehill, the scene
of the first battle of Charles I. against his Parliament, and halted a
brief period at Banbury, where an accommodating English gentleman sought
out and sent us one of the venders of the noted "Banbury cakes," and who
informed us that the Banbury people actually put up, a few years ago, a
cross, that is now standing there, from the fact that so many travellers
stopped in the town to see the Banbury Cross mentioned in the rhyme of
their childhood,--

        "Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross
        To see an old woman get on a white horse,"--

who, before it _was_ erected, went away disappointed at not seeing what
they had set down in their minds was the leading feature of the town,
thinking that they had, in some way or other, been imposed upon by not
finding any one in the place who knew of it, or cared to show it to
them.

But we will leave the old town of Warwick behind us, for a place still
more interesting to the American tourist--a city which contains one of
the oldest and most celebrated universities in Europe; a city where
Alfred the Great once lived; which was stormed by William the Conqueror;
where Richard the Lion-hearted was born; and where, in the reign of
Bloody Mary, Latimer, Ridley, and Cranmer were burned at the stake;
through whose streets the victorious parliamentary army marched, with
drums beating and colors flying, after the battle of Naseby--Oxford.

Oxford, that Hughes's Tom Brown at Oxford has made the youngsters of the
present day long to see; Oxford, that figures in so many of the English
novels; Oxford, where Verdant Green, in the novel, had so many funny
experiences; Oxford, where the "Great Tom"--a bell spoken of in
story-books and nursery rhymes--is; and a thousand other things that
have made these celebrated old cities a sort of dreamland to us in
America, who have longed to see the curious relics of the past with
which they are crammed, and walk amid those scenes, the very
descriptions of which fill one's mind with longings or pleasant
anticipations as we hang over the printed pages that describe them.

We rode in our cab to the old Mitre Tavern, and a very old-fashioned
place it is. Indeed, to the tourist, one of the lions of the place will
be the "Mitre." The first thing noticeable upon entering the
low-linteled front entrance of this first-class Oxford hotel was a
framework of meat-hooks overhead, along one side of the ceiling of the
whole entrance corridor; and upon these were suspended mutton, beef,
game, poultry, &c.; in fact, a choice display of the larder of the
establishment. I suppose this is the English "bill of fare," for they
have no way here of letting guests know what they can have served at the
table, other than through the servant who waits upon you; and his
assortment, one often finds, dwindles down to the everlasting "chops,"
"'am and heggs," or "roast beef," "mutton," and perhaps "fowls."

The cooking at the Mitre is unexceptionable, as, indeed, it is generally
in all inns throughout England. The quality of the meats, the bread, the
ale, the wines, in fact everything designed for the palate at this house
is of the purest and best quality, and such as any gastronomist will,
after testing them, cherish with fond recollections; but the other
accommodations are of the most old-fashioned style. The hotel seems to
be a collection of old dwellings, with entrances cut through the walls,
judging from the quaint, crooked, dark passages, some scarcely wide
enough for two persons to pass each other in, and the little low-ceiled
rooms, with odd, old-fashioned furniture, such as we used to see in our
grandfathers' houses forty years ago--solid mahogany four-post
bedsteads, with chintz spreads and curtains; old black mahogany
brass-trimmed bureaus; wash-stands, with a big hole cut to receive the
huge crockery wash-bowl, which held a gallon; feather beds, and old
claw-footed chairs.

This is the solid, old-fashioned comfort (?) an Englishman likes.
Furthermore, you have no gas fixtures in your room. Gas in one's
sleeping-room is said by hotel-keepers in England to be unhealthy,
possibly because it might prevent a regulation in the charge for light
which the use of candles affords. Upon my ringing the bell, and asking
the chambermaid who responded--waiters and bell-boys never "answer a
bell" here--for a lighter and more airy room than the little, square,
one-windowed, low-ceiled apartment which was assigned me, I was informed
that the said one-windowed box was the same that Lord Sophted "halways
'ad when he was down to Hoxford."

Notwithstanding this astounding information, to the surprise of the
servant, I insisted upon a different room, and was assigned another
apartment, which varied from the first by having two windows instead of
one. The fact that Sir Somebody Something, or Lord Nozoo, has occupied a
room, or praised a brand of wine, or the way a mutton chop was cooked,
seems to be in England the credit mark that is expected to pass it,
without question, upon every untitled individual who shall thereafter
presume to call for it; and the look of unmitigated astonishment which
the servant will bestow upon an "Hamerican" who dares to assert that any
thing of the kind was not so good as he was accustomed to, and he must
have better, is positively amusing. Americans are, however, beginning to
be understood in this respect by English hotel-keepers, and are
generally put in the best apartments--and charged the best prices.

It would be an absurdity, in the limits permissible in a series of
sketches like these, to attempt a detailed description of Oxford and
its colleges; for there are more than a score of colleges, besides the
churches, halls, libraries, divinity schools, museums, and other
buildings connected with the university. There are some rusty old
fellows, who hang round the hotels, and act as guides to visitors,
showing them over a route that takes in all the principal colleges,
and the way to the libraries, museums, &c. One of these walking
encyclopedists of the city, as he proved to be, became our guide, and
we were soon in the midst of those fine old monuments of the reverence
for learning of past ages. Only think of visiting a college founded by
King Alfred, or another whose curious carvings and architecture are of
the twelfth century, or another founded by Edward II. in 1326, or
going into the old quadrangle of All Souls College, through the tower
gateway built A. D. 1443, or the magnificent pile of buildings founded
by Cardinal Wolsey, the design, massive structure, and ornamentation
of which were grand for his time, and give one some indication of the
ideas of that ambitious prelate.

The college buildings are in various styles of architecture, from the
twelfth century down to the present time, most of them being built in
form of a hollow square, the centre of the square being a large,
pleasant grass plot, or quadrangle, upon which the students' windows
opened. Entrance to these interiors or quadrangles is obtained through a
Gothic or arched gateway, guarded by a porter in charge. The windows of
the students' rooms were gay with many-colored flowers, musical with
singing birds hung up in cages, while the interior of some that we
glanced into differed but very little from those of Harvard University,
each being fitted or decorated to suit the taste of the occupant.

In some of the old colleges, the rooms themselves were quaint and
oddly-shaped as friars' cells; others large, luxurious, and airy. Nearly
all were entered through a vestibule, and had an outer door of oak, or
one painted in imitation of oak; and when this door is closed, the
occupant is said to be "sporting his oak" which signifies that he is
studying, busily engaged, and not at home to any one. There were certain
quarters also more aristocratic than others, where young lordlings--who
were distinguished by the gold in their hatbands from the untitled
students--most did congregate. The streets and shops of Oxford indicated
the composition of its population. You meet collegians in gowns and
trencher caps, snuffy old professors, with their silk gowns flying out
behind in the wind, young men in couples, young men in stunning outfits,
others in natty costumes, others artistically got up, tradesmen's boys
carrying bundles of merchandise, and washer or char women, in every
direction in the vicinity of the colleges.

Splendid displays are made in the windows of tailors' and furnishing
goods stores--boating uniforms, different articles of dress worn as
badges, stunning neck-ties, splendidly got up dress boots, hats, gloves,
museums of canes, sporting whips, cricket bats, and thousands of
attractive novelties to induce students to invest loose cash, or do
something more common, "run up a bill;" and if these bills are sometimes
not paid till years afterwards, the prices charged for this species of
credit are such as prove remunerative to the tradesmen, who lose much
less than might be supposed, as men generally make it a matter of
principle to pay their college debts.

The largest and most magnificent of the quadrangles is that of Christ
Church College. It is two hundred and sixty-four feet by two hundred and
sixty-one, and formed part of the original design of Wolsey, who founded
this college. This noble quadrangle is entered through a great gate,
known as Tom Gate, from the tower above it, which contains the great
bell of that name, the Great Tom of Oxford, which weighs seventeen
thousand pounds. I ascended the tower to see this big tocsin, which was
exhibited to me with much pride by the porter, as being double the
weight of the great bell in St. Paul's, in London, and upon our
descending, was shown the rope by which it was rung, being assured that,
notwithstanding the immense weight of metal, it was so hung that a very
moderate pull would sound it. Curiosity tempted me, when the porter's
back was turned, to give a smart tug at the rope, which swung invitingly
towards my hand; and the pull elicited a great boom of bell metal above
that sounded like a musical artillery discharge, and did not tend to
render the custodian desirous of prolonging my visit at that part of the
college.

The dining-hall of Christ Church College is a notable apartment, and one
that all tourists visit; it is a noble hall, one hundred and thirteen
feet by forty, and fifty feet in height. The roof is most beautifully
carved oak, with armorial bearings, and decorations of Henry VIII. and
Cardinal Wolsey, and was executed in 1529. Upon the walls hangs the
splendid collection of original portraits, which is one of its most
interesting features, many of them being works of great artists, and
representations of those eminent in the history of the university. Here
hangs Holbein's original portrait of King Henry VIII.,--from which all
the representations of the bluff polygamist that we are accustomed to
see are taken,--Queen Elizabeth's portrait, that of Cardinal Wolsey,
Bishop Fell, Marquis Wellesley, John Locke, and over a hundred others of
"old swells, bishops, and lords chiefly, who have endowed the college in
some way," as Tom Brown says.

Indeed, many of the most prominent men of English history have studied
at Oxford--Sir Walter Raleigh, the Black Prince, Hampden, Butler,
Addison, Wycliffe, Archbishop Laud, and statesmen, generals, judges, and
authors without number. Long tables and benches are ranged each side of
the room; upon a dais at its head, beneath the great bow window, and
Harry VIII.'s picture, is a sort of privileged table, at which certain
officers and more noble students dine on the fat of the land. Next comes
the table of the "gentleman commoners," a trifle less luxuriously
supplied, and at the foot of the hall "the commoners," whose pewter mugs
and the marked difference in the style of their table furniture indicate
the distinctions of title, wealth, and poor gentlemen.

After a peep at the big kitchen of this college, which has been but
slightly altered since the building was erected, and which itself was
the first one built by Wolsey in his college, we turned our steps to
that grand collection of literary wealth--the Bodleian Library.

The literary wealth of this library, in one sense, is almost
incalculable. I was fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of Dr.
Hachman, a graduate of the university and one of the librarians, and
through his courtesy enabled to see many of the rare treasures of this
priceless collection, that would otherwise have escaped our notice.

Here we looked upon the first Latin Bible ever printed, the first book
printed in the English language, by Caxton, at Bruges, in 1472, and the
first English Bible, printed by Miles Coverdale. Here was the very book
that Pope Gregory sent to Augustin when he went to convert the Britons,
and which may have been the same little volume that he held in his hand
when he pleaded the faith of the Redeemer to the Saxon King Ethelbert,
whom he converted from his idolatrous belief twelve hundred years ago. I
looked with something like veneration upon a little shelf containing
about twenty-five volumes of first editions of books from the presses
of Caxton, Guttenberg, and Faust, whose money value is said to be
twenty-five thousand pounds; but bibliomaniacs will well understand that
no money value can be given to such treasures.

We were shown a curious old Bible,--a "Breeches" Bible, as it is
called,--which has a story to it, which is this. About one hundred years
ago this copy was purchased for the library at a comparatively low
price, because the last ten or fifteen pages were missing. The volume
was bound, however, and placed on the shelf; seventy-five years
afterwards the purchasing agent of the library bought, in Rome, a
quantity of old books, the property of a monk; they were sent to
England, and at the bottom of an old box, from among stray pamphlets and
rubbish, out dropped a bunch of leaves, which proved, on examination and
comparison, to be the very pages missing from the volume. They are
placed, not bound in, at the close of the book, so that the visitor sees
that they were, beyond a doubt, the actual portion of it that was
missing.

Ranged upon another shelf was a set of first editions of the old
classics. In one room, in alcoves, all classified, were rich treasures
of literature in Sanscrit, Hebrew, Coptic, and even Chinese and Persian,
some of the latter brilliant in illumination. Here was Tippoo Saib's
Koran, with its curious characters, and the Book of Enoch, brought from
Abyssinia by Bruce, the African explorer; and my kind cicerone handed me
another volume, whose odd characters I took to be Arabic or Coptic, but
which was a book picked up at the capture of Sebastopol, in the Redan,
by an English soldier, and which proved, on examination, to be The
Pickwick Papers in the Russian language.

Besides these, there were specimens of all the varieties of illuminated
books made by the monks between the years 800 and 1000, and magnificent
book-makers they were, too. This collection is perfect and elegant, and
the specimens of the rarest and most beautiful description, before
which, in beauty or execution, the most costly and elaborate illustrated
books of our day sink into insignificance. This may seem difficult to
believe; but these rare old volumes, with every letter done by hand,
their pages of beautifully prepared parchment, as thin as letter
paper,--the colors, gold emblazonry, and all the different hues as
bright as if laid on but a year--are a monument of artistic skill,
labor, and patience, as well as an evidence of the excellence and
durability of the material used by the old cloistered churchmen who
expended their lives over these elaborate productions. The illuminated
Books of Hours, and a Psalter in purple vellum, A. D. 1000, are the
richest and most elegant specimens of book-work I ever looked upon. The
execution, when the rude mode and great labor with which it was
performed are taken into consideration, seems little short of
miraculous. These specimens of illuminated books are successively
classified, down to those of our own time.

Then there were books that had belonged to kings, queens, and
illustrious or noted characters in English history. Here was a book of
the Proverbs, done on vellum, for Queen Elizabeth, by hand, the letters
but a trifle larger than those of these types, each proverb in a
different style of letter, and in a different handwriting. Near by lay a
volume presented by Queen Bess to her loving brother, with an
inscription to that effect in the "Virgin Queen's" own handwriting. Then
we examined the book of Latin exercises, written by Queen Elizabeth at
school; and it was curious to examine this neatly-written manuscript of
school-girl's Latin, penned so carefully by the same fingers that
afterwards signed the death-warrants of Mary, Queen of Scots, the Duke
of Norfolk, and her own favorite, Essex. Next came a copy of Bacon's
Essays, presented by Bacon himself to the Duke of Buckingham, and
elegantly bound in green velvet and gold, with the donor's miniature
portrait set on the cover; then a copy of the first book printed in the
English language, and a copy of Pliny's Natural History, translated by
Landino in 1476, Mary de Medicis' prayer-book, a royal autograph-book of
visitors to the university, ending with the signatures of the present
Prince of Wales and Princess Alexandra.

There was also a wealth of manuscript documents, a host of curious old
relics of antiquity I have forgotten, and others that time only allowed
a glance at, such as the autographic letters of Pope, Milton, Addison,
and Archbishop Laud, Queen Henrietta's love letters to Charles I. before
marriage, and Monmouth's declaration, written in the Tower the morning
of his execution, July 15, 1685.

Among the bequests left to this splendid library was one of thirty-six
thousand pounds, for the purchasing of the most costly illustrated books
that could be had; and the collection of these magnificent tomes in
their rich binding was of itself a wonder: there were hosts of octavo,
royal octavo, elephant folio, imperials, &c.; there were Audubon's
Birds, and Boydell's Shakespeare, and hundreds of huge books of that
size, many being rare proof copies. Then we came to a large apartment
which represented the light literature of the collection. For a space of
two hundred years the library had not any collection of what might
properly be termed light reading. This gap was filled by a bequest of
one of the best, if not the very best, collections of that species of
literature in the kingdom, which commences with first editions of Cock
Robin and Dame Trott and her Cat, and ends with rare and costly editions
of Shakespeare's works.

Weeks and months might be spent in this magnificent library (which
numbers about two hundred and fifty thousand volumes, besides its store
of curious historical manuscripts) without one's having time to inspect
one half its wealth; and this is not the only grand library in Oxford,
either. There are the Library of Merton College, the most genuine
ancient library in the kingdom; the celebrated Radcliffe Library,
founded in 1737 by Dr. Radcliffe, physician to William III., and Mary,
and Queen Anne, at an expense of forty thousand pounds, and which is
sometimes known as the Physic Library;--in this is a reading-room, where
all new publications are received and classified for the use of
students; the Library of Wadham College, the Library of Queen's College,
that of All Souls College, and that of Exeter College, in a new and
elegant Gothic building, erected in 1856, all affording a mine of
wealth, in every department of art, science, and belles-lettres.

A mine of literature, indeed; and the liberality of some of the bequests
to that grand university indicates the enormous wealth of the donors,
while a visit even to portions of these superb collections will dwarf
one's ideas of what they have previously considered as treasures of
literature or grand collections in America.

In one of the rooms I felt almost as if looking at an old acquaintance,
as I was shown the very lantern which Guy Fawkes had in his hand when
seized, which was carefully preserved under a glass case, and was like
the one in the picture-books, where that worthy is represented as being
seized by the man in the high-peaked hat, who is descending the cellar
stairs. Another relic is the pair of gold-embroidered gauntlet gloves
worn by Queen Elizabeth when she visited the university, which are also
carefully kept in like manner.

In the picture gallery attached to the library are some fine paintings,
and among those that attracted my attention were two portraits of Mary
Queen of Scots, looking quite unlike. Their history is to the effect
that the college had purchased what was supposed to be a fine old
original portrait of the ill-fated queen, and as such it hung in its
gallery for a number of years, till at length a celebrated painter,
after repeated and close examinations, declared to the astonished dons
that doubtless the picture was an original, and perhaps one of Mary, but
that it had been re-costumed, and the head-dress altered, and various
additions made, that detracted from its merit as a portrait. The painter
further promised to make a correct copy of the portrait as it was, then
to skilfully erase from the original, without injury, the disfiguring
additions that had been made, leaving it as when first painted. This was
a bold proposition, and a bold undertaking; but the artist was one of
eminence, and the college government, after due deliberation, decided to
let him make the trial. He did so, and was perfectly successful, as the
two pictures prove. The original, divested of the foreign frippery that
had been added in the way of costume and head drapery, now presents a
sweet, sad, pensive face, far more beautiful, and in features resembling
those of the painting of the decapitated head of the queen at
Abbotsford.

Here also hung a representation of Sir Philip Sidney, burned in wood
with a hot poker, done by an artist many years ago--a style of warm
drawing that has since been successfully done by the late Ball Hughes,
the celebrated sculptor in Boston, United States. Passing on beneath the
gaunt, ascetic countenance of Duns Scotus, which looks down from a
frame, beneath which an inscription tells us that he translated the
whole Bible without food or drink, and died in 1309, we come to many
curious relics in the museum. Among others was a complete set of carved
wooden fruit trenchers, or plates, that once belonged to Queen
Elizabeth. Each one was differently ornamented, and each bore upon it,
in quaint Old English characters, a verse of poetry, and most of these
verses had in them, some way or other, a slur at the marriage state. The
little plates were said to be quite favorite articles with her
single-blessed majesty. So, with some labor and study, I transcribed a
few of the verses for American eyes, and here they are:--

        "If thou be young, then marry not yet;
        If thou be old, thou hast more wit;
        For young men's wives will not be taught,
        And old men's wives are good for nought."

How many "old men" will believe the last line of this pandering lie to
the ruddy-headed queen? But here are others:--

        "If that a bachelor thou be,
        Keep thee so still; be ruled by me;
        Least that repentance, come too late,
        Reward thee with a broken pate."

        "A wife that marryeth husbands three
        Was never wedded thereto by me;
        I would my wife would rather die,
        Than for my death to weep or cry."

          *       *       *       *       *

        "Thou art the happiest man alive,
        For every thing doth make thee thrive;
        Yet may thy thrift thy master be;
        Therefore take thrift and all for me."

          *       *       *       *       *

        "Thou goest after dead men's shoes,
          But barefoot thou art like to go.
        Content thyself, and do not muse,
          For fortune saith it must be so."

Emerging all unwillingly from the charms of the library, museum, and the
interesting interiors of these beautiful old buildings, we stroll out to
that delightful place of oaks, and elms, and pleasant streams, Christ
Church Meadows, walk beneath the broad, overarching canopy of elms,
joining together like the roof of a cathedral, that shades the famous
"Broad Walk;" we saunter into "Addison's Walk," a little quiet avenue
among the trees, running down towards the River Isis, and leaving
Magdalen College,--which was Addison's college,--and its pretty, rural
park, we come to the beautiful arched bridge which spans the River Isis,
and, crossing it, have a superbly picturesque view of Oxford, with the
graceful, antique, and curious spires rising above the city, the
swelling dome of the Radcliffe Library, and the great tower of Christ
Church.

Here, at this part of the "Meadows," is the place where cricket and
other athletic games are played. Throngs and groups of promenaders are
in every direction, of a pleasant afternoon, and groups are seated upon
the benches, around the trunks of the elms, from which they gaze upon
the merry throng, or at the boats on the Isis. This river, which is a
racing and practice course of the Oxonians, appears so absurdly narrow
and small to an American who has seen Harvard students battling the
waves of the boisterous Charles, as nearly to excite ridicule and
laughter. We should almost denominate it a large brook in America. For
most of its length it was not more than sixteen or eighteen feet in
width. The Isis is a branch of the River Cherwell, which is a branch of
the Thames, and has this advantage--the rowers can never suffer much
from rough weather.

Down near its mouth, where it widens towards the Cherwell, are the
barges of the different boat clubs or universities. They are enormous
affairs, elegantly ornamented and fitted up, and remind one of the great
state barges seen in the pictures of Venice, where the Doge is marrying
the Adriatic. Their interiors are elegantly upholstered, and contain
cabins or saloons for the reception of friends, for lounging, or for
lunch parties. Farther up the river, and we see the various college
boats practising their crews for forthcoming trials of skill. These
boats are of every variety of size, shape, and fashion--two-oared,
six-oared, eight-oared, single wherries shooting here and there; long
craft, like a line upon the water, with a crew of eight athletes, their
heads bound in handkerchiefs, stripped to the waist, and with round,
hardened, muscular arms, bending to their oars with a long, almost
noiseless sweep, and the exact regularity of a chronometer balance.

The banks were alive with the friends of the different crews, students
and trainers, who ran along, keeping up with them, prompting and
instructing them how to pull, and perfecting them in their practice.
Every now and then, one of these college boats, with its uniformed crew,
would shoot past, and its group of attendant runners upon the dike, with
their watchful eyes marking every unskilful movement.

"Easy there, five." "Pull steady, three." "Straighten your back more,
two."

"Shoulders back there, four; do you call that pulling? mind your
practice. Steady, now--one, two, three; count, and keep time."

"Well done, four; a good pull and a strong pull."

"I'm watching you, six; no gammon. Pull, boys, pull," &c.

The multitude of boats, with their crews, the gayly decorated barges,
the merry crowds upon the pleasure-grounds, the arched bridge, and the
picturesque background of graceful domes and spires, combined to form a
scene which will not soon fade from memory. How many advantages does the
Oxford student enjoy, besides the admirable opportunities for study, and
for storing the mind, from the treasure-houses that are ready at his
hand, with riches that cannot be stolen; the delicious and romantic
walks, rural parks, and grounds about here; the opportunities for
boating, which may be extended to the River Cherwell, where the greater
width affords better opportunities for racing--attrition with the best
mettle of the nation; instruction from the best scholars; and a
dwelling-place every corner of which is rich in historic memories!

We walk to the place in front of Baliol College, where Cranmer, Ridley,
and Latimer were burned at the stake. The spot is marked by a small
stone cross in the pavement; and a short distance from here, in an open
square, stands an elaborately decorated Gothic monument, surmounted by a
cross, and bearing beneath its arches the statues of the bishops,
erected about twenty years ago, and is denominated the Martyrs'
Memorial. But adieu to Oxford; students, libraries, colleges, and
historical relics left behind, we are whirling over the railroad on our
way up to London. Always say _up_ to London, in England. Going to London
is always going up, no matter what point of the compass you start from.
No true Englishman ever talks of going to the great city in any way
except going "up" to it.



CHAPTER VI.


The train glides into the great glass-roofed station; we are in London.
A uniformed porter claps his hand on the door of every first-class
carriage, and runs by its side till the train stops.

The railway porters in attendance at each railroad station wear the
uniform of the company, and are therefore readily recognized. They
assist to load and unload the luggage, and in the absence of the check
and other systems which prevail in America, quite a large force is
required in the great stations in London to attend to the luggage. The
tourist is informed in the stations of some companies, by conspicuous
sign-boards that "the servants of this company are strictly forbidden to
receive any fees from travellers, and any one of them detected in doing
so will be instantly discharged." This, however, does not prevent
travellers from slyly thrusting gratuities upon them; and the English
system of bribery is so thoroughly ingrained into every department of
service, that it is a pretty difficult question to manage. The porters
and railway officials are always courteous and efficient; they know
their place, their business, and accept their position; there is none of
the fallen-monarch style of service such as we receive in America, nor
the official making you wait upon him, instead of his waiting upon you.

Men in England who accept the position of servants expect to do the duty
of servants; in America the "baggage master" is often a lordly,
independent individual, who condescends to hold that position till
appointed superintendent. I would by no means condemn the American
ambition to gain by meritorious effort the positions that are open to
all ranks, and that may be gained by the exercise of talent and ability,
even if the possessor have not wealth; but it is always pleasant to
have any species of service, that one contracts for, well done, and in
England the crowded state of all branches of employment and trade makes
it worth workmen's while to bring forward efficiency and thorough
knowledge of their trade as a leading recommendation. But the sixpence
and the shilling in England are keys that will remove obstacles that the
traveller never dreams of. Let the raw American, however, gradually and
cautiously learn their use, under the tutelage of an expert if possible;
otherwise he will be giving shillings where only sixpences are expected,
and sixpences where threepences are abundant compensation.

What American would think of offering twenty-five cents to the sergeant
at arms of the Boston State House for showing him the legislative hall,
or twelve or fifteen cents to a railroad conductor for obtaining a seat
for him? Both individuals would consider themselves insulted; but in
England the offering is gratefully received. Indeed, at certain castles
and noted show-places in Great Britain, the imposing appearance of an
official in uniform, or the gentlemanly full dress of a butler or upper
servant, until I became acquainted with the customs of the country,
sometimes made me doubt whether it would not be resented if I should
offer him half a sovereign, till I saw some Englishmen give him a
shilling or half crown, which was very gratefully received. But to our
arrival. First class passengers generally want cabs, if they are not
Londoners with their own carriages in waiting, and the railway porters
know it. First and second class passengers are more likely to disburse
shillings and sixpences than third, and so the porter makes haste to
whisk open the door of your compartment in the first class, and, as he
touches his hat, says, "Luggage, sir?"

"Yes; a black trunk on top, and this portmanteau." _Valise_ is a word
they don't understand the meaning of in England.

The cabman whom the porter has signalled in obedience to your demand,
has driven up as near the train as he is permitted to come. He is
engaged. The wink, or nod, or upraised finger from the porter, whom he
knows, has told him that. You jump out, in the throng of hundreds of
passengers, into the brilliantly lighted station, stiff with long
riding, confused with the rush, bustle, noise, and lights; but the
porter, into whose hand, as it rested on the car-door, you slyly slipped
a sixpence or shilling, attends to your case instanter. He does not lose
sight of you or your luggage, nor suffer you to be hustled a moment; he
shoulders your luggage, escorts you to the cab, mayhap assisted by
another; pushes people out of the way, hoists the luggage with a jerk to
the roof of the cab, sings out, "Langham's, Bill," to the driver, and
you are off.

The cab-driver, who has an understanding with the porter, when he
returns to the station "divys" with him on the shilling. All this may be
wrong, but is one of the customs of the country. To be sure, the London
railway porters will be polite, call a cab for you, and pack you into
it, without any fee whatever; but you will, if you have not learned how
to "tip," wonder how it was that so many persons seem to get off in cabs
so much quicker than you, and why, in the miscellaneous mass of baggage
that the porters are unloading from the top of the carriage, Jack tells
Bob to "pass down the white portmanter" first, when your black one is
much handier to get at.

But away we rattle through the streets of London, on, on. How odd it
seemed to see such names as Strand, Cheapside, Holborn, Hatton Garden,
flash out occasionally upon a corner near a gas-light! What a
never-ending stream of vehicles! What singularly London names there were
over the shop doors! What English-looking announcements on the dead
walls and places where bills were posted! London--well, at night, seen
from a cab window, it was not unlike many parts of New York, only it
seemed like two or three New Yorks rolled into one. On we went miles
through crowded streets, Regent Street, Oxford Street, and at last, at
the West End, pulled up at the Langham Hotel, a house that nearly all
freshly-arrived Americans, especially during the season of the French
Exposition, when so many went over, generally went to first on arrival
in London, and generally very soon changed their quarters. It was then
but recently built. It is a magnificent edifice in the fashionable part
of London, and was understood to be conducted on the American plan, but
proved to be like a northern man with southern principles, with few of
the good and all of the bad characteristics of both.

America is the paradise of hotels--that is, the large cities of America;
but in London, the newly-arrived American will first be vexed at the
utter incapability of the people to keep a hotel, and next amused at the
persistent clinging to old customs, and the absurd attempts made, by
those who carry them on, to do so. The American hotel clerk, who can
answer fifty questions in a breath, who can tell you what the bill of
performance is at all the theatres, at what hour the trains over the
different roads start, what is the best brand of wine, what to do, where
to go, how much everything costs, recollects your name, is a gentleman
in dress and address, and whom you mutually respect as a man of quick
preception, prompt decision, and tenacious memory, is an official
unknown in London. You are met in that city by the head porter, who
answers questions about trains (by aid of Bradshaw's Guide), will
receive parcels for you, call a cab, or see that your luggage is sent up
or down; but as for city sights, where to go, what to see, when the
opera or theatre begins, how to get to Richmond Hill, or Kew Gardens, or
Windsor Castle, he is profoundly ignorant.

In a small enclosure called a bar is a woman who books your name, keeps
an account of everything you have, making a charge of each item
separately, down to a cigar, necessitating an enormous amount of
book-keeping. In this bar are others who draw ale, or extract spirits
from casks ranged in the enclosure, as they may be ordered by guests in
their own room or the "coffee-room," into carefully-marked measures, so
as to be sure that no one gets beyond his sixpence worth of whiskey, or
gin, or brandy; but there is one thing certain: the guests, as a general
thing, get a far better quality of liquor than we in America, where it
is next to an impossibility to get even a good article of that great
American, national drink, whiskey, pure and unadulterated.

These bar-maids can give you no information except about the price of
rooms, meals, and refreshments. Next comes the head waiter, who, with
the porter, appears to "run" the hotel. This worthy must be feed to
insure attention. If you are a single man, you can dine well enough in
the coffee-room, if you order your dinner at a certain time in advance.
However, the great London hotels are slowly becoming Americanized in
some departments: one improvement is that of having what is called a
"ladies' coffee-room," i. e., a public dining-room, and a _table
d'hote_, and not compelling a gentleman and wife to dine in solemn state
in a private room, under the inspection of a waiter. Between stated
hours, anything in the magnificent bills of fare, for the three meals,
is ready on demand at an American hotel; for instance, the guest may sit
down to breakfast at any time between six and eleven; to dinner at one,
three, and five; to tea at six to eight, and supper ten to twelve; and
anything he orders will be served instanter: the meals at those times
are always ready. In London, _nothing is ever ready_, and everything
must be ordered in advance.

It is a matter of positive wonderment to me that the swarms of
Englishmen, whom one meets in the well-kept hotels of Berne, Lucerne,
Wiesbaden, Baden Baden, &c., can, after enjoying their comforts and
conveniences, endure the clumsy manner of hotel-keeping, and the
discomforts of the London hotels, or that the landlords of the latter
can persist in hanging back so obstinately from adopting the latest
improvements.

The new and large hotels, however, are a great improvement on the old
style, and the best thing for a fresh American tourist to do, before
going to London, is to get some fellow-countryman, who has had
experience in the hotels and lodgings of that metropolis, to "post him
up" as to which will the best suit his taste and desires.

My first night in London, spent at the Langham, which is at the West
End, or fashionable quarter, was anything but a quiet one; the hotel
being, as it were, right in the track between various resorts of the
aristocracy and their residences, and the time the height of the season.
There was one unceasing roar of private carriages and cabs from ten P.
M. till three A. M., which banished sleep from my eyelids, and made me
long for the quiet of the well-kept little English and Scotch country
inns that I had previously been enjoying.

Accommodations were sought and found in a less fashionable, but far more
central part of the city, where more comfort, attention, and convenience
were obtained at a less rate than at this English hotel on the American
plan; and it was not long ere I found that my own experience at
Langham's was that of numerous other Americans, and that the pleasantest
way to live in London is "in apartments" if one stays there any length
of time--that is, furnished lodgings. The English themselves, when
visiting London, stay with a friend if possible, always avoiding a
hotel; and it is probably the adherence to this old custom, by the
better classes, that causes the indifference to the quality of what is
furnished for public accommodation in their own capital.

I thought my experiences in New York streets had prepared me for London;
but on emerging into the London streets for the first time I found my
mistake. I was fairly stunned and bewildered by the tremendous rush of
humanity that poured down through Oxford Street, through Holborn, on to
the city, or otherwise down towards White Chapel, Lombard Street, the
Bank, and the Exchange.

Great omnibuses, drawn by three horses abreast, thundered over the
pavement; four-wheel cabs, or "four-wheelers," a sort of compressed
American carriages, looking as though resuscitated from the last stages
of dissolution, rattled here and there; the Hansom cabs, those most
convenient of all carriages, dashed in and out, hither and thither, in
the crowd of vehicles; great brewery drays, with horses like elephants,
plodded along with their loads; the sidewalks swarmed with a moving
mass of humanity, and many were the novelties that met my curious eye.

The stiff, square costume of the British merchant; little boys of ten,
with beaver hats like men; Lord Dundrearys with eye-glasses such as I
had never seen before, except upon the stage at the theatre; ticket
porters with their brass labels about their necks; policemen in their
uniform; officers and soldiers in theirs; all sorts of costermongers
with everything conceivable to sell, and all sorts of curious vehicles,
some with wood enough in them for three of a similar kind in America.

The drivers of the London omnibuses feel the dignity of their
position,--_they do_. It is the _conductor_ who solicits passengers,
takes the pay, and regulates the whole business of the establishment.
The driver, or rather the "coachman," drives; he wears a neat top-coat,
a beaver hat, and a pair of driving gloves; he drives with an air. You
can attract his attention from the sidewalk, and he will "pull up," but
he does it with a sort of calm condescension; the conductor or cad, on
the other hand, is ever on the alert; his eyes are in every direction;
he signals a passenger in the crowd invisible to all but him; he
continually shouts the destination of his vehicle, but sometimes in a
patois unintelligible except to the native Londoner. As for instance, I
was once standing in Holborn, waiting for a 'bus for the Bank; one
passed, which from its inscription I did not recognize, the conductor
ejaculating, as he looked on every side, "ABINK-WYCHIPLE, BINKWYCHIPLE,"
when suddenly he detected us in the throng, and marked us as strangers
looking for a 'bus; in a twinkling he was down from his perch, and upon
the sidewalk.

"_Binkwychiple?_"

"I want to go to the Bank," said I.

"All right, sir; 'ere you are."

He gave a shrill whistle, which caused the driver who was sixty feet
away, to stop, hurried us both into the vehicle, slammed to the door,
and, taking off his hat with mock politeness to a rival 'bus that had
nearly overtaken his, said, "Can't vait for you, sir: drive on, Bob;"
and on we went to our destination.

Another 'bus conductor puzzled me by shouting "_Simmery-Ex, Simmery-Ex,
Simmery-Ex_," until the expression was translated into "St. Mary's Axe,"
the locality alluded to. These conductors are generally sharp,
quick-witted, and adepts at "chaff" and blackguardism, and it is good
advice to the uninitiated to beware "chaffing" them, as in nine cases
out of ten the cad gets the best of it.

The Hansom cabs are the best and most convenient vehicles that can
possibly be used for short excursions about the city. A shilling will
carry you a smart fifteen minutes' ride, the legal price being sixpence
a mile, but nobody ever expects to give a cabman any less than a
shilling for ever so short a ride. Eighteen pence is readily accepted
for a three mile trip, and it costs no more for two persons than one.
There being nothing between the passenger and the horse but the dasher,
as the driver is perched up behind, an unobstructed view is had as you
whirl rapidly through the crowded streets; and the cheapness of the
conveyance, added to its adaptability for the purpose that it is used,
makes an American acknowledge that in this matter the English are far in
advance of us, and also to wonder why these convenient vehicles have not
displaced the great, cumbersome, two-horse carriages which even a single
individual is compelled to take in an American city if he is in a hurry
to go to the railway station or to execute a commission, and which cost
nearly as much for a trip of a mile as would engage a Hansom in London
for half a day.

There has been much said in the London papers about the impositions of
the cab-drivers; but I must do them the justice to say I saw little or
none of it: making myself acquainted with the legal rate, I found it
generally accepted without hesitation. If I was in doubt about the
distance, instead of adopting the English plan of keeping the extra
sixpence, I gave it, and so cheaply saved disputes.

Coming out from the theatres, you find privileged porters, who have the
right of calling cabs for those who want them, besides numerous
unprivileged ones; boys, who will dart out to where the cabs are,--they
are not allowed to stand in front of the theatre,--and fetch you one in
an instant. The driver never leaves his seat, but your messenger opens
the cab, and shuts you in, shouts your direction to the driver, and
touches his cap, grateful for the penny or two pence that you reward him
with.

What a never-ending source of amusement the London streets are to the
newly-arrived American--their very names historical. Here we are in
Regent Street, where you can buy everything; the four quarters of the
world seem to have been laid under contribution to supply it: here are
magnificent jewelry stores, all ablaze with rich and artistically-set
gems and jewels; here a huge magazine of nothing but India shawls and
scarfs--an excellent place to buy a camel's hair shawl. Ladies, save
your money till you go to London, for that pride of woman's heart comes
into England duty free, and from fifty to four hundred dollars may be
saved, according to the grade purchased, on the price charged in
America. In this India store one could buy from scarfs at five shillings
to shawls at four hundred guineas.

Then there were the splendid dry goods stores, the windows most
magnificently dressed; shoe stores, with those peculiarly English
"built,"--that is the only word that will express it, so fashioned by
rule into structures of leather were they,--English built shoes of all
sizes in the window, and shoes that will outwear three pairs of
Yankee-made affairs, unless one goes to some of the very choice
establishments, or to foreigners at home, who, knowing how rare faithful
work and good material are in their business, charge a tremendous
premium for both articles. I think for service, ease to the foot, and
real economy, there is no boot or shoe like those by the skilled London
makers; the price charged is only about twenty-five per cent. less than
in America; but an article of solid, substantial, honest British
workmanship is furnished, and any one who has ever bought any portion of
his wardrobe of an English maker, knows the satisfaction experienced in
wearing articles made upon honor; the quality, stitches, and workmanship
can be depended upon.

But what is in other shops?

O, everything; elegant displays of gentlemen's furnishing goods, of
shirts, under-clothing, socks and gloves, of a variety, fineness, and
beauty I had never seen before; gloves, fans, fancy goods, China ware;
toy shops, shops of English games, cricket furniture, bats, balls, &c.;
elegant wine and preserve magazines--where were conserves, preserves,
condiments, pickles, cheeses, dried fruits, dried meats, and appetizing
delicacies from every part of the globe, enough to drive an epicure
crazy. At these great establishments are put up the "hampers" that go to
supply parties who go to the races or picnics. You order a five-shilling
or five-pound hamper, and are supplied accordingly--meat-pies, cold
tongues, fowls, game, wines, ales, pickles. There are English pickles,
Dutch saur krout, French _pâte de foie gras_, Finnian haddock, German
sausages, Italian macaroni, American buffalo tongues, and Swiss cheeses,
in _stacks_. That is what astonishes the American--the enormous stock in
these retail establishments, and the immense variety of styles of each
article; but it should be remembered that this is the market of the
world, and the competition here is sharp. Go into a store for a pair of
gloves, even, mention the size you desire, and the salesman will show
you every variety in kid, French dogskin, cloth, and leather; for
soiree, promenade, driving, travelling, and every species of use, and
different styles and kinds for each use. The salesmen understand their
business, which is _to sell goods_; they are polite, they suggest wants,
they humor your merest whim in hue, pattern, style, or fancy; they make
no rude endeavor to force goods upon you, but are determined you shall
have just what you want; wait upon you with assiduous politeness, and
seem to have been taught their occupation.

One misses that sort of independent nonchalance with which an American
retail salesman throws out one article at a time, talking politics or
of the weather to you, while you yourself turn over the goods, place
them, and adjust them for the effect of light or shade, as he indolently
looks on, or persistently battles in argument with you, that what he has
shown you is what you ought to have, instead of what you demand and
want; also that American style of indifference, or independence, as to
whether you purchase or not, and the making of you--as you ascertain
after shopping in London--do half the salesman's work. The London
shopman understands that deference is the best card in the pack, and
plays it skilfully. He attends to you assiduously; he is untiring to
suit your taste. If he sells you a ribbon, the chances are that you
find, before leaving, you have purchased gloves, fan, and kerchief
besides, and it is not until you finally take your departure that he
ventures to remark that "it is a very fine day."

Many of the London first-class establishments, such as tailors,
furnishing-goods dealers, umbrella stores, shoemakers, cheesemongers, or
fancy-grocery stores, have two stores, one in Regent Street, the
fashionable quarter, and one in the city, say down towards the Bank, in
Threadneedle Street, Poultry, Cheapside, &c. The "city" or down-town
store of the same firm, it is well known to Londoners, will sell the
same goods and same articles at least five per cent. cheaper than the
up-town Regent or Oxford Street one will.

Besides serviceable boots and shoes, gentlemen's wearing apparel, and
under-clothing, buy your umbrellas in England. They make this article
splendidly, doubtless from its being an article of such prime necessity.
The English umbrella is made light, shapely, and strong, of the best
materials,--if you get them of a dealer of reputation, Sangster's, for
instance,--they will keep their shape until completely worn out.

While in London, purchase whatever trunks, portmanteaus, or valises you
may need for your continental tour. London is the paradise of this
species of merchandise, and in Paris you will learn too late that
trunk-making is not a Frenchman's art, though if you reach Vienna, the
headquarters of the elegant Russia leather work, you will find articles
there in the travelling-bag line, at very moderate prices, that will
enable you to make the most distinguished carpet-bagger in your own
country die of envy.

It is said that London is headquarters for gentlemen's clothing, and
Paris for ladies'. London sets the fashion for gentlemen in dress, and
Paris that for the gentler sex, although in the article of men's hats,
gloves, and dress boots, I believe the Frenchman has "the inside of the
track." A French boot is made for grace and beauty, an English one for
service and comfort. An English hat, like an English dog-cart, has too
much "timber" in it, and a French glove is unapproachable. Many
Americans leave their measure, and now order their clothes of Poole &
Co., Sackville Street, or Creed & Co., Conduit Street, Bond Street,
both crack West End tailors. Others order of some of the city tailors
down town, who, doubtless, suit them equally well, and use just as
good materials, having the custom of some of the old particular
London merchants, who like to step into a solid, old-fashioned,
down-in-the-city store, where their predecessors traded,--like Sam
Hodgkinson's, in Threadneedle Street, opposite Merchant Tailors'
Hall,--and buy at an old established stand, a place that has the aroma
of age about it. The older a business stand, the more value it seems to
possess in customers' eyes; and there is something in it. For a store
that has built up a reputation, and been known as a good boot, tailor's,
or hat store, with that stamp of indorsement, "established in 1798," or
eighteen hundred and something, more than forty years ago, is about as
good an indorsement as "bootmaker to the Duke of Cambridge," or Lord
Stuckup, and a reputation which the occupant of said establishment does
not trifle with, but labors to preserve and increase, as a part of his
capital and stock in trade.

Your English tailor of reputation is rather more careful than the
American one. He makes an appointment, and tries the garment on you
after it is cut out, comes to your hotel, if you are a stranger and
cannot come to him, to do so, and his two workmen who wait upon you,
measure, snip, mould, and adapt their work, appear to take as much pride
in their occupation as a sculptor or artist. Indeed, they consider
themselves "artists" in their line; for Creed & Co's card, which lies
before me as I write, announces "H. Creed & Co." to be "Artistes in
Draping the Real Figure," and gives the cash-on-delivery purchaser ten
per cent. advantage over the credit customer.

Furs are another article that can be bought very cheap in London. But I
must not devote too much space to shopping; suffice it to say that the
windows of the great magazines of merchandise in Oxford and Regent
Streets form in themselves a perfect museum of the products of the
world,--and I have spent hours in gazing in at them,--for the art of
window-dressing is one which is well understood by their proprietors.

A volume might be written--in fact, volumes have been written--about
London streets, and the sights seen in them. It seemed so odd to be
standing opposite old Temple Bar, on the Strand, to see really those
names we had so often read of, to wonder how long the spirit of American
improvement would suffer such a barrier as that Bar to interrupt the
tremendous rush of travel that jams, and crowds, and surges through and
around it. Here is Prout's tooth-brush store close at hand. Everybody
knows that Prout's brushes are celebrated. We step in to price some.
"One shilling each, sir." You select twelve, give him a sovereign. He
takes out ten shillings. "The price, sir, at wholesale." The reputation
of that place would suffer, in the proprietor's opinion, if he had
allowed a stranger to have gone, even if satisfied, away, and that
stranger had afterwards ascertained that the price per dozen was less,
and that any one could purchase less than he. So much for the honor of
"old-established" places.

We go up through Chancery Lane,--how often we have read of it, and what
lots of barristers' chambers and legal stationers there are,--out into
"High Holborn," Holborn Hill, or "Eye Obun," as the Londoners call it.
What a rush of 'buses, and drays, and cabs, and Hansoms, and
everything! But let us go. Where is it one goes first on arrival in
London? If he is an American, the first place he goes to is his banker,
to get that most necessary to keep him going. So hither let us wend our
way.

If there is any one thing needed in England besides hotels on the
American plan, it is an American banking-house of capital and reputation
in the city of London; a house that understands the wants and feelings
of Americans, and that will cater to them; a house that will not hold
them off at arm's length, as it were; one that is not of such huge
wealth as to treat American customers with surly British routine and red
tape; a house _that wants American business_, and that will do it at the
lowest rate of percentage. In fact, some of the partners, at least,
should be Americans in heart and feeling, and not Anglicized Americans.

The great banking-house of Baring Brothers & Co., whose correspondents
and connections are in every part of the world,--whose superscriptions I
used to direct in a big, round hand, upon thin envelopes, when I was a
boy in a merchant's counting-room, and whose name is as familiar in
business mouths as household words,--it would be supposed would be found
occupying a structure for their banking-house like some of the palatial
edifices on Broadway, or the solid granite buildings of State Street,
where you may imagine that you could find out about everything you
wished to know about London; what the sights were to see; which was the
best hotel for Americans; what you ought to pay for things; how to get
to Windsor Castle, or the Tower, &c. Of course they would have American
papers, know the news from America; and you, a young tourist, not
knowing Lombard Street from Pall Mall, would, on presentation of your
letter of credit, be greeted by some member of the firm, and asked how
you did, what sort of a passage you had over, could they do anything for
you, all in American style of doing things; but, bless your raw,
inexperienced, unsophisticated soul, you have yet to learn the solid,
British, square-cut, high shirt-collar style of doing "business."

I have roared with laughter at the discomfiture of many a young American
tourist who expected something of the cordial style and the great
facilities such as the young American houses of Bowles & Co. or Drexel &
Co. afford, of these great London bankers. The latter are civil enough,
but, as previously mentioned, they do "_business_," and on the rigid
English plan; they will cash your check less commission, answer a
question, or send a ticket-porter to show you the way out into Lombard
Street, or, perhaps, if you send your card in to the managing partner's
room, he will admit you, and will pause, pen in hand, from his writing,
to bid you good morning, and wait to know what you have to say; that is,
if you have no other introduction to him or his house than a thousand or
two pounds to your credit in their hands, which you intend drawing out
on your letter of credit.

Don't imagine such a bagatelle as that thousand or two, my raw tourist,
is going to thaw British ice; it is but a drop in their ocean of
capital, and they allow you four per cent. interest; and though they may
contrive to make six or seven on it, all they have to do with you is to
honor your drafts less commission to the amount of your letters.

Messrs. Baring Brothers & Co.'s banking house we finally ascertain is at
No. --, Bishop Gate (within). Arrived at No. --, Bishop Gate, you find
that _within_ is in through a passage to the rear of the building; and
so we go in. There is no evidence of a "palatial" character in the
ordinary contracted and commonplace looking counting-room, an area
enclosed by desks facing outward, and utterly devoid of all those
elegant conveniences one sees in the splendid counting-rooms on Wall and
State Streets,--foolish frippery, may be,--but the desks look crowded
and inconvenient, the area for customers mean and contracted, for a
house of such wealth, and we wondered at first if we had not made some
mistake. Here we were, in a plain and very ordinary counting-room, like
that of a New England country bank, surrounded on three sides by desks
facing towards us, behind high and transparent screens, and six or eight
clerks at them, writing in huge ledgers. After standing some minutes in
uncertainty we made for the nearest clerk at one of the apertures in the
semicircle of desks.

"Is this the Messrs. Barings' counting-house?"

"Yes, sir."

"I wish to draw some money."

"Bill, sir, or letter of credit?"

"Letter of credit."

"Opposite desk;" and he pointed with his quill pen to the other side.

I accordingly crossed over, and commenced a fresh dialogue with another
clerk.

"I desire to draw some money on this letter of credit" (handing it).

"Yes, sir" (taking it; looks at the letter, reads it carefully, then
looks at me searchingly). "Are you the Mr. ----, mentioned here?"

"I am, sir" (decidedly).

"How much money do you want?"

"Twenty-five pounds."

Clerk goes to a big ledger, turns it over till he finds a certain page,
looks at the page, compares it with the letter, turns to another clerk,
who is writing with his back to him, hands him letter, says something in
a low tone to him. Second clerk takes letter, and goes into an inner
apartment, and the first commences waiting on a new comer, and I
commence waiting developments.

In about five minutes clerk number two returned with something for me to
sign, which I did, and he left again. After waiting, perhaps, five
minutes more, I ventured to inquire if my letter of credit was ready.
Clerk number one said it would be here "d'rectly;" and so it was, for
clerk number two returned with it in its envelope, and in his hand a
check, which he handed me, saying, "Eighty Lombard Street."

"Sir?"

"80 Lombard Street" (pointing to check).

"O, I am to get the money at 80 Lombard Street--am I?"

"Yes; better hurry. It's near bank closing."

"But where is Lombard Street?"

(Aghast at my ignorance.) "Cross d'rectly you go out, turn first to
left, then take ---- Street on right, and it's first Street on lef."

It might have been an accommodation to have paid me the money there,
instead of sending me over to Lombard Street; but that would probably
have been out of routine, and consequently un-English.

I started for the door, but when nearly out, remembered that I had not
inquired for letters and papers from home, that I had given instructions
should be sent there to await my arrival from Scotland and the north,
and accordingly I returned, and inquired of clerk number two,--

"Any letters for me?"

"Ah! I beg yer pardon."

"Any letters for me?"

"You 'av your letter in your 'and, sir."

"No; I mean any letters from home--from America--to my address?"

"The other side sir" (pointing across the area).

I repaired to the "other side," gave my address, and had the
satisfaction of receiving several epistles from loved ones at home,
which the clerk checked off his memoranda as delivered, and I sallied
out my first day in London, to turn to the left and right, and find
Lombard Street. Three pence and a ticket porter enabled me to do this
speedily, and thus ended our first experience at Baring Brothers &
Co.'s.

There may, perhaps, be nothing to complain of in all this as a business
transaction, but that it was regularly performed; but after one has
experienced the courtesies of bankers on the continent, he begins to
ask himself the question, if the Barings ought not, taking into
consideration the amount of money they have made and are making out of
their American business and the American people, to show a little less
parsimony and more liberality and courtesy to them, and provide some
convenience and accommodation for that class of customers, and make some
effort to put the raw tourist, whose one or two thousand pounds they
have condescended to receive, at his ease when he visits their
establishment.

All this may have been changed since I was in London (1867); but the
style of transactions like this I have described was then a general
topic of conversation among Americans, and seemed to have been similar
in each one's experience. In Paris how different was the reception!
Upon presenting your letter, a member of the American banking-house, a
junior partner, probably, steps forward, greets you cordially, makes
pleasant inquiries with regard to your passage over, invites you to
register your name and address, ushers you into a large room where the
leading American journals are on file, and there are conveniences for
letter writing, conversation, &c. He invites you to make this your
headquarters; can he do anything for you? you want some money--the
cashier of the house cashes your draft at once, and you are not sent
out into the street to hunt up an unknown banking-house. He can answer
you almost any question about Paris or its sights, and procure you
cards of permission to such places of note as it is necessary to send
to government officials for, tell you where to board or lodge, and
execute any commission for you.

The newly-arrived American feels "at home" with such a greeting as this
at once, and if his letter draws on Baring's agent in Paris, is prone to
withdraw funds, and redeposit with his new-found friends. Of course the
houses of this character, that tourists do business with in Paris, were
peculiar to that city, and may be classed as banking and commission
houses, and the "commission" part of the business has come into
existence within a few years, and was of some importance during the year
of the Exposition. That part of the business would not be desirable to a
great London banking-house, nor is there the field for it, as in Paris;
but there is room for an improvement in conveniences, accommodation,
cordiality, courtesy, &c., towards American customers, especially
tourists, who naturally, on first arrival, turn to their banker for
information respecting usages, customs, &c., and for other intelligence
which might be afforded with comparatively little trouble.

But to the sights of London. The streets themselves, as I have said, are
among the sights to be seen in this great metropolis of the civilized
world. There is Pall Mall, or "Pell Mell," as the Londoners call it,
with its splendid clubhouses, the "Travellers," "Reform," "Army and
Navy," "Athenæum," "Guards," "Oxford," and numerous others I cannot now
recall; Regent Street, to which I have referred, with its splendid
stores; Oxford Street, a street of miles in length, and containing
stores of equal splendor with its more aristocratic rival; Holborn,
which is a continuation of Oxford, and carries you down to "the city;"
Fleet Street and the Strand, with their newspaper offices, and bustle,
and turmoil, houses, churches, great buildings, and small shops. Not far
from here are Charing Cross Hotel and the railroad station, a splendid
modern building; or you may go over into Whitehall, pass by the Horse
Guards' Barracks,--in front of which two mounted troopers sit as
sentinels,--and push on, till rising to view stands that one building so
fraught with historic interest as to be worth a journey across the ocean
to see--the last resting-place of kings, queens, princes, poets,
warriors, artists, sculptors, and divines, the great Pantheon of
England's glory--Westminster Abbey.

Its time-browned old walls have looked down upon the regal coronation,
the earthly glory, of the monarch, and received within their cold
embrace his powerless ashes, and bear upon their enduring sides man's
last vanity--his epitaph.

        "Think how many royal bones
        Sleep within these heaps of stones!
        Here they lie--had realms and lands,
        Who now want strength to lift their hands,
        Where, from their pulpit, sealed with dust,
        They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'
        Here's an acre, sown, indeed,
        With the richest royal seed
        That the earth did e'er suck in
        Since the first man died for sin."


I stood before this magnificent Gothic pile, which was brown with the
breath of a many centuries, with that feeling of quiet satisfaction and
enjoyment that one experiences in the fruition of the hopes of years.
There were the two great square towers, with the huge Gothic window
between, and the Gothic door below. How I was carried back to the
picture-books, and the wood-cuts, and youth's histories, that, many a
time and oft, I had hung over when a boy, and dreamed and fancied how it
really looked; and here it was--a more than realization of the
air-castle of boyhood.

The dimensions of the abbey are, length, about four hundred feet,
breadth at the transept, two hundred and three feet; the length of the
nave, one hundred and sixteen feet, breadth, thirty-eight feet; the
choir, one hundred and fifty-six feet by thirty-one. To the dimensions
of the abbey should be added that of Henry VII.'s Chapel, which is built
on to it, of one hundred and fifteen feet long by eighty wide, its nave
being one hundred and four feet long and thirty-six wide.

The form of the abbey is the usual long cross, and it has three
entrances. Besides the nave, choir, and transepts, there are nine
chapels dedicated to different saints, and an area of cloisters. The
best external view of the building is obtained in front of the western
entrance, where the visitor has full view of the two great square
towers, which rise to the height of two hundred and twenty-five feet.

But let us enter. Out from an unusually bright day for London, we
stepped in beneath the lofty arches, lighted by great windows of stained
glass, glowing far above in colored sermons and religious stories; and
from this point--the western entrance--a superb view may be had of the
interior. Stretching far before us is the magnificent colonnade of
pillars, a perfect arcade of columns, terminating with the Chapel of
Edward the Confessor, at the eastern extremity, and the whole interior
so admirably lighted that every object is well brought out, and clearly
visible.

In whichever direction the footsteps may incline, one is brought before
the last mementos of the choicest dust of England. Here they
lie--sovereigns, poets, warriors, divines, authors, heroes, and
philosophers; wise and pure-minded men, vulgar and sensual tyrants;
those who in the fullness of years have calmly passed away, "rich in
that hope that triumphs over pain," and those whom the dagger of the
assassin, the axe of the executioner, and the bullet of the battle-field
cut down in their prime. Sovereign, priest, soldier, and citizen slumber
side by side, laid low by the great leveller, Death.

The oldest of the chapels is that of St. Edward the Confessor. It
contains, besides the monument to its founder, those of many other
monarchs. Here stands the tomb of Henry III., a great altar-like
structure of porphyry, upon which lies the king's effigy in brass. He
was buried with great pomp by the Knights Templars, of which order his
father was a distinguished member. Next comes the plain marble tomb of
that bold crusader, Edward I., with the despoiled one of Henry V. Here
also is the tomb of Eleanor, queen to Edward I., who, it will be
remembered, sucked the poison from her husband's wound in Palestine; and
here the black marble tomb of Queen Philippa, wife to Edward III., who
quelled the Scottish insurrection during her husband's absence. This
tomb was once ornamented with the brass statues of thirty kings and
princes, but is now despoiled. Upon the great gray marble tomb of Edward
III., who died in 1377, rests his effigy, with the shield and sword
carried before him in France--a big, two-handled affair, seven feet
long, and weighing eighteen pounds.

The most elegant and extensive chapel in the abbey is that of Henry VII.
Its lofty, arched, Gothic ceiling is most exquisitely carved. There are
flowers, bosses, roses, pendants, panels, and armorial bearings without
number, a bewildering mass of exquisite tracery and ornamentation in
stone, above and on every side. In the nave of this chapel the Knights
of the Order of the Bath are installed, and here are their stalls, or
seats, elegantly carved and shaded with Gothic canopies, while above are
their coats of arms, heraldic devices, and banners. But the great object
of interest in this magnificent, brass-gated chapel is the elaborate and
elegant tomb of its founder, Henry VII., and his queen, Elizabeth, the
last of the House of York who wore the English crown. The tomb is
elegantly carved and ornamented, and bears the effigies of the royal
pair resting upon a slab of black marble. It is surrounded by a most
elaborate screen, or fence, of curiously-wrought brass-work. In another
part of this chapel is a beautiful tomb, erected to Mary, Queen of
Scots, surmounted by an alabaster effigy of the unfortunate queen; and
farther on another, also erected by King James I. to Queen Elizabeth,
bearing the recumbent effigy of that sovereign, supported by four lions.
Queen Mary ("Bloody Mary"), who burned about seventy persons a year at
the stake during four years of her reign, rests here in the same vault.
Not far from this monument I found the sarcophagus marking the
resting-place of the bones discovered in the Tower, supposed to be those
of the little princes murdered by Richard III.

The nine chapels of the abbey are crowded with the tombs and monuments
of kings and others of royal birth down to the time of George II., when
Windsor Castle was made the repository of the royal remains. Besides
monuments to those of noble birth, I noticed those of men who have, by
great deeds and gifts of great inventions to mankind, achieved names
that will outlive many of royal blood, in some of these chapels. In the
Chapel of St. Paul there is a colossal figure of James Watt, who so
developed the wonderful power of steam; one of Thomas Telford, in the
Chapel of St. John, who died in 1834, who, by his extraordinary talents
and self-education, raised himself from the position of orphan son of a
shepherd to one of the most eminent engineers of his age; also the
tablet to Sir Humphrey Davy. In the same chapel is a full-length statue
of Mrs. Siddons, the tragic actress.

Besides these, there were in this chapel two wonderfully executed
monumental groups, that attracted my attention. One represented a tomb,
from the half-opened marble doors of which a figure of Death has just
issued, and is in the very act of casting his dart at a lady who is
sinking affrighted into the arms of her husband, who is rising startled
from his seat upon the top of the tomb. The life-like attitude and
expression of affright of these two figures are wonderful, while the
figure of Death, with the shroud half falling off, revealing the
fleshless ribs, skull, and bones of the full-length skeleton, is
something a little short of terrible in its marvellous execution. The
other group was a monument to Sir Francis Vere, who was a great soldier
in Elizabeth's time, and died in 1608. It is a tablet supported upon the
shoulders of four knights, of life size, kneeling. Upon the tablet lie
the different parts of a complete suit of armor, and underneath, upon a
sort of alabaster quilt, rests the effigy of Sir Francis. The kneeling
figures of the knights are represented as dressed in armor suits, which
are faithfully and elaborately carved by the sculptor.

While walking among the numerous and pretentious monuments of kings
and princes, we were informed by the guide, who with bunch of keys
opened the various chapels to our explorations, that many a royal
personage, whose name helped to fill out the pages of England's
history, slumbered almost beneath our very feet, without a stone to
mark their resting-place. Among these was the grave of the merry
monarch, Charles II.; and the fact that not one of the vast swarm of
sycophantic friends that lived upon him, and basked in the sunshine of
his prodigality, had thought enough of him to rear a tribute to his
memory, was something of an illustration of the hollowness and
heartlessness of that class of favorites and friends.

Although I made two or three visits to the abbey, the time allowed in
these chapels by the guides was altogether too short to study the
elaborate and splendid works of sculpture, the curious inscriptions,
and, in fact, to almost re-read a portion of England's past history in
these monuments, that brought us so completely into the presence, as it
were, of those kings and princes whom we are accustomed to look at
through the dim distance of the past.

We have only taken a hasty glance at the chapels, and some of the most
noteworthy monuments they contain. These are but appendages, as it were,
to the great body of the abbey.

There are still the south transept, the nave, north transept,
ambulatory, choir, and cloisters to visit, all crowded with elegant
groups of sculpture and bass-reliefs, to the memory of those whose names
are as familiar to us as household words, and whose deeds are England's
history.

Almost the first portion of the abbey inquired for by Americans is the
"Poet's Corner," which is situated in the south transept; and here we
find the brightest names in English literature recorded, not only those
of poets, but of other writers, though, among the former, one looks in
vain for some memorial of one of England's greatest poets, Byron, for
this tribute was refused to him in Westminster Abbey by his countrymen,
and its absence is a bitter evidence of their ingratitude.

Here we stand, surrounded by names that historians delight to chronicle,
poets to sing, and sculptors to carve. Here looks out the medallion
portrait of Ben Jonson, poet laureate, died 1627, with the well-known
inscription beneath,--

        "O rare Ben Jonson."

There stands the bust of Butler, author of Hudibras, crowned with
laurel, beneath which is an inscription which states that--

    "Lest he who (when alive) was destitute of all things should
    (when dead) want likewise a monument, John Barber, citizen of
    London, hath taken sure by placing this stone over him. 1712."

All honor to John Barber. He has done what many a king's worldly friends
have failed to do for the monarch they flattered and cajoled in the
sunshine of his prosperity, and in so doing preserved his own name to
posterity.

A tablet marks the resting-place of Spenser, author of "The Faerie
Queen," and near at hand is a bust of Milton. The marble figure of a
lyric muse holds a medallion of the poet Gray, who died in 1771. The
handsome monument of Matthew Prior, the poet and diplomatist, is a bust,
resting upon a sarcophagus guarded by two full-length marble statues of
Thalia and History, above which is a cornice, surmounted by cherubs, the
inscription written by himself, as follows:--

        "Nobles and heralds, by your leave,
          Here lies what once was Matthew Prior,
        The son of Adam and of Eve--
          Can Bourbon or Nassau claim higher?"

Not far from this monument I found one of a youth crowning a bust,
beneath which were theatrical emblems, the inscription stating it was to
Barton Booth, an actor and poet, who died in 1733, and was the original
Cato in Addison's tragedy of that name.

The tomb of Geoffrey Chaucer--the father of English poetry, as he is
called--is an ancient, altar-like structure, with a carved Gothic canopy
above it. The inscription tells us,--

        "Of English bards who sung the sweetest strains,
        Old Geoffrey Chaucer now this tomb contains;
        For his death's date, if, reader, thou shouldst call,
        Look but beneath, and it will tell thee all."
                    "25 October, 1400."

John Dryden's bust, erected by Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham, in 1720,
bears upon its pedestal the following lines, by Pope:--

        "This Sheffield raised; the sacred dust below
        Was Dryden once--the rest who does not know?"

Thomas Campbell, the poet, has a fine full-length statue to his memory,
representing him, book and pencil in hand, with the lyre at his feet;
and near by is the bust of Southey, poet laureate, who died in 1843.

The well-known statue of Shakespeare, representing the immortal bard
leaning upon a pile of books resting on a pedestal, and supporting a
scroll, upon which are inscribed lines from his play of "The Tempest,"
will, of course, claim our attention. Upon the base of the pillar on
which the statue leans are the sculptured heads of Henry V., Richard
II., and Queen Elizabeth.

Thomson, author of the Seasons, has a monument representing him in a
sitting position, upon the pedestal of which representations of the
seasons are carved. Gay's is a Cupid, unveiling a medallion of the poet,
and, one of his couplets:--

        "Life is a jest, and all things show it;
        I thought so once, but now I know it."

On a pedestal, around which are grouped the Nine Muses, stands the
statue of Addison, and a tablet near by bears the familiar profile
likeness of Oliver Goldsmith, who died in 1774.

There is a large marble monument to George Frederick Handel, which
represents the great musician standing, with an organ behind him, and an
angel playing upon a harp above it, while at his feet are grouped
musical instruments and drapery. Another very elaborate marble group is
that to the memory of David Garrick, which represents a life-size figure
of the great actor, standing, and throwing aside with each hand a
curtain. At the base of the pedestal upon which the statue rests are
seated life-size figures of Tragedy and Comedy. The names of other
actors and dramatists also appear upon tablets in the pavement:
Beaumont, upon a slab before Dryden's monument, Richard Brinsley
Sheridan, Cumberland, &c.; and one of the recent additions in the Poet's
Corner was a marble bust of Thackeray.

In the nave I viewed with some interest a fine bust of Isaac Watts, D.
D., whose hymns are so familiar, and among the earliest impressed upon
the infant mind. Here in the nave area host of monuments, tablets, and
bass-reliefs to naval and military heroes, scholars, and professors;
one, to Dr. Andrew Bell, represents him in his arm-chair (bass-relief),
surrounded by his pupils; another, to a president of the Royal Society,
represents him surrounded by books and manuscripts, globes, scientific
instruments, &c. General George Wade has a great trophy of arms raised
upon a sarcophagus, which a figure of Time is represented as advancing
to destroy, but whom Fame prevents. In the wall, in bass-relief, we
found a group representing the flag of truce conveyed to General
Washington, asking the life of Major André. This group is cut upon a
sarcophagus, over which Britannia is represented weeping, and is the
monument to that young officer, who was executed as a spy in the war of
the American Revolution. Another monument, which attracts the attention
of Americans, is that erected to a Colonel Roger Townsend, who was
killed by a cannon ball while reconnoitring the French lines at
Ticonderoga, in 1759; it is a pyramid of red and white marble, against
which are the figures of two American Indians in war costume, supporting
a sarcophagus, on which is a fine bass-relief, representing the death on
the battle-field.

There are other modern monuments of very elaborate and curious designs,
which are of immense detail for such work, and must have involved a vast
deal of labor and expense; as, for instance, that to General Hargrave,
governor of Gibraltar, died in 1750, which is designed to represent the
discomfiture of Death by Time, and the resurrection of the Just on the
Day of Judgment. The figure of the general is represented as starting,
reanimated, from the tomb, and behind him a pyramid is tumbling into
ruins, while Time has seized Death, and is hurling him to the earth,
after breaking his fatal dart. Another is that to Admiral Richard
Tyrrell, in which the rocks are represented as being rent asunder, and
the sea giving up its dead; upon one side is the admiral's ship, upon
which a figure stands pointing upwards to the admiral, who is seen
ascending amid the marble clouds.

In the nave is also a half-length figure of Congreve, the dramatist,
with dramatic emblems; and next it is the grave of Mrs. Oldfield, the
actress, who, the guide tells us, was "buried in a fine Brussels lace
head-dress, a Holland shift with a tucker and double ruffles of the same
lace, a pair of new kid gloves, and her body wrapped up in a winding
sheet." At one end of the nave is a fine group erected by government, in
1813, at a cost of six thousand three hundred pounds, to William Pitt,
died 1806. It represents the great orator, at full length, in the act of
addressing the House, while History, represented by a full-length figure
seated at the base of the pedestal, is recording his words, and Anarchy,
a full-length figure of a naked man, sits bound with chains. A monument
erected by government to William Pitt, the Earl of Chatham, who died
1778, stands in a recess, and is much more elaborate. It represents him
standing in the act of Speaking; and below, grouped round a sarcophagus,
are five life-size figures--Prudence, Fortitude, Neptune, Peace, and
Britannia. This great group cost six thousand pounds sterling.

But I find, on consulting the notes made of my visits to these
interesting mausoleums of the great, that writing out fully a rehearsal
of the memoranda would extend beyond the limits designed in these
sketches. There were the monuments to Fox, the statesman, with Peace and
the African kneeling at his feet; to Sir Isaac Newton, the great
philosopher and mathematician; William Wilberforce, the eminent
abolitionist; Warren Hastings; a fine statue of George Canning, erected
by his friends and countrymen--one of England's greatest orators, of
whom Byron wrote,--

        "Who, bred a statesman, still was born a wit,"--

a full-length statue of Sir Robert Peel, erected by government at a cost
of five thousand pounds; and others, an idea of which may be gathered
from the somewhat cursory description of those already mentioned.

Well, we have seen Westminster Abbey. Where to go next? There is so
much to see in London, and time is so short, weeks, months, might be
spent here in hunting up the various interesting sights that we have
stowed away in the storehouse of memory, for the time that we should
need them.

First, there are the scenes of the solid, square, historical facts,
which, with care and labor, were taken in like heavy merchandise in
school-boy days. The very points, localities, churches, prisons, and
buildings where the events of history, that figure in our school-books,
took place; where we may look upon the very finger-marks, as it were,
that the great, the good, the wicked, and the tyrannical have left
behind them. Then there are the scenes that poets and novelists have
thrown a halo of romance around, and those whose common every-day
expressions are as familiar in America as in England.

What young American, who has longed to visit London, and who, on his
first morning there, as he prepares himself with all the luxurious
feeling of one about to realize years of anticipation, but that runs
over in his mind all that he has, time and again, read of in this great
city, in history, story, and in fable, and the memory of the inward
wish, or resolve, that he has often made to some day see them all? Now,
which way to turn? Here they all are--Westminster Abbey, British Museum,
St. Paul's, Old London Bridge, Hyde Park, Bank of England, Zoölogical
Gardens, the Tower, the Theatres, Buckingham Palace, River Thames, and
he has two or three weeks before going to the continent.

A great many things may be seen in three weeks.

That is very true in the manner that many of our countrymen, who look
merely at the face of countries, and bring home their empty words, see
them; but the tourist on his first visit abroad, before he has half a
dozen weeks of experience, begins to ascertain what a tremendous labor
constant sight-seeing is.

In London I have met American friends, who had the keenest desire to
visit some of the streets described in Dickens's works, and one who
told me that he had just found, after a difficult search, Goswell
Street, and had walked down that thoroughfare till he found a house with
a placard in the window of "Apartments furnished for a single gentleman.
Inquire within!" And feeling pretty sure that Mrs. Bardell lived there,
he had the Pickwickian romance all taken out of him by a sort of
Sally-Brass-looking personage, who responded to his inquiries, and
confessed to the name of Finch, a sort of Chaff-Finch he thought, from
the sharp and acrid style of her treating his investigations. I confess,
myself, to a brief halt at the Pimlico station, and a glance about to
see what the expression, "everything in Pimlico order," meant, and came
to the conclusion that it was because there were whole streets of houses
there so painfully regular and so exactly like each other, as to excite
my wonder how a man ever learned to recognize his own dwelling from his
neighbors'.

But it is a Sunday morning in London, and we will make an excursion up
the River Thames on a penny steamboat. These little steam omnibuses are
a great convenience, and are often so covered with passengers as to look
like a floating mass of humanity; the price is about a penny a mile, and
a ride up to Kew Gardens, about seven miles from where I took the boat,
cost me sixpence. The boats dart about on the river with great skill and
speed, and make and leave landings almost as quickly as an omnibus would
stop to take up passengers. Americans cannot fail to notice that these
boats have not yet adopted the signal bell to the engineer; but that
party has orders passed him from the captain, by word of mouth through a
boy stationed at the gangway, and the shout of; "Ease-ar"! "Start-ar"!
"Back-ar"! "Slow-ar"! "Go on," regulates the boat's movements, gives
employment to one more hand, and enables Englishmen to hold on to an old
notion.

The sail up the Thames upon one of these little river steamers, of a
fine day, is a very pleasant excursion. A good view of the Houses of
Parliament and all the great London bridges is had, the little steamer
passing directly under the arches of the latter; but at some of them,
whose arches were evidently constructed before steam passages of this
kind were dreamed of, the arches were so low that the smoke-pipe,
constructed with a hinge for that purpose, was lowered backwards flat to
the deck, and after passing the arch, at once resumed its upright
position. Landing not far from Kew Green, we pursued our way along a
road evidently used by the common classes, who came out here for Sunday
excursions, for it was past a series of little back gardens of houses,
apparently of mechanics, who turned an honest penny by fitting up these
little plots into cheap tea gardens, by making arbors of hop vines or
cheap running plants, beneath which tables were spread, and signs, in
various styles of orthography, informed the pedestrian that hot tea and
tea cakes were always ready, or that boiling water could be had by those
wishing to make their own tea, and that excursion parties could "take
tea in the arbor" at a very moderate sum.

Kew Gardens contain nearly three hundred and fifty acres, and are open
to the public every afternoon, Sunday _not_ excepted. Upon the latter
day, which was when I visited them, there are--if the weather is
pleasant--from ten to twelve thousand people, chiefly of the lower
orders, present; but the very best of order prevailed, and all seemed to
be enjoying themselves very much. Beside the tea gardens, on the road of
approach, just outside the gardens, there were every species of
hucksters' refreshments--all kinds of buns, cakes, fruits, &c., in
little booths and stands of those who vended them, for the refreshment
of little family parties, or individuals who had come from London here
to pass the day. Hot waffles were baked and sold at two pence each, as
fast as the vender could turn his hand to it; an uncertain sort of
coffee at two pence a cup, and tea ditto, were served out by a vender
from a portable urn kept hot by a spirit lamp beneath it; and servant
girls out for a holiday, workmen with their wives and children,
shop-boys and shop-men, and throngs of work people, were streaming on in
through the ornamented gates, beyond which boundary no costermonger is
allowed to vend his wares, and within the precincts of the gardens no
eating and throwing of fragments of fruit or food permitted.

The gardens are beautifully laid out in pleasure-grounds, broad walks,
groves, flower gardens, greensward, &c.--a pleasing combination of the
natural and artificial; the public may walk where they wish; they may
saunter here and there; they may lie down or walk on the greensward,
only they must not pluck the flowers or break the trees and plants; the
garden is a perfect wealth of floral treasures. Seventy-five of its
three hundred and fifty acres are devoted to the Botanic Gardens, with
different hot-houses for rare and tropical plants, all open to the
public.

Here are the great Palm House, with its palm trees, screw pines,
bananas, bamboos, sugar-canes, fig trees, and other vegetable wonders;
the Victoria Regia House, with that huge-leafed production spread out
upon its waters, with specimens of lotus, lilies, papyrus, and other
plants of that nature; the tropical hot-house, full of elegant flowery
tropical plants; a Fern House, containing an immense variety of ferns,
and a building in which an extensive and curious collection of the
cactus family are displayed. These hot-houses and nurseries are all kept
in perfect order, heated with steam, and the plants in them properly
arranged and classified.

The great parterre of flowers presents a brilliant sight, showing all
the rich and gorgeous hues, so skilfully arranged as to look in the
distance like a silken robe of many colors spread upon the earth.
These winding walks, ornamental buildings, ferneries, azalea,
camellia, rhododendron, and heath "houses" afford every opportunity
for the botanist to study the habits of plants, the lover of flowers
to feast on their beauty, and the poor man and his family an
agreeable, pleasant, and rational enjoyment. Then there is a museum of
all the different kinds of wood known in the world, and the forms into
which it is or can be wrought. Here is rose-wood in the rough and
polish; great rough pieces of mahogany in a log, and wrought into a
piece of elegant carving; willow, in its long, slender wands, and
twisted into elegant baskets; a great chunk of iron-wood in the rough,
or shaped with the rude implement and patient industry of the savage
into an elaborately-wrought war-club or paddle; tough lance-wood, and
its carriage work beside it; maple and its pretty panels; ash; pine of
every kind, and then numerous wonderful woods I had never heard of,
from distant lands, some brilliant in hue and elegant in grain, others
curious in form, of wondrous weight or astonishing lightness; ebony
and cork-wood; bamboo, sandal-wood, camphor, cedar and cocoa-wood;
stunted sticks from arctic shores, solid timber from the temperate,
and the curious fibrous stems of the tropics. It was really astonishing
to see what an extensive, curious, and interesting collection this
museum of the different woods of the world formed.

A short, brisk ride, of little more than a couple of miles, brought us
to the celebrated Star and Garter Hotel,[A] at Richmond Hill, where one
of the most beautiful English landscapes in the vicinity of London can
be obtained. The hotel, which was situated upon a high terrace,
commanded an extensive view of the Thames far below it, in its devious
windings through a wooded country of hill and dale, with Windsor Castle
in the distance. This house, so famed in novels and plays, is the resort
of the aristocracy; its terraced gardens are elegant, and Richmond Park,
in the immediate vicinity, with its two thousand acres, is crowded every
afternoon during the season with their equipages--equipages, however,
which do not begin to compare in grace and elegance with those of
Central Park, New York.

     [A] Since the author's visit the "Star and Garter" has been
         destroyed by fire.

There can be no pleasanter place to sit and dine of an afternoon in May
than the dining-room of the Star and Garter, with its broad windows
thrown open upon the beautiful gardens, with their terraces and
gravelled walks running down towards the river, and rich in flowers,
vases, and ornamental balustrades, with gay and fashionable promenaders
passing to and fro, enjoying the scene. For more than a hundred feet
below flashes the river, meandering on its crooked course, with
pleasure-boats, great and small, sporting upon it; and, perched upon
hill-sides and in pleasant nooks, here and there, are the beautiful
villas of the aristocracy and wealthy people. The dinner was good, and
served with true English disregard of time, requiring about two hours or
less to accomplish it; but the attendance was excellent, and the price
of the entertainment could be only rivalled in America by one
person--Delmonico.

But then one _must_ dine at the Star and Garter in order to answer
affirmatively the question of every Englishman who learns that you have
been to Richmond Hill, and who is as much gratified to hear the
_cuisine_ and excellent wines of this hotel extolled by the visitor, as
the splendid panoramic view from its windows, or the wild and natural
beauties of the magnificent great park in the immediate neighborhood.



CHAPTER VII.


If there is any one exhibition that seems to possess interest to the
inhabitants of the rural districts of both America and England, it is
"wax works." Mrs. Jarley understood the taste of the English public in
this direction, if we are to believe her celebrated chronicler. Artemus
Ward commenced his career with his celebrated collection of "wax
figgers;" and one of the sights of London, at the present day,--and a
sight, let me assure the reader, that is well worth the seeing,--is
Madame Tussaud's "exhibition of distinguished characters."

Let not the unsophisticated reader suppose that this is a collection of
frightful caricatures, similar to those he has seen at travelling
exhibitions or cheap shows, where one sees the same figure that has done
duty as Semmes, the pirate, transformed, by change of costume, into the
Duke of Wellington, or Jefferson Davis, or that it is one of those sets
of figures with expressionless-looking faces, and great, staring glass
eyes, dressed in cast-off theatrical wardrobes, or garments suggestive
of an old-clothes shop. Nothing of the sort. Madame Tussaud's exhibition
was first opened in the Palais Royal, Paris, in 1772, and in London
1802, and is the oldest exhibition of the kind known; and although the
celebrated Madame is dead, her sons still keep up the exhibition,
improving upon it each season, and display an imposing list of noble
patrons upon their catalogue, among whom figure the names of Prince
Albert, Louis XVIII., the late Duke of Wellington, &c.

The price of admission is a shilling; an additional sixpence is charged
to visit the Chamber of Horrors; and a catalogue costs the visitor
another sixpence, so that it is a two-shilling affair, but richly worth
it. The exhibition consists of a series of rooms, in which the figures,
three hundred in number, are classified and arranged. The first I
sauntered into was designated the Hall of Kings, and contained fifty
figures of kings and queens, from William the Conqueror to Victoria;
they were all richly clad in appropriate costumes, some armed with mail
and weapons, and with faces, limbs, and attitudes so artistically and
strikingly natural, as to startle one by their marvellous semblance of
reality; then the costumes, ornaments, and arms are exact copies of
those worn at the different periods, and the catalogue asserts that the
faces are carefully modelled from the best portraits and historical
authorities.

Here are William the Conqueror and his Queen Matilda; here is William
Rufus, with his red locks and covetous brow; here stands Richard I.
(Coeur de Lion), his tall figure enclosed in shirt of chain-mail; and
there sits King John, with dark frown and clinched hand, as if cursing
the fate that compelled him to yield to the revolting barons, and sign
Magna Charta; Edward III. and his Queen, Philippa, the latter wearing a
girdle of the order of knighthood; and near at hand, Edward's noble,
valiant son, the Black Prince--a magnificent figure, looking every inch
a warrior, and noble gentleman. The artist had succeeded in face,
costume, and attitude in representing in this work one of the most
grand and chivalric-looking figures I ever looked upon, and which caused
me, again and again, to turn and gaze at what appeared such an
embodiment of nobleness and bravery as one might read of in poetry and
romance, but never see in living person. Among others of great merit was
the figure of Edward IV. in his coronation robes, who was considered the
handsomest man of his time; and Richard III. in a splendid suit of armor
of the period, and the face copied from an original portrait owned by
the Duke of Norfolk; Henry VII. in the same splendid costume in which he
figures on his monument in Westminster Abbey; and then bluff old Henry
VIII., habited in a full suit of armor, as worn by him on the Field of
the Cloth of Gold.

Queen Mary (Bloody Mary) in her rich costume; then comes Queen
Elizabeth, dressed exactly as she is in Holbein's well-known picture at
Hampton Court Palace; Charles I. in the splendid suit of chevalier armor
of his time; and Oliver Cromwell in his russet boots, leather surcoat,
steel gorget and breastplate, broad hat, and coarse, square features;
George III. in the robes of the Order of St. Patrick; his majesty George
IV. in that stunning costume of silk stockings, breeches, &c., and the
robes of the Order of the Garter over it, in which he figures in the
picture that we are all so familiar with.

Then we have Victoria and her whole family, a formidable group in point
of numbers, very well executed figures, and clad in rich and
fashionably-made costumes, some of which are veritable court dresses,
which have been purchased after being cast aside by the wearers.
Certainly the outfit of these figures must be a heavy expense, as is
evident to the most casual observer.

So much for the hall of English sovereigns. The other statues embrace
representations of other monarchs and celebrated personages. Nicholas I.
of Russia's tall figure looms up in his uniform of Russian Guards;
Napoleon III., Marshal St. Arnaud, and General Canrobert in their
dresses of French generals; Abdul Medjid in full Turkish costume, and
the Empress Eugenie in a splendid court dress.

A very fine figure of Charlemagne in full armor, equipped for battle,
which was manufactured for the great exhibition of 1862, is a splendid
specimen of figure-work and modern armor manufacture. Then we came to a
fine figure of Wolsey in his cardinal's dress. Mrs. Siddons in the
character of Queen Katherine, Macready as Coriolanus, and Charles Kean
as Macbeth, are evidence that the theatrical profession is remembered,
while Knox, Calvin, and Wesley indicate attention to the clergy.

The few American figures were for the most part cheaper affairs than the
rest of the collection, and might be suspected, some of them, of being
old ones altered to suit the times. For instance, that of General
McClellan, President Lincoln and his Assassin, _George_ Wilkes Booth, as
the catalogue has it, would hardly pass for likenesses.

There is a very natural, life-like-looking figure of Madame Tussaud
herself, a little old lady in a large old-fashioned bonnet, looking at a
couch upon which reposes a splendid figure of a Sleeping Beauty, so
arranged with clock-work that the bosom rises and falls in regular
pulsations, as if breathing and asleep. Madame Tussaud died in 1850, at
the age of ninety years.

A very clever deception is that of an old gentleman, seated in the
middle of a bench, holding a programme in his hand, and apparently
studying a large group of figures. By an ingenious operation of
machinery, he is made to occasionally raise his head from the paper he
is so carefully perusing, and regard the group in the most natural
manner possible, and afterwards resume his study. This figure is
repeatedly taken by strangers to be a living person, and questions or
observations are frequently addressed to it. One of my own party
politely solicited the loan of the old gentleman's programme a moment,
and only discovered from the wooden character of the shoulder he laid
his hand on, why he was not answered. Ere long he had the satisfaction
of witnessing another person ask the quiet old gentleman to "move along
a bit," and repeat the request till the smothered laughter of the
spectators revealed the deception.

Perhaps the most interesting part of Madame Tussaud's exhibition was the
Napoleon rooms, containing an extensive collection of relics of Napoleon
the Great. These relics are unquestionably authentic, and, of course,
from their character, of great value. There is the camp bedstead upon
which the great warrior rested during seven years of his weary exile at
St. Helena, with the very mattresses and pillows upon which he died,
and, in a glass case near by, the counterpane used upon the bed, and
stained with his blood. This last, a relic, indeed, which the possessors
might, as Mark Antony suggested of napkins dipped in dead Cæsar's
wounds,

        "Dying, mention it within their wills,
        Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,
        Unto their issue."

This bed was purchased of Prince Lucien, Napoleon's brother, for four
hundred and fifty pounds. Then, as if in mockery of human greatness,
there was hung close by this death-bed the coronation robe of Napoleon,
sold at the restoration of Louis XVIII., from the Cathedral of Notre
Dame; also the robe of the Empress Josephine, sold at the same time.
Here, upon the bed, is a wax figure of the great emperor, partially
enveloped in a cloak, the identical one he wore at the battle of
Marengo, and which served as a pall when he was conveyed to the grave in
his rocky prison.

In the room adjoining, the principal object of interest was the military
carriage of the emperor, the same one in which he made the campaign of
Russia, and which was captured by the Prussians on the evening of the
battle of Waterloo. Here also is the carriage used by him during his
exile at St. Helena. Near by is the sword worn during the campaign in
Egypt, his gold repeating watch, cameo ring, tooth-brushes, coffee-pot,
camp knife, fork, and spoon, gold snuff-box, &c.

But the most actual relic, perhaps, is a portion of the real corporeal
Napoleon himself, being nothing more nor less than one of his teeth,
which was drawn by Dr. O'Meara. These relics are of a description to
gratify the taste of the most inveterate relic-hunter. I give a few
more that are pencilled in my note-book as attracting my own attention;
the atlas that Bonaparte used many years, and on which are the plans of
several battles sketched by his own hand,--a most suggestive relic this
of the anxious hours spent in poring over it by the great captain, who
marked out on this little volume those plans which crumbled kingdoms and
dissolved dynasties; simple sketches to look upon, but which were once
fraught with the fate of nations,--his dessert services, locks of his
hair, camp service, shirts, under-waistcoats, and linen handkerchiefs,
pieces of furniture, &c. Besides this large collection of relics of the
great emperor, there are a number of other interesting historical relics
of undoubted authenticity, such as the ribbon of Lord Nelson, a lock of
Wellington's hair, George IV.'s handkerchief, the shirt of Henry IV. of
France, the very one worn by him when assassinated by Ravaillac, and
stained with the blood which followed the murderous knife, Lord Nelson's
coat, the shoe of Pius VI., a ribbon of the Legion of Honor worn by
Louis Philippe, coat and waistcoat of the Duke of Wellington, and, in a
glass case, the three great state robes of George IV. These are of
purple and crimson velvet, lined with ermine, and richly embroidered,
the "three together containing five hundred and sixty-seven feet of
velvet and embroidery,"--so the catalogue tells you,--"and costing
eighteen thousand pounds."

The last department of this exhibition is one the name of which is
quite familiar, and often quoted by American readers, viz., the
Chamber of Horrors. The collection here is of figures of noted
murderers and criminals, said to be portraits of the originals, and
various models and relics. Perhaps the most interesting of the latter
to the spectator is the original knife of the guillotine, used during
the Reign of Terror in Paris. This axe, the catalogue tells us, was
bought by Madame Tussaud of Sanson, grandson of the original
executioner; and the now harmless-looking iron blade, that the
spectator may lay his hands upon, is the terrible instrument that
decapitated over twenty thousand human victims. It has reeked with
the blood of the good, the great, and the tyrannical--the proudest
blood of France and the basest. The visitor may well be excused a
shudder as his hand touches the cold steel that has been bathed in the
blood of the unfortunate Louis XVI., Marie Antoinette, the tyrant
Robespierre, and the thousands of unhappy victims that yielded up
their lives beneath its fatal stroke. I confess that this Chamber of
Horrors is unpleasantly interesting even to the sight-seer. I felt
uncomfortable the brief time I spent there, breathed freer as I
emerged from it, and felt as if escaping pursuit from some of its
ruffianly inmates as I dashed away through the throng of vehicles in a
Hansom cab to my hotel.

Theatre-going in London is an expensive amusement. In the theatres--that
is, the good and respectable ones--there is no chance for people of
moderate means, except the undesirable places that cannot be filled in
any other way than by selling the admission at a rate within their
reach. There is no theatre in London in size, appointments, and
conveniences equal in all respects to the great ones in some of our
large cities, and nothing that can compare with Booth's, of New York, or
the Globe, of Boston. It is impossible to get such an entertainment as
you may have in America at Booth's, Wallack's, or the Globe at anything
like the price.

For instance, at Drury Lane Theatre the prices are, stalls, one dollar
and seventy-five cents, gold; dress circle, one dollar and twenty-eight
cents; second ditto, one dollar; pit, fifty cents; gallery, twenty-five
cents. It should be understood that "stalls" take in the whole of the
desirable part of the parquet, and that some half dozen rows of extreme
back seats, in the draught of the doors, and almost beyond hearing and
sight of the stage, are denominated "the pit;" and in some theatres it
is a "pit" indeed. The auditoriums of their theatres are in no way so
clean, well kept, or bright looking as those of leading American
theatres in New York and Boston. Even at the old dirty Princess's
Theatre, where I saw Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra very handsomely
put upon the stage, and Miss Glyn as Cleopatra, the orchestra stalls
cost one dollar and fifty cents, gold, and the pit, which was way back
under the boxes, was vocal between the acts with venders of oranges,
nuts, and ginger beer.

The Lyceum Theatre, where I saw Fechter play, was a neat and
well-ordered establishment, and stalls, one dollar and sixty cents;
upper circle, one dollar; pit, fifty cents. I give the prices in
American money, gold, that they may be compared with our own. There is
not a theatre in London where a performance, and accommodation to the
auditor equal to that at the Boston Museum, can be had for three times
the price of admission to that establishment. The prices above given
being about the average at the leading theatres, what does the reader
expect he will have to pay for the opera? Let us see.

At Her Majesty's Theatre, where I had the pleasure of listening to
Nilsson in Traviata and Titiens, in Oberon, Fidelio, &c., my play-bill
informs me the prices are, pit stalls, fifteen shillings (about three
dollars and forty cents in gold), boxes, two dollars and a half, and
gallery, sixty cents. The pit, at this theatre, consists of four or five
rows of narrow boards, at the extreme rear of the parquet, purposely
made as narrow, uncomfortable, and inconvenient as can be, so that it is
almost impossible to sit through a performance on them; yet, during the
one act that I occupied a seat there, it was nearly filled with very
respectable people, in full dress, no one being admitted who is not so
costumed. I presume that the labor expended to render these seats
disagreeable, is to force the public into the higher-priced ones, which
are easy, comfortable, and even luxurious, and where one may be pretty
sure that he is in the best society.

An American lady, who goes to the theatre or opera in London, must
remember that she will not be permitted to enter the stalls or boxes
with a bonnet on, no matter how infinitesimal, elegant, or expensive it
may be. Full dress means, no bonnet for ladies, and dress coats, dark
vests and pantaloons for gentlemen. A lady seen passing in with bonnet
on is expected to leave it at the cloak-room, to be redeemed by payment
of sixpence on coming out; and no amount of argument will admit an
independent American voter, who comes in a frock coat and drab
pantaloons. I saw an ingenious American once, who overcame the frock
coat difficulty by stepping outside, and getting his companion to pin up
the skirts of that offending garment at each side, so that it made an
extemporaneous "claw hammer" that passed without question.

Bills of the play are not furnished by the theatre to its patrons. You
buy a big one for a penny of a boy outside the theatre, as you arrive at
the door, that will soil your kid gloves with printer's ink; or a small
one, for two or three pence, of the usher inside, who shows you a seat,
and "expects something," as everybody does, in England. At the opera
your bill will cost you sixpence, for it is expected that "the nobs" who
go there never carry anything so base as copper in their pouches.
Indeed, I noticed that one of the aforesaid ushers, to whom I handed a
shilling, stepped briskly away, and omitted to return me any change. I
learned better than to hand ushers shillings, and expect change, after a
few nights' experience, and had threepences ready, after the English
style.

We need not go through a description of the theatres of London. There
are as many varieties, and more, than in New York; and you may go from
the grand opera, which is the best of that kind of entertainment, to the
Alhambra, a grand variety affair, but most completely got up in all
departments, or the cheaper theatres, where the blood-and-thunder drama
is produced for a shilling or sixpence a ticket.

The appearance of the dress circle boxes at the opera is magnificent.
The ladies fairly blaze with diamonds and jewels, while silks, luxurious
laces, splendid fans, scarfs, shawls, and superb costumes, make a
brilliant picture that it is interesting to look upon. The extreme
_décolleté_ style of dress, however, was most remarkable. I have seen
nothing to compare with it, even at the Jardin Mabille, or at the Cafés
Chantants, in Paris, where the performers are wont to make so much
display of their charms. Upon the stage, such undressing of the neck and
bust would excite severe criticism, but in the fashionable boxes of the
opera, it passes unchallenged.

The liberal encouragement which the opera receives in England enables
the management to produce it in far more complete and perfect style than
it is usually seen in America. Indeed, some of the wretched, slipshod
performances that have been given under the name of grand opera in
America, would be hissed from the stage in London, Paris, or Italy. In
operatic performances in America, we have the parts of two or three
principals well done, but all else slipshod and imperfect, and the
effect of the opera itself too frequently marred by the outrageous
cuttings, transpositions, and alterations made by managers to adapt it
to their resources.

The production of the opera in London is made with an orchestra of
nearly a hundred performers, a well-trained chorus of sixty voices,
dresses of great elegance, and correct and appropriate costume and
style, even to the humblest performer. The opera, in all its details, is
well performed, and the music correctly given; the scenery and scenic
effects excellent, the auxiliaries abundant, so that a stage army looks
something like an army, and not a corporal's guard; a village festival
something like that rustic celebration, and not like the caperings of a
few Hibernians, who have plundered a pawnbroker's shop, and are dancing
in the stolen clothes.

Apropos of amusements, a very pleasant excursion is it by rail to the
Sydenham Crystal Palace, where great cheap concerts are given, and one
of those places in England where the people can get so much amusement,
entertainment, and recreation for so little money. A ticket, including
admission to the palace and grounds, and passage to and from London on
the railroad, is sold at a very low sum, the entertainment being
generally on Saturdays, which, with many, is a half holiday. Two of the
London railways unite in a large, handsome station at Sydenham, from
which one may walk under a broad, covered passage directly into the
palace, this covered way being a colonnade seven hundred and twenty
feet long, seventeen feet wide, and twenty feet high, reaching one of
the great wings of the palace.

And this magnificent structure, its splendid grounds and endless museum
of novelties, is a monument of English public spirit and liberality; for
it was planned, erected, and the whole enterprise carried out by a
number of gentlemen, who believed that a permanent edifice, like the one
which held the great exhibition in Hyde Park in 1851, would be of great
benefit in furthering the education of the people, and affording
sensible and innocent recreation at the cheapest possible rate. And
right nobly have they performed their work in the production of this
magnificent structure, which fairly staggers the American visitor by its
beauty, as well as its vastness, and its wondrous grace and lightness.
It is a great monument of graceful curves and flashing glass, situated
upon the summit of a gradual slope, with superb broad terraces, adorned
with statues, grand flights of steps descending to elegantly laid out
grounds, with shrubs, flowers, trees, fountains, ponds, rustic arbors,
and beautiful walks; and these front terraces and grounds commanding one
of those splendid landscape pictures for which England is so celebrated.

There is no better way of giving the reader an idea of the size of this
magnificent structure, than by means of a few figures. The palace was
completed in 1854 by a joint-stock company of gentlemen. It occupies,
with its gardens and grounds, about three hundred acres, and cost, when
completed, with its gardens, nearly two million pounds sterling. Think
of the public being able to visit this splendid place for one shilling!

The length of the main building of the palace is over sixteen hundred
feet; the width throughout the nave, three hundred and twelve feet,
which, at the grand centre, is increased to three hundred and
eighty-four feet; in addition to which are two great wings, of five
hundred and seventy-four feet each; the height, from floor to ceiling,
one hundred and ten feet; twenty-five acres of glass, weighing five
hundred tons, were used in the building, and nine thousand six hundred
and forty-one tons of iron. Graceful galleries run around the sides, and
grand mammoth concerts and other entertainments are given in the central
transept, the arch of which rises in a graceful span to the height of
one hundred and seventy-five feet: the whole of one end of this transept
is occupied by seats, rising one above the other, for the accommodation
of four thousand performers, who performed at the great Handel Festival.
A great organ, built expressly for the place, occupies a position at the
rear of these orchestra seats.

I was present at a grand musical performance in this transept, and, from
an elevated seat in the orchestra, had a superb view of the whole
audience below, which occupied chairs placed in the transept; these
chairs which now faced the organ and orchestra, when turned directly
about, would face the stage of a theatre, upon which other performances
were given. The view of the crowd, from the elevated position I
occupied, gave it the appearance of a huge variegated flower-bed, and
its size may be realized when the reader is informed that there were
_eight thousand_ people present; besides these, there were between three
and four thousand more in different parts of the building and grounds. I
obtained these figures from the official authorities, who informed me
that on greater occasions, when the performance is more attractive, or
upon whole holidays, the number is very much larger.

The nave is divided into sections, or courts; such as the Sheffield
Court, Manufacturing Court, Glass and China Court, Stationary Court,
Egyptian Court, Italian Court, Renaissance Court, &c. These courts are
filled with the products of the industry or art of the periods for which
they are named. Thus, in the English Mediæval Court are splendid
reproductions of mediæval architecture, such as the elegant doorway of
Rochester Cathedral, doorway of Worcester Cathedral, the splendid Easter
sepulchre from Hawton Church, the monument of Humphrey do Bohun from
Hereford Cathedral, with the effigy of the knight in complete armor, and
various architectural specimens from the ancient churches and
magnificent cathedrals of England, all exact counterfeit presentments,
executed in a sort of composition in imitation of the original. The
Renaissance Court contains elegant reproductions of celebrated specimens
of architecture of that period, elaborate and profuse in decoration.
Then we have the Elizabethan, Italian, and Greek Courts, each a complete
museum in itself of reproductions of architecture, and celebrated
monuments of their periods. The Sheffield, Manufacturers, Glass and
China Courts, &c., contain splendid exhibitions of specimens of the
leading manufacturers, of those species of goods, of some of the best
products of their factories.

Stalls are prepared for the sales of the lighter articles, and
attendants are present at the different show-cases, or departments to
make explanations, or take orders from visitors who may be inclined. The
display of English manufactures was a very good one, and the opportunity
afforded them to display and advertise them, well improved by
exhibitors. The interior of the palace contains also a great variety of
statues, casts, models, artistic groups, and other works of art. The
visitor need not leave for refreshments, as large and well-served
restaurants for ladies and gentlemen are at either end of the building,
beneath its roof.

Leaving the building for the grounds, we first step out upon a great
terrace, fifteen hundred and seventy-six feet in length and fifty feet
wide. Upon its parapet are twenty-six allegorical marble statues; and
from this superb promenade the spectator has a fine view of the charming
landscape, backed by blue hills in the distance, and the beautiful
grounds, directly beneath the terrace, which are reached by a broad
flight of steps, ninety-six feet wide, and are picturesquely laid out. A
broad walk, nearly one hundred feet wide, six or eight fountains
throwing up their sparkling streams, artificial lakes, beds of
gay-colored flowers, curious ornamental temples and structures, tend to
make the whole novel and attractive. After a stroll in this garden,
visitors may saunter off to the other adjacent grounds at pleasure.

Leaving the gardens directly in front of the palace for the extensive
pleasure-grounds connected with it, we passed through a beautiful shaded
lane, and came first to the archery grounds, where groups were trying
their skill in that old English pastime. Not far from here, a broad,
level place, with close-cut, hard-rolled turf was kept for the
cricketing grounds, where groups of players were scattered here and
there, enjoying that game. Near by are rifle and pistol shooting
galleries. In another portion of the grounds is an angling and boating
lake, a maze, American swings, merry go-arounds, and other amusements
for the people, the performances of those engaged in these games
affording entertainment to hundreds of lookers-on.

A whole day may be very pleasantly and profitably spent at the Sydenham
Palace, the attractions of which we have given but the merest sketch of;
and that they are appreciated by the people is evidenced by the fact
that the number of visitors are over a million and a half per annum. The
railroad companies evidently make a good thing of it, and by means of
very cheap excursion tickets, especially on holidays, induce immense
numbers to come out from the city.

This Crystal Palace is the same one which stood in Hyde Park; only
when it rose again at Sydenham, it was with many alterations and
improvements. It was a sad sight to see, when we were there, large
portions of the northern end, including that known as the tropical
end,--the Assyrian and Byzantine Courts,--in ruins from the effects of
the fire a few years ago; yet that destroyed seems small in comparison
with the immense area still left.

The parks of London have been described so very often that we must pass
them with brief allusion. Their vast extent is what first strikes the
American visitor with astonishment, especially those who have moulded
their ideas after Boston Common, or even Central Park of New York. Hyde
Park, in London, contains three hundred and ninety acres; and we took a
lounge in Rotten Row at the fashionable hour, between five and six in
the afternoon, when the drive was crowded with stylish equipages; some
with coroneted panels and liveried footmen, just such as we see in
pictures. Then there were numerous equestrians, among whom were
gentlemen mounted upon magnificent blood horses, followed at a
respectful distance by their mounted grooms, and gracefully tipping
their hats to the fair occupants of the carriages. Mounted policemen,
along the whole length of the drive, prevented any carriage from getting
out of line or creating confusion; and really the display of splendid
equipages, fine horses, and beautiful women, in Hyde Park, of an
afternoon, during the season, is one of the sights of London that no
stranger should miss.

Every boy in America, who is old enough to read a story-book, has heard
of the Zoölogical Gardens at Regent's Park, London; and it is one of the
sights that the visitor, no matter how short his visit, classes among
those he must see. This collection of natural history specimens was
first opened to the public as long ago as 1828; it is one in which the
Londoners take great pride, and the Zoölogical Society expend large sums
of money in procuring rare and good living specimens. Improvements are
also made every year in the grounds, and the exhibition is now a most
superb and interesting one, and conducted in the most liberal manner.

Visitors are admitted on Mondays at sixpence each; on other days the
price of admission is a shilling. Here one has an opportunity of seeing
birds and animals with sufficient space to move about and stretch their
limbs in, instead of the cruelly cramped quarters in which we have been
accustomed to view them confined in travelling menageries, so cruelly
small as to call for action of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty
to Animals, to interfere in behalf of the poor brutes, who often have
only space to stand up in, and none to move about in, although their
nature be one requiring exercise; and they therefore become poor,
spiritless specimens, dying by slow torture of close confinement.

Here, however, the visitor finds different specimens of eagles,
vultures, and other huge birds, each in great cages twenty feet high,
and nearly as many square; owls, hawks, and other birds of prey, with
cages big enough to fly about in; ibis, elegant flamingoes, pelicans,
and water birds, in large enclosures, with ponds for them to enjoy
their favorite pursuits. For some of the smaller birds aviaries were
arranged, the size of a large room, part of it out in the open air,
with shrubs and trees, and the other half beneath shelter--a necessity
for some species of tropical birds. One, therefore, might look upon
the flashing plumage and curious shapes of tropical birds flitting
among the trees, and see all colors and every variety at the different
aviaries. I saw the sea birds in a place which, by artificial means,
was made to represent the sea-shore; there were rocks, marine plants,
sea shells, sand, and salt water; and ducks, sandpipers, and gulls
dove, ran and flew about very much as if they were at home. Passing
into a house devoted exclusively to parrots, we were almost deafened
by the shrieking, cat-calls, whistling, and screaming of two or three
hundred of every hue, size, kind, and variety of these birds; there
were gorgeous fellows with crimson coronets, and tails a yard in
length,--blue, green, yellow, crimson, variegated, black, white, in
fact every known color: the din was terrific, and the shouting of all
sorts of parrot expressions very funny.

The collection of birds is very large, from the little wren to great
stalking ostriches, vultures, and bald eagles, and only lacked the great
condor of South America.

The animals were well cared for. Here were a pair of huge rhinoceroses
enjoying themselves in a large, muddy pond in the midst of their
enclosure, a stable afforded them dry in-door quarters when they chose
to go in, and a passage through these stables enabled visitors always to
see the animals when they were in-doors. Two huge hippopotami were also
similarly provided for. Next came several elephants, great and small,
with outer enclosures, where they received donations of buns and fruit,
and stables for private life; also a splendid specimen of the giraffe,
&c.

There was a vast collection of different specimens of deer, from the
huge antlered elk to the graceful little gazelle, the size of an English
terrier.

Then we came to the bear-pits. Here sauntered a great polar bear in a
large enclosure, in which a tank of water was provided for his bearship
to disport himself; a long row of great roomy cages of lions, tigers,
leopards, and panthers, with their supple limbs, sleek hides, and wicked
eyes; a splendid collection of the wolf, fox, and raccoon tribe;
specimens of different varieties of sheep; the alpaca, zebras, camels,
elands, and bison; enclosed ponds, with magnificent specimens of water
fowl from all parts of the world; then there was the beaver pond, with
his wood, and his dam, and hut; the seal tank and otter pond, with their
occupants not always in view, but watched for by a curious crowd; and,
near by, a house full of specimens of armadillos, and other small and
curious animals.

The reptile house, with its collection of different specimens of snakes,
from the huge boa constrictor to the small, wicked-looking viper, was
not a pleasant sight to look upon; but one of the most popular
departments of the whole exhibition was the monkey house, a building
with ample space for displaying all the different specimens of this
mischievous little caricature of man. In the centre of the room was a
very large cage, fitted up with rings, ladders, trapezes, bars, &c.,
like a gymnasium, and in this the antics of a score of natural acrobats
kept the spectators, who are always numerous in this apartment, in a
continued roar of laughter.

Not the least amusing performance here was that of a huge old monkey,
the chief of the cage by common consent, who, after looking sleepily for
some half hour at the performances of his lesser brethren from the door
of his hut in a lofty corner, suddenly descended, and, as if to show
what he could do, immediately went through the whole performances
seriatim. He swung by the rings, leaped from trapeze to trapeze, swung
from ladder to bar, leaped from shelf to shelf, sent small monkeys
flying and screaming in every direction, and then, amid a general
chattering and grinning, retired to his perch, and, drawing a piece of
old blanket about his shoulders, looked calmly down upon the scene
below, like a rheumatic old man at the antics of a party of boys.

The young visitors at the Zoölogical Gardens have opportunity afforded
them to ride the elephants and camels, and a band plays in the gardens
on Saturdays. Members of the society have access to a library, picture
gallery, and enjoy various other advantages in assistance of the study
and investigation of natural history.

The Tower of London! How the scenes of England's history rise before the
imagination, in which this old fortress, palace and prison by turns, has
figured! It is a structure of which every part seems replete with story,
and every step the visitor makes brings him to some point that has an
interest attached to it from its connection with the history of the
past.

The Tower has witnessed some of the proudest pageants of England's
glory, and some of the blackest deeds of her tyranny and shame. The
names of fair women, brave men, soldiers, sages, monarchs, and nobles,--

        "Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,"--

are twined within its chronicles, and its hard, pitiless stones have
frozen hope into despair in some of the noblest hearts that ever beat on
English soil.

Here Lady Jane Grey fell beneath the headsman's axe; Clarence was
drowned in the butt of Malmsey; Anne Boleyn was imprisoned, and later
her proud daughter, Princess, afterwards Queen, Elizabeth, passed a
prisoner through the water-gate; Buckingham, Stafford, William Wallace,
Essex, Elizabeth's favorite, Lord Bacon, Cranmer, Latimer, and Ridley
heard its gates clang behind them; King Henry VI. and the princes were
murdered here by Richard III.'s orders. But why continue the catalogue
of names, of deeds, and of scenes that come thronging into one's mind as
we approach this ancient pile, that is invested with more historic
interest than any other European palace or prison?

Its foundation dates back to the time of Cæsar, and one of the towers is
called Cæsar's Tower to this day, though the buildings, as they now
stand, were commenced in the time of William the Conqueror.

Shakespeare has made this grim fortress so prominent a picture in his
plays, that, with the same fancy that one looks for Shylock to-day upon
the crowded Rialto, does the visitor, on approaching the Tower, shudder
as if he were to encounter the crooked form of Gloucester, or hear, in
the dark passages, the mournful wail of the spirits of the two innocent
princes, torn from their mother's arms, and dying by his cruel mandate.

We sought the Tower on foot, but soon becoming entangled in a maze of
crooked, narrow, and dirty streets, which doubtless might be very
interesting to the antiquarian, but rather disagreeable to the stranger,
we were glad to hail a cab, and be driven down to it. Here we found that
the Tower of London was a great fortress, with over thirteen acres
enclosed within its outer wall and the principal citadel, or White
Tower, as it is called, with its one round and three square steeples,
the most prominent one in view on approaching, and in appearance that
which many of us are familiar with from engravings.

There are no less than thirteen towers in the enclosure, viz.: the
Bloody Tower, the Bell Tower, Beauchamp Tower, Devereux Tower, Flint
Tower, Bowyer Tower, Brick Tower, Jewel Tower, Constable Tower, Salt
Tower, Record Tower, and Broad Arrow Tower. We come to the entrance
gate, where visitors are received, and wait in a little office until
twelve are assembled, or a warder will take charge of a party every half
hour to go the rounds. The site of this building was where the lions
were formerly kept. The warders, in their costume of yeomen of the guard
of Henry VIII.'s time, are among the curiosities of the place. Their
uniform, consisting of a low-crowned velvet hat, surrounded by a sort of
garland, a broad ruff about the neck, and dark-blue frock, or tunic,
with the crown, rose, shamrock, and thistle on the breast, and other
embroidery upon the skirts, flaps, and belts, with trunks gathered at
the knee with a gay-colored rosette, tight silk stockings and rosetted
shoes, looked oddly enough, and as if some company of supernumeraries,
engaged for a grand theatrical spectacle, had come out in open daylight.
These warders are principally old soldiers, who receive the position as
a reward for bravery or faithful service.

The Tower is open to visitors from ten to four; the fee of admission
sixpence, and sixpence more is charged for admission to the depository
of the crown jewels; conspicuous placards inform the visitor that the
warders have no right to demand or receive any further fee from
visitors; but who has ever travelled in England, and gone sight-seeing
there, but knows this to be, if he is posted, an invitation to try the
power of an extra shilling when occasion occurs, and which he generally
finds purchases a desirable addition to his comfort and enjoyment?

However, on we go, having purchased tickets and guide-books, following
the warder, who repeats the set description, that he has recited so
often, in a tedious, monotonous tone, from which he is only driven by
the curious questions of eager Yankees, often far out of his depth in
the way of knowledge of what certain rooms, towers, gates, and passages
are noted for. We hurried on over the moat bridge, and halted to look at
Traitor's Gate; and I even descended to stand upon the landing-steps
where so many illustrious prisoners had stepped from the barge on their
way to the prisons. Sidney, Russell, Cranmer, and More had landed here,
and Anne Boleyn's dainty feet, and Elizabeth's high-heeled slippers
pressed its damp stones. On we pass by the different towers, the warder
desirous of our seeing what appears to him (an old soldier) the lion of
the place--the armory of modern weapons, which we are straightway shown.
Thousands and thousands of weapons--pistols, swords, cutlasses, and
bayonets--are kept here, the small arms being arranged most ingeniously
into a number of astonishing figures. Here were the Prince of Wales's
triple feather in glittering bayonets, a great sunburst made wholly of
ramrods, a huge crown of swords, and stars, and Maltese crosses of
pistols and bayonets; the serried rows of muskets, rifles, and small
arms in the great hall would have equipped an army of a hundred
thousand.

But we at last got into the Beauchamp, or "Beechum" Tower, as our guide
called it; and here we began to visit the prisons of the unhappy
captives that have fretted their proud spirits in this gloomy fortress.
Upon the walls of the guarded rooms they occupied they have left
inscriptions and sculpture wrought with rude instruments and infinite
toil, during the tedious hours of their imprisonment. Here is an
elaborate carving, by Dudley, Earl of Warwick, brother to the Lord
Dudley who married Lady Jane Grey. It is a shield, bearing the Lion,
Bear, and Ragged Staff, and surrounded by a wreath of oak leaves, roses,
and acorns, all cut in the stone, and underneath an inscription, in Old
English letters, stating that his four brothers were imprisoned here. In
another room is the word JANE cut, which is said to refer to Lady Jane
Grey, and to have been cut by her husband. Marmaduke Neville has cut his
name in the pitiless stone, and a cross, bleeding heart, skeleton, and
the word Peverel, wrought under it, tell us that one of the Peverels of
Devonshire has been confined here: over the fireplace the guide points
us to the autograph of Philip Howard, Earl of Arundel, who was beheaded
in 1572 for aspiring to the hand of Mary, Queen of Scots. Arthur Poole,
who conspired to place Mary on the English throne, left an inscription
"I.H.S. A passage perillus makethe a port pleasant." 1568. A. Poole.
Numerous other similar mementos are shown, cut in the walls of the
apartments of this tower, the work of the prisoners who formerly
occupied them, and the names thus left are often those who figure in
English history.

In the White Tower we were shown a room, ten by eight, receiving light
only from the entrance, which, it is stated, was one of the rooms
occupied by Sir Walter Raleigh, and that in it he wrote his History of
the World. Right in front of this, in the centre of the room, stands the
beheading block that has been used on Tower Hill, and the executioner's
axe beside it, which, in Elizabeth's reign, severed Essex's head from
his body. The block bears the marks of service in the shape of more than
one dint from the weapon of death. Some idea of the strength of this
tower, and its security as a prison, may be had from the walls, which
are from twelve to fourteen feet in thickness. In this White Tower is
the great Council Chamber of the early English kings, and here, beneath
the great, massive-timbered roof, we stand where King Richard II.
resigned his crown to Bolingbroke, in 1399. We pass on to the Brick
Tower, another prison, where Raleigh was once confined--Raleigh, the
friend of Bacon and Shakespeare, who here spent the last ten days of his
life, and many a weary year before. But we found there was one tower,
among others, that was not visited by the guide with our party; it was
the one of all others we wished to see--the Bloody Tower.

"We are not hallowed to show that," said our guide, in response to our
solicitations.

"Is it not possible?" said I, in a low tone, putting one hand into my
pocket, jingling some loose silver, and looking the burly warder in the
eye, as I fell back a little from the rest of the party.

"Hi couldn't say really, but (_sotto voce_, as a shilling dropped into
his palm, that was conveniently open behind him) hif you'll lag be'ind
the party when they go out, I'll see what can be done."

We took occasion to follow the warder's hint, and after he had conducted
the others to the gate, he returned, and took us to the room over the
entrance-gate in which the princes were lodged, and where, by their
uncle's order, they were smothered. This little room--about twelve feet
square--has an inner window, through which, it is said, Tyrell, the
crook-back tyrant's instrument, looked, after the murder had been done
by his hired ruffians, to be sure that his master's fell purpose was
complete. This room, small as it was, had a pleasant outlook, commanding
views of the interior of the Tower wards and gardens--in fact, it used
to be called Garden Tower--and the Thames River. The stairs leading from
this part of the Tower to the gateway were shown us, and the place, not
far from their foot, where the supposed remains of these unfortunate
princes were afterwards discovered, and removed and interred at
Westminster Abbey.

After seeing various dismal vaults and cells, which our guide, desirous
of showing his appreciation of our bounty, conducted us to beneath the
towers, holding his candle to show the carving made by wretched
prisoners by the dim light that struggled in when they were confined
there, he took us to one, his description of which rather shook our
faith in his veracity. It was a small, arched cell, about ten feet high,
and not more than four feet deep, without grating, window, or aperture,
except a door.

"This," said he, swinging open the huge iron-strapped and bolted door,
"this was Guy Fawkes's dungeon; he was confined here three days, with no
more light and h'air than he could get through the key-'ole."

"But," said I, "no man could live in that cell _half_ a day; he would
die for lack of air."

"But," said our cicerone, depreciatingly, "your _h_onor doesn't consider
the size of the key-'ole."

No, but we did the size of the story, and felt convinced that we were
getting a full shilling's worth extra.

But if there were any doubt about the Guy Fawkes cell, there was none
about many other points of historical interest, which, after learning
the names of a few of the principal ones, could be easily located by
those familiar with the history of the Tower, and even by those of us
who only carried some of the leading events of England's history in
mind. One of these points was a little enclosed square, in front of St.
Peter's Chapel, in the open space formed by that edifice on one side,
Beauchamp Tower on the other, and the White Tower on the third, in the
place known as Tower Green. This little square, of scarce a dozen feet,
railed with iron to guard the bright greensward from profane tread, is
the spot on which stood the scaffold, where, on the 19th of May, 1536,
Anne Boleyn bent her fair head to the block; the fall of which beneath
one blow of the executioner's sword, was announced by the discharge of a
gun from the Tower ramparts, so that her husband, that savage and brutal
British king, who was hunting in Epping Forest, might be apprised that
she had yielded up her life; and history tells us that this royal brute
of the sixteenth century returned that very evening gayly from the
chase, and on the following morning married Jane Seymour.

Here, also, upon the earth enclosed in the little square round which we
were standing, poured forth the precious blood of Bloody Mary's victim,
Lady Jane Grey; here is where, after saying to the executioner, "I pray
you despatch me quickly," she knelt down, groped for the fatal block,
bent her innocent neck, and passed, with holy words upon her lips, into
that land where opposing creeds shall not harass, nor royal ambition
persecute.

Here also was that murder (it could not be called execution) done by
order of Henry VIII. on the Countess of Salisbury, a woman, seventy
years of age, condemned to death without any form of trial whatever;
who, conscious of her innocence, refused to place her head upon the
block. "So traitors used to do, and I am no traitor," said the brave old
countess, as she struggled fiercely with her murderers, till, weak and
bleeding from the soldiers' pikes, she was dragged to the block by her
gray hair, held down till the executioner performed his office, and the
head of the last of the Plantagenets, the daughter of the murdered
Clarence, fell; and another was added to the list of enormities
committed by the bloated and sensual despot who wielded the sceptre of
England.

The soil within this little enclosure is rich with the blood of the
innocent victims of royal tyranny; and it was not astonishing that we
lingered here beyond the patience of our guide.

The collection of ancient armor and arms at the Tower is one of great
interest, especially that known as the Horse Armory, which contains,
besides a large and curious collection of portions of armor and weapons,
a great number of equestrian figures, fully armed and equipped in suits
of armor of various periods between Edward I., 1272, and the death of
James I., 1625. This building is over one hundred and fifty feet long,
by about thirty-five wide, and is occupied by a double row of these
figures, whose martial and life-like appearance almost startles the
visitor as he steps in amid this warlike array of mailed knights, all in
the different attitudes of the tilting-ground or battle-field, silent
and immovable as if they had suddenly been checked in mid career by a
touch from the wand of some powerful enchanter.

Here, in flexible chain-mail hood, shirt, and spurs, stands the effigy
of Edward I. (1272), the king in the act of drawing his sword; and clad
in this armor were the knights who were borne to the earth on the fields
of Dunbar and Bannockburn. Next rides at full tilt, with lance in rest,
and horse's head defended by spiked chanfron, and saddle decorated with
the king's badges, Edward IV., 1483; then we have the armor worn in the
Wars of the Roses, and at Bosworth Field; here a suit worn by a
swordsman in Henry VII.'s time, about 1487; next, a powerful charger,
upon the full leap, bears the burly figure of Henry VIII., in a splendid
suit of tilting armor, inlaid with gold: this suit is one which is known
to have belonged to the tyrant; a sword is at the side of the figure,
and the right hand grasps an iron mace. A splendid suit of armor is that
of a knight of Edward VI.'s time (1552), covered all with beautiful
arabesque work, inlaid with gold, and a specimen of workmanship which,
it seemed to me, any of our most skilful jewellers of the present day
might be proud of.

Then we have the very suit of armor that was worn by Robert Dudley, Earl
of Leicester, which is profusely decorated with that oft-mentioned badge
of the Dudleys, the Bear and Ragged Staff that they appeared to be so
fond of cutting, carving, stamping, and engraving upon everything of
theirs, movable and immovable. His initials, R. D., are also engraved on
the knee-guards. The mounted figure of Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex,
1581, in his splendid suit of gilt armor; effigy of Henry, Prince of
Wales, riding, rapier in hand, in the armor made for him in the year
1612--a splendid suit, engraved and adorned with representations of
battle scenes; the armor made for King Charles I. when a youth; James
II., 1685, in his own armor. Besides these were numerous other figures,
clad in suits of various periods. One very curious was a suit wrought in
Henry VIII.'s time, which was composed entirely of movable splints, and
almost as flexible as an overcoat; a figure clad in splendid plated
armor, time of Henry VII., with ancient sword in hand, battle-axe at the
saddle-bow, and the horse protected by armor in front--the whole figure
a perfect realization of the poet's and artist's idea of a brave knight
sheathed in gleaming steel.

The curious old implements of war, from age to age, illustrate the
progress that was made in means for destroying human life; and the
period of the invention of gunpowder is marked by the change which takes
place in the character of the weapons. Here we were shown the English
"bill," which the sturdy soldiers used with such effect when they got
within striking distance of the enemy; a ball armed with protruding iron
spikes, and hitched by a chain to a long pole, and used flail-like,
denominated the "morning star," we should think would have created as
much damage among friends as foes on the battle-field; then there was a
curious contrivance, called the catch-pole--a sort of iron fork, with
springs, for pulling a man off his horse by the head; battle-axes,
halberds, English pikes, partisans, cross-bows, with their iron bolts,
long bows, a series of helmets from 1320 down to 1685--a very curious
collection. Then we have the collection of early fire-arms, petronel,
match-lock, wheel-lock, and, among others, a veritable revolver pistol
of Henry VIII.'s time--an ancient, rude-looking affair, and from which,
we were told by the guide, "Colonel Colt, of the American army,"
borrowed his idea.

"So you see, sir, the _H_american revolver is nothink new--_h_only a
_h_old _H_english _h_idea, _h_arfter _h_all."

This prodigious broadside of h's was unanswerable. So we said nothing,
and shall look for the English model from which the American
sewing-machine was invented.

Of course, there is no one who will think of visiting the Tower without
seeing the regalia of England, which are kept here in their own especial
stronghold, entitled the Jewel Tower. It is astonishing to see the awe
and wonder with which some of the common people look upon these
glittering emblems of royalty, which they seem to regard with a
veneration little short of the sovereign.

The royal crown is a cap of rich purple velvet, enclosed in hoops of
silver, and surmounted by a ball and cross of splendid diamonds. The
Prince of Wales's crown is a simple pure gold crown, without jewels. The
queen's diadem, as it is called, is an elegant affair, rich in huge
diamonds and pearls. This crown was made for the consort of James II.
St. Edwards crown, shaped like the regular English crown,--with which we
are all familiar, from seeing it represented in the arms of England, and
upon British coin,--is of gold, and magnificent with diamonds, rubies,
pearls, emeralds, and other precious stones. Here we also have sight of
the other paraphernalia of royalty, which, to American visitors, looks
somewhat theatrical and absurd, and continually suggest the thought of
what empty pageants are the parade and mummeries of kings and princes.
Here is the royal sceptre, a rod formed of gold, and richly adorned with
jewels, surmounted by a cross, which is placed in the right hand of the
sovereign at coronations; and the rod of equity, another sceptre,
ornamented with diamonds, and surmounted with a dove with outstretched
wings, which is placed in the left hand; a queen's sceptre, richly
ornamented with jewels; the ivory sceptre of James II.'s queen; and the
elegantly-wrought golden one made for Mary, queen of William III.;
swords of Justice and Mercy, coronation bracelets, spurs, anointing
vessels, baptismal font, spoons, salt-cellars, dishes, and numerous
other--coronation tools, I must call them, reminding one, as they lay
there spread out to view in their iron cage, of one of those displays of
bridal presents at an American wedding, where the guest wonders at the
ingenuity of the silversmith in producing so many articles for which,
until he sees them, and is told what they are designed for, he could not
imagine a used could be found.

From the blaze of diamonds and precious stones, and the yellow glitter
of beaten gold, we turned away to once more walk through the historic
old fortress, and examine the record that is left behind of the part it
has played of palace, fortress, and prison.

The tourist gets but a confused idea of the Tower in one visit, hurried
along as he is by the warder, who repeats his monotonous, set
descriptions, with additions and emendations of his own, and if he be
not "i' the vein," omitting, I fancy, some portion of the regular round,
to save himself trouble, especially if an extra _douceur_ has not been
dropped into his itching palm. Then there are walks, passages, windows,
and apartments, all celebrated in one way or another, which are passed
by without notice, from the fact that a full description would occupy
far too much time, but which, if you should happen to have an old
Londoner, with a liking for antiquity, with you, to point them out, and
have read up pretty well the history of the Tower, you find are material
enhancing the pleasure of the visit.

I suppose St. Paul's Church, in London, may be called the twin sight to
the Tower; and so we will visit that noted old monument of Sir
Christopher Wren's architectural skill next. In looking at London _en
masse_, from any point,--that is, as much of it as one can see at
once,--the great dome of St. Paul's stands out a most prominent
landmark, its huge globe rising to the height of three hundred and sixty
feet.

We used to read an imprint, in our young days, stamped upon a
toy-book, containing wonderful colored pictures, which communicated
the fact that it was sold by Blank & Blank, Stationers, St. Paul's
Churchyard, London, and wondered why bookstores were kept in
burial-grounds in London. We found, on coming to London, that St.
Paul's stood in the midst of a cemetery, and that the street or square
around and facing it--probably once a part of the old cemetery--is
called St. Paul's Churchyard; a locality, we take occasion to mention,
that is noted for its excellent shops for cheap dry goods and
haberdashery, or such goods as ladies in America buy at thread
stores, and which can generally be bought here a trifle cheaper than
at other localities in London. St. Paul's Churchyard is also noted for
several excellent lunch or refreshment rooms for ladies and gentlemen,
similar, in some respects, to American confectionery shops, except
that at these, which are designated "pastry-cooks," cakes, cold meats,
tarts, sherry wine, and ale may be had; and I can bear witness, from
personal experience, that the quality of the refreshment, and the
prices charged at the well-kept pastry-cooks' shops of St. Paul's
Churchyard, are such as will satisfy the most exacting taste.

The present St. Paul's, which was completed in 1710, can hardly be
called _Old_ St. Paul's. The first one built on this site was that in
610, by Ethelbert, King of Kent, which was burned, as was also its
successor, which received large estates from the Conqueror. But the Old
St. Paul's we read so much about in novel and story, was the great
cathedral immediately preceding this one, which was six hundred and
ninety feet long, one hundred and thirty broad, was built in the form of
a cross, and sent a spire up five hundred and twenty feet into the air,
and a tower two hundred and sixty feet; which contained seventy-six
chapels, and maintained two hundred priests; from which the pomp and
ceremony of the Romish church vanished before the advance of the
Reformation; which was desecrated by the soldiery in civil war, and
finally went down into a heap of smouldering ruins in 1666, after an
existence of two hundred and twenty years. That was the Old St. Paul's
of ancient story, and of W. Harrison Ainsworth's interesting historical
novel, which closes with an imaginative description of its final
destruction by the great fire of London.

Sir Christopher Wren, the architect, and grand old Free and Accepted
Mason, built the present St. Paul's, laying the corner-stone in 1675,
and the cap-stone in the lantern in 1710--a thirty-five years' piece of
work by one architect, and most ably and faithfully was it done.
Appropriate, indeed, therefore, is the epitaph that is inscribed on the
plain, broad slab that marks his last resting-place in the crypt on the
spot where the high altar of the old cathedral once stood. Beneath this
slab, we are told, rests the builder; but "if ye seek his monument, look
around you." The corner-stone of St. Paul's was laid with masonic
ceremonies, and the trowel and mallet used on the occasion are still
reserved by the lodge whose members at that time officiated.

It is impossible to get a complete general view of the whole of St.
Paul's at once, it is so hemmed in here in the oldest and most crowded
part of London. Here, all around us were Streets whose very names had
the ring of old English history. Watling Street, a narrow lane, but old
as Anglo-Saxon times; Newgate, where the old walls of London stood, is
near at hand, and Cannon Street, which runs into St. Paul's churchyard,
contains the old London Stone, once called the central point of the
city, from which distances were measured; Ludgate Hill, little narrow
Paternoster Row, Cheapside, and Old Bailey are close by, and a few steps
will take you into Fleet Street, St. Martins le Grand, or Bow Lane. You
feel that here, in whatever direction you turn, you are in old London
indeed, near one of the solid, old, historical, and curious parts of it,
that figure in the novels and histories, and with which you mentally
shake hands as with an old acquaintance whom you have long known by
correspondence, but now meet face to face for the first time.

St. Paul's is built of what is called Portland stone; originally, I
should suppose, rather light colored, but now grimed with the universal
blacking of London smoke. The best view of the exterior is from Ludgate
Hill, a street approaching its western front, from which a view of the
steps leading to the grand entrance and the statues in front of it is
obtained.

One does not realize the huge proportions of this great church till he
walks about it. Its entire length, from east to west, is five hundred
feet; the breadth at the great western entrance, above referred to, is
one hundred and eighty feet, and at the transept two hundred and fifty
feet. The entire circumference of the church, as I was told by the
loquacious guide who accompanied me, was two thousand two hundred and
ninety-five feet, and it covers two acres of ground. These figures will
afford the reader opportunity for comparison, and give some idea of its
immensity. The height of the cross on the dome is three hundred and
sixty feet from the street, and the diameter of the great dome itself is
one hundred and eighty feet.

There is ever so much that is curious and interesting to see in St.
Paul's, and, like many other celebrated places, the visitor ascertains
that it cannot be seen in the one, hurried, tourist visit that is
generally given to them, especially if one wishes to give an
intelligible description to friends, or convey his idea to those who
have not had the opportunity of visiting it. For my own part, it was a
second visit to these old churches I used most to enjoy, when, with
local guide-book and pencil in hand, after perhaps refreshing memory by
a peep the night before into English history, I took a two or three
hours' quiet saunter among the aisles, the old crypts, or beneath the
lofty, quiet old arches, or among the monuments, when I could have time
to read the whole inscription, and pause, and think, and dream over the
lives and career of those who slept beneath

        "The storied urn and animated bust."

There are over fifty splendid monuments, chiefly to English naval and
military heroes, in St. Paul's, many of them most elaborate, elegant,
and costly groups of marble statuary; but I left those for the last, and
set about seeing other sights within the old pile, and so first started
for the Whispering Gallery. This is reached by a flight of two hundred
and sixty steps from the transept, and about half way up to it we were
shown the library belonging to the church, containing many rare and
curious works, among them the first book of Common Prayer ever printed,
and a set of old monastic manuscripts, said to have been preserved from
the archives of the old St. Paul's, when it was a Roman cathedral. The
floor of this library is pointed out as a curiosity, being composed of
a mosaic of small pieces of oak wood. Next the visitor is shown the
Geometrical Stairs, a flight of ninety steps, so ingeniously constructed
that they all hang together without any visible means of support except
the bottom step.

Up we go, upward and onward, stopping to see the big bell,--eleven
thousand four hundred and seventy-four pounds,--which is never tolled
except for a death in the royal family. The hour indicated by the big
clock is struck on it by a hammer moved by clock-work; but the big
clapper used in tolling weighs one hundred and eighty pounds. The clock
of St. Paul's seems a gigantic timepiece indeed, when you get up to it;
its faces are fifty-seven feet in circumference, and the minute-hand a
huge bar of steel, weighing seventy-five pounds, and nearly ten feet in
length; the hour or _little_ hand is another bar of about six feet long,
weighing forty-four pounds. The figures on the dial are two feet three
inches long, and the big pendulum, that sets the machinery of this great
time-keeper in motion, is sixteen feet long, with a weight of one
hundred and eight pounds at the end of it.

The Whispering Gallery is a gallery with a light ornamental iron
railing, running entirely round the inside of the base of the cupola, a
distance of one hundred and forty yards; and whispered conversation can
be carried on with persons seated at the extreme opposite side of the
space; the clapping of the hands gives out almost as sharp a report as
the discharge of a rifle. This Whispering Gallery is a fine place to get
a good view of the great paintings in the compartments of the dome,
which represent leading events in the life of St. Paul. It was at the
painting of these pictures that the occurrence took place, so familiar
as a story, where the artist, gradually retiring a few steps backward to
mark the effect of his work, and having unconsciously reached the edge
of the scaffolding, would, by another step, have been precipitated to
the pavement, hundreds of feet below, when a friend, seeing his peril,
with great presence of mind, seized a brush and daubed some fresh paint
upon the picture; the artist rushed forward to prevent the act, and
saved his life. From this gallery we looked far down below to the
tessellated pavement of black and white, the centre beneath the dome
forming a complete mariner's compass, showing the thirty-two points.

Above this are two more galleries around the dome,--the Stone Gallery
and Golden Gallery,--from which a fine view of London, its bridges and
the Thames, can be had, if the day be clear. Above we come to the great
stone lantern, as it is called, which crowns the cathedral, and bears up
its huge ball and cross. Through the floor, in the centre of this
lantern, a hole about the size of a large dinner-plate is cut, and as I
stood there and looked straight down to the floor, over three hundred
feet below, I will confess to a slight feeling of contraction in the
soles of the feet, and after a glance or two at the people below,
dwarfed by distance, I hastily retired with the suspicion of, what if
the plank flooring about that aperture should be weak!

Next comes an ascent into the ball. A series of huge iron bars uphold
the ball and cross; the spaces between them are open to the weather, but
so narrow, that the climber, who makes his way by aid of steps notched
into one of the bars, as he braces his body against the others, could
not possibly get more than an arm out; so the ascent of ten feet or so
is unattended with danger, and we found ourselves standing within this
great globe, which from the streets below appears about the size of a
large foot-ball, but which is of sufficient capacity to contain ten men.
It was a novel experience to stand in that huge metallic sphere, which
was strengthened by great straps of iron almost as big as railroad
rails, and hear the wind, which was blowing freshly at the time, sound
like a steamship's paddle-wheels above our head. Thirty feet above the
globe rises the cross, which is fifteen feet high, and which the guide
affirmed he really believed American visitors would climb and sit
astride of, if there were any way of getting at it.

Having taken the reader to the highest accessible point, we will
now descend to the lowest--the huge crypt, in which rest the last
mortal remains of England's greatest naval and greatest military
heroes,--Nelson and Wellington,--heroes whose pictures you see from one
end of the island to the other, in every conceivable style--their
portraits, naval and battle scenes in which they figured, busts,
monuments, statues, engravings, and bronzes. No picture gallery seems
complete without the death scene of Nelson upon his ship in the hour of
victory; and one sees it so frequently, that he almost yields to the
belief that the subject is as favorite a one with British artists, as
certain scriptural ones used to be with the old Italian painters.

The crypt contains the immense pillars, forty feet square, which support
the floor above, and in that part of it directly beneath the dome is the
splendid black marble sarcophagus of Lord Nelson, surmounted by the
cushion and coronet. This sarcophagus was originally prepared by
Cardinal Wolsey for his own interment at Windsor, but now covers the
remains of the naval hero, and bears upon its side the simple
inscription "HORATIO, VISCOUNT NELSON." In another portion of the crypt
is the large porphyry sarcophagus of the Duke of Wellington, the
enclosure about it lighted with gas from granite candelabra, while all
about in other parts of the crypt, beneath the feet of the visitor, are
memorial slabs, that tell him that the ashes of some of England's most
noted painters and architects rest below. Here lies Sir Christopher
Wren, who built St. Paul's, and who lived to the good old age of
ninety-one. Here sleeps Sir Joshua Reynolds, Sir Thomas Lawrence, and
Benjamin West, painters; here Robert Mylne, who built Blackfriars'
Bridge, and John Rennie, who built Southwark and Waterloo Bridges,
besides many others of more or less note. In another part of the crypt
is preserved the great funeral car, with all its trappings and
decorations, which was used upon the occasion of the funeral ceremonies
of the Duke of Wellington, and which the guide shows with great
_empressement_, expecting an extra sixpence in addition to the three
shillings and two pence you have already expended for tickets to
different parts of the building.

The expenses of the whole sight are as follows: Whispering and other two
galleries, sixpence; to the hall, one shilling and sixpence; library,
geometrical staircase, and clock, eight-pence; crypts, sixpence. Total,
three shillings and two-pence. And now, having seen all else, we take a
saunter through the body of the church, and a glance at the monuments
erected to the memory of those who have added to England's glory upon
the sea and the field of battle.

One of the first monumental marble groups that the visitor observes on
entering is that of Sir William Ponsonby, whose horse fell under him in
the battle of Waterloo, leaving him to the lances of the French
cuirassiers. It represents Ponsonby as a half-clad figure, slipping from
his horse, that has fallen to its knees, and holding up his hand, as he
dies, to receive a wreath from a rather stiff-looking marble angel, that
has opportunely descended at that moment.

The statue of Dr. Samuel Johnson, represented with a scroll in his hand,
and in the attitude of deep thought, stands upon a pedestal bearing a
long Latin inscription.

The monument by Flaxman to Lord Nelson is quite an elaborate one. It
represents him in his naval full dress, and a cloak falling from his
shoulders, standing upon a pedestal, leaning upon an anchor and coil of
rope. Upon the side of the pedestal are cut allegorical representations
of the North Sea, the German Ocean, the Nile, and the Mediterranean, and
the words Copenhagen--Nile--Trafalgar. At one side of the pedestal
crouches a huge marble lion. At the other stands Britannia, with two
young sailors, pointing out the hero to them for their imitation.

The statue of John Howard, the philanthropist, represents him in Roman
costume, trampling upon some fetters, a key in his right hand, and a
scroll in his left. A bass-relief on the pedestal represents the
benevolent man entering a prison, and bringing food and clothing to
prisoners. A very beautiful inscription tells of his many virtues, his
modesty and worth; of his having received the thanks of both Houses of
British and Irish Parliaments for his services rendered to his country
and mankind, and that his modesty alone defeated various efforts which
were made during his life to erect this statue.

There is a fine statue of Bishop Heber, who, half a century ago (May 15,
1819), wrote the beautiful missionary hymn, "From Greenland's icy
mountains," which has since then been translated into foreign tongues at
every missionary station, and sung all over the world. The statue,
executed by Chantrey, represents the bishop kneeling, with his hand
resting upon the Holy Bible.

There are two monuments that will attract the attention of Americans,
from the fact of their being in memory of generals who gained their
laurels in military operations in this country. The first is that of
General Robert Ross, who, in 1814, "executed an enterprise against
Washington, the capital of the United States of America, with complete
success." Valor is represented as placing an American flag upon the
general's tomb, over which Britannia is weeping,--maybe at the vandalism
of the "enterprise." The other monument represents Generals Pakenham and
Gibbs, in full uniform, who, as the inscription informs us, "fell
gloriously, on the 8th of January, 1815, while leading the troops to an
attack of the enemy's works in front of New Orleans."

Lord Collingwood, who was vice-admiral, and commanded the larboard
division at the battle of Trafalgar, has a splendid monument, upon which
a man-of-war is represented bringing home his remains, attended by Fame
and other allegorical figures. That eminent surgeon, Sir Astley Cooper,
who died in 1842, has a fine monument, erected by his contemporaries and
pupils.

A splendid marble group, representing a war-horse bounding over a fallen
soldier, while his rider is falling from the saddle into the arms of a
Highlander, is erected to the memory of Sir Ralph Abercromby, who fell
in Egypt in 1801. A marble figure of a sphinx reposes each side of the
monument. The statue of Sir Joshua Reynolds is by Flaxman, and
represents him clad in the robes of a doctor of law, with a volume in
one hand, and the other resting upon a medallion of Michael Angelo. The
inscription, in Latin, describes him as "prince of the painters of his
age."

Numerous other groups of statuary from the monuments of naval and
military heroes represent them surrounded by allegorical figures of
History, Fame, Valor, &c., and inscriptions set forth their deeds of
bravery, and their services to the nation for whom they poured out their
blood and yielded up their lives.

Monuments to those whose names are well known in this country will also
attract the attention of American visitors, such as that to Henry
Hallam, the historian of the Middle Ages; Turner, the celebrated
painter; Napier, the historian of the peninular war; Sir Henry Lawrence,
who died defending Lucknow, in 1857; and Sir John Moore, who fell at
Corunna, and was buried at midnight on the ramparts, as described in the
well-known ode commencing,--

        "Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
        As his corpse to the rampart we hurried."

Thus it is in the sculptured marble you may in Westminster Abbey, St.
Paul's, and the old cathedrals of the country, read England's history
again, and seem to approach nearer, and have a more realizing sense of
her great men and their deeds, than from the pages of the printed
volume.

In the rush of sight-seeing we had nigh forgotten Guildhall, the home of
Gog and Magog, and the City Hall of London. And, in truth, it is really
not much of a sight to see, in comparison with the many others that
claim the visitor's attention; but we drifted down to the end of King
Street one day, which carried us straight into the entrance of
Guildhall, at the end of the street. The great entrance hall is quite
imposing, being about one hundred and fifty feet long, fifty wide, and
fifty high, lighted with windows of painted glass, while at one end, in
a sort of raised gallery, stand the big wooden figures of the city
giants, Gog and Magog. Around this great hall are several monuments and
groups; among them, those to the Earl of Chatham, Wellington, and
Nelson, and statues of Edward VI., Queen Elizabeth, and Charles I. The
hall is used for elections, city meetings, and banquets--those noted
feasts at which turtle soup is supposed to be so prominent a feature in
the bill of fare.

There are in London quite a number of the buildings or halls of the
guilds or trade associations of old times--nearly fifty, I believe. Many
of the trades have ceased to exist--their very names almost obsolete.
For instance, the association of loriners, united girdlers, and the
bowyers. The members of some of these old corporations or guilds are by
no means all artisans, and about all they have to do is to manage the
charities and trust funds that have descended to them. They meet but
once or twice a year, and then in the old hall, furbished up for the
occasion. The very best of good eating and drinking is provided, and
perhaps, on certain anniversaries, the curious records and annals of the
old society are produced, and, perchance, some old anniversary ceremony
gone through with.

Some of the societies have rare and curious relics, which are brought
out on these occasions. For instance, the fish-mongers have the dagger
with which Wat Tyler was stabbed by one of its members; the armorers and
braziers some fine old silver work; and the barber surgeons a fine,
large picture, by Holbein, representing Henry VIII. presenting the
charter to their company. In Goldsmiths' Hall we saw a splendid specimen
of the goldsmiths' work, in the shape of a gold chandelier, weighing
over one thousand ounces. This hall was rebuilt in 1834, although the
goldsmiths owned the site in 1323. By an act of Parliament, all articles
of gold or silver must be assayed or stamped by this company before
being sold.

In Threadneedle Street, appropriately placed, we saw Merchant Tailors'
Hall, built about 1667; and in the old hall of this company James I.,
and his son Prince Henry, once dined with the company, when verses
composed especially for the occasion by Ben Jonson were recited. Here,
in Threadneedle Street, is the Bank of England, sometimes called the
"Old Lady of Threadneedle Street," which is also one of the sights of
the metropolis, and covers a quadrangular space of nearly four acres.
Armed with a letter of introduction from one of the directors, or, more
fortunate, in company with one of them, if you chance to enjoy the
acquaintance of any of those worthies, you can make the tour of this
wonderful establishment, finishing with the treasure vault, where you
have the tantalizing privilege of holding a million or two dollars'
worth of English bank notes in your hand, and "hefting" ingots of gold
and bricks of silver.

Then there are twenty-four directors to this bank, and about a thousand
persons employed in it: clerks commence at the age of seventeen,
receiving fifty pounds per annum for their service, and the salary of a
chief of department is twelve hundred pounds. Some old, gray-headed men
that we saw, who had grown round-shouldered over their ledgers, we were
informed had been in the employ of the bank for over forty years. The
operation of collecting the specie for a bank note, which I tested, is
one requiring considerable red tape and circumlocution. You go from
clerk to clerk, registering your address and date of presentation of
notes and their number, till finally you reach the individual who is
weighing and shovelling out sovereigns, who passes out the specie for
the paper. These notes, after being once presented, are never re-issued,
but kept on hand, first having the signatures torn off, for seven years,
and then burned. We visited the storehouse of these "relics of departed
worth," in the bank, where millions of tatterdemalions were heaped up,
awaiting their fiery doom.

That royal gift of Cardinal Wolsey to Henry VIII.--Hampton Court
Palace--is not only noted for its associations of bluff King Hal and the
ambitious cardinal, but as being the residence of several of the most
celebrated of the British sovereigns. The estate went into the clutches
of Henry in 1526. It is about twelve miles from Hyde Park, in London,
and the palace covers about eight acres of ground. It was here that
Edward VI. was born, and his mother, Jane Seymour, died a few days
after; and it was here that Catharine Howard first appeared as Henry
VIII.'s queen, in 1540; and in this palace the licentious brute married
his sixth wife, Catherine Parr; here Edward VI. lived a portion of his
short reign, Queen Mary spent her honeymoon, and Queen Elizabeth
visited. Charles II. was here during the plague in London; and Oliver
Cromwell saw one daughter married and another die beneath its roof;
Charles II. and James II., William III. and George II., have all lived
and held court in this famous old place, which figures so frequently in
the pages of English history; and so short a distance is it from London,
and so cheap are the excursion trains, that, on a pleasant day a
mechanic, his wife, and child may go out, visit the magnificent old
palace, all its rooms, see all its paintings, its superb acres of lawn,
forests, garden, fountains, court-yards, and walks for two shillings
(the railroad fare to go and return for the three). All at Hampton Court
is open free to the public; they may even walk, run, and roll over on
the grass, if they like, if not rude or misbehaved. Many spend a whole
holiday in the palace and its delightful grounds, and on the pleasant
Sunday afternoon I visited them, there were, at least, ten thousand
persons present; yet, so vast is the estate, that, with the exception of
the passage through the different rooms, which are noted as picture
galleries, there was no feeling as of a crowd of visitors.

The guides, who went through the different apartments, explaining their
history, and pointing out the celebrated and beautiful paintings, asked
for no fee or reward, although many a visitor drops a few pence into
their not unwilling hands.

Entering the palace, we went by way of the King's Grand Staircase, as it
is called, the walls and ceilings covered with elegant allegorical
frescoes, and representations of heathen deities--Pan, Ceres, Jupiter,
Juno; Time surrounded by the signs of the zodiac, and Cupids with
flowers; Fame blowing her trumpet, and Peace bearing the palm branch;
Bacchus with his grapes, and Diana seated upon the half moon; Hercules
with his lion skin and club, and Ganymede, on the eagle, presenting the
cup to Jove. From this grand entrance, with necks aching from the upward
gaze, we came to the Guard-room, a spacious hall, some sixty feet in
length, with muskets, halberds, spears, and daggers disposed upon the
walls, forming various fantastic figures.

From thence the visitor passes into the first of the series of state
apartments, which is entitled the King's Presence Chamber, and, after
looking up at the old chandelier, made in the reign of Queen Anne,
suspended from the ceiling, the guide begins to point out and mention a
few of the leading pictures in each room. As there are eighteen or
twenty of these rooms, and over a thousand pictures suspended upon the
walls, to say nothing of the florid and elaborate decorations of the
ceilings by Verio, the number is far too great to be inspected
satisfactorily at a single visit; and upon many scarce more than a
passing glance can be bestowed as you pass along with the group of
sight-seers. I jotted in my note-book several of those before which I
halted longest, such as Charles I. by Vandyke, Ignatius Loyola by
Titian, and the portraits of beauties of Charles II.'s gay court, which
are one of the great attractions of the collection. These portraits were
painted by Sir Peter Lely, and some of them very beautifully executed:
here are the Princess Mary, as Diana; Anne Hyde, Duchess of York; the
Duchess of Richmond, whom Charles wanted to marry, and, if she looked
like her portrait, we applaud his taste in female beauty; the sprightly,
laughing face of Nell Gwynne; Lady Middleton, another beauty, but a
frail one; and the Countess of Ossory, a virtuous one amid the vice and
licentiousness of the "merry monarch's" reign.

In the Queen's Gallery, which is about one hundred and seventy-five feet
in length, there is a very interesting collection; and here the guide
had some indulgence, and allowed us to tarry a little. Great tapestry
hangings, with scenes from the life of Alexander the Great, beautifully
executed, were suspended on the walls; here hung Raphael's portrait,
painted by himself; here Henry VII.'s Children, by Mabeuse; and here old
Holbein (to whose brush we owe all the pictorial representations we have
of Henry VIII.) especially flourishes; for his portraits of Henry when
young, of Erasmus, Will Somers, the king's jester, Francis I. of France,
and others that I do not remember, hang here; there is a beautiful St.
Catherine, by Correggio; a Jewish Rabbi, by Rembrandt; Boar's Head, by
Snyders; Fruit, by Cuyp; a Boy and Fruit, by Murillo; besides scores of
others by great artists. What a collection to be allowed thirty-five
minutes to look at! It was little less than an aggravation.

Next came the Queen's Drawing-room, which contains many pictures from
the pencil of Benjamin West; among them, that with which every one of
us, who has studied an American geography or child's book of history, is
so familiar--the death of General Wolfe at the storming of Quebec. From
out the windows of this room is another of those superb English
landscape views of which I have so often spoken, that we get from the
castles and palaces of the country. A magnificent avenue of lime trees,
nearly a mile in length, stretches out to view, and an artificial river,
or canal, of the same length, shines between the greensward of the park,
while an old English church tower, at the extreme background, fills out
the charming picture of nature.

In the Queen's Audience Chamber we have old Holbein's works again. The
curious old pictures from his brush here are, Henry VIII. embarking at
Dover; the Battle of Spurs; Meeting of Henry VIII. and the Emperor
Maximilian, and Meeting of Henry VIII. and Francis I. on the Field of
the Cloth of Gold. This last picture has a story, which is to the effect
that in Cromwell's time the Parliament proposed to sell it to the King
of France. The Earl of Pembroke, however, determined that such a
treasure of art and historical memento should not leave England, and
thereupon carefully and secretly cut off the head of Henry the Eighth
from the canvas, so that the French king's agent, discovering the
mutilation, refused to take the painting. When Charles the Second came
to the throne, after the Restoration, Pembroke returned the head, which
had been carefully preserved, and it was very skilfully replaced; so
skilfully, that it was only by getting a view by a side light that we
could discover that it had been disturbed.

In the Private Dining-room, as it is called, are shown three of the
great couches of royalty, the state beds of William III. and his Queen
Mary, and that of George II., and but few pictures of note; so we go on
through other "halls," "writing closets," "audience chambers," &c., till
we reach a fine, lofty gallery, built by Sir Christopher Wren; here we
have more portraits by Holbein, one by Abert Dürer, one of Queen
Elizabeth, in her vast and enormously built up and gaudy costume,
Landscape by Rubens, Battle Piece by Wouvermans, Inside a Farm House by
Teniers, and some two or three hundred others.

After this pictorial surfeit we passed into the magnificent great Gothic
Hall, designed by Wolsey, and finished by Henry VIII., when Anne Boleyn
was queen. This hall is pure Gothic, one hundred and six feet long,
forty wide, and sixty high, the roof very elaborately carved oak,
decorated, with great taste and splendor, with arms and badges of King
Henry. It is somewhat singular that at this very place, which was the
scene of Wolsey's magnificence and Henry's lordly splendor, there should
have been acted, by King George I.'s command, in 1718, Shakespeare's
play of "Henry VIII., or the Fall of Wolsey." The walls of this hall are
hung with splendid arras tapestry, representing the history of Abraham;
around the hall hung portraits of Henry VIII., Wolsey, Jane Seymour, and
Queen Elizabeth; and at intervals are deers' heads, carved from wood,
above which are banners and trophies. The notable feature of the hall,
however, is its stained-glass windows, thirteen in number, besides the
great one and the beautiful oriel window, splendid in its proportions,
fine Gothic canopy, and rich in beautiful colored glass, bearing
armorial devices of the King and Jane Seymour. The Great Window is
divided off into fourteen compartments, one of which has a half-length
portrait of King Henry, and the others are filled with armorial crests
and devices. Six of the other windows bear the armorial pedigrees of the
six wives of the king, and the others various heraldic designs. The
architecture and decorations of this noble hall are very well managed,
and the subdued and colored light, falling upon the rich carving and
Gothic tracery, produces an imposing and strikingly beautiful effect.

After an inside view of the palace and its picture-galleries, the stroll
through the great park is none the less delightful. This park, or rather
the gardens, as they are called, are elegantly laid out with beds of
brilliant-colored flowers, broad gravel walks, beautiful closely-clipped
lawns, and groups of splendid oaks and elms; and, although the grounds
are almost a dead level, with but little inequality, still they are so
beautifully arranged as to present a charming and romantic appearance.
Here crowds of people walked beneath the great trees in the broad shaded
avenues, sat on the velvety turf at the foot of great oaks, or paused
and admired the huge plats of flowers, of brilliant hues and delicious
fragrance, arranged by the gardener's skill in beautiful combinations,
or strolled into the conservatory to see the orange trees, or into the
vinery to see that celebrated grape vine, which is said to be the
largest in Europe; and a royal monster it is, indeed, stretching out its
arms over one hundred and thirty feet, and having a stem that, at three
feet from the ground, measures over thirty inches in circumference. It
was planted in 1768. Its fruit is the richest black Hamburg variety, and
from two thousand to two thousand five hundred bunches of the luscious
spheroids are its annual yield. Not among the least of the attractions
of the gardens is a maze, skilfully constructed of hedges about seven
feet in height, and the walks to the centre, or from the centre to the
outside, so skilfully contrived in labyrinthine passages of puzzling
intricacy as to render it a matter of no ordinary difficulty to
extricate one's self. A guide, however, stands upon an elevated platform
outside, and assists those by his instructions who are unable to do so,
and give up the trial. The shouts of laughter of those who were
entangled in the deceitful avenues told of their enjoyment of the
ingenious puzzle.

Near the maze is one of the large gates of the palace gardens, opening
exactly opposite to Bushy Park; and here we passed out into a great
avenue, a mile in length, of horse-chestnut trees, the air redolent with
their red and white blossoms. In this park the parties who come from
London to visit Hampton Court picnic, as no eatables or picknicking is
permitted in the gardens of the latter. Hawkers and pedlers of eatables
and drinkables, of all kinds and at all prices, were in every direction;
groups under the trees were chatting, lunching, and lounging, and
enjoying themselves.

The finest residence of English royalty, at the present time, is Windsor
Castle; and a pleasant railway ride of twenty miles or so from London
brought us in sight of the splendid great Round Tower, which is so
notable a feature of the place. It crowns the apex of a hill, and is a
conspicuous landmark. Edward III. was born here; Cromwell and Charles
II. have lived here; and a statue of the latter is conspicuous in the
great quadrangle of the castle, which you enter after mounting the hill.
The towers around the walls bear such names as Edward III. Tower,
Lancaster Tower, Brunswick Tower, Victoria Tower, &c.; but the noblest
of all is the great Keep, or Round Tower, which rises to the height of
one hundred and twenty-five feet above the pavement of the quadrangle;
and up to the summit of this I toiled, to be repaid by the charming
English landscape view spread out on every side. Twelve counties were
within the range of vision; the square turrets of old English churches,
arched-stone bridges, the beautiful park and grounds beneath, with
cricketers at play, and the beautiful sheet of water ("Virginia water"),
like a looking-glass beneath the sun, and the Thames winding away in the
distance like a silver ribbon on the green landscape, which was dotted
with villages, elegant country seats and castle-like dwellings of the
aristocracy, formed a picture that it was a luxury to look upon.

Visitors are conducted through the state apartments, which contain many
fine pictures, some magnificent tapestry, and which, of course, are
furnished in regal style. The Gobelin tapestry, and a magnificent
malachite vase,--the latter a gift to the queen from Nicholas, Emperor
of Russia,--were in the Presence Chamber. The Waterloo Chamber contained
many fine portraits of Waterloo heroes by Sir Thomas Lawrence, and the
Vandyke Room was hung only with pictures painted by that artist.

It will be recollected that Edward III. instituted the Order of the
Garter at Windsor, in 1349, and in St. George's Hall, or the State
Dining-room, as it is called, is where the queen confers the order. At
the upper end of this hall, which is two hundred feet in length, is the
throne upon its raised dais. Upon one side of the apartment are hung the
portraits of England's sovereigns, while upon the other are the coats of
arms of the original Knights of the Garter, elegantly emblazoned with
their names and titles, and those of their successors. The ceiling is
also elegantly ornamented. The most attractive apartment is the long
gallery, about fifteen feet wide and four hundred and fifty long, which
is rich in bronzes, busts, and pictures, although we looked with some
interest at a shattered section of the mast of Lord Nelson's flag-ship,
the Victory, which bears the mark of the enemy's cannon-shot, and is
surmounted by a bust of Nelson, in a room called the Guard Chamber; and
in the same room is a shield, inlaid with gold and silver-work,
presented by Francis I. to Henry VIII. at their celebrated meeting on
the Field of the Cloth of Gold.

Next after the state apartments St. George's Chapel engaged our
attention. This chapel was begun by Edward IV. in 1461, and not
completed till early in the sixteenth century. The architectural beauty
of the interior is indescribable. The richly-ornamented roof and the
great east window are most exquisitely done, and it is a wonder that
tourists, authors, and the guide-books do not say more than they do
about it. Knights of the Garter are installed here. Their banners and
escutcheons hang above their carved oaken stalls. A wrought steel
screen, by that cunning artificer in iron, Quintin Matsys, stands above
the last resting-place of Edward IV. Here, below the marble pavement,
rests the gigantic frame of Henry VIII.; here slumber Charles I. and
Henry VI, George III., IV., and William IV. The monument to the Princess
Charlotte is a magnificent group, representing her upon a couch as if
just expired, and a sheet thrown over the body, while her maids by its
side, with mantles thrown over their heads, are bowed down with grief.
Above, the spirit is represented as an angel soaring towards heaven--a
figure exquisitely cut, and so gracefully poised that the spectator half
expects to see it rise, float away into the air, and soar out of sight.
The effect is much heightened by the admirable manner in which it has
been managed to have the light fall upon this beautiful sculpture.

There is a home park to Windsor Castle; and how large, think you,
American reader, is this home park for British royalty? Why, _only_ five
hundred acres! This is connected with Windsor Great Park by the Long
Walk, a splendid avenue lined with elms, which avenue is continued on
for three miles. The Great Park has one thousand eight hundred acres
within its area. Here was Windsor Forest, Herne's Oak, where Herne the
Hunter was said to dash forth upon his steed, and where old Falstaff,--

        "A Windsor stag, and the fattest, I think, i' the forest,"--

made his assignation with the merry wives of Windsor. Old Windsor itself
is some little distance away, nestled down on the banks of the River
Thames; and though we saw some ancient houses and an inn or two, there
were none that, in our brief sojourn, we could conjure by imagination
into such a one as fat Jack and his friends, Bardolph and Pistol,
swilled sack in, nor anything that looked like the Garter Inn, or
Mistress Quickly. One inn rejoices in the name of Star and Garter, but
the briskness and modern style of it savored not of Jack Falstaff's
time.

We closed our visit to Windsor with an inspection of the royal stables,
or Queen's Mews, as they call them here. These stables were very well
arranged and kept, and contain nearly a hundred horses when all are in.
Many were away with the family, who were absent at the time of our
visit; but there were the horses for park drives, the horses for road
drives, &c., while there were also a dozen or more very handsome
barouches, pony and basket carriages, and seven handsome carriages for
the queen and suite to go to and from railway stations, Clarences, and
various other vehicles, among them a large open-sided affair, with a
white tent-like roof, a present from Louis Philippe. Considering that
this is only one of the Queen's Mews, it seemed as if this part of her
"establishment" was regal indeed. After patting the fat old white pony,
which her majesty always uses in her morning drives in the park when at
Windsor, we presented our cicerone with an English shilling, which,
notwithstanding he wore the queen's livery, he did not scorn to receive,
and, taking a glance at the interior of the Riding School, which is a
handsomely-arranged room about two hundred feet long, where scions of
royalty may be taught to

        "Witch the world with noble horsemanship,"

we bade adieu to Windsor.

If there is any one thing aggravating to the American tourist, on his
first trip to England, it is the supreme indifference of the English
press to American affairs. Accustomed to the liberal enterprise of the
press of his own country, which, with a prodigality of expenditure,
stops at nothing when news is to be had, and which every morning
actually gives him news from all parts of the world, in addition to
copious extracts from foreign and domestic papers, he is struck with
astonishment at the comparative lack of enterprise shown by the London
papers.

The London Times, which for the past half century it has been the custom
for American papers to gratuitously advertise in paragraphs about its
wonderful system and enterprise, can no more compare with the New York
Tribune and New York Herald in lateness of news, amount of news by
telegraph, and correspondence, than a stage coach with a locomotive.

Marked features in the Times are the finished style of its editorials
and correspondence, and its parliamentary reports, although the latter,
I hardly think, are much better made up than the American Congressional
reports in our own papers. But where the inferiority of the English, and
the superiority of the American papers is most conspicuous, is in the
matter of telegraphic despatches, the American papers using the
telegraph without stint, and the English very sparingly. The New York
Tribune will generally give its readers, every morning, from five to
eight times as much by home lines of wire as the London Times. To be
sure we have a much larger extent of territory, at home, that the wires
go over; but then the American papers generally give more telegraphic
news from the continent of Europe even, than the London papers.

The American, on his first visit to England, calls for the Times at his
breakfast table, and if he is lucky enough to get one, turns eagerly to
the telegraphic column to see what may be the latest news from America.
He finds a despatch of from six to twelve lines, in which the quotations
of the price of United States stocks, New York Central, Erie, Illinois
Central, and some other railroad shares, are given, and, perhaps, a line
or two saying that Honorable Thaddeus Stevens, member of Congress, died
this morning, or the president has appointed George S. Boutwell
secretary of the treasury department. A hundred other matters, which
affect British and American commerce, are not reported; intelligence
interesting to Americans, or any one who has _ever been_ to America, is
not alluded to; extracts from American papers seldom given, and, when
given, only such as will give a prejudiced impression. Accounts of the
commercial, agricultural, and material progress of the country seem to
be carefully and jealously excluded from their columns, and after a
month's reading of English newspapers, your wonder that the English
people are so ignorant of America will give place to astonishment that
they should have any correct impression of it whatever.

Take, for example, the well-known speech of Senator Sumner upon the
Alabama claims, which, day after day, the papers of London thundered,
roared, and howled over, wrote against and commented on, and not one of
them printed in its columns until an American publishing house, in
London, in answer to the call for it, issued it in a pamphlet. Every
American knows that had a speech of equal importance, relating to this
country, been made in England, it would have been telegraphed to and
have appeared in our journals, _entire_, within twenty-four hours after
it had been made. Then, again, the enterprise of our own press is shown
in its giving extracts, pro and con, of the opinions of the British
press, so that the American reader feels that he is "posted," and may
judge for himself; whereas, in the English papers, he gets only one side
of the question, and a meagre allowance at that.

Murders, railroad accidents, steamboat explosions, riots, and suicides
are the favorite extracts from the American press made by the London
papers. The progress of great railroads, increase of great cities in
size, and the progress of this country in industry, science, art, and
manufactures, are only occasionally alluded to.

My national pride being touched at these omissions, I inquired the
reason of them of a good-natured Englishman of my acquaintance one day.

"Well, the fact is, yah see, we don't care much about Americar h'yar,
yah know--yah know--'cept when there's some deuced row, yah know, and
then the Times tells us all about it, yah know."

And it is even so; the national pride is so intense, that the
Englishman, as a general thing, seems to care very little for anything
that is not English; his estimate of anything as good or bad is based
upon its approach to or retreat from the British standard of excellence;
his national vanity leads him to care very little about the progress or
decline of any other country, so long as it does not immediately affect
his own "tight little island." Many have, apparently, pictured in their
minds a map of the world like that of the Chinese topographer, which
gave their own country four fifths of the space, carefully drawn,
leaving the remainder a blank, as occupied by outside barbarians.

"But why," asked I of my good-natured friend, "does the Times give two
columns of bets and horse-race matter, and only a dozen lines about the
great Pacific Railroad?"

"Yaas, ah! the Darby, yah know,--British national sport--every
Englishman knows about the Darby--couldn't make up a book without the
Times, yah know. The Darby's right h'yar, and yah Pacific railway's
three thousand miles off, yah know."

It is to be acknowledged there was a certain degree of force in this
reasoning, but our American newspaper readers, who, from appearances,
number as five to one compared with Englishmen, have been educated up to
such a point of news-getting, that such an argument would fail to
satisfy them. To hear some Englishmen talk, you would think the Times
had been their swaddling-clothes in infancy, was their book of laws in
manhood, and would be their winding-sheet at death.

And yet the Times, despite its great influence, is far exceeded
in circulation by other papers in London--the London Telegraph,
for instance, which, to an American, will seem in its general
characteristics and enterprise the most like an American paper. It takes
more pains to make itself a sheet for popular reading. Its editorials
are not so heavy, either in subject or matter, as the Times, but more
off-hand and easier digested. It seems to be _the_ paper of the middling
classes. In nearly every railroad station I stopped at in England a
handsomely-painted sign-board, sometimes three and sometimes six
feet square, informed me that the London Telegraph had the largest
circulation in the world; and immediately under it we were informed,
upon another sign of the same size, but another color, that the
Evening Standard was the largest paper in the world. Besides these
announcements on signs, we found them on posters of the same size all
over London, wherever bills were posted, and also posted in other
English cities--a style of advertising rather expensive, but hardly so
efficacious as the columns of the newspaper.

One is struck by the difference between the American and English as a
newspaper-reading people. In America, newspapers are seen everywhere;
boys hawk them at every corner; they are sold at news-stands in the
entrance hall of every hotel; newsmen pass through the cars with
armfuls, at intervals, on every railroad line; half a dozen are taken in
every hair-dresser's shop for the use of customers; and the great hotels
have a reading-room with files from all the leading cities, so that a
daily newspaper may be had in America, and is at hand at any and all
times when the reader may wish it; but here in London I found it
comparatively a matter of difficulty always to obtain a daily paper. The
hotel where I lodged, which had some thirty or forty guests, "took in"
_one_ London Daily Times, a Manchester paper, and one other weekly. Of
course the first person who got the Times never resigned it until he had
read it through, and exhausted the patience of anybody else who
undertook to wait for it. There was no news-stand near, nor in the
hotel--"the porter could horder me a Times of the newsman, reg'lar, when
he came round, if I wished it, as would be ready at breakfast."

Some of my English friends smiled, almost incredulously, at my assertion
that our American business men very generally subscribed for from three
to five daily papers, besides weeklies, and wondered "why they wanted to
read the news over so many times," and were also astonished to know that
American coachmen read newspapers while waiting for a fare, a porter
while waiting for a job, or a handcart-man at his cart-stand, that they
were always a prime necessity to passengers in cars and omnibuses, and
were studied, conned, and perused at almost every interval of business,
and occupied no small portion of the leisure hours of all classes of
American citizens. The railroad stations in London are provided with
good news-stands, where the traveller may always obtain the daily and
weekly papers, and also a good supply of excellent light literature. My
foreign experience, thus far, however, has strengthened my conviction
that America is the land of newspapers.

Trying to give the British Museum a thorough examination is somewhat of
a formidable undertaking; for it requires several visits to get even a
superficial view of its valuable contents. The space of seven acres of
ground is occupied by the buildings, which cost over a million pounds
sterling, while the curiosities, relics, antiquities, and library cannot
be estimated in a money value. As an indication, however, of the value,
I may enumerate some of its purchases of collections, &c.: the Charles
Townley collection of Roman sculpture, purchased by government in 1805
for twenty thousand pounds, including Discobolus, noble busts of Homer,
Pericles, Sophocles, &c.; the Elgin Marbles, purchased of Lord Elgin for
thirty-five thousand pounds; the Phygalian Marbles, which cost nineteen
thousand pounds; Portland Vase, eighteen hundred guineas; prints, in the
collection of prints and engravings, costing from two hundred to five
hundred guineas each. The enormous library has swallowed up vast private
collections, besides the valuable ones that have been given to it, among
them that of Sir Thomas Grenville, which cost fifty-four thousand
pounds; George III.'s library, which was given to the government, and
cost one hundred and thirty thousand pounds--an exceedingly rich and
rare collection; the valuable collection of manuscripts--the Cottonian
Harleian, cost ten thousand pounds; Lansdowne, five thousand pounds;
Burney, thirteen thousand pounds, &c. These are only a few of the prices
of leading collections that I find set down in the different hand-books
of the museum; but, as is well known, there are other articles of
antiquity, historical relics, bibliographical curiosities, &c., for
which perfectly fabulous prices have been paid, especially for any
well-authenticated relics or manuscripts relating to the early history
of the country. Sometimes articles of this description find their way
into a public auction sale, and there is a struggle between some wealthy
virtuoso and the museum agent for its possession. But he must be a bold
buyer, with a deep purse, to contend successfully against the British
Museum, when it is decided that any article offered for sale ought to be
added to its collection. The museum is divided into eleven different
departments, viz.: printed books and manuscripts, Oriental antiquities,
Greek and Roman antiquities, British mediæval antiquities, coins and
medals, botany, prints and drawings, zoölogy, palæontology, and
mineralogy.

The library is that portion of the museum most read about by strangers,
and the least seen by visitors, as they are only admitted into a very
few of the rooms in which this enormous collection is contained. There
are now seven hundred thousand volumes, and the number increases at the
rate of about twenty thousand a year; and among some of the curiosities
and literary treasures in this department, I will mention a few, which
will give a faint indication of its incalculable value. There are
seventeen hundred different editions of the Bible, some very rare and
curious; an Arabic edition of the Koran, written in gold, eight hundred
and sixty years ago; a collection of block books, printed from carved
blocks of wood on one side of the leaf only, which was a style of
bookmaking immediately preceding the art of printing.

We were shown specimens of the earliest productions of the printing
press, some of which, for clearness and beauty of execution, are most
remarkable. The Mazarine Bible, 1455, is very fine. Then we saw a copy
of Cicero, printed by Fust and Schoeffer, in 1465. The first edition
of the first Latin classic printed, and one of the two books in which
Greek type was used;--the press work of this was excellent. A Psalter,
in Latin, in 1457, by Fust and Schoeffer, on vellum, and the first
book printed in colors, the typography clear, and beautifully executed.
The first edition of Reynard the Fox, printed 1479. A splendid copy of
Livy, printed on vellum, in 1469, for Pope Alexander VI., and the only
copy on vellum known to exist;--this volume cost nine hundred pounds in
1815. The first edition of the first book printed in Greek characters,
being a Greek Grammar, printed in Milan, in 1475. The first book in
which catch-words were used. The first book in which the attempt was
made to produce cheap books by compressing the matter, and reducing the
size of the page, was a little copy of Virgil, issued in Venice in 1501;
and the present price would be far from cheap. The first book printed in
France, the first in Vienna, &c. "The Game and Playe of Chess," printed
by Caxton, in Westminster Abbey, in 1474, and which was the first
edition of the first book printed in England. Then there was the first
edition of old Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, printed in 1476, by Caxton.
Cauntyrburye was the way they spelled it in his time. Æsop's Fables,
with curious old wood-cuts, printed by Caxton, in 1484. The first
printed document relative to America, Columbus's letter, written eight
months after his discovery, and printed in Rome in 1493. The first
edition of Paradise Lost, and of Robinson Crusoe. And our eyes were made
to ache by trying to read a "microscopic" edition of Horace, printed in
the smallest type ever produced, and undecipherable except with a
magnifying glass.

Besides these, and hundreds of other old books, enough to drive a
bibliomaniac out of his remaining senses, were specimens of fine and
sumptuous printing, some of which, in the fifteenth century, on vellum,
were a little short of marvellous in execution, and unsurpassed by
anything I ever saw in modern printing. An allegorical poem, in German,
printed on the occasion of the marriage of Maximilian I., at Nuremberg,
in 1517, was a perfect wonder of typographic art and beauty, and
challenges the attention of every one, more especially those versed in
typography, as a marvel of the art. I have not space for enumeration of
any of the wondrous specimens of beautiful illuminated works, printed on
vellum and parchment, in colors undimmed by hundreds of years, and which
the printer of to-day labors in vain to surpass. The purple and gold,
the rich crimson and emerald green, that absolutely flash out on the
pages of those exquisite volumes known as Books of Hours, printed in
1488, 1493, and thereabouts, are the most prodigal luxury of the art I
ever laid my eyes upon; and the patience, labor, time, and care required
to bring out lines, spaces, and letters to such perfection must have
been very great, to say nothing of the quality of ink that has held its
brilliancy for more than three centuries and a half.

Next we have books tracing the rise and progress of illustration, and
then a collection of books with autographs. In these last are some
autographs worth having, as, for instance, the autograph of Martin
Luther, in the first volume of a copy of the German Bible, which Bible
was afterwards in the possession of Melanchthon, who wrote a long note
on the fly-leaf of the second volume, signing it with his autograph; an
autograph of Charles I. in a volume of almanacs for the year 1624; an
autograph of Milton on a copy of Aratus's Phænomena; that of Lord Bacon
on a copy of Fulgentius; autograph of Katherine Parr, last wife of Henry
VIII., in a French volume; and that of Ben Jonson in a presentation copy
of his Volpone.

The library has an extensive collection of newspapers, the oldest being
a Venetian Gazette, bearing the date of 1570.

The great reading-room of the library, where free admission to read is
granted to any person over eighteen years of age who can procure a
recommendation from a person of respectability, is a magnificent
apartment. It is a great circular space, containing forty-eight thousand
superficial feet, covered by a dome one hundred and forty feet in
diameter, and one hundred and six feet high. This room is open from nine
A. M. to five or six P. M., and is always well lighted and warmed, and
contains thirty-seven reading tables, with two or three exclusively for
ladies. The floor is covered with a material which deadens the sound of
footsteps, and no loud talking is permitted; so that every opportunity
is afforded for quiet study. Quite a number were busily engaged, some
with a large heap of volumes about them, evidently looking up
authorities; others slowly and patiently transcribing or translating
from some ancient black-letter volume before them; and still others
quietly and comfortably enjoying the last new novel. There is space
afforded for three hundred readers, and in the centre of the room, on
shelves, are catalogues of the books and manuscripts contained in the
library. Close at hand, running round the apartment, are shelves
containing books of reference, or "lifts of the lazy," such as
dictionaries, encyclopædias, &c., which readers are allowed to take from
the shelves themselves. These form of themselves a library of twenty
thousand volumes. For other books the reader fills out a card, and hands
it to one of the attendants, who sends for it by others, who fetch it
from its near or distant shelf.

The catalogue of the library is not finished, and there is a saying that
the man is not living who will see it finished, the regular additions
and occasional bequests serving to keep it in a perpetually unfinished
condition. The most noted of the bequests are those presented by Right
Hon. Thomas Grenville and George III. The former donor, whose gift was
twenty thousand two hundred and forty volumes, worth over fifty thousand
pounds, bequeathed his library to the nation as an act of justice,
saying in his will that the greater part of it had been purchased from
the profits of a sinecure office, and he acknowledged the obligation to
the public by giving it to the museum for public use. The library of
George III. contained eighty thousand volumes, and is kept in a gallery
built expressly to hold it.

The Egyptian Galleries contain an endless collection of antiquities from
that ancient land. From Memphis there are old monuments, fragments of
statues, slabs with innumerable hieroglyphics, while old Thebes, the
capital of ancient Egypt, seems to have been ransacked to have furnished
slabs, stones, carvings, fragments of monuments, hieroglyphical
inscriptions, and sarcophagi. In these galleries we saw the granite
statue of Rameses II., the colossal granite head and shoulders from the
Memnonium at Thebes; the head of a colossal ram from an avenue of them
which leads up to the gateway of one of the great palaces at Karnak;
here were two granite lions from Nubia; a colossal head brought from
Karnak by Belzoni; and heaps of carved plunder stolen from old Egypt by
British travellers and the British government; mummies, articles taken
from mummy pits, ornaments, vases, Egyptian papyri, monuments cut by
chisels two thousand years before Christ; implements the very use of
which can now only be surmised; carvings of scenes in domestic life that
are guessed at, and of battles, feasts, sieges, and triumphs, of which
no other record exists--a wonder to the curious, and a not yet solved
problem to the scholar.

The Assyrian Galleries, with their wealth of antiquities from ancient
Nineveh, brought principally by Mr. Layard, are very interesting. Here
we may study the bass-relief from Sennacherib's palace, and the
hieroglyphics on a monument to Sardanapalus, and bass-reliefs of the
battles and sieges of his reign; the best specimens of Assyrian
sculpture, glass, ivory, and bronze ornaments, mosaics, seals, obelisks,
and statues, the dates of which are from seven to eight hundred years
before the Christian era. Think of being shown a fragment of an
inscription relating to Nebuchadnezzar, and another of Darius I., a
bass-relief of Sardanapalus the Great, the writing implements of the
ancient Egyptians, the harps, flutes, and cymbals, and the very dolls
with which their children played three thousand years ago!

The lover of Roman and Grecian antiquities may enjoy himself to his
heart's content in the Roman and Grecian Galleries, where ancient
sculptures by artists whose names have perished, though their
works still challenge admiration, will attract the attention. In
these galleries the gods and goddesses of mythology are liberally
represented--the Townley Venus, Discobolus (quoit-thrower), elegant
bust of Apollo, heads and busts of noble Greeks and Romans, and the
celebrated marble bust, Clytie; that exquisitely-cut head rising above
the bust, which springs from a half-unfolded flower.

The Elgin Marbles are in two rooms, known as the Elgin Rooms. These
marble sculptures were obtained by the Earl of Elgin, in 1802, while he
was the British ambassador at Constantinople, the sultan granting him a
firman to remove from Athens whatever monuments he might wish. He
accordingly stripped from the Parthenon huge slabs of bass-reliefs,
marble figures, and ornamental portions of that noble building.

Whatever may be said of this desecration of the Athenian temple, it is
altogether probable that these world-renowned sculptures and most
splendid specimens of Grecian art are better preserved here, and of more
service to the world, than they would have been if suffered to remain in
the ruin of the temple. The beauty of these sculptures, notwithstanding
the dilapidated and shattered condition of some of them, shows in what
perfection the art flourished when they were executed, and the figures
are models yet unsurpassed among artists of our own time.

Besides these galleries, there is also a gallery of Anglo-Roman
antiquities, found in Britain, another of British antiquities anterior
to the Romans, embracing such remains as have been found of the period
previous to the Roman conquest, known as the stone and bronze period
among the antiquaries; also a collection of Anglo-Saxon antiquities,
including Saxon swords, spear-heads, bronze ornaments, coins, &c.; then
comes a mediæval collection, a vast array of enamelled work, vases,
jewelry, armor, mosaic work, seals, earthen ware, and weapons of the
middle ages; two great Vase Rooms, filled with Grecian, Italian, Roman,
and other antique vases, found principally in tombs and ancient
monuments, from the rudest to the most graceful of forms; the Bronze
Room, where we revelled amid ancient Greek, Roman, and Etruscan bronzes,
and found that the Bacchus, Mercury, and Jupiter, and the lions,
dolphins, satyrs, and vases of antiquity, are still the most beautiful
and graceful works of art extant, and that a large portion of those of
our own time are but reproductions of these great originals of a former
age.

If the visitor have a zoölogical taste, the four great galleries of
zoölogical specimens--beasts, birds, reptiles, and fishes--will engage
his attention, in which all sorts and every kind of stuffed specimens
are displayed; and in another gallery a splendid collection of fossils
may be inspected, where are the remains of the gigantic iguanodon and
megalosaurus, skeleton portions of an enormous bird, ten feet high, from
New Zealand,--the unpronounceable Latin name of which I forgot to note
down,--a splendid entire skeleton of the great Irish deer, fossil fish,
imprints of bird tracks found in rocks, of skeletons of antediluvian
animals, plants, and shells, and huge skeletons of the megatherium and
mastodon, skeletons and fragments of gigantic reindeer, elk, oxen, ibex,
turtles, and huge lizards and crocodiles now extinct. There are also
halls and departments for botany and mineralogy, coin and medal room,
which, besides its splendid numismatical collection, contains the
celebrated Portland Vase, and some curious historical relics.

Apropos of historical relics; in a room not far from the entrance hall
there are some most interesting historical and literary curiosities,
over and about which I loitered with unabated interest, for here I
looked upon the original deed of a house in Blackfriars, dated March 11,
1612, and signed William Shakespeare. Here we saw the original Magna
Charta, the very piece of parchment that had been thumbed by the
rebellious barons, and to which King John affixed his unwilling
signature at Runnymede, June 15, 1215. This piece of discolored
parchment, with the quaint, regular, clerkly old English handwriting,
and the fragment of the tyrant's great seal hanging to it, is the
instrument that we have read so much of, as the chief foundation of the
constitutional liberties of the people of England, first executed over
six centuries and a half ago, and confirmed since then by no less than
thirty-eight solemn ratifications. It is certainly one of the most
interesting English documents in existence, and we looked upon it with
feelings something akin to veneration.

Displayed in glass cases, we read the original draft of the will of
Mary, Queen of Scots, in her own handwriting, the original manuscript of
Kenilworth in Walter Scott's handwriting, the original manuscript of
Pope's translation of the Iliad, a tragedy in the handwriting of Tasso,
the original manuscript of Macaulay's England, Sterne's Sentimental
Journey in the author's handwriting, Nelson's own pen sketch of the
battle of the Nile, Milton's original agreement for the sale of Paradise
Lost, which was completed April 27, 1667, the author being then
fifty-eight years of age. The terms of the sale, which was made to
Samuel Symons, a bookseller, was five pounds down, with a promise of
five pounds more when thirteen hundred copies of the first edition
should have been sold, another five pounds more when thirteen hundred
copies of the second edition should be sold, and so on for successive
editions. It was not, however, till 1674, the year of his death, that
the second edition was published; and in December, 1680, Milton's widow
sold all her interest in the work for eight pounds, paid by Symons.

We saw here the little prayer book used by Lady Jane Grey on the
scaffold, with her name, Jane Dudley, in her own handwriting on the
fly-leaf; autographic letters from British sovereigns, including those
of Richard III., Henry IV., Prince Hal, Edward the Black Prince, Henry
VIII., and Queen Elizabeth, Bloody Mary, Charles II., Mary, Queen of
Scots, and Oliver Cromwell. Nor were these all. Here were Hogarth's
receipted bills for some of his pictures, the original Bull of Pope Leo
X., conferring on Henry VIII. the title of Defender of the Faith (and a
precious bull he made of it), autographic letters of Peter the Great,
Martin Luther, Erasmus, Calvin, Sir Thomas More, Cardinal Wolsey,
Archbishop Cranmer, John Knox, Robert, Earl of Essex, Dudley, Earl of
Leicester, Francis Bacon, Sir Isaac Newton; then a batch of literary
names, letters from Addison, Dryden, Spenser, Moliere, Corneille; papers
signed by George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, Horatio Nelson, Napoleon
Bonaparte, Francis I., Philip II., Gustavus Adolphus, Charles XII. of
Sweden, and so many fresh and interesting surprises greeted me that I
verily believe that at last I should have copied down in the little
note-book, from which I am writing out these memoranda, a despatch from
Julius Cæsar, announcing that he yesterday passed the River Rubicon, or
his "_Veni, Vidi, Vici_," with the feeling that it was quite correct
that such a document should be there.



CHAPTER VIII.


From London to Paris. One of the thoughts that comes uppermost in the
mind while one is making preparations for the journey is the passage of
the Channel, about which so much has been said and written--a passage in
which old Neptune, though he may have exempted the traveller on other
occasions, hardly ever fails to exact his tribute. He who can pass the
Channel in rough weather without a qualm, may henceforth consider
himself proof against any attack of the sea god upon his digestion.

A first-class through ticket from London to Paris costs nearly fifteen
dollars in gold; but many cheapen the fare by taking first-class boat
and second-class railroad tickets. The railroad ride to Dover is about
seventy miles, and the close of it carries us through a tunnel that
pierces the celebrated Shakespeare's Cliff; and finally we are landed on
the pier near the little steamer that is to take us over. After a good
long stare at the high, chalky cliffs of old Albion, we disposed
ourselves upon deck, comfortable as possible, and by rare good fortune
had a smooth passage; for of the entire number of passengers, not a
single one suffered from seasickness during the transit; so that the
huge piles of wash-bowls were not even brought into requisition, and the
stewards and boat boys grumbled at the luck that deprived them of so
many sixpences and shillings.

"'Tisn't horfen the Chan'l runs as smooth as this," said an old
weather-beaten sort of sea chambermaid, who stood guard over the bowls.
"She's flat as Dover Pier to-day; but," added he with a grin, "when yer
make hanythink like a smooth parsidge over, yer sure to ketch a horful
'eave comin' back."

And he was right. There is one comfortable anticipation, however; and
that is, that the sea trip occupies only an hour and a quarter. Arrived
at the great railroad station at Calais, we had our first experience of
a French railway buffet, or restaurant, for dinner was ready and the
tables spread, the passengers having ample time afforded them before the
train started.

The neatness of the table linen, the excellence of the French bread, the
bottles of claret, _vin ordinaire_, set at intervals along the table,
the promptness and rapidity of the service, fine flavor of the soup, and
good cooking of the viands, were noticeable features. The waiters spoke
both French and English; they dashed about with Yankee celerity; and
gay, and jolly, and right hearty were the passengers after their
comfortable transit. Now, in getting positions in the cars come trials
of indifferent as well as outrageously bad attempts at the French
language, which the French guards, probably from long experience,
contrive in some way to understand, and not laugh at.

Arrived at Paris after a journey of eleven hours from London, we have
even time, though fatigued, to admire the admirable system that prevails
at the railroad station, by which all confusion is prevented in
obtaining luggage or carriages, and we are soon whirling over the
asphalte, floor-like pavements to the Hotel de l'Athenée.

Here I had my first experience of the humbug of French politeness; for,
on descending from the carriage, after my luggage had been deposited at
the very office of the hotel, the servants, whose duty it was to come
forward and take it, stood back, and laughed to see the puzzle of a
foreigner at the demand for _pour boire_, which, in his inexperience, he
did not understand, and, when the driver was finally sent away with
thrice his demand, suffered luggage, lady and gentleman, to find their
own way to the little cuddy of a _bureau_, office of the hotel, and
were with difficulty made to understand, by a proficient in their own
tongue, that rooms for the party were engaged there.

This house and the Grand Hotel, which, I believe, are "run" by the
Credit Mobilier Company, are perfect extortion mills in the matter of
charges, especially to Americans, whom the Parisians make a rule always
to charge very much more than any one else. During the Exposition year,
the Grand Hotel extortions were but little short of barefaced swindles
upon American guests; and to this day there is no way one can quicker
arouse the ire of certain American citizens than to refer to their
experiences in that great caravanserai for the fleecing of foreign
visitors.

The _cuisine_ of these great hotels is unexceptionable, the rooms, which
are either very grand or very small, well furnished, although comfort is
too often sacrificed to display; but the attendance or attention, unless
the servants are heavily feed, is nothing to speak of, while the charges
during the travelling season are a third beyond those of other equally
good, though not "grand" establishments.

The magnificent new opera house, near these hotels, is a huge building,
rich on the exterior with splendid statues, marbles, medallions,
carving, and gilding, upon an island as it were, with the great, broad
avenues on every side of it; and as I sit at table in the _salle à
manger_ looking out at it, I am suddenly conscious that the English
tongue appears to be predominant about me; and so indeed it is, as a
large portion of the guests at these two hotels are Americans or
English, which accounts in a measure for the high prices and bad
service, the French considering Americans and English who travel to be
moving money-bags, from which it is their duty to extract as much as
possible by every means in their power.

The court-yard of the Grand Hotel, around which, in the evening,
gentlemen sit to sip a cup of coffee and puff a cigar, is such a
rendezvous for Americans, that during the Exposition it was proposed by
some to post up the inscription, "French Spoken Here," for fear of
mistakes.

The modes of living, besides that at hotels, have been frequently
described, and in taking apartments, one must be very explicit with the
landlord; indeed, it will be well to take a written memorandum from him,
else, on the presentation of his first bill, one may ascertain the true
value of a Frenchman's word, or rather how valueless he considers a
verbal agreement.

We had the fortune, however, in hiring apartments, to deal with a
Frenchman who understood how to bargain with foreigners, and had learned
that there was something to be gained by dealing fairly, and having the
reputation of being honest.

This man did a good business by taking new houses immediately after they
were finished, hiring furniture, and letting apartments to foreigners.
From him we learned that French people never like to live in an entirely
new house, one that has been dwelt in by others for a year having the
preference; perhaps this pre-occupation is supposed to take the chill
off the premises; so our landlord made a good thing of it in taking
these houses at a low rent of the owners for one year, and getting a
reputation for fair prices, fair dealing, and an accommodating spirit:
those who hired of him were so prompt to commend him as an exception
among the crowd of grasping, cringing rascals in his business, that his
houses in the pleasant quarter, near the Arc d'Etoile were constantly
occupied by Americans and English.

In Paris do as the Parisians do; and really it is difficult to do
otherwise in the matter of meals. Breakfast here is taken at twelve
o'clock, the day being commenced with a cup of coffee and a French roll,
so that between twelve and one business appears at its height in the
_cafés_, and almost suspended everywhere else. To gastronomic Yankees,
accustomed to begin the day with a good "square" meal, the French
_déjeûner_ is hardly sufficient to support the three hours' sight-seeing
our countrymen calculate upon doing between that time and the real
_déjeûner à la fourchette_.

The sights and scenes of Paris have been so thoroughly described within
the past three years, in every style and every vein, by the army of
correspondents who have visited the gay capital, that beyond personal
experiences it seems now as though but little else could possibly be
written. I therefore look at my closely-written note-book, the heap of
little memoranda, and the well-pencilled fly-leaves of my guide-books,
of facts, impressions, and experiences, with some feelings of doubt as
to how much of this already, perhaps, too familiar matter shall be
inflicted upon the intelligent reader; and yet, before I visited Paris,
every letter of the descriptive tourist kind was of interest, and since
then they are doubly so. Before visiting Europe, such letters were
instruction for what I was to one day experience; and many a bit of
useful information, read in the desultory letter of some newspaper
correspondent which had been nearly forgotten, has come to mind in some
foreign capital, and been of essential service, while, as before
remarked in these pages, much of the important minutiæ of travel I have
been surprised has not been alluded to. That surprise in a measure
vanishes, when any one with a keen love of travel finds how much
occupies his attention amid such an avalanche of the enjoyable things
that he has read, studied, and dreamed of, as are encountered in the
great European capitals.

In Paris my first experience at living was in lodgings in a fine new
house on Avenue Friedland, third flight (_au troisième_). The apartments
consisted of a _salon_, which served as parlor, breakfast and reception
room, a sleeping-room, and a dressing-room with water fixtures and pegs
for clothing. The grand Arc d'Etoile was in full view, and but a few
rods from my lodgings, and consequently the very first sight that I
"did."

This magnificent monument of the first Napoleon is almost as conspicuous
a landmark in Paris as is the State House in Boston, and seems to form
the terminus of many of the broad streets that radiate from it, and upon
approaching the city from certain points overtops all else around. The
arch is situated in a large, circular street, called the Place
d'Etoile, which is filled with elegant houses, with gardens in front,
and is one of the most fashionable quarters of Paris: from this Place
radiate, as from a great star, or like the sticks of a lady's fan,
twelve of the most magnificent avenues of the city, and from the top of
the arch itself the spectator can look straight down these broad streets
for miles. It is quite recently that several of them have been
straightened and widened, under the direction of Baron Haussmann; and
one cannot but see what a commanding position a battery of artillery
would occupy stationed in this Place d'Etoile, and sweeping down twelve
great avenues to the very centre of the city.

The length, breadth, straightness, regularity, and beauty of these
avenues strike the American visitor with astonishment. Fancy a street
twice as wide as Broadway or Washington Street, with a sidewalk as wide
as some of our ordinary streets, and shaded by a double line of trees,
the street itself paved or laid in concrete or smooth hard asphalte; the
houses tall, elegant, and of uniform style; brilliant, with elegant
stores, cafés with their crowds at the tables set in front of them; the
gay, merry throngs; little one-horse barouches, the French _voitures_,
as they are called, flying here and there, and the more stylish
turn-outs of the aristocracy,--and you have some idea of the great
avenues leading up to the Arc d'Etoile. After passing this grand arch,
you enter upon the magnificent Avenue de l'Impératrice, three hundred
feet wide, which leads to the splendid Bois de Boulogne, an avenue that
is crowded with the rush of elegant equipages, among which were to be
seen those of foreign ambassadors, rich residents, English and other
foreign noblemen, French ballet-dancers, and the demi-monde, every
pleasant afternoon.

This great arch of triumph overwhelms one with its grandeur and vastness
upon near approach; it lifts its square altar over one hundred and fifty
feet from the ground; its width is one hundred and thirty-seven feet,
and it is sixty-eight feet in thickness. The grand central arch is a
great curve, ninety feet high and forty-five wide, and a transverse
arch--that is, one going through it from one end to the other--is
fifty-seven feet high and twenty-five wide. The arch fronts the
magnificent Champs Elysées, adown which broad vista the visitor looks
till he sees it expand into the grand Place de la Concorde, with its
fountains and column of Luxor, beyond which rise the Tuileries. The
outside of this arch has superb groups, representing warlike scenes,
allegorical figures, &c., by some of the most celebrated French and
Italian artists. Some of the great figures of Victory, History, Fame,
&c., are from eighteen to twenty feet in height. Inside the arch, upon
its walls, are cut in the solid stone the names of nearly a hundred
victories, and also the names of French generals whose bravery won so
much renown for the French nation, so much glory for their great
Corsican captain, and which are names that are identified with his and
_la grande armée_.

This superb monument was commenced, in 1806, by Napoleon, but not
completed till 1836; and some idea may be obtained of the work and skill
expended upon it from its cost, which was ten million four hundred and
thirty-three thousand francs, or over _two millions of dollars_ in gold.
Two of the groups of bass-reliefs upon it cost nearly thirty thousand
dollars. Ascent to the top is obtained by broad staircases, up a flight
of two hundred and seventy-two steps, and the visitor may look down the
Avenue de la Grande Armée, Avenue d'Eylau, or over the beautiful Avenue
de l'Impératrice, or Champs Elysées, far as his eye can reach, and still
farther by the aid of the telescopes and spy-glasses kept by the
custodians on the summit.

Descending from the arch, we will take a stroll down the Avenue des
Champs Elysées--the broad, beautiful avenue which appears to be the
favorite promenade of Parisians. Upon either side of this avenue are
open grounds, and groves of trees, in and amid which is every species of
cheap amusement for the people--open booths in which are little games of
chance for cheap prizes of glass ware and toys, merry-go-rounds, Punch
and Judy shows, elegant cafés with their throngs of patrons sitting in
front and watching the passers by, or the gay equipages on their way to
the Bois de Boulogne. In one of these groves, at the side of the Champs
Elysées, is the Circus of the Empress, where feats of horsemanship are
performed, and in another a fine military band plays every afternoon;
the old Palais de l'Industrie fronts upon this avenue, and the
celebrated Jardin Mabille is but a few steps from it; but this should be
seen by gas-light; so, indeed, should the whole avenue, which by night,
in the summer, presents a most fairy-like scene. Then the groves are
illuminated by thousands of colored lights; Cafés Chantants are seen
with gayly-dressed singers, sitting in ornamented kiosks, which are
illuminated by jets of gas in every conceivable form; here, at a corner,
a huge lyre of fire blazes, and beneath it shines, in burning letters,
the name of a celebrated café, or theatre; the little booths and penny
shows are all gayly illuminated; gas gleams and flashes in all sorts of
fantastic forms from before and within the café; and, looking far up the
avenue, to where the great arch rears its dark form, you see thousands
of colored lights flitting too and fro, hither and thither, in every
direction, like a troup of elves on a midnight gambol; these are the
lights upon the cabs and voitures, which are obliged by law to have
them, and those of different quarters of the city are distinguished the
one from the other by different colors.

The cheapness and convenience of these little one-horse open barouches
of Paris make us long for the time when they and the English Hansom cab
shall displace the great, cumbersome carriage we now use in America. One
of these little fiacres, which you can hail at any time, and almost
anywhere in the streets of Paris, carries you anywhere you may choose,
to go in the city from one point to another, for a franc and a half
fare, and a _pour boire_ of about three or four cents to the driver; or,
if taken by the hour, you can glide over the asphalte floor-like streets
at the rate of two francs an hour. The police regulations respecting
fares are very strict and rigidly enforced, as, in fact, are all police
regulations, which are most excellent; and the order, system, and
regularity which characterize all arrangements at places of public
resort and throughout the city, give the stranger a feeling of perfect
safety and confidence--confidence that he is under the protection and
eye of a power and a law, one which is prompt and efficient in its
action, and in no way to be trifled with. The fiacre drivers all have
their printed _carte_ of the tariff, upon which is their number, which
they hand to customers upon entering the vehicle; these can be used in
case of imposition or dispute, which, however, very seldom occurs;
rewards are given to drivers for honesty in restoring articles left in
vehicles, and the property thus restored to owners by the police in the
course of a year is very large, sometimes reaching sixty or seventy
thousand dollars.

Straight down the broad Champs Elysées, till we came into that
magnificent and most beautiful of all squares in Paris, the Place de la
Concorde. Here, in this great open square, which the guide-books
describe as four hundred paces in length, and the same in width, several
other superb views of the grand avenues and splendid public buildings
are obtained. Standing in the centre, I looked back, up the broad Champs
Elysées, more than a mile in length, the whole course slightly rising in
grade, till the view terminated with the Triumphal Arch. Looking upon
one side, we saw the old palace of the Bourbons, now the palace of the
Corps Législatif. Fronting upon one side of the Place are two
magnificent edifices, used as government offices, and up through the Rue
Royale that divides them, the vista is terminated by the magnificent
front of the Madeleine.

Here, in the centre of the square, we stood opposite the celebrated
obelisk of Luxor, that expensive gift of the Pacha of Egypt to Louis
Philippe, and which, from the numerous bronze models of it sold in the
fancy goods stores in America, is getting to be almost as familiar as
Bunker Hill monument. Indeed, a salesman in Tiffany and Company's room
of bronzes, in Broadway, New York, once told me that, notwithstanding
the hieroglyphics upon the bronze representations of this obelisk that
they sell, he had more than once had people, who looked as though they
ought to have known better, cry out, "O, here's Bunker Hill Monument;
and it looks just like it, too."

The Luxor obelisk was a heavy, as well as an expensive present, for it
weighed five hundred thousand pounds, and it cost the French government
more than forty thousand dollars to get it in place upon its pedestal;
but now that it is here, it makes a fine appearance, and, as far as
proportions and looks go, appears to be very appropriately placed in the
centre of this magnificent square, its monolith of red granite rising
one hundred feet; though, as we lean over the rail that surrounds it,
the thought suggests itself, that this old chronicle of the deeds of
Sesostris the Great, who reigned more than a thousand years before Paris
had an existence, and whose hundred-gated city is now a heap of ruins,
was really as out of place here, in the great square of the gayest of
modern capitals, as a funeral monument in a crowded street, or an elegy
among the pages of a novel. Around the square, at intervals, are eight
huge marble statues, seated upon pedestals, which represent eight of the
great cities of France, such as Marseilles, Rouen, Lyons, Bordeaux, &c.
Each figure is said to face in the direction in which the city or town
it is called for lies from Paris.

The great bronze fountains that stand in the centre of the square have
round basins, fifty feet in diameter, above which rise others of lesser
sizes. Tritons and water nymphs about the lower basin hold dolphins,
which spout streams of water into the upper ones, and at the base sit
ponderous granite figures, which the Parisians say do well to sit down,
for, if they stood up, they would soon be fatigued by their own weight.
But the great fountain here in the Place de la Concorde marks an
historic spot. It is no more nor less than the site of that horrid
instrument, the guillotine, during the French revolution; and it was
here, in this great square, now filled with bright and happy crowds,
gazing at the flashing waters of the fountains, the statues, and
obelisk, or rambling amid the pretty walks, lined with many-hued
flowers, in the gardens of the Tuilleries near by,--it was here, round
and about, that the fierce crowd surged during some of the bloodiest
scenes in French history. Near where rises the bronze fountain, the
horrid scaffold once stood; here, where the crystal streams rush and
foam, shine and sparkle in the sunbeams, once poured out the richest and
basest blood of France, in torrents almost rivalling those that now dash
into the great basin that covers the spot they crimsoned; here the head
of Louis XVI. fell from his shoulders; here Charlotte Corday met death
unterrified; here twenty-two Girondists poured out their life-blood;
here poor Marie Antoinette bent her neck to the cruel knife, and the
father of Louis Philippe met his death; here the victims of the fell
tyrant Robespierre fell by hundreds. At length Danton himself, and his
party, were swept before the descending axe; and finally the bloody
Robespierre and his fierce associates met a just retribution beneath the
sweep of the insatiate blade, sixty or seventy falling beneath it in a
day.

Great heavens! would they never tire of blood, or was the clang of the
guillotine music to their ears, that for more than two years they kept
the horrid machine in motion, till twenty-eight hundred victims fell
beneath its stroke! Well said Chateaubriand, in opposing the erection of
a fountain upon the very site of the scaffold, that all the water in the
world would not be sufficient to efface the bloody stains with which the
place was sullied. It thus fell out that it was agreed, that any
monument placed in this memorable square should be one which should bear
no allusion to political events, and the gift of Mehemet Ali afforded
opportunity to place one. So here the laudatory inscription to a warlike
Egyptian of three thousand years ago and more is placed, to change the
current of men's thoughts, who may stand here and think of the surging
crowd of fierce _sans-culottes_, and still fiercer women, who once
thronged this place, and who were treated to their fill of what their
brutal natures demanded--blood, blood!

But are these the people that would do such horrid deeds--these
men we see around us, with varnished boots, immaculate linen, and
irreproachable costume? these ladies, gentle creatures, with faultless
costume, ravishing boots, dainty toilets, and the very butterflies of
fashion? If you would like something approaching a realization of your
imagination, wait till you get into the Latin quarter, or in some of the
old parts of Paris, where narrow lanes have not yet been made into broad
avenues; where low-browed, blue-bloused workmen are playing dominoes in
cheap wine-shops; and coarse women, with big, bare, red arms, and
handkerchief-swathed heads, stand in the doorways and bandy obscene
jests at the passers by; where foul odors assail the olfactories; where
you meet the _sergent-de-ville_ frequently; and where, despite of what
you have heard of the great improvements made in Paris, you see just
such places as the _Tapis Franc_, described in Eugene Sue's Mysteries of
Paris, and in which, despite the excellence of the Parisian police, you
had rather not trust yourself after dark without a guard; and you will
meet to-day those whom it would seemingly take but little to transform
into the fierce mob of 1792.

The gigantic improvements made in Paris during the reign of Louis
Napoleon are apparent even to the newly-arrived tourist, and are
unequalled by any city in the world. Broad, elegant avenues have been
cut through densely-populated and filthy districts; great squares,
monuments, opera-houses, theatres, and public buildings of unexampled
splendor have arisen on every side; palaces and monuments have been
repaired and restored, the great quadrangle of the Louvre and Tuilleries
completed. Turn which way one will, he sees the evidences of this
remarkable man's ability--excellent police arrangements, drainage,
public works, liberality to foreigners, &c. What little opportunity I
had of judging the French people almost leads me to believe that no
government could be invented under the sun that would satisfy them for
any length of time, and that they would attempt revolutions merely for a
new sensation.

From this square it is but a few steps to the garden of the Tuilleries.
The portion of the garden that is immediately contiguous to the palace
is not open to the public, but separated from it by a sort of trench and
an iron railing. The public portion of the garden is beautifully laid
out with _parterres_ of flowers, fountains, bronze and marble statues,
&c. While promenading its walks, our attention was attracted to a man
who seemed upon the best of terms with the birds that flew from the
trees and bushes, and perched upon his head, hands, and arms, ate
bird-seed off his hat and shoulders, and even plucked it from between
his lips. He was evidently either some "Master of the Birds to the
Emperor," or a favored bird-charmer, as he appeared to be familiarly
acquainted with the feathered warblers, and also the police, who
sauntered by without interfering with him.

The exciting scenes of French history, that are familiar to every
school-boy's memory, render Paris, to say nothing of its other
attractions, one of those points fraught with historical associations
that the student longs to visit. To stand upon the very spot where the
most memorable events of French history took place, beneath the shadow
of some of the self-same buildings and monuments that have looked down
upon them, and to picture in one's mind how those scenes of the past
must have appeared, is pleasant experience to those of an imaginative
turn. Here we stand in the Place de la Bastille, the very site of the
famous French prison; the horrors of its dungeons and the cruelties of
its jailers have chilled the blood of youth and roused the indignation
of maturer years; but here it was rent asunder and the inmost secrets
exposed by the furious mob, in the great revolution of 1789, and not a
vestige of the terrible prison now remains. In the broad, open square
rises a tall monument of one hundred and fifty feet, from the summit of
which a figure of Liberty, with a torch in one hand and broken chain in
another, is poised upon one foot, as if about to take flight. The stones
of the cruel dungeons of the Bastille now form the Pont de la Concorde,
trampled under foot, as they should be, by the throngs that daily pass
and repass that splendid bridge. The last historical and revolutionary
act in this square was the burning of Louis Philippe's throne there in
1848.

Passing through the Rue de la Paix, celebrated for its handsome jewelry
and gentlemen's furnishing goods stores, and as a street where you may
be sure of paying the highest price asked in Paris for any thing you
wish to purchase, we came out into the Place Vendôme, in the middle of
which stands the historic column we have so often read of, surmounted by
the bronze statue of the great Napoleon, who erected this splendid and
appropriate trophy of his victories. One hundred and thirty-five feet
high, and twelve in diameter, is this well-known column, and the bronze
bass-reliefs, which commence at the base and circle round the shaft to
its top, are cast from twelve hundred pieces of Russian and Austrian
cannon, which the great Corsican captured in his campaign of 1805, which
ended with the tremendous battle of Austerlitz. The bass-reliefs on the
pedestal are huge groups of weapons, warlike emblems, &c., and four huge
bronze eagles, weighing five hundred pounds each, holding wreaths, are
perched at the four corners of the pedestal.

The iron railing around this monument is thickly hung with wreaths of
_immortelles_; these are placed here by the surviving soldiers of the
grand army of Napoleon I., and are renewed once a year upon some
celebrated anniversary, when the spectacle of this handful of trembling
veterans of the first empire, showing their devotion to the memory of
their great chieftain, is a most touching one, while the deference and
honor shown to these shattered relics of France's warlike host, whose
deeds have won it an imperishable name in military glory, must be
gratifying to their pride. I saw an old shrunken veteran with a wooden
leg hobbling along with a stick, who wore an old-fashioned uniform, upon
which glittered the medals and decorations of the first empire, to whom
sentinels at public stations, as he passed, presented arms with a clang
and clatter that seemed to send the faint sparks of dying fire up into
his eyes, with a momentary martial gleam beneath his shaggy white
eyebrows, as he raised his shrunken hand in acknowledgment to his old
fashioned _képi_, while the military salutes, and even deferential
raising of hats, of young officers, his superiors in rank, that he
passed, were returned with a smile beneath his snowy mustache that
bespoke what an incense to his pride as a soldier of the grand army were
all such tokens.

But it was a still more interesting sight to see, at the court-yard of
the Hotel des Invalides, at about noon, on the occasion of some daily
military routine, some thirty or forty of these old soldiers in various
uniforms, wearing side arms only, some hobbling upon one leg, others
coming feebly but determinedly into line as they ever did on the great
battle-fields of the empire, and stand in dress parade while the band
played its martial strains, and their own flags surmounted by the French
eagles waved before them, and a splendid battalion of French troops
(some of their sons and grandsons, perhaps), officers and men, presented
arms to them as they saluted the flags they had won renown under half a
century before, and then slowly, and with an effort at military
precision that was almost comical, filed back to their quarters.

We used to read in Rogers's poem of Ginevra that,

        "If ever you should come to Modena,
        (Where, among other relics, you may see
        Tassoni's bucket; but 'tis not the true one;")

so, also, if ever you should go to Paris, you will be shown at one end
of the Louvre a large window, from which you will be told Charles IX.
fired upon the flying Huguenots as they ran from the ferocious mob that
pursued them with bloody weapons and cries of "Kill, kill!" on the night
of St. Bartholomew, 1572; but this window is "not the true one," for it
was not built till long after the year of the massacre; but the old
church of St. Germain l'Auxerrois, near by, from the belfry of which
first issued the fatal signal of that terrible night, is still standing,
and the Parisians in that vicinity find it easy to detect strangers and
foreigners, from their pausing and looking up at this church with an
expression of interest.

THE LOUVRE! Every letter-writer goes into ecstasies over it, is struck
with wonder at its vastness, and luxuriates in the inspection of its
priceless treasures. The completion of the connection of the Louvre with
the Tuilleries, made by Louis Napoleon, gives a grand enclosed space,
surrounded on all sides by the magnificent buildings of this great
gallery of fine arts and the royal palaces.

At one end, dividing the court-yard of the Louvre from that of the
Tuileries, rises the triumphal Arc du Carrousel, erected by Napoleon in
1806, surmounted with its car of victory and bronze horses; and here the
memory of the army of the first empire is perpetuated by statues of
cuirassiers, infantry and artillerymen, in the uniform of their
different corps, and the fashion in vogue at that time, while
bass-reliefs represent various battle scenes in which they figured. It
was in this open space, now the most magnificent court in Europe, that
the guillotine was first set up, before it was removed to the square
which is now the Place de la Concorde. An iron fence runs across the
court-yard at this point, making a division of the space, as it is from
an entrance in the palace, fronting this arch, that the emperor,
empress, and imperial family generally make their entrance and exit.

The architectural appearance and ornaments of these elegant buildings
combine to form a splendid interior, as it were, of this vast enclosed
square; the buildings, fronted with Corinthian columns, elegant and
elaborate sculptures, and statues, form a space something like a vast
parallelogram, their uniformity being interrupted by magnificent and
lofty pavilions, as they are called. When we say the Boston City Hall is
somewhat of a poor copy of one of these pavilions, it may give the
reader an idea of what they are. Their fronts are adorned with great
groups of statuary, wreaths, decorations, and allegorical figures,
beautifully cut, and through their vast gateways ingress is had from the
street. All along the front of the buildings, upon this interior space,
are statues of distinguished men of France. I counted over eighty of
them. Among them were those of Colbert, Mazarin, Racine, Voltaire,
Vauban, Buffon, Richelieu, Montaigne, &c.

The completion of the connection of the two palaces by Louis Napoleon
has rendered this court-yard indescribably grand and elegant, while its
vastness strikes the beholder with astonishment. The space that is now
enclosed and covered by the old and new Louvre and Tuileries is about
sixty acres. An idea of the large amount of money that has been lavished
upon these elegant piles may be obtained from the fact that the cost of
the sculptures on the new part of the building is nearly half a million
dollars; but then, perhaps, as an American remarked, it ought to be a
handsome place, since they have been over three hundred years building
it. Some of the finest portions of the architectural designs of the
façade of the Louvre were completed by Napoleon I. from the designs of
Perrault, a physician, and the author of fully as enduring monuments of
genius--those charming fairy tales of Cinderella, Bluebeard, and the
Sleeping Beauty. Perhaps the ornamental columns and beautiful
decorations were something of a realization of his ideas of palaces of
the fairies and genii, in his charming stories.

The work of improvement upon the buildings and court-yard of the Louvre
is still going on, and the present emperor will leave here, as well as
in many other parts of Paris, the impress of his power, as used for
beautifying the French capital, and raising enduring monuments of the
encouragement of improvements, progress, and the arts, during his reign.

We have been in and through the Louvre, not in one visit, but again and
again, over acres of flooring, past miles of pictures,--a plethora of
luxurious art,--days of wonder, and hours of sight-seeing. How many
originals we have gazed upon that we have seen copies of in every style!
how many pictures of great artists that we have read of, and how many
curious and wonderful historical relics and antiquities! What an
opportunity for the student and the artist, what a source of amusement
and entertainment, what a privilege, in these old countries, is the free
admission to these costly and well-stocked galleries of art--here, where
we may see hundreds of celebrated pictures and statues, any two of
which would "pay handsomely," placed on exhibition in one of our great
American cities; here, where there are seven miles of pictures, and
their catalogue makes a thick book of over seven hundred pages; here,
where, if you were to start and walk constantly, without stopping an
instant to rest, it would require three hours to pass through the
different apartments; here, where, perhaps, the American tourist or
newspaper correspondent sharpens his pencil and takes a fresh note-book,
with the feeling that it is a prolific field, but is overwhelmed with an
ocean of art, and consoles himself with the thought that the Louvre has
been so often described, written about, and commented on, that the
subject is worn threadbare; and that the public has had enough of
rhapsodies and descriptions of it.

And he is more than half right. The Louvre alone is a great exposition,
that would suffice to attract thousands of foreigners to Paris. The
number of visitors is immense. Galignani says that the produce of the
sale of catalogues amounts to forty thousand dollars a year, and more
than twenty thousand dollars per annum are taken for depositing canes
and umbrellas at the door, the charge for which service is only two or
three sous. It is best to avoid, if possible, the taking of canes,
parasols, and umbrellas with you, as it may chance that you will desire
to make exit at some point distant from that of entrance, and save the
trouble of returning for the _impedimenta_.

I commenced with a determination, like many others, to see the Louvre
thoroughly and systematically, and therefore began with the basement
story, entering the museum of Assyrian antiquities, thence into Egyptian
halls of curiosities, where the visitor gets view of a large and
interesting collection from the cities of Nineveh, Thebes, &c., the
results of the researches and discoveries of French _savants_ and
travellers in the East--vases, mummies, fragments of sculptured stones
and figures, manuscripts, besides articles of domestic use among the
ancient Egyptians.

Here were the mirrors that Theban dames arranged their dark tresses at,
and the combs, needle and toilet cases that they used; musical
instruments, games, and weights and measures; articles of ornament, and
of the household, that have been exhumed from the monuments of ancient
cities--a rare and curious collection; then come the Algerian museum,
the Renaissance sculpture gallery, with beautiful groups of bronze and
marble statuary, dating from the commencement of the sixteenth century,
among which is the celebrated one of Diana with the Stag, the likeness
being that of Diane de Poitiers, mistress of Henry II.; then come the
five different halls of modern sculptures, where we saw Canova's Cupid
and Psyche, Julien's Ganymede and Eagle, Bartolini's colossal bust of
Bonaparte, and groups representing Cupid cutting his bow from Hercules'
club, Perseus releasing Andromeda, and many others.

Next we reach the museum of antique marbles, a grand gallery, divided
off into half partitions, and rich in superb ancient statuary. One of
the halls of this gallery is noted as being that in which Henry IV. was
married; and here, too, was his body brought after his assassination by
Ravaillac; but the visitor's thoughts of historical associations are
banished by the beautiful works of art that meet him on every hand. Here
is Centaur overcome by Bacchus, the Borghese Vase, the Stooping Venus,
Pan, the Three Graces, Hercules and Telephus, Mars, Cupid proving his
bow, Dancing Faun, a magnificent figure of Melpomene, twelve feet high,
with the drapery falling so naturally about as almost to cheat belief
that it was the work of the sculptor's chisel; another magnificent
colossal figure of Minerva, about ten feet high, armed with helmet and
shield; the Borghese Gladiator, a splendid figure; Wounded Amazon, Satyr
and Faun, Diana and the Deer, Wounded Gladiator, Bass-relief of
triumphal procession of Bacchus and Ariadne, &c.

I am aware that this enumeration will seem something like a reproduction
of a catalogue to some readers, though it is but the pencilled memoranda
of a very few of the notable pieces in this magnificent collection,
before which I was enabled to halt anything like long enough to examine
strictly and admire; for the days seemed all short, our few weeks in
Paris too brief, and this grand collection, with other sight-seeing, a
formidable undertaking, as we now began to contemplate it, when I found
myself still upon this basement floor of the Louvre after nearly a day's
time, and the thought that if my resolution to see the whole,
systematically and thoroughly, were faithfully carried out, almost a
season in Paris would be required, and but little time left for anything
else.

I have seen copies, and busts, and engravings of the Venus of Milo a
hundred times, but never was attracted by it enough to go into raptures
over its beauty, being, perhaps, unable to view it with an artistic eye;
but as I chanced to approach the great original here from a very
favorable point of view, as it stood upon its pedestal, with the mellow
light of the afternoon falling upon the beautiful head and shoulders,
the effect upon me was surprising to myself. I thought I never before
had gazed upon more exquisitely moulded features. The features seemed
really those of a goddess, and admiration divided itself in the beauty
of the production and the genius of an artist that could conceive and
execute it. I am not ashamed to say, that during the hour I spent in the
room in which this beautiful work of art is placed, I came to a better
understanding concerning some of the enthusiasm respecting art
manifested by certain friends, which I had hitherto regarded as
commonplace expressions, or was at loss to understand the real feeling
that prompted their fervor.

If the visitor is amazed at the fine collection of sculpture and
statuary, what are his feelings at beholding the grand and almost
endless halls of paintings as he ascends to the floors above! Here,
grand galleries, spacious and well lighted, stretch out seemingly as far
as the eye can reach, while halls and ante-rooms, here and there
passages, and vestibules, and rooms, are crammed with the very wealth of
art; here the _chefs d'oeuvre_ of the great artists of Europe, known
all over the world by copies and engravings, are collected; and the
pleasure of looking upon these great originals is a gratification not
easy to be described.

The lover of art, as he passes from point to point, from one great work
to another, to each fresh surprise that awaits him, feels like shaking
hands mentally with himself in congratulation at the enjoyment
experienced in seeing so much of real and genuine art collected
together, and under such favorable circumstances.

The paintings in the galleries are all arranged according to different
schools of art. Thus the Spanish, Dutch, and German schools are arrayed
in one gallery, the Italian in another, the modern French school in
another; and these are further arranged in subdivisions, so that the
student and art lover may study, inspect, or copy, in any department of
art that he may desire.

What a host of masterpieces in the great gallery! And here were artists,
male and female, copying them. Some, with little easel and chair, were
merely sketching a single head from a group in some grand tableau.
Others, with huge framework, and mounted up many feet from the floor,
were making full copies of some great painting. Students were sketching
in crayon, upon crayon paper, portions of designs from some favorite
artist. Ladies were making cabinet copies of paintings, and others
copying celebrated heads upon tablets of the size of miniatures; and one
artist I observed putting a copy of a group upon a handsome vase that
was before him. Nearly every one of the most noted paintings by great
masters had two or three artists near it, making copies.

The Grand Gallery, as it is called, is a quarter of a mile long, and
over forty feet wide, and with its elegantly ornamented ceilings, its
magnificent collection of nearly two thousand splendid paintings,
including some of the finest masterpieces in the world, and superb
vista, presents a _coup d'oeil_ that can hardly fail to excite
enthusiasm even from those who are not professed admirers of pictures.

Think of the luxury of seeing the original works of Raphael, Rembrandt,
Titian, Rubens, Claude Lorraine, Holbein, Paul Veronese, Guido, Quintin
Matsys, Murillo, Teniers, Ostade, Wouverman, Vandyke, David, Andrea del
Sarto, Vernet, Leonardo da Vinci, Poussin, Albert Dürer, &c., besides
those of other celebrated artists, all in one gallery! And it is not a
meagre representation of them either, for the Louvre is rich in works
from each of these great artists. There was Paul Veronese's great
picture of the Repast in the House of Simon the Pharisee, thirty-one
feet long and fifteen high, and his Marriage at Cana, a magnificent
tableau, thirty-two feet long and twenty-one high, the figures splendid
portraits of celebrated persons; Titian's Entombment of Christ;
Raphael's beautiful picture of the Virgin and Child; Murillo's
Conception of the Virgin, which cost twenty-four thousand six hundred
pounds; Landscape by Claude Lorraine; a whole gallery of Rubens, and
another of Joseph Vernet's Seaports; then there is the Museum of Design,
of fourteen rooms full of designs, over thirty thousand in number, of
the great masters in all schools of art. Here one may look on the
original sketches, in pencil and India ink, of Rembrandt, Holbein,
Dürer, Poussin, and other great artists.

It would be but a sort of guide-book review to enumerate the different
halls and their wonders, such as one that is devoted entirely to antique
terra cottas, another to jewelry and ornaments of the mediæval and
renaissance period, another to specimens of Venetian glass ware, of
exquisite designs and workmanship, another to bronzes, &c. The Museum of
Sovereigns was interesting in historical relics; for it was something,
remember, to have looked upon the sceptre, sword, and spars of
Charlemagne, the arm-chair of King Dagobert, the alcove in the room
where Henry IV. ("King Henry of Navarre") used to sleep; Marie
Antoinette's shoe, her cabinet and casket; Henry II.'s armor, and the
very helmet through which the lance of Montgomeri went that killed him
in the tournament in 1559; Charles IX.'s helmet and shield, the
coronation robes of Charles X., and a host of other relics that have
figured in French history.

One room is devoted to relics of Napoleon I., and is called the Hall of
the Emperor. Here you may look upon the very uniform that he wore on the
bloody field of Marengo, a locket containing his hair, the flag of the
Old Guard, that he kissed when he bade adieu at Fontainebleau, the
veritable gray overcoat which he wore, and the historical cocked hat
which distinguished him, the cockade worn when he landed from Elba, the
great coronation robes worn when he was crowned emperor, his sword,
riding whip, and saddle, the pocket-handkerchief used by him on his
death-bed, articles of clothing, &c. The cases containing these articles
were thronged, and the curious French crowd looked upon them with a sort
of veneration, and occasional exclamations of wonderment or sympathy, as
some descriptive inscription was read and explained to an unlettered
visitor by his more fortunate companion.

But suffice it to say that the Louvre, with its superb collections, and
its almost endless "Salles de --" everything, is overwhelming in the
impression it gives as a wealth of art. It is impossible to convey a
correct idea of it to the lover of art, or even the longing lover of
travel who has Europe in prospect. In the words of the modern
advertisers, it must be seen to be appreciated, and will require a great
many visits to see enough of it to properly appreciate it.

Right opposite the Louvre, across a square, is the Palais Royal,
attractive to all Americans and English from the restaurants, and
jewelry, and bijouterie shops, which are on the ground floor, and form
the continuous arcade or four sides of the square of the garden which
they enclose. This garden is about a thousand feet long and four
hundred wide, with trees, flowers, and fountain, and a band plays in
the afternoon to the entertainment of the crowd of loungers who have
dined at the Trois Frères, Vefour, or Rotonde, lounge in chairs, and
sip _café noir_, or absinthe, if Frenchmen, or smoke cigars and drink
wine, if Americans. The restaurants here and in the vicinity are
excellent; but one wants a thorough experience, or an expert to teach
him how to dine at a French restaurant; otherwise he may pay twice as
much as he need to have done, and then not get what he desired. Fresh
arrivals, English and Americans, are rich game for the restaurants.
They know not all the dodges by which the Frenchman gets four or five
excellent courses for almost half what it costs the uninitiated, such
as ordering a four-franc dinner, with a privilege of ordering so many
dishes of meat, so many of vegetables, or one of meat for two of the
latter, or the ordering of one "portion" for two persons, &c. And I do
not know as my countrymen would always practise them if they did; for
being accustomed at home to order more than they want at a restaurant,
and to make the restaurant-keeper a free gift of what they do not use,
they are rather apt, in Paris, to "darn the expense," and order what
suits their palates, without investigating the cost till they call for
the garçon with "_l'addition_."

The jewelry shops in the arcade around the Palais Royal Garden are of
two kinds--those for the sale of real jewelry and rich fancy goods, and
those selling the imitation. These latter are compelled by law to keep a
sign conspicuously displayed, announcing the fact that their wares are
imitation, and any one found selling imitation for real is, I
understand, severely punished. The imitation jewelry stores are very
attractive, and it is really quite remarkable to what perfection the art
is carried. Imitation of diamonds, made from polished rock-crystal,
which will retain their brilliancy for some months, mock coral, painted
sets, imitation gold bracelets, chains, necklaces, sleeve-buttons, and
earrings, of every conceivable design, very prettily made.

The designs of this cheap jewelry are fully equal to that of the more
costly kind, and it is retailed here in large quantities at a far more
reasonable price, in proportion to its cost, than is the Attleboro'
jewelry in our own country. The arcade used to be thronged with
Americans, who purchased generally from a handful to a half peck each of
the attractive and pretty articles which are so liberally displayed
here.

The French shopkeepers are quick to detect a stranger or foreigner, and
very many of them regulate their prices accordingly; so that one soon
ascertains that it is not labor in vain to urge a reduction in price,
even in establishments where huge placards of "Prix Fixé" inform you
that they have a fixed price for their goods, which may mean, however,
that it is "fixed" according to the customer and his anxiety to
purchase. I myself had an experience in the purchase of a pair of
ornaments. Inquiring the price, I was informed, "Eight francs."

"Ah, indeed! That is more than I care to pay."

"For what price does monsieur expect to obtain such beautiful articles?"

"Six francs."

"C'est impossible!" (_shrugging his shoulders and elevating his
eyebrows_); "ici le prix est fixé;" but monsieur should have them for
seven francs, as they had been taken from the show-case.

Monsieur was indifferent; he "remercier'd" the shopkeeper; he did not
care to pay but six francs, and walked towards the door; but the
salesman followed him, and, as he reached the threshold, presented
monsieur the articles in question, neatly enveloped in one of his
tissue-paper shop-bills. It was positively too cheap, but "pour obliger
monsieur," he would give him this "bon marché" for the six francs.

We paid the six francs accordingly; but our satisfaction respecting the
"bon marché" was somewhat dampened at seeing the very self-same
description of articles we had just purchased at six francs a pair
displayed in a window, scarcely half a dozen stores distant, ticketed,
in plain figures, three francs a pair.

Passing along through one of the busiest streets of Paris one day, we
observed the entrance or passage from the street to the lower story of
one of the houses hung with black and decorated with funeral trappings;
in fact, the interior arranged as a sort of little apartment, in the
midst of which, exposed to full view to all passers by, stood a coffin,
surrounded by candles, with crucifix at its head, and all the usual
sombre emblems of mourning; pedestrians, as they passed, respectfully
uncovered, and such exposition, we were told, is one of the customs in
France when death occurs in a family. Funerals often take place at
night, although we have met the funeral train during the day, when all
who meet it, or whom it passes, remove their hats--a mark of respect
which it is pleasant to observe, and which the newly-arrived tourist
makes haste to record as one of the evidences of French breeding and
politeness.

When I was a boy, and studied first books of history and geography,
there was in one of them a picture in which a Frenchman was represented
as taking off his hat and making a ceremonious bow to a lady;
underneath, as part of the pleasing fable in which the youth were then,
and may be, in many cases, to this day are instructed, was printed that
the French were the most polite people in the world. If courtly speech,
factitious conventionalities, and certain external forms constitute
politeness, then the French _are_ the most polite people; but if
politeness embraces in its true definition, as I hold that it does,
spontaneous unselfishness, refined generosity, carrying kindliness into
common acts, unselfishness into daily life, and a willingness to make
some self-sacrifice for others, making itself felt more than seen--then
there never was a more monstrous humbug than French "politeness." It is
nothing more than a certain set of hypocritical forms, the thin,
deceptive varnish which is substituted for the clear, solid crystal of
hearty honesty.

The Frenchman will raise his hat at a funeral, will "mille pardons,
monsieur," if he accidentally jostles your elbow, bow gracefully to the
_dame du comptoir_ as he leaves a restaurant; do these and a thousand
graceful and pretty things that tend to exhibit himself, and, that cost
nothing; but how seldom does he perform an act that calls for the
slightest self-sacrifice! He never surrenders a good place that he holds
for an inferior one to a lady, an aged person, or a stranger; but he
will, if possible, by some petty trick at an exhibition, a review, or
public display, endeavor to obtain it from them for himself. The excess
of civility shown by the cringing and bowing shopman, with vertebræ as
supple as if oiled or supplied with patent hinges in the middle, he
expects to put into the price of the goods when he cheats you in your
purchases. Attendance in sickness, and service at your hotel, are
measured by the francs' worth, till at last, understanding the
hollowness of French politeness, its hypocrisy and artificial nature,
you long for less ceremony and more heart, and feel that there is much
of the former, and little, if any, of the latter, in the Frenchman's
code.

Speaking of funerals naturally inclined us to turn our steps towards the
celebrated cemetery of Père Lachaise, which has suggested many of the
rural cemeteries in our own country that in natural attractions now so
far surpass it; but Père Lachaise cemetery, which was formerly an old
Jesuit stronghold, was first laid out in 1804, and now it is the largest
burial-ground of Paris. It contains over twenty thousand tombs, besides
innumerable graves, and occupies two hundred and twelve acres of
undulating ground. Some of the older parts of it present a rusty and
ill-kept appearance. Before reaching the entrance gate, we had
indications of its proximity from the long street through which we
passed being almost entirely filled on both sides with the workshops of
marble and stone cutters, and funeral wreath manufacturers. Monuments of
every conceivable design, size, and expense were displayed, from the
elegant and elaborate group of statuary to the simple slab or the little
one-franc plaster _Agnus Dei_, to mark the grave of the poor man's
infant. There were quantities of shops for the sale of wreaths of
_immortelles_, bouquets, and other decorations for graves, and scores of
men and girls at work fashioning them into various designs, with mottoes
varied for all degrees of grief, and for every relation. These are the
touching ones: "To My Dear Mother," "My Dear Father," "My Sweet Infant,"
"To My Dear Sister;" and the friendly ones, "To My Uncle," "My Aunt,"
"My Friend;" or the sentimental ones, "Mon Cher Felix," "Ma Chère
Marie," "Alphonsine," "Pierre," &c.; besides bouquets of natural
flowers, and vases for their reception, of every style, and graduated
for every degree of grief and the limit of every purse; and you are
beset by children offering pretty little bunches of violets or bouquets
and wreaths of natural flowers. Arrived at the gate, we were furnished
with a guide, whom it is quite necessary to have, to save time in
traversing the cemetery, and direct one to the monuments that one most
wants to see of celebrated persons.

Our guide was a retired old soldier, slightly lame, and still preserving
a sort of military gait, as he stumped along in front of us; but the
combined perfume of the pipe he had learned to smoke while campaigning,
and the garlic he loved to eat at home, caused him to be a companion
that one would prefer occupying the windward side of.

The older part of the cemetery of Père Lachaise is very much crowded;
the tombs or vaults in some avenues stand as close together,
comparatively, as the doors of blocks of houses in a city thoroughfare.
Many of these vaults, facing the avenues, have open fronts, guarded only
by a light, iron latticed gate, through which the visitor may look into
a little square chapel, reached by a descent of three or four steps; in
this little chapel-vault stands a little altar, or shelf, on which is
placed cross, wreaths, and vase or vases of flowers, this being the
place of offering or prayer for the relatives, the interment being made
below the slab in the floor or side.

These vault chapels are more or less pretentious, according to the
wealth of the proprietors, some being fifteen or twenty feet square,
with marble sides, flooring, and sculpture, beautiful altar, candles,
vases, and handsome _prie dieu_, while the names cut into the carved
panels indicated what members of the family have been placed behind them
in the narrow chamber for their last sleep. Garlands, wreaths, and
mementos are in every direction--within, about, and upon the graves and
tombs; and in one department, where children were buried, upon the
little graves, beneath small glass cases, rested some of the little
toys--the dolls, and wooden soldiers, and little rattles--that had
belonged to them when living. We found, as we advanced, how much a guide
was needed, for we should never have been able to have threaded unaided
the labyrinths or the winding cypress-shaded paths of this crowded city
of the dead.

There were, we were informed, over eighteen thousand different monuments
in the cemetery, ranging from the simple cross or slab to the costly
mausoleum, such as is raised over the Countess Demidoff,--the most
expensive and elaborate monument in the grounds,--which is reached by
elegant flights of steps, and consists of a broad platform, supported by
ten splendid white marble Doric columns, upon which rests a sarcophagus,
bearing a sculptured cushion, with the arms and cornet of the deceased
resting thereon. This monument stands upon the brow of a hill, and
occupies one of the most conspicuous positions in the cemetery. But let
us follow our guide, taking a glance at a few of the notable features of
the place; for that is all one can do in a single visit and in the three
hours' stroll which we make through the most attractive parts.

You can hardly walk a dozen steps without encountering tombs bearing
names familiar and celebrated in military, scientific, religious, or
literary history; and the opportunity one has to study the taste in
monuments, obelisks, urns, mausoleums, pyramids, and sarcophagi, may be
inferred from the fact, that upon these tributes to departed worth, and
mementos of loved ones, no less than five millions sterling, or about
twenty-five million dollars in gold, have been expended since the
cemetery was first opened. The paths and walks of the old portion of
Père Lachaise are rough, and in sad contrast with the newer part, and
suffer much in comparison with the broad, spacious, well-rolled avenues
of our own Mount Auburn and Forest Hills, or the natural and artificial
beauties of Greenwood Cemetery.

We first took a glance at the Jewish division of the grounds, which is
separated from the rest by a wall, where the monument of Rachel, the
celebrated actress, was pointed out to us, and also those bearing the
name of Rothschild and Fould. We then walked to that most interesting
monument, generally the first one of any note visited by tourists, an
actual evidence and memento of the truth of that sad and romantic
history which is embalmed in the memory of youth, the monument of
Abélard and Héloise. This is a little open Gothic chapel, in which is
the sarcophagus of Abélard, and upon it rests his effigy, and by his
side that of Héloise.

The monument is built from the ruins of Paraclete Abbey, of which
Héloise was abbess, and its sculptured figures and decorations are very
beautiful, although suffering from decay and neglect. A bunch or two of
fresh violets and forget-me-nots, which we saw lying upon the breast of
the recumbent figure, showed that sentimental visitors still paid
tribute to this shrine of disappointed love.

As we advanced farther into the grounds, monuments bearing well-known
names, distinguished in science, literature, and art, met the eye on
every side. Here is that of Arago, the astronomer; Talma, the great
actor of Napoleon's time; Bernardin de St. Pierre, the author of Paul
and Virginia; David, the celebrated painter; Pradier, the great
sculptor; Chopin, the musician; Scribe, the dramatist; Racine, the poet;
Laplace, the astronomer; and Lafitte, the banker. Then we come to the
names of some of those military chiefs that surrounded the great soldier
of the first empire, and helped him to write the name of France in
imperishable records upon the pages of history.

Here rests Marshal Kellermann; here rises a granite pyramid to Marshal
Davoust, who won his laurels at Eylau, Friedland, and Auerstadt, the
great cavalry action of Eckmuhl, and, except Ney, who was the most
prominent in the tremendous battle of Borodino, and the disastrous
retreat from Russia; here Suchet, who commenced his career with Napoleon
at the siege of Toulon, sleeps beneath a white marble sarcophagus;
Macdonald and Lefebvre are here; and a pyramid of white marble, bearing
a bass-relief portrait, rises to the memory of General Masséna, "a very
obstinate man" and "the favorite child of victory"--him whom Napoleon
once told, "You yourself are equivalent to six thousand men." Passing
monument after monument, bearing names the birthplaces of whose titles
were victorious battle-fields, we were guided by our conductor to a
little square plat of ground enclosed by a light railing; it was gay
with many-hued flowers in full bloom, filling the air with their
fragrance. The old guide stopped, and reverently taking off his cap,
turned to us, saying,--

"_Hommage, monsieur, à le plus brave des braves--à Maréchal Ney._"

I involuntarily followed his example. "But where," asked I, looking
about on every side, "where is his monument?"

"His monument, monsieur," said the old fellow, drawing himself up as
erect as possible, and dramatically placing his hand upon his left
breast,--"his monument is the memory of his brave deeds, which will live
forever in the hearts of the French people."

Such a reply, coming from such a speaker, astonished me; and I almost
expected to see the staff change to a musket, the tattered cap into a
high grenadier "bearskin," and the old blouse into the faced uniform of
the _Garde Impériale_; there was such a flavor of Napoleon Bonaparteism
in the response, that that of the garlic was for the moment forgotten,
and we considered the reply increased the value of the speaker's
services to the extent of another franc.

I stood, afterwards, opposite the spot where Marshal Ney, "the rear
guard of the grand army" in the retreat from Russia, the last man who
left Russian territory, "the bravest of the brave," was shot according
to decree on the 7th of December, 1815. It is a short distance form the
south entrance of the gardens of the Palais du Luxembourg, and is marked
by a bronze statue of the great marshal, who is represented in the
attitude of leading his troops, sword in hand, as he did at the head of
the Old Guard, after four horses had been shot under him, in the last
charge on the disastrous field of Waterloo. A marble pedestal is nearly
covered with an enumeration of the battles in which he distinguished
himself He was indeed the "hero of a hundred battles."

Passing through another path, we came to the monument of Lafontaine,
surmounted by a life-size figure of a fox, sculptured from black marble,
the sides of the monument showing bronze bass-reliefs of the fable of
the fox and stork, and wolf and lamb. Béranger, the poet, sleeps in the
same tomb with Manuel, a French orator; and just before leaving the
cemetery our guide pointed out to us a little cross over the grave of
Judith Frère, who figures in the poet's songs as Lisette.

        "But first Lisette should here before me stand,
          So blithe, so lovely, in her fresh-trimmed bonnet;
        See, at the narrow window, how her hand
          Pins up her shawl, in place of curtain on it."

But we might go on with a whole catalogue of noted monuments seen in
this city of the dead, during our three hours' tour of it--an excursion
which, notwithstanding its interest, was quite fatiguing.

The magnificent tomb of Napoleon I., at the Church of the Invalides,
contains the mortal remains of the great Corsican, placed here with much
ceremony, carrying out the desire expressed in his will that his ashes
might rest upon the banks of the Seine, in the midst of the French
people that he had loved so much. Through the great cupola of the church
the light is admitted by means of colored glass, and so managed that it
shall fall upon the high altar, the crypt, and sarcophagus with striking
effect. The high altar is at the top of ten steps of pure white marble,
and is of black marble; great twisted columns of black and white marble
support a canopy of white and gold, beneath which is a figure of the
Saviour on the cross, upon which the sunlight, falling through yellow
glass, lights up the golden rays that are represented as springing from
the back of the crucifix into a blaze of glory, and flashes and sparkles
upon the gilded canopy and decorations, is if glorifying the sacred
emblems.

Directly in the centre, and beneath the dome of the church, is a great
circular opening thirty-six feet in diameter and twenty feet in depth;
this is the crypt, and surrounded by a marble rail. Looking down, you
gaze upon the sarcophagus, a huge block of red granite or porphyry,
weighing one hundred and thirty-five thousand pounds, most beautifully
polished, brought from Finland at a cost of thirty thousand dollars,
covering another huge block twelve feet long by six in width, which in
turn rests upon a splendid block of green granite, the whole forming a
monument about fourteen feet high. The pavement of this circular crypt
is a huge crown of laurels in green marble in a tessellated floor of
white and black marble; within the laurels are inscribed Marengo,
Austerlitz, Jena, Rivoli, Wagram, and other great victories, the whole
pavement being a most exquisite piece of mosaic work; around the circle
stand twelve colossal statues, facing the tomb, representing victories.
We descended to this crypt by passing to the rear, and beneath the high
altar, where we found the entrance guarded by two huge caryatides
bearing imperial emblems; passing the sarcophagus, we come to a chapel
where is the sword of Austerlitz, groups of flags captured by the French
in battle, and other mementos of the emperor.

The elegant finish of the marble-work in the interior of the Church of
the Invalides strikes one with astonishment; its joining is so perfect
as to be more like cabinet-making than masonry; the light is so managed
as to fall into the crypt through a bluish-purple glass, and striking
upon the polished marble, as one looks down from above, gives the crypt
the appearance of being filled with a delicate violet halo--a novel and
indescribable effect. The marble of the monument, the sculpture, and
decorations of the crypt, chapel, &c., cost one million eight hundred
thousand dollars in gold--a costly mausoleum.

The interior of the Invalides is circular, with arms of a cross extended
north, south, east, and west. The great dome is a splendid piece of
architecture, the summit of which is over three hundred feet from the
pavement; and high up in the cupola we see a splendid picture
representing our Saviour surrounded by saints and angels, which must be
colossal in size to appear as they do of life-size from below. In
chapels, in the angles formed by the cross, are other splendid
monuments to distinguished personages. In the Chapel of St. Augustin is
the tomb of Napoleon's eldest brother, Joseph, King of Spain, a huge
sarcophagus of black marble; and not far from this is that of Vauban,
the greatest of military engineers, also a sarcophagus of black marble,
upon which rests an effigy of Vauban; surrounded by emblems, with two
allegorical statues beside him. The monument of King Jerome is in the
chapel dedicated to St. Jerome, and is a huge sort of black marble
casket on gilt claw-feet, upon the top of which stands his statue. A
monument to Marshal Turenne represents him dying in the arms of some
allegorical genius, with an eagle at his feet.

Each of the chapels is dedicated to some saint, and richly decorated by
frescoes representing scenes in his life; but chapels, monuments, and
all, are, although splendid, of course insignificant compared with that
of the emperor, resting beneath the grand dome in the halo of colored
light, before the grand altar, and around which the twelve colossi, with
grasped swords and victorious wreaths, seem to be keeping solemn watch
and ward over the now silent dust of him

        "Whose greatness was no guard
          To bar Heaven's shaft."

One can easily imagine that Louis XIV. nearly bankrupted the French
nation in his magnificent expenditures on the palace and parks of
Versailles, everything about them is upon such a prodigal and princely
style. The vast halls of paintings, magnificent chapels, theatres, great
gardens, statuary, hot-houses, parks, fountains, and artificial basins,
the water to supply which was brought about four miles, the _little_
park of twelve miles in extent, and great park of _forty_. When the
visitor looks about him, he is amazed at the prodigal display of wealth
on every side. He ceases to wonder that over two hundred millions of
dollars have been expended upon this great permanent French exposition
and historical museum of the French nation.

Passing through the town, we entered the Place d'Armes, approaching the
palace. This is a great open space eight hundred feet broad, from which
we enter the grand court, or Cour d'Honneur, a space about four hundred
feet wide, leading up to the palace buildings, which are various,
irregular, and splendid piles, ornamented with pavilions, plain, or
decorated with Corinthian columns, and statues. In the centre of the
upper part of this great court stands a colossal equestrian statue of
Louis XIV., and upon either side, as the visitor walks up, he observes
fine marble statues of distinguished Frenchmen, such as Colbert,
Jourdan, Masséna, Conde, Richelieu, Bayard, &c. Entering the palace,
which appears from this court a confused mass of buildings, one is
overwhelmed with its vastness and magnificence. Some idea of the former
may be obtained by passing through, and taking a survey of the western,
or garden front, which is one continuous pile of building a quarter of a
mile in extent, elegantly adorned with richly-cut columns, statues, and
porticos, and, when viewed from the park, with the broad, very broad
flights of marble steps leading to it, adorned with vases, countless
statues, ornamental balustrades, &c., strikingly reminding one of the
pictorial representations he has seen of Solomon's Temple, or perhaps
more strikingly realizing what he may have pictured in his imagination
to have been the real appearance of that wonderful edifice.

The collection of pictures and statuary in the Historical Museum is so
overwhelming, and the series of rooms apparently so interminable, that a
single visit is inadequate to do more than give the visitor a sort of
confused general idea of the whole. Guides, if desired, were furnished,
who, at a charge of a franc an hour, will accompany a small party of
visitors, and greatly facilitate their progress in making the best use
of time, and in seeking out the most celebrated objects of interest.
Attendants in livery were stationed at different points through the
buildings, to direct visitors and indicate the route.

Here, in the great Historical Museum, are eleven spacious rooms,
elegantly decorated, and containing pictures on historical subjects from
the time of King Clovis to Louis XVI. Here is Charlemagne dictating his
Code of Laws, Henry IV. entering Paris, the Siege of Lille, Coronation
of Louis XIV., and many other immense tableaux filled with figures, and
of great detail.

There are the Halls of the Crusades, five magnificent rooms in Gothic
style, and forming a gallery of paintings illustrating those periods of
history, and, of course, such events as French crusaders were most
prominent in. The walls and ceilings are ornamented with armorial
bearings and devices of French crusaders; and in the wall of one of the
rooms are the Gates of the Hospital of the Order of the Knights of St.
John of Jerusalem, given to Prince de Joinville, by Sultan Mahmoud, in
1836. The great pictures of the desperate battles of the mail-clad
warriors of the cross and the Saracens are given with graphic fidelity,
the figures in the huge tableaux nearly or quite the size of life, and
the hand-to-hand encounter of sword, cimeter, battle-axe, and mace, or
the desperate struggles in the "imminent deadly breach," the fierce
escalade, the terrific charge, or the desperate assault, represented
with a force, vigor, and expression that almost make one's blood tingle
to look upon them. Here was a magnificent picture representing a
Procession of Crusaders round Jerusalem, another, by Delacroix,
representing the Taking of Constantinople, Larivière's Raising the Siege
of Malta, and Raising the Siege of Rhodes, the Battle of Ascalon, Taking
of Jerusalem, Taking of Antioch, Battle of Acre; also the portraits of
Jaques Molay, Hugh de Payens, De La Valette, and other grand commanders
of the order.

Another series of elegant halls, seven in number, had some magnificent
colossal pictures of modern battles, such as the Battle of Alma,
Storming of the Mamelon, the Return of the Army to Paris in 1859, and
Horace Vernet's celebrated picture of the Surprise of Abdel-Kader's
Encampment, a most spirited specimen of figure-painting. Then came a
spirited picture of the Storming of the Malakoff, Storming of
Sebastopol, Battles of Magenta, &c., and several fine battle-pieces by
Horace Vernet. Then there are rooms with scenes in the campaign in
Morocco, whole galleries of statues, galleries of French admirals and
generals, series after series of six, eight, or ten great apartments,
each a gallery of itself.

The "Grand Apartments," as they are called, occupy the whole of the
central portion of the palace, facing the gardens, and appear more like
the creation of a magician, or of the genii of Aladdin's lamp, than the
work of human hands. Each hall is given a name, and distinguished by the
superb frescos upon its ceiling, delineating scenes in which the deity
for which it is called figures. The great Saloon of Hercules has scenes
illustrating the deeds of Hercules, delineated upon its broad expanse of
ceiling, sixty feet square; the Hall of Abundance is illustrated with
allegorical figures, and the Saloon of Venus is rich with cupids, roses,
and the Goddess of Love; then there are Saloons of Mars, of Mercury, of
Apollo, of the States General, all richly and most gorgeously decorated;
but the grandest of all is the Grand Gallery of Louis XIV., the most
magnificent hall in the world, and one which extracts enthusiasm even
from the most taciturn.

This superb gallery connects with the Saloon of War and Saloon of Peace,
and forms with them one grand continuous apartment. It is sometimes
called the Gallery of Mirrors, from the great mirrors that line the wall
upon one side. Fancy a superb hall, two hundred and thirty feet long,
thirty-five wide, and forty-five high, with huge arched windows on one
side, and magnificent mirrors on the other, with Corinthian columns of
red marble at the sides, and the great arched ceiling, the whole length
elegantly painted with allegorical representations and tableaux of the
battles of France; statues, carvings, ornaments, furniture, and
decorations appropriate filling out the picture, the perspective view
superb, and the whole effect grand and imposing!

It was here that Queen Victoria was received on her visit to Paris in
1855. Here, where, after the London Times and British press had failed
to write down the "prisoner of Ham," "the nephew of his uncle," "the
ex-policeman," after Punch had ridiculed in every possible pictorial
burlesque and slander him whom that print represented as a mere
aspirant for the boots and cocked hat of his uncle,--it was here,
beneath the blaze of countless candles, to the music of his imperial
band, and in presence of the most celebrated personages of the French
nation, that England's queen danced with--yes, actually waltzed
with--this nephew of his uncle.

Opening out of these grand state apartments are various others, which,
although beautiful in decoration, are dwarfed by the splendor of the
great salons, though some are noted for historical events, such as Louis
XIV.'s private cabinet, in which are his table and arm-chair; the room
in which Louis XV. died. We look upon superb vases, wonderful mechanical
clocks, staircases that are wonders of architecture, and _chefs
d'oeuvre_ of execution in carving, graceful curve, and splendid sweep,
till finally I find myself, note-book in hand, in a splendid room,
gazing upward at a ceiling upon which is a magnificent picture,
representing Jupiter, and some other gods and allegorical figures. It is
a work of rare art. I refer to my guide, and find we are gazing up at a
picture by Paul Veronese, representing Jupiter punishing Crime, brought
from the Hall of the Council of Ten, in Venice, by Napoleon I., and that
we are standing in the bed-chamber of Louis XIV., and before the very
couch, rich in decoration, and railed off from approach of the common
herd, upon which he--though he may have been mighty and to be feared,
may have reigned as a monarch and lived as a conqueror--yet, at last,
died but as a man.

                    "Dost thou lie so low?
        Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils
        Shrunk to this little measure?"

The great Gallery of the Empire consists of fourteen large rooms, and in
these are three hundred huge pictures of the battles and noted events
that transpired during the time of Napoleon I., from 1796 to 1810--a
complete illustration of the life and times of the great emperor. The
views of the battles are very spirited and interesting, and, with those
in the Gallery of Battles, will be familiar to many from the copies
that have been made of them, and the numerous occasions they have
done duty in illustrated books. The Napoleon Gallery a volume of
illustrations published by Bohn, of London, gives engravings of nearly
all these beautiful tableaux. Here was the Battle of Marengo, Passage of
the Alps, Horace Vernet's Battle of Wagram, and Battle of Friedland, and
his picture of Napoleon addressing the Guards before the battle of Jena,
Gerard's Battle of Austerlitz, Battle of Rivoli,--one vivid pictorial
scene succeeding another,--Eckmuhl, Ratisbon, Essling, Rivoli, &c. This
Gallery of Battles is also a notable hall, being nearly four hundred
feet long, forty-two feet wide, and forty feet in height. The roof is
vaulted, and lighted by skylights, which give a good light to the
pictures, and the whole effect of the splendid gallery, which is richly
decorated, set forth by ornamental columns, with busts of distinguished
generals interspersed at intervals, is very fine. In niches near the
windows there is a sort of roll of honor--lists of names of generals and
admirals who have fallen in battle, inscribed upon tablets of black
marble. I must not forget the Hall of the Coronation, which contains
David's great painting of the Coronation of Napoleon, for which the
artist received the sum of one hundred thousand francs. In this hall is
also the Distribution of the Eagles to the Legions, by the same artist,
and the Battle of Aboukir.

Behind the Gallery of Battles extends another gallery, entirely devoted
to statues and busts of distinguished personages, from the year 1500 to
1800. This gallery is over three hundred feet in length. But even to
attempt anything like a description of the numerous galleries, halls,
and apartments in this vast structure, would be futile in the space that
can be allowed in a tourist's sketches, and those that we omit are
nearly as extensive as those already mentioned. There is a gallery of
the admirals of France--fourteen rooms full of their portraits; a
gallery of the kings of France--seventy-one portraits--down to Louis
Philippe; gallery of Louis XIII.; hall of the imperial family, with
portraits of the Bonaparte family; gallery of marine paintings; a
gallery of water colors, by French staff officers, of scenes in
campaigns from 1796 to 1814; Marie Antoinette's private apartments, in
which some of the furniture used by her still remains; the cabinets of
porcelains; cabinets of medals; saloon of clocks; great library; hall of
the king's body guards, &c. The celebrated hall known as OEil de
boeuf, from its great oval window at one end, I viewed with some
interest, as the hall where so many courtiers had fussed, and fumed, and
waited the king's coming--regular French lobbyists of old times; and
many a shrewd and deep-laid political scheme was concocted here. It is a
superb saloon, and was Louis XVI.'s and Marie Antoinette's public
dining-hall.

All these "galleries," it should be borne in mind, are really galleries
worthy the name--vast in extent, elegant in decoration, and rich in
pictures, busts, and statues. Then the splendid staircases by which some
of them are reached are wonders of art. The great Staircase of the
Princes is a beautiful piece of work, with pillars, sculptured ceiling,
bass-reliefs, &c., and adorned with marble statues of Bonaparte, Louis
XIV., and other great men. So also are the Marble Staircase, and the
splendid Staircase of the Ambassadors. I only mention these, each in
themselves a sight to be seen, to give the reader some idea of the
vastness of this palace, and the wealth of art it contains.

Think of the luxuriousness of the monarch who provides himself with a
fine opera-house or theatre, which he may visit at pleasure, without
leaving his palace! Yet here it is, a handsome theatre, with a stage
seventy-five feet deep and sixty wide, a height of fifty feet, with its
auditorium, seventy feet from curtain to boxes, and sixty feet wide. It
is elegantly decorated with Ionic columns, crimson and gold. There are
three rows of boxes, with ornamental balustrades, a profusion of mirrors
and chandeliers, and the ceiling elegantly ornamented. The royal box
occupies the centre of the middle row of boxes, and is richly decorated.
On the occasion of the visit of Queen Victoria to Louis Napoleon, this
theatre was used as the supper-room, the pit being boarded over, and
four hundred illustrious guests sat down to a splendid banquet.

Not only have the means of amusement been thus provided, but we find in
this wonderful palace the royal chapel for royal worship of Him before
whom all monarchs are as dust in the balance--a beautiful interior, one
hundred and fourteen feet long by sixty wide, with nave, aisles, side
galleries, and Corinthian columns, and its elegant ceiling, which is
eighty-six feet from the richly-inlaid mosaic pavement, covered with
handsome paintings of sacred subjects by great artists. The high altar
is magnificent, the organ one of the finest in France, and the side
aisles contain seven elegant chapels, dedicated to as many saints, their
altars rich in beautiful marbles, sculptures, bass-reliefs, and
pictures--among the latter, a Last Supper, by Paul Veronese, the whole
forming a superb chapel, glowing with beauty and art. In this chapel
Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette were married in 1770.

Verily one gets a surfeit of splendor in passing through this vast
historic pile of buildings. The limbs are weary, while the eyes ache
from the gazing at pictures, statues, perspectives, and frescos, and it
is a relief to go forth into the grand park and gardens, where fresh
wonders await the visitor. Descending from the broad and spacious
terrace, adorned by statues and vases, by flights of marble steps, the
spectator is bewildered by the number and beauty of the fountains,
statues, &c., that he encounters on every side; but the very terrace
itself is a wonder. Here are great bronze statues of Apollo, Bacchus,
and other heathen gods. Two broad squares of water, surrounded by
twenty-four splendid groups, in bronze, of nymphs and children, are in
the midst of vast grass plots and walks, and among the statues we notice
one of Napoleon I. From this broad terrace you descend to the gardens
below, and other parts of the ground, by magnificent flights of broad
steps. In the orangery or hot-house, orange trees, pomegranates, and a
variety of curious plants are kept, many of which are transplanted
about the grounds during the summer season. One old veteran of an orange
tree, hooped with iron to preserve it, is shown, which is said to be
over four hundred and thirty years old. The guide-books say it was
planted by the wife of Charles III., King of Navarre, in 1421. Many
other old trees of a hundred years of age are in the gardens.

One great feature of the gardens at Versailles is the beautiful
fountains. The principal one is that known as the Basin of Neptune,
which is a huge basin, surrounded by colossal figures of Neptune,
Amphitrite, nymphs, tritons, and sea-monsters, that spout _jets-d'eau_
into it. The Basin of Latona is a beautiful affair, consisting of five
circular basins, rising one above another, surmounted by a group of
Latona, Apollo, and Diana. All around the basins, upon slabs of marble,
are huge frogs and tortoises, representing the metamorphosed peasants of
Libya, who are supplying the goddess with water in liberal streams,
which they spout in arching jets towards her. Then there is the great
Basin of Apollo, with the god driving a chariot, surrounded by sea-gods
and monsters, who are all doing spouting duty; the Basin of Spring and
Summer; Basin of the Dragon, where a huge lead representation of that
monster is solemnly spouting in great streams from his mouth when the
water is turned on. The Baths of Apollo is a grotto, in which the god is
represented served by nymphs--seven graceful figures; while near him are
the horses of the Sun, being watered by Tritons, all superbly executed
in marble. Sheets and jets of water issue from every direction in this
beautiful grotto, and form a lake at the foot of the rocks. This grotto
is a very elaborate piece of work, and is said to have cost a million
and a half of francs.

Besides these beautiful and elaborate fountains are many others of
lesser note, but still of beautiful design, at different points in the
gardens and park. Parterres of beautiful flowers charm the eye, the
elegant groves tempt the pedestrian, and greensward, of thick and
velvety texture and emerald hue, stretches itself out like an artificial
carpet. Here is one that stretches the whole length between two of the
great fountains, Latona and Apollo, and called the Green Carpet--one
sheet of vivid green, set out with statues and marble vases along the
walks that pass beside it; another beautiful one, of circular form, is
called the Round Green. Here are beautiful gravel walks, artificial
groves with charming alleys, thickets, green banks, and, in fact, a
wealth of landscape gardening, in which art is often made to so closely
imitate nature, that it is difficult to determine where the one ceases
and the other begins.

A visit to the Great and Little Trianon is generally the wind-up of the
visit to the parks of Versailles: the former, it will be recollected,
was the villa built in the park by Louis XIV. for Madame de Maintenon.
It contains many elegant apartments. Among those which most attracted
our attention was the Hall of Malachite, and the Palace Gallery, the
latter a hall one hundred and sixty feet long, ornamented with
portraits, costly mosaic tables, and bronzes. Notwithstanding the eye
has been sated with luxury in the palace, the visitor cannot but see
that wealth has been poured out with a lavish hand on this villa; its
beautiful saloons,--Saloon of Music, Saloon of the Queen, Saloon of
Mirrors,--its chapel and gardens, are all those befitting a royal
palace; for such indeed it was to Louis XIV., XV., and XVI., and even
Napoleon, who, at different times, made it their residence.

The Little Trianon, built by Louis XV. for Madame Du Barry, is a small,
two-story villa, with a handsome garden attached, at which I only took a
hasty glance, and concluded by omitting to inspect the Museum of State
Carriages,--where, I was told, Bonaparte's, Charles X.'s, and others
were kept,--the sedan chair of Marie Antoinette, and various curious
harnesses. I was assured by another tourist, who learned a few days
after that I had not seen it, that it was the finest thing in the whole
palace. I have frequently found this to be the judgment of many
travellers, of objects or points _they_ have "done," which you have
missed or omitted, and so I endured the loss of this sight with
resignation.

But we find that an attempt to give anything like a full description of
all we saw in Paris,--even those leading "lions" that all tourists
describe,--would make us tarry in that gay capital too long for the
patience of our readers who have followed us "over the ocean" thus far.
The lover of travel, of variety, of architecture, of fashion, frivolity,
or excitement may enjoy himself in Paris to the extent of his desire.
There is plenty to occupy the attention of all who wish to enjoy
themselves, in a rational and profitable manner, in the mere seeing of
sights that every one ought to see. There is the grand old cathedral of
Notre Dame, famed in history and story, which has experienced rough
usage at the hands of the fierce French mobs of different revolutions,
who respect not historical relics, works of art, or even the sepulchres
of the dead.

The exterior of this magnificent great Gothic structure was familiar to
me from the many engravings I had seen of it, with its two great square
towers of over two hundred feet in height, with the huge rose window
between them of thirty-six feet in diameter, and the three beautiful
Gothic doors of entrance, rich in ornamentation, carvings, and statues
of saints. The interior has that grand and impressive appearance that
attaches to all these superb creations of the old cathedral builders.
The vaulted arches, rising one above another, over a hundred feet in
height, present a fine appearance, and a vista of Gothic columns
stretches along its length, of three hundred and ninety feet; at the
transept the width is one hundred and forty-four feet. The three great
rose windows, which will not fail to challenge admiration, are wonders
in their way, and, with their beautiful stained glass, are coeval with
the foundation of the cathedral.

We ascended the tower, and enjoyed the magnificent view of Paris from
its summit, and, more particularly, the course of the River Seine and
the splendid bridges that span it. Up here we saw the huge bells, and
walked round amid them, recalling scenes in Victor Hugo's novel of the
Hunchback of Notre Dame; these were the huge tocsins that Quasimodo
swung, and far down below was the square in which La Esmeralda spread
her little carpet, and summoned the crowd, with tambourine, to witness
her dancing goat; farther away, to the right, was the street that
Captain Porteous rode from at the head of his troop; here, upon the
roof, sheeted with lead, must have been the place that the mishapen
dwarf built the fire that turned the dull metal into a molten stream
that poured destruction upon the heads of the mob that were battering
the portals below. With what an interest do the poet and novelist clothe
these old monuments of the past! Intertwining them with the garlands of
their imagination, they contend with history in investing them with
attractions to the tourist.

High up here, at the edge of the ramparts, are figures of demons, carved
in stone, looking over the edge, which appear quite "little devils" from
the pavement, but which are, in reality, of colossal size. The pure air
of the heavens, as we walked around here near the clouds, was of a
sudden charged with garlic, which nauseous perfume we discovered, on
investigation, arose from the hut of a custodian and his wife, who dwelt
up here, hundreds of feet above the city, like birds in an eyrie, and
defiled the air with their presence.

One of the most gorgeous church interiors of Paris is that of Sainte
Chapelle; this building, although not very large, is a perfect gem of
Gothic architecture, and most beautifully and perfectly finished in
every part; it is one hundred and twenty feet long, forty wide, and has
a spire of one hundred and forty feet in height. Every square inch of
the interior is exquisitely painted and gilded in diamonds, lozenges,
and fleurs-de-lis; and stars spangle the arched roof, which is as blue
as the heavens. The windows are filled with exquisite stained glass of
the year 1248--glass which escaped the ruin of the revolutions; and the
great rose window can only be likened to a magnificent flower of more
than earthly beauty, as the light streams through its glorious coloring,
where it rests above a beautiful Gothic balustrade.

Leaving the Sainte Chapelle, we passed a few rods distant, after
turning a corner, the two old coffee-pot-looking towers of the bloody
Conciergerie, where poor Marie Antoinette languished for seventy-six
days, before she was led forth to execution; here also was where
Ravaillac, Robespierre, and Charlotte Corday were imprisoned; and the
very bloody record-book of the names of those who were ordered to be
despatched during the revolution, kept by the human butchers who
directed affairs, is still preserved, and shown to the visitor.

That magnificent Grecian-looking temple, the Madeleine, is one of the
first public buildings the tourist recognizes in Paris. As many
Americans are apt to estimate the value of things by the money they
cost, it may be of interest to state that this edifice cost two million
six hundred thousand dollars. It is really a magnificent structure, with
its thirty Corinthian columns, fifteen on each side, and its noble
front, with ornamental pediment, its great bronze entrance, doors
thirty-two feet high, reached by the broad flight of marble steps
extending across the whole length of the end of the building, the
dimensions of which are three hundred and twenty-eight feet in length by
one hundred and thirty-eight in breadth. The beautiful Corinthian
columns, which, counting those at the ends, are fifty-two in number, are
each fifty feet in height. The broad, open square about the Madeleine
affords an excellent opportunity of viewing the exterior; and one needs
to make two or three detours about the building to obtain a correct idea
of its magnitude and beauty. The interior is one spacious hall, the
floors and walls all solid marble, beautifully decorated, and lighted
from the top by domes; all along the sides are chapels, dedicated to
different saints, and decorated with elegant statues and paintings; the
high altar is rich in elegant sculpture, the principal group
representing, in marble, Mary Magdalene borne into Paradise by
angels--exquisitely done. The whole effect of this beautiful interior,
with its lofty ornamented domes and Corinthian pillars, the beautiful
statuary and bass-reliefs, frescoing, and walls incrusted with rich
marbles, is grand beyond description.

The Church of St. Genevieve, better known as the Pantheon, is another
magnificent structure: three hundred and fifty feet long and two hundred
and sixty wide is this beautiful building, and three rows of elegant
Corinthian columns support its portico. We gazed up at the beautiful
pediment, over this portico, which is over one hundred and twenty feet
long and twenty-two feet high, and contains a splendid group of statuary
in relief, the central figure of which is fifteen feet in height; but
above the whole building rises the majestic dome, two hundred and
sixty-four feet. Inside we ascended into this grand and superb cupola,
and, after making a portion of the ascent, paused in a circular gallery
to have a view of the great painting which adorns the dome, representing
St. Genevieve receiving homage from King Clovis. After going as far
above as possible, we descended with a party to the vaults below, where
we were shown the place, in which the bodies of Mirabeau and Marat were
deposited, and the tombs of Voltaire and Rousseau, which, however, do
not contain the remains of the two philosophers. We were then escorted
by the guide, by the dim light of his lantern, to a certain gloomy part
of the vaults, where there was a most remarkable echo; a clap of the
hand reverberated almost like a peal of thunder, and a laugh sounded so
like the exultation of some gigantic demon who had entrapped his victims
here in his own terrible caverns, as to make us quite ready to follow
the guide through the winding passages back to the upper regions, and
welcome the light of day.

An American thinks his visit to Paris scarcely completed unless he has
visited the Jardin Mabille. It has the reputation of being a very wicked
place, which, in some degree, accounts for tourists, whose dread of
appearances at home restrains them from going to naughty places, having
an intense desire to visit it; and it is amusing to see some of these
very proper persons, who would be shocked at the idea of going inside a
theatre at home for fear of contamination, who are enjoying the
spectacle presented here like forbidden fruit, quite confused at meeting
among the throng their friends from America who are in Paris, as is
frequently the case. Sometimes the confusion is mutual, and then
explanations of both parties exhibit a degree of equivocation that would
rival a Japanese diplomat. Those, however, who expect to see any
outrageous display of vice or immodesty will be disappointed: the garden
is under the strict surveillance of the police, and there is a far more
immodest display by the ladies in the boxes of the opera at the Grand
Opera in London, than by the frail sisterhood at the Jardin. During the
travelling season one meets plenty of tourists, English and American, at
Mabille, and hears the English tongue spoken in the garden on every side
of him.

Stroll up the beautiful Champs Elysées of a summer's evening; all along,
on either side, the groves, gardens, and grounds are brilliant with
gas-jets, colored lights, and Chinese lanterns, brilliant _cafés_, with
chairs and tables in front, where you may sit and enjoy a cup of coffee
and a cigar, or a glass of wine, while you view the never-ending
succession of passers by. Just off amid the trees are little
extemporized theatres, where the never-tiring comedy of Punch and Judy
is performed to admiring crowds, at two sous a head; little booths, with
a gambling game, which, translated into English, is "the d--among the
tailors," afford an opportunity of indulging in a game of chance for a
few sous, which game consists in setting a brass top spinning in among a
curious arrangement of brass fixed and movable upright pins upon a
board; the number of pins knocked over, and little brass arches passed
under, by the top, determines the amount of the prize won by the player,
which can be selected from the knickknacks in the booth ticketed with
prize cards.

A friend of mine, a very proper young gentleman, was so attracted by the
gyrations of the brass top spinning on these tables one evening, that he
insisted upon stopping and trying his hand at the game: he did so, and
so expertly that he bore off a pair of cheap vases, a china dog, and a
paper weight; his triumph was somewhat dampened, however, at being
reminded by a lady friend, whom he met with his hands filled with his
treasures, that he had been gambling on Sunday evening. It is not at all
surprising, however, from the sights and scenes, that one should forget
the character of the day, there is so little to remind him of it in
Paris.

Besides these booths are those for the sale of a variety of fanciful
articles, illuminated penny peep shows; and off at side streets you are
directed, by letters in gas jets, to the Cafés Chantants--enclosed
gardens with an illuminated pavilion at one end of them, its whole side
open, exposing a stage, upon which sit the singers, handsomely dressed,
who are to appear in the programme. The stage is beautifully illuminated
with gas and very handsomely decorated, generally representing the
interior of a beautiful drawing room; the audience sit at tables in the
garden immediately before the stage, which, from its raised position,
affords a good view to all; there is no charge for admission, but each
visitor orders something to the value of from half a franc to a franc
and a half of the waiters, who are pretty sharp to see that everybody
_does_ order something. The trees are hung with colored lights, a good
orchestra plays the accompaniment for the singers, besides waltzes,
quadrilles, and galops, and the Frenchman sits and sips his claret or
coffee, and smokes his cigar beneath the trees, and has an evening, to
him, of infinite enjoyment. I saw, among the brilliant group that formed
the corps of performers, seated upon the illuminated stage at one of
these Cafés Chantants, a plump negro girl, whose low-necked and
short-sleeved dress revealed the sable hue of her skin in striking
contrast to her white and gold costume. She was evidently a dusky
"star."

But we will continue our walk up the beautiful Elysian Fields; the
great, broad carriage-way is thronged with voitures, with their
different colored lights flitting hither and thither like elves on a
revel: as seen in the distance up the illuminated course they sparkled
like a spangled pathway, clear away up to the huge dusky Arc d'Etoile,
which in the distance rises "like an exhalation." The little bowers,
nooks, chairs, and booths are all crowded; music reaches us from the
Cafés Chantants, and peals of laughter at the performances in the
raree-shows; finally, reaching the Rond Point, a sort of circular
opening with six pretty fountains,--and turning a little to the left
upon the Avenue Montaigne, the brilliant gas jets of the Jardin Mabille
are in view--admission three francs for gentlemen, ladies free.

The garden is prettily laid out with winding paths, flower-beds,
fountains, cosy arbors, where refreshments may be ordered, and a
tête-à-tête enjoyed, the trees hung with colored lights, artificial
perspectives made by bits of painted scenery placed at the end of pretty
walks, &c. In the centre is a brilliantly lighted stand, which is
occupied by a fine orchestra, and upon the smooth flooring about it,
within sound of the music, the dancers. The frequenters of Mabille are
of the upper and middle class among the males, the females are generally
lorettes, and the spectators largely composed of Americans and English.
The leader of the orchestra displays a large card bearing the name of
each piece the orchestra will perform, as "Galop," "Valse," "Quadrille,"
&c., before it commences, and it is the dance which is one of the great
features of the place; but this, which, a few years ago, used to be so
novel, has been so robbed of its "naughtiness" by the outrageous
displays of the ballet, and the indecencies of "White Fawn" and "Black
Crook" dramas have left the Jardin Mabille so far in the background that
even American ladies now venture there as spectators.

The fact that the women at Mabille are lorettes, and that in dancing
they frequently kick their feet to the height of their partners' heads,
appears to be the leading attractive feature of the place. The style of
dancing is a curiosity, however; a quadrille of these women and their
partners is a specimen of the saltatory art worth seeing. There is no
slow, measured sliding and dawdling through the figure, as in our
cotillons at home; the dancers dance all over--feet, arms, muscles,
head, body, and legs; each quadrille, in which there are dancers of
noted skill and agility, is surrounded by a circle of admiring
spectators. The men, as they forward and back, and _chassé_, bend and
writhe like eels, now stooping nearly to the floor, then rising with a
bound into the air like a rubber ball: forward to partners, a fellow
leans forward his head, and feigns to kiss the advancing siren, who,
with a sudden movement, brings her foot up in the position just occupied
by his face, which is skilfully dodged by the fellow leaping backwards,
agile as an ape; the men toss their arms, throw out their feet, describe
arcs, circles, and sometimes a spry fellow turns a summersault in the
dance. The girls gather up their long skirts to the knee with their
hand, and are scarcely less active than their partners; they bound
forward, now and then kicking their boots, with white lacings, high into
the air, sometimes performing the well-known trick of kicking off the
hat of a gaping Englishman or American, who may be watching the dance.
The waltz, polka, and galop are performed with a frantic fervor that
makes even the spectator's head swim, and at its close the dancers
repair to the tables to cool off with iced drinks, or a stroll in the
garden walks.

The proprietors of the Jardin Mabille, Closerie des Lilas, and similar
places, generally have some few female dancers of more than usual
gymnastic skill, and with some personal attraction, whom they employ as
regular habitues of the gardens as attractions for strangers, more
particularly green young Englishmen and Americans. This place, however,
is perfectly safe, being under strict surveillance of the police, and
there is very rarely the least disturbance or rudeness; the police see
that the gardens are cleared, and the gas extinguished, at midnight. Two
nights in the week at the Jardin Mabille are fête nights, when a grand
display of fireworks is added to the other attractions of the place.

The Closerie des Lilas is a garden not so extensive as Mabille,
frequented principally by students and their mistresses--admission one
franc, ladies free. Here the dancing is a little more demonstrative, and
the dresses are cut rather lower in the neck; yet the costume and
display of the person are modest in comparison with that in the
spectacular pieces upon the stage. The students go in for a jolly
time, and have it, if dancing with all their might, waltzing like
whirling dervishes, and undulating through the Can-Can with abandon
indescribable, constitute it.

Of course we did not omit the Palace of the Luxembourg, with its superb
gallery of modern paintings, among which we noticed Delacroix' pictures
of Dante and Virgil, and Massacre of Scio; Oxen ploughing by Rosa
Bonheur, and Hay Harvest by the same artist; Horace Vernet's Meeting of
Raphael and Michael Angelo, and Müller's Calling the Roll of Victims to
be guillotined, during the Reign of Terror. In this palace is also the
Hall of the Senate, semicircular, about one hundred feet in diameter,
elegantly decorated with statues, busts, and pictures, and the vaulted
ceiling adorned with allegorical frescoes. Here is also the Salle du
Trône, or Throne Room, a magnificent saloon, elegantly frescoed,
ornamented, and gilded. The throne itself is a large chair, elegantly
upholstered, with the Napoleonic N displayed upon it, upon a raised
dais, above which was a splendid canopy supported by caryatides. The
walls of the saloon were adorned with elegant pictures, representing
Napoleon at the Invalides, Napoleon I. elected emperor, and Napoleon I.
receiving the flags taken at Austerlitz. Other paintings, representing
scenes in the emperor's life, are in a small apartment adjoining, called
the Emperor's Cabinet. We then visited here the chamber of Marie de
Medicis, which contains the arm-chair used at the coronation of Napoleon
I., and paintings by Rubens. The latter were taken down, with some of
the beautiful panelling, which is rich in exquisite scroll-work, and
concealed during the revolution of 1789, and replaced again in 1817.

The Garden of Plants, at Paris, is another of those very enjoyable
places in Europe, in which the visitor luxuriates in gratifying his
taste for botany, zoölogy, and mineralogy, and natural science. Here in
this beautiful garden are spacious hot-houses and green-houses, with
every variety of rare plants, a botanical garden, galleries of botany,
zoölogy, and mineralogy, and a great amphitheatre and laboratories for
lectures, which are free to all who desire to attend, given by
scientific and skilled lecturers, from April to October. The
amphitheatre for lectures will hold twelve hundred persons; and among
the lectures on the list, which is posted up at its entrance, and also
at the entrance of the gardens, were the subjects of chemistry, geology,
anatomy, physiology, botany, and zoölogy. Many scientific men of
celebrity received their education here, and the different museums are
rich in rare specimens of their departments. The Zoölogical Museum has a
fine collection of stuffed specimens of natural history, zoöphites,
birds, butterflies, large mammiferous animals, &c. The Geological Museum
is admirably arranged--curious specimens from all parts of the
world--from mountains, waterfalls, volcanoes, mines, coral-reefs, and
meteors, i. e., specimens from the earth below and the heavens above.
The Botanical Department, besides its botanical specimens, has a museum
of woods similar to that at Kew Gardens. A Cabinet of Anatomy contains a
collection of skeletons of animals, &c. The Zoölogical Garden is the
most interesting and most frequented part of the grounds. The lions,
tigers, bears, elephants, hyenas, and other beasts have spacious
enclosures, as in the Zoölogical Gardens at London, though not so well
arranged, nor is the collection so extensive. The Palais des Singes
(palace of monkeys), a circular building provided for these agile
acrobats, is a most attractive resort, and always thronged with
spectators. Parterres of flowers, handsome shade trees, shrubs, and
curious plants adorn the grounds and border the winding walks and paths;
and the visitor cannot help being impressed that almost everything
connected with natural science is represented here in this grand garden
and museum--plants, animals, fossils, minerals, curious collections, and
library. A single visit scarcely suffices to view the menagerie, and
many days would be required to examine the whole collection in different
departments.

St. Cloud! Even those who travel with a _valet de place_, and cannot
understand a word of French, seem to learn the pronunciation of this
name, and to air their "_song klew_" with much satisfaction. Through
the splendid apartments of this palace--since our visit, alas! destroyed
by the invading Prussians--we strolled of a Sunday afternoon. There was
the Saloon of Mars, Saloon of Diana, rich in magnificent frescoing,
representing the gods and goddesses of heathen mythology upon the lofty
ceilings; the Gallery of Apollo, a vast and magnificently-decorated
apartment, ceiling painted by Mignard, with scenes in the life of
Apollo, walls beautifully gilt and frescoed, hung with rare paintings,
furnished with cabinets of elegant Sèvres porcelain, rich and curious
furniture, and costly bronzes. It was here, in this apartment, that
Prince Napoleon, son of Jerome, was baptized by Pope Pius VII., in
1805, and here the marriage of Napoleon I. and Maria Louisa was
celebrated in 1810. Then we go on through the usual routine of grand
apartments--Saloons of Minerva, Mercury, Aurora, Venus, &c.--rich in
magnificent paintings, wondrous tapestry, elegant carving, and splendid
decorations. Here are a suit of rooms that have been occupied by Marie
Antoinette, the Empress Josephine, Marie Louise, Louis Philippe, and
also by Louis Napoleon. Historical memories come thickly into the mind
on visiting these places, and throw an additional charm about them. St.
Cloud often figures in the history of the great Napoleon. That great
soldier and his Guard, Cromwell-like, dispersed the Council of Five
Hundred that held their sessions here in 1799, and was soon after made
first consul. Farther back in history, here the monk assassinated Henry
III., and it was here Louis XIV. and Louis XVI. often sojourned.

The Cascade at St. Cloud is the object that figures most frequently in
illustrated books and pictures, and the leading attraction inquired for.
It is in the grand park, and consists of a series of vast steps, at the
top of which are huge fountains, which send the water down in great
sheets, forming a succession of waterfalls, the sides of the steps
ornamented with innumerable vases and shell-work. The water, after
passing these steps, reaches a great semicircular basin, surrounded by
_jets d'eau_, and from thence falls over other grand steps into a grand
canal, two hundred and sixty feet long and ninety wide; dolphins
spouting into it, fountains running over from vases, and spouting
upright from the basin itself, and one huge waterspout near by sending
up its aqueous shaft one hundred and forty feet into the air, the whole
forming a sparkling spectacle in the sunlight of a summer afternoon.

Every alternate Sunday in summer is a fête day here; and on one of these
occasions we saw fountains playing, merry-go-round horses, with children
upon the horses, ten-pin alleys, in which the prizes were dolls, china
ware, and macaroon cakes. Here was a figure of an open-mouthed giant,
into which the visitor was invited to pitch three wooden balls for two
sous; prizes, three ginger-snaps in case of success. The d--l among the
tailors was in brisk operation; a loud-voiced Frenchman invited
spectators to throw leathern balls at some grotesque dolls that he had
in a row astride of a cord, a sou only for three shots; and prizes for
knocking off the dolls, which were dressed to represent obnoxious
personages, and duly labelled, were paid in pretty artificial flowers
made of paper. Fortune-wheels could be whirled at half a franc a turn,
the gifts on which that halted beneath the rod of the figure of the
enchanter that stood above them belonged to the whirler. I heard a
vigorous crowing, succeeded by a fellow shouting, "_Coq de village, un
sou! Coq de village, un sou, messieurs!_" He had a huge basket filled
with little shells, which were so prepared that, when blown upon, they
gave a clever imitation of chanticleer. Fandangos carried their laughing
groups up into the air and down again; inclined planes, with
self-running cars, gave curious rides; and in one part of the grounds
were shown booths of the old English fair kind. Before one, on a
platform, a clown danced, and invited the public to enter, to the music
of bass drum and horn; ponies, monkeys, trained dogs, and other
performers were paraded, as an indication of what might be seen within;
pictorial representations of giants, fat women, and dwarfs were in front
of others; a sword-swallower took a mouthful or two by way of
illustrating the appetite he would display for three sous; and a
red-hot iron taster, in suit of dirty red and white muslin, and gold
spangles, passed a heated bar dangerously near his tongue, intimating
that those who desired could, by the investment of a few coppers, have
the rare privilege of witnessing his repast of red-hot iron. These, and
scores of other cheap amusements, invited the attention of the thousands
that thronged the park on that pleasant Sunday afternoon; and among all
the throng, which was composed principally of the common people, we saw
not a single case of intoxication, and the trim-dressed officers of
police, in dress coats, cocked hats, and swords, who sauntered here and
there, had little to do, except, when a throng at some point became too
dense, to open a passage, or cause some of the loungers to move on a
little.

The traveller who visits the splendid retail establishments in the Rue
de la Paix or on the Boulevards, unattended, and purchases what suits
his fancy, paying the price that the very supple and cringing salesmen
choose to charge, or even goes into those magasins in which a
conspicuously-displayed sign announces the _prix fixé_, will, after a
little experience, become perfectly amazed at the elasticity of French
conscience, not to say the skill and brazen effrontery of French
swindling.

In four fifths of these great retail stores, the discovery that the
purchaser is an American or an Englishman, and a stranger, is a signal
for increasing the regular price of every article he desires to
purchase; if he betrays his ignorance of the usual rate, palming off an
inferior quality of goods, and obtaining an advantage in every possible
way, besides the legitimate profit. It never seems to enter the heads of
these smirking, supple-backed swindlers, that a reputation for honesty
and fair dealing is worth anything at all to their establishments.
Possibly they argue that, as Paris is headquarters for shopping, buyers
will come, willy-nilly; or it may be that deception is so much a part of
the Frenchman's nature, that it is a moral impossibility for him to get
along without a certain amount of it.

The _prix fixé_, put up to indicate that the establishment has a fixed
price, from which there is no abatement, after the style of the "one
price" stores in America, very often has but little significance. A
friend with whom I was shopping upon one occasion told the shop-keeper,
whom he had offered fifteen or twenty per cent. less than his charge,
and who pointed, with an expressive shrug, to the placard, that he was
perfectly aware the price was fixed, as it generally was "fixed" all
over Paris for every new customer. Monsieur was so _charmé_ with his
repartee, that he obtained the article at the price he offered.

One frequently sees costly articles, or some that have been very
slightly worn, displayed in a shop window, ticketed at a low price, and
marked _L'Occasion_, to signify that it is not a part of the regular
stock, but has been left there for sale--is an "opportunity;" or
intimating, perhaps, that it is sold by some needy party, who is anxious
to raise the ready cash. Some of these opportunities are bargains, but
the buyer must be on his guard that the "occasion" is not one that has
been specially prepared to entrap the purchaser into taking a damaged
article of high cost at a price beyond its real value.

Although the French shop-keeper may use every artifice to make the buyer
pay an exorbitant rate for his goods, the law is very stringent in
certain branches of trade, and prevents one species of barefaced
cheating that is continually practised in New York, and has been for
years, with no indications that it will ever be abolished.

In Paris--at least on the Boulevards and great retail marts--there are
no mock auction shops, gift enterprise swindlers, bogus ticket agencies,
or similar traps for the unwary, which disgrace New York. Government
makes quick work of any abuse of this kind, and the police abolish it
and the proprietor so completely, that few dare try the experiment.
Neither dare dealers in galvanized watches or imitation jewelry sell it
for gold. They are compelled to display the word "imitation"
conspicuously upon their shop front and window; and really imitation
jewelry is such an important article of trade, that as much skill is
exhausted upon it as in the real article, and dealers vie with each
other in producing splendid imitations, some of which are so good that a
purchaser may, while the article is worn in its "newest gloss," make a
display for ten francs that in the real article would cost as many
hundreds. Neither are dealers allowed to sell berries by the "box," or
peaches by the "crate;" nor are there any of the opportunities of
America in making the "box" or the "crate" smaller, without deduction of
price. Many kinds of fruit are sold by weight, and there appears to be a
rigid inspection, that poor and damaged articles shall not be palmed off
upon purchasers. When the government steps in to the regulation of
trade, it does it so business-like, so thoroughly, promptly, and
effectually, and places such an impassable bar to imposture, that an
American, even of the most spread-eagle description, cannot help
acknowledging that there are some advantages in imperial rule, after
all. He certainly feels a decided degree of confidence that the law will
be enforced upon a ruffian or a pickpocket, that should be detected in
any attempt to interfere with him, which he never can feel in the city
of New York, and that the French police are always on hand, know and
perform their duty without solicitation; are efficient officers of the
law, and not political roughs, rewarded with places, to be paid for with
votes.

There are many French articles that have a large sale in America, and
which the traveller promises himself he will lay in a supply of, on
visiting Paris, which he is quite surprised to find, on inquiry, are
hardly ever called for by Parisians. Thus certain brands of kid gloves,
and varieties of perfumery, that are very popular in America, can
scarcely be found at the shops on the Boulevards. The best gloves, and
those most celebrated in Paris, which are really marvels of excellence
in workmanship, are of a brand that cannot be found in the American
shops, their high price affording too little margin for profit; but
scarce an American who visits Paris but supplies himself from the now
well-known magasin in Rue Richelieu. A friend, who thought to purchase
at headquarters, sought in vain in Paris for the thick, yellow, and
handsomely-stitched gloves he had seen in Regent Street, London, known
as French dog-skin. Nothing of the kind could be found. They were made
exclusively for the English market.

But it really seems as if almost everything ever heard or thought of
could be bought in the French capital, and made in any style, prepared
in any form, and furnished with marvellous speed. There is one
characteristic of the European shopmen, which I have before referred to,
which is in agreeable contrast with many American dealers; and that is,
their willingness to make or alter an article to the purchaser's taste;
to sell you what you want, and not dispute, and try to force an article
upon you which they argue you ought to have, instead of the one you call
for. If a lady liked the sleeves of one cloak, and the body of another,
she is informed that the change of sleeves shall instantly be made from
one to the other. Does a gentleman order a pair of boots with twisted
toes, the boot-maker only says, "_Certainement, monsieur_," and takes
his measure. The glover will give you any hue, in or out of the fashion,
stitched with any colored silk, and gratify any erratic taste, without
question, at twenty-four hours' notice. The ribbon-seller will show you
an innumerable variety of gradations of the same hue, will match
anything, and shows a skill in endeavoring to suit you exactly. In fact,
we presume that the foreign shopman accepts the situation, and is
striving to be more a shopman than ever, instead of--as is too often the
case in our own country--acting as though he merely held the position
_pro tempore_, and was conferring an honor upon the purchaser by serving
him.

Purchases may be made down to infinitesimal quantities, especially of
articles of daily consumption; and where so many are making a grand
display upon a small capital, as in Paris, it is necessary that every
convenience should be afforded; and it is. Living in apartments, one may
obtain everything from the magasins within a stone's throw. He may order
turkey and truffles, and a grand dinner, with entrées, which will be
furnished him at his lodgings, at any hour, from the neighboring
restaurant, with dishes, table furniture, and servant; or he may order
the leg of a fowl, one pickle, and two sous' worth of salt and pepper.
He can call in a porter, with a back-load of wood for a fire, or buy
three or four sous' worth of fagots. But your true Frenchman, of limited
means, utilizes everything. He argues, and very correctly, that all he
pays for belongs to him. So at the café you will see him carefully wrap
the two or three lumps of sugar that remain, of those furnished him for
his coffee, in a paper, and carry them away. They save the expense of
the article for the morning cup at his lodgings. So if a cake or two, or
biscuit, remain, he appropriates them as his right; and I have even seen
one who went so far as to pocket two or three little wax matches that
were brought to him with a cigar. Much has been said of how cheaply one
can live in Paris. This would apply, with equal truthfulness, to many of
our own cities, if people would live in the same way, and practise the
same economy. This, however, is repugnant to the American, and, in some
respects, mistaken idea of liberality.

The absolute, unnecessary waste in an American gentleman's kitchen would
support two French families comfortably. In some it already supports
three or four Irish ones.

There are three ways of going shopping in Paris. The first is to start
out by yourself, and seek out stores which may have the goods that you
desire to purchase; the second, to avail yourself of the services of a
_valet de place_, or courier; and the third, to employ the services of
one of your banker's clerks, who is an expert, or those of a commission
merchant.

We have experimented in all three methods. In the first, you are sure to
pay the extreme retail price. In the second, you are very likely to do
the same, the only difference being that the courier gets a handsome
_douceur_ from the shop-keeper for introducing you, or, in other words,
shares with him the extra amount of which you have been plundered. The
latter method is by far the best and most satisfactory to strangers
unfamiliar with Paris and French customs.

Stereoscopic views of Paris, which we were charged one franc apiece for
on the Boulevards, were purchased of the manufacturer in his garret at
three francs a dozen. Spectacles which cost five dollars a pair in
Boston, and eight francs on the Boulevards, we bought for three francs a
pair of the wholesale dealer. Gloves are sold at all sorts of prices,
and are of all sorts of qualities, and the makers will make to measure
any pattern or style to suit any sort of fancy. Jewelry we were taken to
see in the quarter where it was made--up stairs, in back rooms, often in
the same building where the artisan lived, where, there being no plate
glass, grand store, and heavy expenses to pay, certain small articles of
_bijouterie_ could be purchased at a very low figure; rich jewelry,
diamonds, and precious stones were sold in quiet, massive rooms, up
stairs, in buildings approached through a court-yard.

For diamonds, you may be taken up stairs to a small, carefully guarded
inner room, dimly lighted, in which a black-velvet-covered table or
counter, and two or three leather-covered chairs, give a decidedly
funereal aspect to the place. An old, bent man, whose hooked nose and
glittering eyes betoken him a Hebrew, waits upon your conductor, whom he
greets as an old acquaintance. He adjusts the window shade so that the
light falls directly upon the black counter (which is strikingly
suggestive of being prepared to receive a coffin), or else pulls down
the window-shade, and turns up the gas-light directly above the black
pedestal, and then, from some inner safe or strong box, produces little
packages of tissue paper, from which he displays the flashing gems upon
the black velvet, shrewdly watching the effect, and the purchaser's
skill and judgment, and keeping back the most desirable stones until the
last.

Ladies' ready-made clothing may be bought in Paris as readily as
gentlemen's can be in New York or Boston--garments of great elegance,
and of the most fashionable make and trimming, such as full dress for
evening party or ball, dress for promenade, morning dress, and cloaks of
the latest mode. These are made, apparently, with all the care of
"custom made" garments, certainly of just as rich silk, satin, and
velvet, and a corps of workwomen appears to be always in attendance, to
immediately adapt a dress or garment to the purchaser by alteration, to
make it a perfect fit. In one of these large establishments for the sale
of ladies' clothing were numerous small private drawing-rooms, each of
which was occupied by different lady purchasers, who were making their
selections of dresses, mantles, or cloaks, which were being exhibited to
them in almost endless variety.

The saleswomen were aided by young women, evidently selected for their
height and good figures, whose duty it was to continually whip on a
dress or mantle, and promenade back and forth before the purchasers. By
these shrewd manoeuvres, many a fat dowager or dumpy woman of wealth
was induced to purchase an elegant garment, which, upon the lithe,
undulating figure of a girl of twenty was a thing of grace and beauty,
thinking it would have the same effect upon herself. These model artists
were adepts in the art of dress, and knew how to manage a dress trail in
the most _distingué_ style, wore a mantelet with a grace, and threw a
glance over the shoulder of a new velvet cloak or mantle with an
archness and _naiveté_ that straightway invested it with a charm that
could never have been given to it had it been displayed upon a "dummy."
As an illustration of the value of a reliable _commissionaire's_
services at this first-class establishment, it is only necessary to
state, that on our second visit, which was in his company, we found that
a difference of eighty to a hundred francs was made in our favor, on a
six hundred franc costume, upon what was charged when we came as
strangers, and alone.

There are some magnificent India shawl stores in Paris, carried on by
companies of great wealth, who have their agents and operatives
constantly employed in India, and whose splendid warehouses are filled
with a wealth of those draperies that all women covet. In a room of one
of these great shawl warehouses we saw retail dealers selecting and
purchasing their supplies. Salesmen were supplied by assistants with
different styles from the shelves, which were displayed before the buyer
upon a lay figure; and upon his displeasure or decision, it was
immediately cast aside upon the floor, to be refolded and replaced by
other assistants; which was so much more labor, however, than unfolding,
that the floor was heaped with the rich merchandise. This so excited an
American visitor, that she could not help exclaiming, "Only think of it!
Must it not be nice to stand knee-deep in Cashmere shawls?"

Many purchasers, who seek low prices and fair dealings, visit
the establishment known as the "_Bon Marché_," rather out of the
fashionable quarter of the city, and "the other side of the Seine."
The proprietor of this place buys in big lots, and sells on the
quick-sales-and-small-profits principle; and his immense warehouse,
which is filled with every species of dry goods, haberdashery, ribbons,
clothing, gloves, gents' furnishing goods, and almost everything except
groceries and medicines, is crammed with purchasers every day, whose
_voitures_ line the streets in the immediate vicinity. At this place
bargains are often obtained in articles of ladies' dress, which may be a
month past the season, and which are closed out at a low figure, to make
room for the latest style; and American ladies, who sometimes purchase
in this manner, rejoice, on arrival in their own country, with that joy
which woman only knows when she finds she has about the first article
out of a new fashion, and that, too, bought at a bargain.

It is a good plan for American tourists, who have any amount of
purchases to make, to take a carriage by the hour, and the banker's
clerk or commission merchant whom they engage to accompany them, and
make a day of it. It will be found an economy of time, and to involve
far less vexation and fatigue, than to attempt walking, or trusting to
luck to find the articles desired. An American, on his first visit to
Paris, finds so many things to attract and amuse him, and withal meets
so many of his countrymen, all bent upon having a good time there, that
he generally overstays the time he has allotted himself in the gay
capital. Once there, in its whirl of pleasure and never-ending
kaleidoscopic changes of attractions, amusements, and enjoyment, time
flits by rapidly; and when the day of departure comes, many a
thoughtless tourist feels that he has not half seen Paris.



CHAPTER IX.


Good-by to Paris, for we are on the road to Brussels, in a night express
train, swiftly passing through Douai and Valenciennes, harassed,
bothered, and pestered at Quievran, on the frontier, where our baggage
was critically inspected. Through Valenciennes, which is suggestive of
lace--so is Brussels--yes, we are getting into the lace country. But
don't imagine, my inexperienced traveller, that the names of these
cities are pronounced, or even spelled, in our country (as they ought to
be) as they are by the natives.

In Bruxelles we recognized Brussels easily enough; but who would ever
have understood Malines to be what we denominate Mechlin, or have known
when he reached Aix la Chapelle by the German conductor's bellowing out,
"Aachen"? And I could well excuse an American friend, some days after,
when we reached Antwerp, who, on being told he was at Anvers, said,
"Confound your Anvers. This must be the wrong train. I started for
Antwerp."

Why should not the names of foreign cities be spelled and pronounced, in
English, as near like their real designation as possible? There appears
to be no rule. Some are, some are not. Cöln is not a great change from
Cologne, but who would recognize München for Munich, or Wien for
Vienna?

We rattled through the streets of Brussels at early morning, and,
passing the great market square, saw a curious sight in the side streets
contiguous, in the numerous dog-teams that the country people bring
their produce to market with. Old dog Tray is pretty thoroughly utilized
here; for while the market square was a Babel of voices, from
bare-headed and quaint-headdressed women, and curious jacketed and
breeched peasants, arranging their greens, fruit, and vegetables, and
clamoring with early purchasers, their teams, which filled the side
streets, were taking a rest after their early journey from the country.
There were stout mastiffs in little carts, harnessed complete, like
horses, except blinders; some rough fellows, of the "big yellow-dog"
breed, tandem; poor little curs, two abreast; small dogs, big dogs,
smart dogs, and cur dogs, each attached to a miniature cart that would
hold from two pecks to three bushels, according to the strength of the
team; and they were standing, sitting, and lying in all the varieties of
dog attitude--certainly a most comical sight. Some time afterwards,
while travelling in the country, I met a fellow riding in one of these
little wagons, drawn by two large dogs at quite a tolerable trot (dog
trot), although they are generally used only to draw light burdens, to
save the peasants' shoulders the load.

From our windows at the Hotel de l'Europe we look out upon the Place
Royale, in which stands the handsome equestrian statue, in bronze, of
that stout crusader, Godfrey de Bouillon, who, with the banner of the
cross in one hand, and falchion aloft in the other, is, as he might have
rode at the siege of Jerusalem, or at the battle of Ascalon, a spirited
and martial figure, and familiar enough to us, from its reproduction in
little, for mantel clocks. We visited the celebrated Hotel de Ville, a
magnificent old Gothic edifice, all points and sculptures, and its
central tower shooting up three hundred and sixty-four feet in height.
In front of it are two finely executed statues of Counts Egmont and
Horn, the Duke of Alva's victims, who perished here. A short distance
from here is a little statue known as the Manikin, a curious fountain
which every one goes to see on account of the natural way it plays, and
which on some fête days sends forth red wine, which the common people
flock in crowds to bear away, with much merriment at the source of
supply.

Besides a museum of paintings in Brussels, which contained several fine
pictures by Rubens, we visited a gallery of somewhat remarkable and
original pictures at the residence of an artist (now deceased) named
Wiertz. The subjects chosen were singular, and so was the original
manner in which they were treated. One represented Napoleon in hell,
surrounded by tormenting demons, with flitting visions of the horrors of
war and carnage, and its victims upbraiding him; another, a huge picture
of a struggle of giants--giving the best idea of giants possible, it
seemed to me, outside of the children's story-books. Another picture was
so contrived that the spectator peeped through a half-open door, and was
startled at beholding what he supposed to be a woman with but a single
garment, gathered shrinkingly around her, and gazing at him from an
opposite door, which she appeared to have just shrunk behind to avoid
his intrusion--a most marvellous cheat. An apparently rough sketch of a
huge frog, viewed through an aperture, became the portrait of a French
general. The pictures of two beautiful girls opening a rude window, and
presenting a flower, were so arranged that, whatever position the
spectator took, they were still facing him, and holding out their floral
offerings. An aperture, like that of a cosmorama, invited you to look
through, when, lo! a group, clothed in arctic costume, and one more
grotesque than the rest arrests you; it is like a living face; the eyes
wink; it moves! You start back, and find that by some clever arrangement
of a looking-glass, you yourself have been supplying the face of the
figure.

A little table, standing in the way, bears upon it an easel, some
brushes, a red herring, and other incongruous things, which you suppose
some careless visitors to have left, till you discover it is another of
the artist's wonderful deceptions. I say wonderful, because his forte
seems to have been some of the most astonishing practical jokes with
brush and color that can possibly be imagined. Some would absolutely
cheat the spectator, although prepared for surprises, and excite as much
laughter as a well-told story; and others would have an opposite effect,
and make his very hair almost stand erect with terror. One of the latter
was that which represented a maniac mother, in a half-darkened room,
cutting up one of her children with a butcher knife, and putting the
remains into a pot boiling upon the fire. The spectator, who is held to
this dreadful scene by a sort of terrible fascination, discovers that
the wild woman thinks herself secure from observation, from the
appearance of the apartment, the windows and even key-hole of which she
has carefully covered, and that he himself is getting a view from an
unobserved crevice. Although the subject is anything but a pleasant one,
yet the rapid beating of the heart, the pallid countenance, and
involuntary shudder with which the spectator withdraws from the terrible
spectacle, is a tribute to the artist's marvellous skill.

Brussels is divided into two parts, the upper and lower city: the
latter is crowded, and inhabited principally by the poorer and
laboring classes, and contains many of the quaint old-fashioned
Dutch-looking buildings of three centuries ago; the upper part of the
city, the abode of the richer classes, contains fine, large, open
squares and streets, palace gardens, &c. In one of the latter we
attended a very fine instrumental concert, given by the orchestra of
the Grand Opera--admission ten cents! and we found that we were now
getting towards the country where good music was a drug, and we could
get our fill at a very reasonable price, with the most agreeable
surroundings.

The most interesting church in Brussels is the splendid Cathedral of St.
Gudule, founded in 1010, the principal wonders of which are its
magnificently-painted windows,--one an elaborate affair, representing
the last judgment, the other various miracles and saints,--and the
pulpit, which is a wondrous work of the carver's art. Upon it is a group
representing the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the garden of Eden; the
pulpit itself is upheld by the tree of knowledge, and high above it
stands the Virgin Mary, holding the infant Jesus, who is striking at the
serpent's head with the cross. The tracery of the foliage, the carving
of the figures, and ornamental work are beautifully chiselled, and very
effectively managed.

Having sent a trunk on before me to Brussels, I had an experience of
the apparently utter disregard of time among Belgian custom-house
officials; and, indeed, of that slow, methodical, won't-be-hurried,
handed-down-from-our-ancestors way of transacting business, that
drives an American almost to the verge of distraction.

My experience was as follows: First, application was made and
description given; next, I was sent to officer number two, who copied it
all into a big book, kept me ten minutes, and charged me eight cents;
then I was sent to another clerk, who made out a fresh paper, kept the
first, and consumed ten or fifteen minutes more; then I was sent back,
up stairs, to an official, for his signature--eight cents more--cheap
autographs; then to another, who commenced to interrogate me as to name,
where I was staying, my nationality, &c.; when, in the very midst of his
interrogations, the hour of twelve struck, and he pushed back the paper,
with "_Après déjeûner, monsieur_," shut his window-sash with a bang, and
the whole custom-house was closed for one hour, in the very middle of
the day, for the officials to go to lunch, or "_déjeûner à la
fourchette_."

Misery loves company. An irate Englishman, whose progress was as
suddenly checked as mine had been, paced up and down the corridor,
swearing, in good round terms, that a man should have to wait a good
hour for a change of linen, so that a parcel of cursed Dutchmen could
fill themselves with beer and sausage. But remedy there was none till
the lunch hour was passed, when the offices were reopened, and the
wheels of business once more began their slow revolutions, and our
luggage was, with many formalities, withdrawn from government custody.

"When you are on the continent don't quote Byron," said a friend at
parting, who had been 'over the ground;' "that is, if possible to
refrain;" and, indeed, as all young ladies and gentlemen at some period
of their lives have read the poet's magnificent romaunt of Childe
Harold, the qualification which closed the injunction was significant.
Can anybody that has any spark of imagination or romance in his
composition refrain, as scene after scene, which the poet's glorious
numbers have made familiar in his mind, presents itself in reality to
his sight? We visit Brussels chiefly to see the field of Waterloo; and
as we stand in the great square of Belgium's capital, we remember "the
sound of revelry by night," and wonder how the streets looked when "then
and there was hurrying to and fro," and we pictured to ourselves, as the
moon poured down her silver light as we stood there, and flashed her
beams upon the windows in the great Gothic structures, the sudden alarm
when "bright the lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men," and how

                                        "the steed,
        The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
        Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
        And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;"

and it all came back to me how I had sing-songed through extracts from
Byron in my school readers when a boy, spouted the words of the Battle
of Waterloo at school exhibitions, and sometimes wondered if I should
ever visit that field where Bonaparte made his last grand struggle for
the empire. Yes, we should feel now the words of the poet as we
approached it--"Stop! for thy tread is on an empire's dust." And so I
stood musing, and repeating the poet's lines, _sotto voce_, when an
individual approached, and, touching his hat, interrupted my musings.

"Waterloo to-morrow, sir?"

"Sir?"

"Would you like to visit Waterloo to-morrow, sir? Coach leaves at nine
in the morning--English coach and six--spanking team--six horses."

We looked at this individual with some surprise, which he dissipated as
follows:--

"Beg pardon, sir--agent of the English coach company--always wait upon
strangers, sir."

We took outside tickets for the field of Waterloo on the English coach.

The next morning dawned brightly, and at the appointed time a splendid
English mail coach, with a spanking team of six grays,--just such a one
as we have seen in English pictures, with a driver handling the whip and
ribbons in the most approved style,--dashed into the Place Royale, and,
halting before a hotel at one end, the guard played "The Campbells are
Comin'" upon a bugle, with a gusto that brought all the new arrivals to
the windows; three or four ladies and gentlemen mounted to the
coach-roof; the driver cracked his whip, and whirled his team up to our
hotel, while the uniformed guard played "The Bowld Soger Boy" under the
very nose of old Godfrey de Bouillon; and we clambered up to the outside
seats, of which there were twelve, to the inspiring notes of the bugle,
which made the quiet old square echo with its martial strains. Away we
rolled, the bugle playing its merriest of strains; but when just clear
of the city, our gay performer descended, packed his instrument into a
green baize bag, deserted, and trudged back, leaving us only the music
of the rattling hoofs and wheels, and the more agreeable strains of
laughter of half a dozen lively English and American ladies.

The field of Waterloo is about twelve miles from Brussels; the ride, of
a pleasant day, behind a good team, a delightful one: we pass through
the wood of Soignies, over a broad, smooth road, in excellent order,
shaded by tall trees on either side--this was Byron's Ardennes.

        "Ardennes waves above them her green leaves."

We soon reached the field, which has been so often described by
historians, novelists, and letter-writers, that we will spare the reader
the infliction.

We are met by guides who speak French, German, and English, who have
bullets, buttons, and other relics said to have been picked up on the
field, but which a waggish Englishman informed us were manufactured at a
factory near by to supply the demand. The guides, old and young, adapt
their sympathies to those of customers; thus, if they be English, it
is,--

"Here is where the brave Wellington stood; there is where _we_ beat back
the Old Guard."

Or, if they be French or Americans,--

"There is where the great Napoleon directed the battle. The Imperial
Guard beat all before them to this point," &c.

The field is an open, undulating plain, intersected by two or three
broad roads; monuments rise here and there, and conspicuous on the
field, marking the thickest of the fight rises the huge pyramidal
earth-mound with the Belgian Lion upon its summit.

We stroll from point to point noted in the terrible struggle. Here is
one that every one pauses at longest; it is a long, low ridge, where the
guards lay that rose at Wellington's command, and poured their terrible
tempest of lead into the bosoms of the Old Guard. We walk over the track
of that devoted band of brave men, who marched over it with their whole
front ranks melting before the terrific fire of the English artillery
like frost-work before the sun, grimly closing up and marching sternly
on, receiving the fire of a battery in their bosoms, and then marching
right on over gunners, guns, and all, like a prairie fire sweeping all
before it--Ney, the bravest of the brave, four horses shot under him,
his coat pierced with balls, on foot at their head, waving his sword on
high, and encouraging them on, till they reach this spot, where the last
terrible tempest beats them back, annihilated. Here, where so many went
down in death,--

        "Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent,"--

now waved the tall yellow grain, and the red poppies that bloomed among
it reminded us of the crimson tide that must have reddened the turf when
it shook beneath the thunder of that terrible charge.

Let us pause at another noted spot; it is where the English squares
stood with such firmness that French artillery, lancers, and even the
cuirassiers, who threw themselves forward like an iron avalanche, failed
to break them.

We come to the chateau of Hougoumont, which sustained such a succession
of desperate attacks. The battle began with the struggle for its
possession, which only ended on the utter defeat of the French. The
grounds of Hougoumont are partially surrounded by brick walls, which
were loopholed for musketry. This place, at the time of the battle, was
a gentleman's country-seat, with farm, out-buildings, walled garden,
private chapel, &c., and the shattered ruins, which to this day remain,
are the most interesting relics of the battle; the wall still presents
its loopholes; it is battered as with a tempest of musket balls.

The French charged up to the very muzzles of the guns, and endeavored to
wrest them from the hands of those who pushed them forth.

Four companies of English held this place for seven hours against an
assaulting army, and bullets were exhausted in vain against its
wall-front, before which fifteen hundred men fell in less than an hour.

There are breaches in the wall, cannon-shot fractures in the barn and
gate; the little chapel is scarred with bullets, fire, and axes, and a
fragment of brick buildings looks like part of a battered fort. Victor
Hugo's "Les Misérables" gives a most vivid and truthful description of
this little portion of the battle-field, and of the desperate struggle
and frightful scenes enacted there, serving the visitor far better than
any of the guide-books.

Passing from here, we go out into the orchard--scene of another deadly
and dreadful contest. We are shown where various distinguished officers
fell; we walk over the spots that Napoleon and Wellington occupied
during the battle; we go to the summit of the great mound upon which
stands the Belgian Lion, and from it are pointed out the distant wood
from which Wellington saw the welcome and fresh columns of Blucher
emerge; we pluck a little flower in Hongoumont's garden, and a full and
nearly ripened blade of grain from the spot where the Imperial Guard
were hurled back by their English adversaries, pay our guide three
francs each, and once more are bowling along back to Brussels.

Near the field is a sort of museum of relics kept by a niece of Sergeant
Major Cotton, who was in the battle, which contains many interesting and
well-attested relics found upon the field years ago. There are rusty
swords, that flashed in the June sunset of that terrible day, bayonets,
uniform jackets and hats, buttons, cannon shot, and other field spoil,
and withal books and photographs, which latter articles the voluble old
lady in charge was anxious to dispose of.

Just off the field,--at the village of Waterloo, I think,--we halt at
the house in which Wellington wrote his despatch announcing the victory.
Here is preserved, under a glass case, the pencil with which he wrote
that document. The boot of the Marquis of Anglesea, who suffered
amputation of his leg here, is also preserved in like manner; and in the
garden is a little monument erected over his grace's limb, which is said
to be buried there.

Did we buy lace in Brussels? Yes.

And the great lace establishments there?

Well, there are few, if any, large lace shops for the sale of the
article. Those are all in Paris, which is the great market for it. Then,
it will be remembered that "Brussels lace" is not a very rare kind, and
also that lace is an article of merchandise that is not bulky, and
occupies but very little space. In many of the old cities on the
continent, shopkeepers do not believe in vast, splendid, and
elegantly-decorated stores, as we do in America, especially those who
have a reputation in specialties which causes purchasers to seek them
out.

Some of the most celebrated lace manufacturers in Brussels occupied
buildings looking, for all the world, like a good old-fashioned
Philadelphia mansion, with its broad steps and substantial front door,
the latter having a large silver plate with the owner's name inscribed
thereon. A good specimen of these was that of Julie Everaert and
sisters, on the Rue Royale, where, after ringing the front door bell, we
were ushered by the servant into a sort of half front parlor, half shop,
and two of the sisters, two stout, elderly Flemish ladies, in black silk
dresses and lace caps, appeared to serve us. So polite, so quiet,
well-dressed and lady-like, so like the mild-voiced, well-bred ladies of
the old school, that are now only occasionally met in America, at the
_soirée_ and in the drawing-room, and who seem always to be surrounded
by a sort of halo of old-time ceremony and politeness, and to command a
deference and courtesy by their very presence that we instinctively
acknowledge--so like, that we began to fear we had made some mistake,
until the elder and stouter of the two, after the usual salutations,
inquired in French if "madame and monsieur would do them the honor to
look at laces."

Madame and monsieur were agreeable, and chairs were accordingly placed
before a table, which was covered by a sort of black velvet comforter,
or stuffed table-cloth, and behind which stood a tall fire-proof safe,
which, being opened by the servant, displayed numerous drawers and
compartments like to that of a jeweller. The lace dealer commenced an
exhibition of the treasures of the iron casket, displaying them upon the
black velvet with the skill of an expert, her quiet little servant
removing such as were least favorable in our eyes, when the table became
crowded, and she went on, as each specimen was displayed, something as
follows:--

"_Vingt francs, monsieur_" (a neat little collar).

"_Cinquante francs, plus jolie_" (I expressed admiration audibly).

"_Cent francs, madame_," said the frau Julie, abandoning at once the
addressing of her conversation to an individual who could be struck with
the beauty of a fifty franc strip of lace.

"_Cent cinquante francs, madame, très recherché._"

"_Deux cent francs. Superbe, madame._"

"_Quatre cent francs. Magnifique._"

"Eighty dollars for that mess of spider's web!" exclaimed Monsieur, in
English, to his companion. "Eighty dollars! The price _is_ magnifique."

"He is varee sheep for sush _dentelles_," says the old lady, in a quiet
tone, much to monsieur's confusion at her understanding the English
tongue; and the exhibition went on.

How much we sacrificed at that black velvet altar I do not care to
mention; but, at any rate, we found on reaching America that the prices
paid, compared with those asked at home, _were_ "varee sheep for sush
_dentelles_."

Antwerp! We must make a brief pause at this old commercial city on the
Scheldt; and as we ride through its streets, we see the quaint, solid,
substantial buildings of olden times, their curious architecture giving
a sort of Dutch artistic air to the scene, and reminding one of old
paintings and theatrical scenery. One evidence of the commercial
importance of Antwerp is seen in its splendid docks; these comprise the
two docks built by Bonaparte when he made the port one of his naval
arsenals, which are splendid specimens of masonry, the walls being five
feet in thickness; then the Belgian government have recently completed
three new docks, which, in connection with the old ones, embrace an area
of over fifty acres of water. We visited several of the dock-yards here,
and were astonished at the vast heaps of merchandise they contained.
Still further improvements that are being made seem to completely refute
the assertion that all the commercial enterprise of Antwerp has
departed. Here, for instance, were two new docks in progress for timber
and petroleum exclusively, which enclose seventeen acres of water, and
here we saw literally enough of splendid timber for a navy. I was
actually staggered by the heaps of every kind of timber, from all parts
of the world, that was piled up here, while the American petroleum was
heaped up and stored in warehouses the size of a cathedral, suggesting
the idea of a tremendous illumination should fire by any means get at
it, which, however, is guarded against very strictly by dock-guards and
police.

Then there are three new and spacious dry docks, one of which is the
largest in Europe, being nearly five hundred feet long, and capable of
holding two ships at a time of one thousand tons register each. The
splendid facilities for ships of every description, and for the landing
and storage of merchandise, are such as cannot fail to excite admiration
from every American merchant, and make him sigh for the time when we may
have similar accommodations in the great seaports in this country. There
were huge warehouses, formed by two blocks _vis-à-vis_, with a glass
roof covering the intermediate space, and a double rail track running
through it, affording opportunity of loading, unloading, and sorting
merchandise in all weathers, while the depth of the "lazy old Scheldt,"
directly opposite the city, is sufficient for a ship drawing thirty-two
feet of water to ride safely at anchor.

The magnificent cathedral spire in Antwerp is familiar to almost
everybody who looks into the windows of the print shops; and we climbed
far up into it, to its great colony of bells, that make the very tower
reel with their chimes. Here, leaving the ladies, our motto was,
Excelsior; and we still went onward and upward, till, amid the wrought
stone that seems the lace-work of the spire, we appeared to be almost
swinging in the air, far above the earth, as in a gigantic net, and,
although safely enclosed, yet the apertures and open-work were so
frequent that our enthusiasm was not very expressive, however deeply it
might have been felt at the splendid view, though our grasp at the
balusters and stone-work was of the most tenacious character; and, in
truth, the climbing of a spire of about four hundred feet high is an
undertaking easier read about than practised.

Inside the cathedral we saw Rubens's fine pictures of the Elevation and
the Descent from the Cross, in which the figures are given with such
wonderful and faithful accuracy as to make the spectator sigh with pity
at the painful spectacle.

The interior of this splendid cathedral is grand and imposing; but I
have already, in these pages, employed so many adjectives in admiration
of these grand old buildings, that I fear repetition in the attempt to
give anything more than the dimensions which indicate its vast extent,
which are five hundred feet long and two hundred and fifty wide. In
front of this cathedral is an iron canopy, or specimen of iron
railing-work, as we should call it; but it is of _wrought_ iron, and by
the hammer and skilful hand of Quentin Matsys.

In the Church of St. Jacques, with its splendid interior, rich in
beautiful carved marble and balustrades, we stood at the tomb of Rubens,
who is buried here, and saw many more of his pictures among them his
Holy Family. The house where he died is in a street named after him, and
a statue of the artist graces the Place Verte.

Antwerp rejoices in good musical entertainments. The most prominent and
aristocratic of the musical societies is that known as the "Royal
Society of Harmony of Antwerp," who own a beautiful garden, or park, at
which their out-of-door concerts are given during the summer season.
None but members of the society are admitted to these entertainments,
except visiting friends from other cities, and then only by approval of
the committee of managers.

The garden is quite extensive, and is beautifully laid out with walks
beneath shady groves, rustic bridges over ponds and streams, gorgeous
plats, and parterres of flowers. In the centre of the grounds rises an
ornamental covered stand for the orchestra; and round about, beneath the
shade trees, sit such of the visitors who are not strolling about,
eating ices, drinking light wine or beer, and indulging in pipes and
cigars. A handsome pavilion affords accommodation in case of bad
weather, and the expenses are defrayed by assessments upon the members
of the society.

After seeing the London Zoölogical Garden, others seem very much like
it; and that in Antwerp is nearest the London one, in the excellence of
its arrangement and management, of any I have since visited. The
collection is quite large, and very interesting.

The cabs and hackney coaches in this old city are the most atrocious old
wrecks we have ever seen, the horses apparently on their last legs, and
the drivers a seedy-looking set of fellows, most of whom understand
neither English, French, nor German, only Flemish; so that when a
stranger calls a "vigilante," which is the title of these turnouts, it
is well to have the assistance of a native, else the attempted excursion
may end in an inextricable snarl of signs, phrases, and gesticulations,
"full of sound and fury, and signifying nothing" to either party.

I believe if an individual, who does not understand German or Flemish,
can make the journey from Antwerp to Dusseldorf alone, he may be
considered competent to travel all over Europe without a courier or
interpreter. The conductors or guards of the train appeared to
understand nothing but German and Flemish. The changes of cars were
numerous and puzzling, and our "_Change-t-on de voiture ici?_" and "_Ou
est le convoi pour Dusseldorf?_" were aired and exercised on a portion
of the route to little purpose. Nevertheless, we did manage to blunder
through safely and correctly, by dint of showing tickets, and being
directed by signs and motions, and pushed by good-natured, stupid (?)
officials from one train to another; for we changed cars at Aerschot,
then at Hasselt, then again at Maestricht, where we were compelled to
leave the train, and have all small parcels examined by the custom-house
officials; then at Aix la Chapelle, or Aachen, as the Dutchmen call it,
we had to submit to an examination of trunks, all passing in at one door
of a large room and out at another, in an entirely opposite direction,
and apparently directly away from the train we had just left, to
continue our journey. I never shall forget the jargon of Dutch, French,
and English, the confusion of wardrobes of different nationalities that
were rudely exposed by the officers, the anathematizing of obstinate
straps that would not come unbuckled, the turning out of pockets to
search for missing keys, and the hasty cramming back of the contents of
trunks,--for the train was a few minutes late,--that imprinted the
custom-house station of Aix la Chapelle like a disagreeable nightmare on
my memory.

At last we reached Ober Cassel, where we debarked, took seats in a
drosky, as they call cabs here, the driver of which hailed us in French,
which really sounded almost natural after the amount of guttural German
we had experienced.

Over the pontoon bridge that spans the Rhine, we rode towards
Dusseldorf, whose lighted windows were reflected upon the dark, flowing
stream; and we were soon within the hospitable and comfortable hotel,
denominated the Breidenbacher Hof, where the servants spoke French and
English, and we forgot the perplexities of the day in an excellent and
well-served supper.

Dusseldorf is one of those quiet, sleepy sort of towns where there is
little or no excitement beyond music in the Hofgarten, or the Prussian
soldiers who parade the streets; it is the quiet and pleasant home of
many accomplished artists, whose paintings and whose school of art are
familiar to many in America, and it is often visited by American
tourists for the purpose of purchasing pictures from the easels of its
artists; indeed, the guide-books dignify it with the title of the
"Cradle of Rhenish Art." Americans visiting Dusseldorf find an efficient
and able cicerone in Henry Lewis, Esq., the American consul, who, from
his long residence there, and being himself a Dusseldorf artist, and
withal a member of their associations, and having an intimate
acquaintance with artists and artist life, is a gentleman eminently
qualified to aid our countrymen in their purchases of pictures, which is
done with a disinterestedness and courtesy that have won for him the
warmest regards of Americans who have visited the place.

To be sure, some Americans, with very queer ideas of propriety in
pictures, visit Dusseldorf, as they do other places in Europe, sometimes
mortifying their countrymen by their absurd extravagances of conduct. At
one of the artists' exhibitions a fine picture was pointed out to me,
representing a cavalier who had just returned from the chase, and was
seated in an old mediæval hall. At one side, in the painting, was a
representation of a fine, wide, high, old, ornamented chimneypiece. This
picture attracted the attention of an American, well-known in his native
country as a proprietor of patent medicines. He saw nothing in the rich
costume and coloring of the cavalier's dress, the fine interior of the
old mediæval mansion; but he noticed that the mantel of the antique
fireplace was empty. Lucky circumstance! He proposed to purchase the
picture of the artist on condition of an alteration, or rather addition,
being made, which was the painting in of a bottle of the purchaser's
celebrated syrup, with its label distinctly visible, to be represented
occupying one end of the mantel, and boxes of pills and ointment (labels
visible) occupying the other end.

To his credit be it known, the artist absolutely refused to commit such
an outrage, notwithstanding double price was offered him for "the job;"
and the glories of Blank's pills continue to be painted in printer's
ink, and not the artist's colors.

Through the kind courtesy of Mr. Lewis, we were enabled to visit the
studios of nearly all the leading artists of Dusseldorf. We saw the fine
Swiss scenery of Lindler, the life-like, quaint old burghers and Dutch
figures of Stammel, the heavy Dutch horses and the quiet, natural,
rural, and roadside scenes of Hahn, and the sharp, bold style of
figure-painting of Stever, rich in color and striking in expression--an
artist whose pictures, in the exhibition, always have a group of
spectators about them; and then we saw Lewis's own clever landscapes and
Swiss mountain scenes, and finally went off to the Dusseldorf gallery,
where we saw a host of original sketches and drawings by the most
celebrated artists of all schools.

One thing newly-arrived Americans quickly learn here, as well as in Rome
and Florence; and that is, that good pictures command good prices: they
may be obtained at a lower figure than at home, yet they are by no means
sacrificed for a song. The facilities of travel are now so great, and
Americans and English with money to spend do so pervade the continent,
that the opportunities of obtaining really meritorious works of art at a
very low price in Europe are decreasing every day.

The Prussian soldiery are seen everywhere in Dusseldorf; they are a
fine, intellectual-looking set of men, not very tall, but splendidly
drilled. A regiment that I have seen pass, with its magnificent military
band at its head, was so exact in the perpendicular of the muskets
carried by the men, that I verily believe a plank might have been laid
upon the points of the upright bayonets, and it would have been found a
true level.

The band in the Hofgarten plays the Strauss waltzes deliciously. The
shady walks, the flower-beds, the pretty vases and fountains, are
enchantingly soothing and romantic on a summer's evening, under the
influence of music, Rhine wine or lager. But we must bid adieu to old
Dusseldorf, which we learn, with some surprise, as we turn our back upon
it for the city of perfumes (Cologne), to be a town of fifty thousand
inhabitants--a fact one would never dream of, from its lack of that
bustling spirit that characterizes an American town or city of that
population.

Now for the "castle-crowned Rhine." We leave Dusseldorf behind, and as
the steamboat journey from here is a somewhat dull and uninteresting
one, there being no features of natural beauty on the river between
the two points, we rattle down by Cologne and Minden Railway in about
an hour and a half, and quarter at the fine Hotel du Nord, at Cologne,
near the railway bridge, which is all of a bustle on account of the
arrival of the King of Sweden and suite; and some of the blue-eyed,
golden-haired blondes of that "suite" we had the pleasure of meeting
occasionally, as we passed in or out, would have been "all the rage"
in America, could they have been transplanted to that country.

Cologne, the oldest town on the Rhine, is built with long, winding,
semicircular, narrow streets, along the river. It is now the capital of
Rhenish Prussia, and appears to be a strongly fortified place, being
surrounded by strong, high walls. A bridge of boats and a stone bridge
span the Rhine from Cologne to a little town called Deutz, opposite, and
the city seems to have considerable business activity. Before one ever
sees the city, his impressions are, that its chief article of commerce
and manufacture is cologne water; and that impression is strengthened on
arrival, for about every other store, especially those in the square
about the cathedral, claims to be "_the_ original Jean Antoine Marie
Farina." The competition in this matter is ridiculous, and even
laughable; and the Farinas are so numerous, and opinion is so divided
respecting the original, that it is said if you purchase of either one
you will wish you had bought of another.

The cathedral at Cologne, grand and majestic in its proportions, rich in
ornament, and considered among lovers of architecture a masterpiece
among existing Gothic buildings, was commenced in 1248, and, though more
than six centuries have passed, is still unfinished, and the name of the
architect who planned the original designs of the structure unknown to
the world.

The sight of this great cathedral, that has been in process of
construction for so many centuries, sometimes nearly abandoned to ruin,
and then again carried forward by builders with new zeal, till at last
the original designs were forgotten, and men proceeded to work on at an
apparently endless task,--the style of work here and there marking the
age in which it was wrought,--was strikingly suggestive of the vanity of
human aspirations. It also brought to mind that almost forgotten old
German legend respecting a compact between the original architect of
this cathedral, I think, and his Satanic Majesty, in which the former
some way outwitted the latter, who, in revenge, caused him to be killed
by a fall from the tower bearing the well-known derrick so familiar in
all the pictures on the cologne-bottle labels. His Sulphuric Highness,
in the story, also vowed that the edifice should never be completed, and
that the architect's name should be forgotten by men.

The fiendish promise appears to have been faithfully kept, although, on
the other hand, it is averred by some American travellers that the
building is kept unfinished to extract contributions from the faithful
to complete it, and thereby furnish builders, workmen, and contractors
with work; indeed, a New York man was struck with the bright idea that
it would be to get the Prussian government to undertake it, and let the
job out to contractors, and he knew that the builders of the new City
Hall in New York would undertake it, and spend time and money enough
over it, and in a manner that would astonish the old church builders of
Europe.

The cathedral stands on a slight elevation, some fifty or sixty feet
above the Rhine, upon a portion of the old Roman camp-ground, where the
soldiers of Agrippina, the mother of Nero, rested after war's alarms,
and watched the flow of the winding river at their feet. Countless sums
of money have been lavished upon the building, and centuries of labor.
Guilty monarchs, and men whose hearts have reeked with sin, have
bestowed wealth upon it, in the hope to buy absolution for their crimes
with the same dross that had purchased so many of the world's coveted
pleasures. In 1816, forty-eight thousand pounds were expended on it, and
between 1842 and 1864 over three hundred thousand pounds were laid out.
The great southern portal, which is two hundred and twenty feet high,
cost alone one hundred and five thousand pounds. Some idea of the
vastness of the cathedral may be had from the figures representing its
dimensions. The interior is four hundred and thirty feet long and one
hundred and forty broad; the transept two hundred and thirty-four feet
long, and the choir one hundred and forty feet in height. The part which
is appropriated for divine service occupies an area of seventy thousand
square feet.

We strolled round this stupendous old building, and after shaking off
the guides and _valets de place_, who proffered their services, the
agents of cologne-water houses in the vicinity, and the venders of
books, stereoscopic views and pictures of it, and even a monkish old
fellow who came out of one of the side doors, and rattled a money-box
for subscriptions for the workmen, proceeded to have a look at it in our
own way. There stood out the old derrick, or crane, an iron arm fifty
feet long, that has projected from one of the towers, which is one
hundred and ninety feet high, for four hundred years, probably in
waiting to assist in completing the remaining two hundred and eighty-six
feet, the projected height being four hundred and seventy-six. The
Gothic arches, canopies, buttresses, and tracery, with statues of the
apostles and saints, are bewildering in detail and number. In one
ornamental arch is a relief containing no less than seventy different
figures, and another has fifty-eight small canopies wrought in it. In
fact, the building seems to be a monument of stone-cutters' skill, as
well as an exemplification of the detail of Gothic architecture; and you
may mark that which is crumbling to decay beneath the unsparing tooth of
time, and on the same edifice that which, sharp and fresh, but yesterday
left the sculptor's chisel; and so the work goes on. The central tower
and iron framework of the roof of the body of the church and transept
were only completed in 1861, and the interior of the church since 1863,
that is, if the interior can be said ever to be completed, with workmen
continually _finishing_ it.

To get inside we find that a series of tickets must be purchased of the
custodian who guards the entrance at the transept. These paid for, we
proceeded, under the pilotage of a good-natured, though not over-clean
churchman, to the various points of interest in the vast interior. We
had the same beautiful view of Gothic arches and cluster pillars that
form so grand a perspective in these cathedrals. We counted fifty-six
pillars in all. Those of the nave were one hundred and six feet in
height, and of the side aisles forty-five. The seven chapels are rich in
pictures, decorated altars, and relics. The most celebrated is that
known as the Chapel of the Three Magi, in which was a gorgeous crystal
casket, protected by a cover richly ornamented and set with precious
stones. When this was reverently removed, we beheld the tops of three
human skulls, circled with golden crowns, which our conductor gravely
informed us were the skulls of Caspar, Melchoir, and Balthazar, the
Three Magi, or Wise Men of the East, who figured at the adoration of our
Saviour.

One can hardly repress a smile at such assertions, made in the
nineteenth century, by a man who has had the advantages of education, as
our priestly guide evidently had; but the serious manner in which he
imparted his information, and to our doubting comments pointed to the
names set in rubies, and assured us that the relics were presented in
the twelfth century by the Emperor Frederic Barbarossa, and that he had
not time now to question historical facts, disposed of the subject in
our case. So, at the Church of St. Ursula here, where the bones of
_eleven thousand virgins_ (!), who were murdered in Cologne on their
return from a pilgrimage to Rome, are shown. The unbelieving Thomases of
the Protestant faith try the patience of the pious custodian sadly by
their irreverent questions and disrespectful remarks.

In the great sacristy and treasury of the cathedral we saw a rich
collection of magnificent vestments for priests, bishops, and other
church officials, costly gold and silver chalices, cruets, fonts,
goblets, church vessels, &c. Among these were several splendid
"monstrances" or a sort of framework, in which the consecrated wafer, or
host, is held up to view before the congregation in Roman Catholic
churches. One of these was of silver, weighing eight pounds and a half,
adorned with rubies and diamonds, with a superb diamond cross hanging
from it, and around it a collar of turquoises, amethysts, and sapphires;
there was another of solid silver, much heavier, the gift of Pope Pius
IX., and still a third, which far outshone all the rest in magnificence.
This last was a foot and a half in height, was of solid gold, and
weighed ten pounds and two ounces; it was studded with large jewels, and
the gold beautifully enamelled. The cylindrical space for enclosing the
host measured four and a half inches in diameter, and is cut out of a
piece of mountain crystal. The value of this monstrance is immense, and
it is only used on great holidays, and carried in procession but once a
year--Corpus Christi, the next Thursday after Trinity Sunday.

The cabinets in this treasury were rich indeed with material wealth of
the cathedral; and our priestly guide took a pride in displaying it,
furnishing me many facts for my note-book not down in the guide-books,
and anxious that we should have a correct idea of the wealth of the
Church. Two splendid silver censers, weighing nine pounds each, were
shown us; next came a great crucifix of polished ebony and silver, a
gold and enamelled flower set with precious stones, an enamelled
painting of the Crucifixion surrounded by diamonds, rubies, and pearls,
a cross and ring worn by the archbishop at every pontifical service,
magnificent ornaments set with diamonds and pearls, and valued at
twenty-five hundred pounds sterling; then there were splendid
reliquaries, richly set with jewels, some said to contain portions of
the true cross; splendid crosiers, one of ivory and crystal, of ancient
workmanship; crosses, silver busts, carved ivory figures, and the
splendid silver shrine of St. Engelbert, weighing one hundred and
forty-nine pounds, and adorned with bass-reliefs and numerous small
statuettes--a most valuable piece of plate, and curious work of art,
made in the year 1635.

From this rich storehouse of gold, silver, and jewels we passed out
once more into the body of the cathedral, where ragged women or
poverty-stricken men, with hunger in their cheeks, knelt on the pavement
to tell a string of beads, or mutter a prayer or two, and then rise and
follow us into the street to beg a few groschen, or, as we passed, to be
solicited by an individual, who had charge of a rattling money-box, for
a contribution towards the completion of the church.

Nearly two hundred workmen are at work upon the Cologne Cathedral,
renewing that which has crumbled from decay and time, and completing
that which is still unfinished. A good idea of its magnitude can be
obtained by a tour of the galleries. Access is had to these by a flight
of steps in one of the great pillars. One hundred and one steps--I
counted them as we went up--carry the visitor to a gallery which extends
across the transept. Up thirty-six steps more, and you reach another
gallery running around the whole building, in a tour of which you may
study the details of the architecture, and also have a fine view of the
town, and a beautiful one of the Rhine, and the lovely surrounding
landscape.

There is a gallery corresponding to this on the interior of the
building, which affords the visitor an equally good opportunity to
observe the interior decorations and architectural features. You mount
ninety-eight steps more, and reach a third gallery, which runs around
the entire roof of the cathedral, a distance of sixteen hundred feet.
Here the panorama is more extended and beautiful. You see the river
winding on its course far in the distance. Below are the semicircular
streets, the bridges of stone and of boats, the numerous little water
craft dotting the stream, and on every side the lovely landscape, fresh
and verdant in the summer sunlight. Above us, on the roof, or
ridge-pole, runs an ornamental gilt crest, looking like spikes from
below, but really a string of gilt spires, nearly five feet in height,
while the great cross above is twenty-seven feet high, and weighs
thirteen hundred and eighty-eight pounds. From this gallery we passed in
through a little door under the roofing, and above the vaulted arches of
the interior, to an opening which was surrounded by a railing. Through
this opening the spectator has an opportunity of looking to the interior
beneath him, and has a view directly downwards to the pavement, one
hundred and fifty feet below.

The middle steeple is yet to be ascended. This is strongly built of
iron, and ninety-four steps more carry us up to the highest point of
ascent--three hundred and twenty-nine steps in all. The star which
surmounts the steeple above us is three hundred and fifty feet from the
pavement. A glance below at the cathedral shows the form of its ground
plan, and the landscape view extends as far as the eye can reach.

Cologne is not an over-clean city, and we were not sorry to embark on
the _dampschift_, as they call the little Rhine steamboat, for our trip
to Mayence. These little steamers, with their awning-shaded decks, upon
which you may sit and dine, or enjoy the pure light wines of the
country,--which never taste so well anywhere else,--and view the
romantic and beautiful scenery upon the banks of this historic river as
you glide along, afford a most delightful mode of transit, and one
which we most thoroughly enjoyed, the weather being charming, and the
boat we were upon an excellent one, and not crowded with passengers.

The great Cathedral of Cologne, a conspicuous landmark, and the high
arches of the railroad bridge, gradually disappear as we steam away up
the river, looking on either side at the pleasant views, till the
steeple and residences of Bonn greet us, after a two hours' sail. Here
we make a landing, near the Grand Hotel Royal, a beautiful hotel, and
charmingly situated. Facing the river, its two wings extend from the
main body of the house, enclosing a spacious garden, which stretches
down to the river banks, and is tastefully laid out with winding walks,
rustic arbors, and flower-beds. From its garden and windows you may gaze
upon the charming panorama of the river, with the peaks of the Seven
Mountains rising in the distance, and the Castle of Godesburg on its
lofty peak, near the river.

But our little steamer fumes and fusses at its landing-place, eager to
depart; so we step on board, and it steams once more out against the
curling current between the hills of Rhineland. The scenery now
becomes more varied and interesting; pleasant little roads wind off in
the distance amid the hills; a chapel is perched here and there, and
ever and anon we meet some big, flat-bottomed boat floating idly down
the stream, loaded with produce, with a heavy, loose-jacketed,
broad-leaf-hatted German lounging in the stern, smoking a painted or
ornamented pipe, and you think of the pictures you have so often
stared at in the windows of the print shops.

We begin to note the vineyards on the sloping banks, the vines on sticks
four or five feet high, and sometimes in what appears to be unpromising
looking ground.

We pass various little towns with unpronounceable names, such as
Niederdollendorf, for instance. We make occasional landings, and take on
board women with queer head-dresses, and coarse, black, short dresses,
stout shoes, and worsted stockings, and men with many-buttoned jackets,
holiday velvet vests, painted porcelain pipes, and heavy, hob-nailed
shoes; children in short, blue, coarse jean, and wooden shoes, all of
whom occupy a position on the lower forward deck, among the light
freight--chiefly provisions and household movables--that the steamer
carries. The shores begin to show a background of hills; the Seven
Mountains are in view, and Drachenfels (Dragon's Rock), with its castle
perched eight hundred and fifty-five feet above the river, on its
vine-clad height, realizes one's ideas of those ancient castles where
the old robber chieftains of the middle ages established themselves, and
from these strongholds issued on their freebooting expeditions, or
watched the river for passing crafts, from which to exact tribute. The
scenery about here is lovely; the little villages on the banks, the
vine-clad hills, little Gothic churches, the winding river, and the
highlands swelling blue in the distance, all fill out a charming
picture.

Still we glide along, and the arched ruin of Rolandseck, on its hill
three hundred and forty feet above the river, appears in view. A single
arch of the castle alone remains darkly printed against the sky, and,
like all Rhine castles, it has its romantic story, which you read from
your guide-book as you glide along the river, or hear told by some
dreamy tourist, who has the romance in him, which the sight of these
crumbling old relics of the past excites. And he tells you how Roland, a
brave crusader of Charlemagne's army, left his lady love near this
place, when he answered the summons of the monarch to the Holy Land; how
the lady, after his prolonged absence, heard that he was dead, and
betook herself to a convent on the picturesque little island of
Nonnenworth; how the bold crusader, who had not been killed, hastened
back on the wings of love, eager to claim his bride after his long
absence, and found her in the relentless clutch of a convent; how, in
despair, he built this castle, which commanded a view of the cloisters,
where he could hear the sound of the convent bell, and occasionally
catch a glimpse of a fair form that he knew full well, passing to her
devotions; how, at last, she came no more, but the tolling bell and
nuns' procession told him that she whom he loved was dead; and how,
from that moment, the knight spoke no more, but died heart-broken, his
last gaze turned towards the convent where his love had died; and all
that remains of the knightly lover's castle is the solitary wall that
lifts its ruined arch distinct against the dark-blue sky.

We pass the little island of Nonnenworth; and the nunnery is still upon
it, founded far back in the eleventh century, but rebuilt in the
fifteenth, and suppressed by Napoleon in 1802, and now a sort of school
under the management of Franciscan nuns. The view about here, looking
down the river, is romantic and beautiful. On one side, on the more
level country, lie several small villages; then, down along the banks of
the river, rise the rugged cliffs, the ruined castles of Rolandseck and
Drachenfels crowning two jutting points of the hills, and in the
distance, mellowed by the haze, the peaks of the hills known as the
Seven Mountains, and Löwenberg peak, crowned with a crumbling ruin, rise
to view, which, with the little island and its convent for a foreground,
form a charming picture.

We sail along, and make another landing for passengers at Remagen.
Opposite Remagen we see a huge cliff, which rises nearly six hundred and
fifty feet above the river, and is profitable, as well as picturesque,
for it is a stone quarry, the product of which can be placed directly
into the river craft at its base. The Rhine now describes a long curve,
as we approach Nieder-Breisig. A little village called Duttenberg is
wedged in between the hills, on a little river that empties into the
Rhine, and, as we pass it, the tall, round, stone towers of Arenfels
come in view. Then we reach Nieder-Breisig, and opposite is Rheineck,
with its modern-built tower crowning the height. Then we come to the two
Hammersteins, with their vineyards and castle, and then the picturesque
old town of Andernach heaves in sight, with its tall watch-tower
overlooking the river. Then come Kaltenengens and others, which I at
last became tired of noting down, and enjoyed the afternoon sunset that
was softening the vine-clad slopes, and lighting up the arches and
windows of each ruined castle, chapel, or watch-tower that was sure to
crown every conspicuous eminence, until, at last, our little steamer
rounded in at the pier at Coblentz, with its fine hotels strung along
near the river bank, and the Gibraltar of the Rhine, the grim old Castle
of Ehrenbreitstein, looking down on us from its rocky eminence on the
opposite shore.

Coblentz, the guide-books tell us, is a famous stopping-place for
tourists on the Rhine, between Cologne and Mayence, being equi-distant
from both. It is certainly a capital half-way resting-place, and,
however pleasing the steamboat trip may have been, the traveller can but
enjoy the change to one of the clean, well-kept hotels at this beautiful
situation.

The hotel agents were at the pier,--spoke English and French
fluently,--and we were soon installed into the pleasantest of rooms,
commanding a view of the river, whose swiftly-flowing current rolls not
fifty paces distant. A bridge of boats spans it, and high above the
river bank rises the old castle, upon the battlements of which I can see
the glitter of the sentinels' bayonets in the summer sunset.

The bridge of boats, and the passengers who cross it, are a
never-ceasing source of entertainment to us; soldiers and
elegantly-dressed officers from the castle; country girls, with curious
head-dresses; and now and then a holiday-rigged peasant; costermongers'
carts and dog-teams--one, consisting of three big dogs abreast, came
over at full gallop, the driver, a boy, cracking his whip, and the whole
team barking furiously. We saw a whole regiment of Prussian infantry,
armed with the Prussian needle-gun, march over from the castle--a fine
body of men, and headed by a band of forty pieces, playing in a style
that would make the military enthusiasm, if the listener possessed any,
tingle to the very soles of his feet. When steamboats or other craft
desire to pass this floating bridge, a section is detached,--a sort of
floating "draw,"--and suffered to swing out with the stream; the steamer
passes the gap; after which the detached section is pulled back to
position again.

Right at this charming bend of the river, on one side of the town, flows
the Moselle, as we call it, but Mözle, as you learn to pronounce it in
Europe--the blue Moselle. "On the banks of the blue Moselle," ran the
old song; and as picturesque and poetical a river as can be imagined is
the Moselle, with its arched bridge spanning it, and its sparkling
stream winding through a lovely landscape; but the portion of Coblentz
that borders on its bank is poor and dirty, and in striking contrast
with the elegant buildings and bright appearance of the Rhine front of
the town: the "blue" of the Moselle refuses to mix with the more turbid
glacier-tinted Rhine, and for a long distance down the stream this blue
makes itself visible and distinct from the Rhine water, till gradually
absorbed by it.

We are now beginning to come to those charming hotels on the great lines
of continental travel routes, which in Germany and Switzerland are not
the least attractive features of the tour. Here at Coblentz I enjoy
excellent accommodations, room fresh and fragrant, with clean linen,
spotless curtains, and not a speck of dust visible, my windows
commanding the charming Rhine panorama, waiters speaking French, German,
and English, a well-served _table d'hote_, and all for less than half
the price charged in America.

The wine-drinkers here, from America, are in ecstasies, for we appear to
be at headquarters for the light Rhine wines of the country; two francs
buy a bottle costing one dollar and twenty-five cents at home, and five
francs such as cannot be got in America for three dollars. The sparkling
Moselle and celebrated Johannisberger are to be had here in perfection,
and the newly-arrived American is not long in ascertaining what a
different thing the same brand of wine is in this country from what it
is at home.

"Ah, if we had wine like this at home, how I should like to have it
oftener!" have I heard frequently said by travellers. It is too true
that it is extremely difficult to get pure (imported) wines and liquors,
pay what price one may in America; and perhaps one reason why the light
wines of Germany are so agreeable to the tourist's palate, is in the
surroundings and the time they are taken, such as on the deck of a Rhine
steamer, at the top of a steep crag, in a picturesque old castle, in a
German garden, where a capital orchestra makes the very atmosphere
luxuriant with Strauss waltzes and Gungl galops, or at the gay _table
d'hote_ with pleasure-seeking tourists, who, like himself, are only
studying how to enjoy themselves, recounting past pleasure jaunts, or
planning new ones.

However, be this as it may, it is, I believe, acknowledged that the only
place to get the Rhine wines is in Rhineland; and the difference between
them and the compounds furnished in America is obvious to the dullest
taste. The purest and most reliable wines now in our own country are the
California and other native wines, although they are not so fashionable
as the doctored foreign, and imitation of foreign that are palmed off as
genuine.

As I looked from my windows over the river and up at the fortress of
Ehrenbreitstein, seated on its rocky perch three hundred and
seventy-seven feet above the river, and the eye caught the occasional
glitter of a weapon, or the ear the faint rattle of a drum, or the sound
of the bugle call, softened by the distance, I found myself repeating
fragments of Byron's Childe Harold.

        "Here Ehrenbreitstein with her shattered wall,
          Black with the miner's blast upon her height,
        Yet shows of what she was when shell and ball
          Rebounding lightly on her strength did light."

"A tower of victory" it is indeed, for it has only twice been taken by
an enemy during the best part of a thousand years--once by stratagem,
and once being reduced by famine.

We crossed the bridge of boats, which is fourteen hundred and ten feet
long, got tickets of admission to the fortress in the little town of
Ehrenbreitstein the other side, mounted with labor up the steep ascent,
and as we came within view of these tremendous works, upon which money
and engineering skill seem to have been expended without stint, we did
not wonder at their impregnability, or that they excite so much
admiration among the military engineers of the world. From the ramparts
we enjoyed a magnificent view of the whole river and the country between
Andernach and Stolzenfels. Below us was triangular-shaped Coblentz, and
its row of handsome buildings facing the River Rhine, the bridge of
boats and never-ending moving diorama sort of scene, while at the right
of the town glided the blue Moselle, its azure waters moving unmixed as
they flowed along with the Rhine, and the railroad bridge spanning the
stream with its graceful arches; beyond that the fortifications of Fort
Franz, commanding the river and vicinity; and far off to the right of
that a fertile plain towards Andernach, the scene of Cæsar's first
passage of the Rhine, B. C. 55, and of the sieges of the thirty years
war, in 1631 to 1660, and the bloody campaigns of Louis XIV.

Farther to our left, and near the junction of the two rivers, we
observed the Church of St. Castor, built in 1208; and it was in a small
square near this church, in one of our walks about the town, that we
came to a little monument, raised by a French official at the
commencement of the campaign against Russia, bearing this inscription:--

    "Made memorable by the campaign against the Russians, under the
    prefecturate of Jules Doazan, 1812."

When the Russian general entered the town, he added these words, which
still remain:--

    "Seen and approved by the Russian commander of the city of
    Coblentz, January 1, 1814."

A delightful afternoon ride, in an open carriage, along the river bank
for three or four miles, brought us to the foot of the ascent leading to
the castle of Stolzenfels, which looks down upon the river from a rocky
eminence about four hundred feet above it. Refusing the proffers of
donkeys or _chaise à porter_ for the ladies, we determined to make the
ascent on foot, and very soon found that the "guides," donkeys, and
portable chairs were "a weak invention of the enemy," for the road,
although winding, was broad, easy, and delightfully shady and romantic.
We passed an old Roman mile-stone on the road, and after crossing a
drawbridge, reached the royal castle.

This most beautifully restored relic of the middle ages was, in 1802, a
ruin of a castle of five hundred years before; in 1823 it was partially
restored, and since then has been completely rebuilt and beautified at a
cost of fifty-three thousand pounds sterling. Everything is in good
proportion, Stolzenfels being somewhat of a miniature castle, its
_great_ banquet hall scarcely double the size of a good-sized
drawing-room; but its whole interior and exterior are a model of
exquisite taste. It has its little castle court-yard, its beautifully
contrived platform overlooking the Rhine, its watch-towers and its
turrets, all undersized, but in exact proportions. Through the tower
windows, which are wreathed with ivy; from the windows of little
boudoirs of rooms, which were cabinets of rare china and exquisite
cabinet paintings; from embrasures in galleries and halls which had
exquisite statuettes, instead of large size statues; from little Gothic
windows in the chapel; and, in fact, from every conceivable and most
unexpected point was the visitor encountering different lovely framed
views, as it were, of the natural scenery of the country. These outlooks
were so skilfully contrived as each to give a different view, and as at
this point of the Rhine is the narrowest and most romantic part of the
valley, the views are of the most enchanting description.

Looking out of an ivy-wreathed window of Stolzenfels, the spectator
would see, framed, as it were, in stone-work and green leaves, a picture
of the river, with its boats and bridges: through another, or an
embrasure, a square-framed picture of an elevation on the opposite bank,
crowned by a pilgrims' chapel, while from the watch-tower you look down
upon the lovely valley of the River Lahn, which near this point flows
into the Rhine; and from another turret we look back upon the massy
walls of Ehrenbreitstein, Coblentz, with the apex of its triangle
pointing out into the stream, and behind its base the strong walls of
Fort Constantine, marked out like stone lines on the greensward. The
apartments in this castle are exquisitely furnished, and the furniture,
tapestry, pictures, and statues adapted to harmonize with their size,
which is fairy-like in comparison with castles generally.

In one hall were a series of beautiful frescoes of chivalric
scenes--Godfrey de Bouillon at the Holy Sepulchre; John of Bohemia at
the Battle of Cressy; Rudolph of Hapsburg judging knightly robbers, &c.
There was a beautiful little chapel with elegant frescoes. In the armory
were specimens of light and curious armor, among which were swords of
Napoleon, Blucher, and Murat, specimens of exquisite Toledo blades,
arabesque ornamented daggers, exquisitely wrought and flexible
chain-mail shirts, and other curiosities of defensive armor. In the
different rooms through which we were conducted, among other works of
the old masters, were cabinet pictures by Holbein, Titian, Van Dyck,
Albert Dürer, Rembrandt, &c. The charming views of the surrounding
scenery without, and the exquisite taste displayed on the interior of
this royal castle, made us regret to leave its little leaf-clad turrets,
fairy-like watch-towers, romantic terraces, and picturesque battlements;
and we believed the custodian when he averred that Queen Victoria was
charmed with the place when she visited it a few years since, for it was
fit to charm even a queen with its beauty.

Once more we are steaming up the river, and Stolzenfels is left behind
us, and the towers of Lahneck come in sight, a feudal castle restored by
a wealthy Englishman, and which occupies a crag above the River Lahn; we
pass little white villages nestled at the foot of the hills, and looking
far inland, see the slopes bristling with vineyards; we are in the land
of the vine. Next comes another great castle, Marksburg, frowning from
its rocky height four hundred and eighty feet above the stream, and we
lazily inspect it by the aid of a double field-glass, as we lie at full
length on a settee, beneath the steamer's awning, and, on inquiry, find
that after being an old feudal castle, and bearing its weight of half a
thousand years bravely, it has been degraded into a states prison! The
little town near the river, an old watch-tower, a road winding off amid
the hills for a foreground, and this old castle high above as the
background, forms so charming a picture, that one wishes it might, by
some magic process, be transferred to canvas, that he could carry it
away, and show it to others as it appeared to him. Farther on we pass
the little castle of Liebeneck; then comes Boppard, where, in feudal
times, once existed an establishment of the Knights Templars. Next we
sweep round a great angle or elbow of the river, and there come in sight
of a little village, with a Gothic church of the fifteenth century,
behind and high above it, the two castles known as "the Brothers,"
connected with each other by a narrow natural bridge of rock.

These two castles have a legend, as in fact nearly all the Rhine castles
have, and half the charm of one's trip consists in having them told to
you at the right time, or recalling the half-forgotten story of boyhood
piecemeal with some _compagnon de voyage_. The story of these castles is
familiar, and is of two brothers loving the same lady, of faithlessness,
of jealousy; and finally the lady in the case, with the delightfully
German romantic name of Hildegarde, retires to the convent at the foot
of the hill--that is the way they always do in these Rhine legends; it
brings the convent into the story, and, perhaps, excites a desire on the
part of the tourist to see the cell occupied by the fair penitent,
without suspecting that the exhibition may prove something more of a
sell than he bargained for. Well, the lady retired, the two brothers
were reconciled, and lived ever after in one castle, instead of two.

More quaint little villages, other ruined castles! Thurnberg, the
"Mouse" tower, looms up, with its square, shattered walls, and round
tower, rising from their midst against the sky as we sweep by it; and
St. Goar, a conspicuous-looking town, comes in view, with the huge ruins
of Rheinfels, three hundred and seventy feet above it, the most
magnificent ruin on the river, a second Ehrenbreitstein in strength, and
which has laughed one siege of fifteen months to scorn in the thirteenth
century, and in 1692 was again defended successfully against an army of
twenty-four thousand men, but blown up by the French revolutionary army
of 1794. It is now simply a picturesque ruin on its rocky eminence, with
the railway track creeping around its base; below the track, nearer the
river, winds the carriage-road to the town.

The Mouse, or Maus Tower, which we passed before reaching Rheinfels, was
so called by the envious counts of Katzenelnbogen (there's a name to
write), who named their own castle, near here, the Cat (Katz); but the
story goes that the mouse and its stout old warrior were more than a
match for the cat; in fact, he was so feared in his day that the proverb
was reversed, and when the mouse was away the cat would play.

Now we reach the precipitous rocks known as the "Lurlei" crags, towering
four hundred and twenty feet above the river, which flows swiftly down
their base; and here was where Lurlei, the siren, sat and chanted her
songs, which lured fishermen, knights, and sailors to their destruction
in the rapids that whirled beneath her lofty and romantic seat. As we
passed we heard no siren's song, but our ears were saluted with the
shrill whistle of that practical chanter of the advance of civilization,
the locomotive, that rushed through a tunnel, piercing the very base of
the magic rock, and whirling out of sight with a shriek that made the
hills echo like the scream of a demon, leaving an angry puff of smoke
issuing from the rocky orifice, as if the fiend had vanished from the
surface to the centre.

Now we pass Oberwesel, with its romantic ravines, picturesque vineyards,
and old ruins of Castle Schönburg; farther on, on the opposite bank, the
grand old castle of Gutenfels stands guard over the town beneath it;
then comes that little hexagonal castle, or stone fortification, on an
island, looking as though anchored in mid stream, known as the Pfalz;
it was erected in the thirteenth century, as a toll-house for exacting
tribute, and has served, if not as a prison, as a place of royal
confinement--tradition being that the Countesses Palatine remained here
during their accouchements. We wind round a point, and the Castle of
Stahleck, once the principal residence of the Counts Palatine, makes its
appearance; then come the ruins of Fürstenburg, once the stronghold of
an old robber, who was bold enough to fire into the emperor's boat that
refused to pay toll as it passed; the stream now narrows perceptibly,
and a little slender tower, perched like a sentinel on watch on its
walls, at a narrow ravine, attracts attention; it is Sooneck, and was a
robbers' stronghold in the eleventh century.

Now we sweep round another bend in the river, and come in sight of the
lofty pinnacles, turrets, and towers of the beautiful Castle of
Rheinstein, two hundred and fifty feet above the river, completely
restored, the banner floating in the breeze from its topmost tower, and
a basket suspended upon an iron crane from one of the towers towards the
river; the whole shows the tourist just how these old strongholds used
to look during the middle ages, and a party of ladies, far up in a
little ivy-clad bower, at an angle of the castle terrace, exchanged
greetings with us in handkerchief wavings as we passed.

Now we come to Ehrenfels, and the vineyards where the Rüdesheimer grapes
are raised; these vineyards are arrayed in terraces, one above the
other, and the banks all along on the side of the hill, upheld by arches
of masonry, and brick and stone supports, put up apparently to keep the
earth in place, and afford more space for the vines from which the
celebrated vintage is obtained. At this point, on a rock, in mid stream,
stands the well-known Mouse Tower, celebrated in Southey's legend as the
retreat of Bishop Hatto, who sought to escape the rats by fleeing to it;
but his enemies swam the stream, entered the stronghold, and

        "Whetted their teeth against the stones,
        And then they picked the bishop's bones."

Bingen would never have attracted so much attention from Americans and
Englishmen if the Hon. Mrs. Norton, I think it was, had not written her
beautiful poem of the dying soldier, who was a native of the place, and
whose last words to the comrade who knelt by his side on the field of
battle, were his memories of "Sweet Bingen, dear Bingen on the Rhine,"
and sent messages home to his friends who lived at

        "Bingen on the Rhine."

For no other reason than because they had read this poem and wished to
see Bingen, that had been so charmingly written about, did a party of
Americans land here; and in truth the little town was prettily situated,
with a little river at one side of it, the Nahe, flowing into the Rhine,
spanned by an old arched bridge, while its slender spires and white
houses look forth upon the swift-flowing river, divided by the little
island bearing the Mouse Tower, and upon the steep slopes of vineyards
on the other side of the Rhine, backed by the old Castle of Ehrenfels.

After leaving Bingen we come to the square-looking old Castle of
Bromserburg, its shattered turrets green with vines and weeds, and
farther on, other old ruins, "whose names I noted not," except one
little church, that stood out like a white toy, away up on a sharp point
of the hills; and then I was sorry I attempted to note it, for the
Prussian, who spoke English, was compelled to write the name for me, it
being an absolute impossibility for me to do so correctly, according to
the pronunciation of the country; so I will leave Rochuscapelle, and the
bright-looking little villages that we pass, for the old castle,
Johannisberg, which greets our view on its vine-clad eminence, three
hundred and forty feet above the river.

The vineyards which circle round and about the great hill surmounted by
this castle are said to cover forty acres of ground, and it is here that
the celebrated _Jo-hannis-bagger_--as they pronounce it--wine is made.

This Johannisberg vineyard is situated in the district, about fifteen
miles in length, celebrated as producing the finest wines of the Rhine.
There are Rudesheim, Hosheim, Hattenheim, the Steinberger, Graffenberg,
and many other "heims" and "bergs," whose mellowness and flavor, which
is more or less injured by travel, may be enjoyed here by wine-drinkers,
in their perfection, at a comparatively moderate cost.

Now we pass two or three islands, with unpronounceable names, more
white-walled towns, backed by castle ruins, or handsome country
residences and well-kept vineyards, with their serried rows of vines
rising terrace above terrace on the hill-sides. Here come the ancient,
quaint little village of Niederwalluf, known in record as far back as
the year 770, Schierstein embosomed in trees, and Biebrich with its
ducal palace, splendid garden, and park; we glide between two islands,
and come in sight of the triple line of fortifications and cathedral
steeples of Mayence.

Mayence, which claims to be the place where the Emperor Constantine saw
his vision of the cross, which is the strongest fortress in the German
confederation, which was founded B. C. 14 by the Romans, and where they
show you the remains of a Roman acqueduct, a Roman burial-ground, and
the site of the Roman camp, and, in the walls of the citadel, a
monument erected by two of the Roman legions in honor of their
commander-in-chief, Drusus, more than eighteen hundred years ago, an
aged-looking, gray, circular tower, forty feet in height,--Mayence, with
its bridge of boats, two thousand two hundred and twenty feet in length,
and Mayence, which is the end of our journey up the Rhine.

We expected, from travellers' stories, to have been disappointed with
the Rhine, and were--favorably disappointed. The succession of natural
beauties of its scenery, the historic interest attached to almost every
foot of the course between Cologne and Mayence, the novelty to American
eyes of the romantic ruins that crown the picturesque heights, the
smiling vineyards, quaint little towns, odd churches, prim watch-towers,
Gothic cathedrals, white-walled cities, and boat-bridges, of course lend
a charm to this beautiful river, and, notwithstanding my national
pride, I cannot agree with some of my countrymen, who assert that the
Hudson River is as rich in picturesque scenery as the Rhine, "leaving
the castles out." The river scenery in America, that in character most
resembles that of the Rhine, is the Upper Mississippi, between Prairie
du Chien and St. Paul, and there some of the remarkable natural
formations of the limestone bluffs supply the place of the Rhine
castles; but where that river widens out into Lake Pepin, the
comparison, of course, ceases.

The Rhine is a river of romance. A sail up the Rhine is something to be
enjoyed by a student, a tourist who has "read up," a lover of travel who
has longed to wander amid the scenes he has pored over on the pages of
books, gazed at in pictures and engravings, and wondered if the reality
could possibly be equal to the counterfeit presentment; and to such it
will be as it was to us,--

        "A thing of beauty, _and_ a joy forever."

We rambled around Mayence, visited its filthy market-place, and its old
cathedral, founded in the tenth century, which has felt the stern
vicissitudes of war quite severely, serving at different periods as a
garrison for troops, a hay and provision magazine, &c. In the interior
are quite a number of monuments of German electors, with tongue-puzzling
names, and a tablet to the memory of one of Charlemagne's wives; and in
the Chapter-house is a beautiful sculpture by Schwanthaler, representing
a female figure decorating a sarcophagus with a wreath; a monument,
erected by the ladies of Mayence in 1842, in memory of a certain holy
minstrel, who sang of piety and woman's virtue some time in the early
part of the fourteenth century. Not far from the cathedral is Guttenberg
Square, where we saw Thorwaldsen's statue of Guttenberg, representing
him as an old man, with the long, flowing, philosopher-looking gown, or
robe, full beard, and skull-cap, with some of his precious volumes under
his arm, and upon the pedestal of the monument were bass-reliefs
representing scenes in his life. A bronze statue of Schiller adorns
another square here.

After Mayence, we found ourselves taking a two hours' ride to Wiesbaden,
one of the oldest watering-places in Germany, and for gambling second
only to Baden-Baden. Here we found fine rooms at the Hotel Victoria, and
the polite landlord, Herr Holzapfel, with a desire to facilitate the
enjoyment of the tourist, very graciously presented me with a handsome
little local guide-book, bearing the astounding title, "_Fremdenfuhrer
fur Wiesbaden und seine Umgebung_," and its imprint informed me, "_Im
Auftrage des Verfchönerungsvereins herausgegeven._"

Fancy an individual, unacquainted with the German tongue, with this
lucid little guide, printed in small German text, to aid him in
seeing the sights! However, I thanked the landlord, and pocketed the
guide-book as one of the curiosities of the place. Our first walk was
to the chief attraction here to all visitors, the great gaming-house
known as the Cursaal,--which is suggestive of the more appropriate
title Curse-all,--where the spacious and elegant gaming-saloons, that
have been described so often, were open for play from eleven A. M. to
eleven P. M., and which, during the season, are thronged with players
at the roulette and _rouge-et-noir_ tables. The central figure of
attraction to strangers, when we were there, was the old Duchess of
Homburg, who was each day wheeled in a chair to the table by her
servant, and gambled away furiously, not scrupling a malediction when
she lost heavily, or caring to conceal the eager gratification that
played upon her wrinkled features, or made the gold rattle in her
trembling and eager clutch, when she won.

This gaming-hall is furnished with elegant dining, ball, and
reading-rooms, and adjoining the building is an extensive and elegantly
laid out park and pleasure-ground, where a fine band play during the
afternoon, and throngs frequent its delightful alleys, walks, and
arbors. All these are free to the visitor; and sometimes, in the
evening, the band plays in the ball-room, and gayly-dressed crowds are
whirling about in German waltzes and galops, and couples, for a rest now
and then, will stroll into the adjacent lofty saloons of play, the
silence of which is in striking contrast with the ball-room clatter
without. Here the only loud words spoken are those of the managers of
the table, which, at regular intervals, rise above the subdued hum and
the musical rattle of gold and silver, or its clink against the
croupier's rake, as they sweep in the stakes from every part of the
table to the insatiate maw of the bank, with the familiar and
oft-repeated formula of,--

"_Faites votre jeu, messieurs._"

"_Le jeu, est-il fait?_"

"_Rien ne va plus._"

(Make your game, gentlemen. Is the game made? Nothing more goes). Or, at
the roulette table, audible announcement of the numbers, and color which
wins, determined by the ball in the revolving wheel.

Leaving Wiesbaden, its gamesters, and its mineral spring, the water of
which tasted very much like a warm decoction of salt and water, we sped
on to Frankfort-on-the-Main. Here we rode through beautiful streets,
upon each side of which were broad double houses, surrounded by elegant
gardens. Here is the monument of Guttenberg, consisting of the three
figures of Guttenberg, Fust and Schöffer, beneath which, on the
ornamental work, are likenesses of celebrated printers, and grouped
around the monument are figures of Theology, Poetry, History, and
Industry.

Here we saw the house in which Goethe was born, and rode down through
the _Judengasse_, or Jews Street. The quarter inhabited by the Jews is a
curious old place, some parts too narrow to permit two vehicles passing
each other; the unpainted, high, quaint, and solid old wooden houses,
totally black with age, stores in the lower stories for the sale of
second-hand clothes, and every species of cheap and second-hand
merchandise; on all sides were troops and troops of children, with
sparkling black eyes, and the unmistakable Jewish nose. The houses had
antique carved wood door-posts to deep, dark entries, in which were
deeply-worn stairs, that lead away up to the overhanging stories above;
and in the entry of one of the blackest and most aged of these old
structures yawned a huge trap-door, occupying more than half the space
from the threshold to the stair. Peeping down the aperture, left where
the half leaf had been raised by its old-fashioned iron ring, I could
see nothing but blackness, and imagine how some wealthy Hebrew might
have made this the drawbridge to his citadel, so that the robber, who
gained access beyond the bolts and chains that guarded the portal,
would, with a step, be precipitated into the depths below. An iron ring,
a trap-door, and old house in the Jews' quarter--what an amount of
capital or material for a sensational story-writer in a cheap
publication!

Here, in the Jews' quarter, we were shown the house in which Rothschild
was born,--Rochid they call the name here,--and just as we were
emerging from the narrow, gloomy, and dirty passages of this quarter, my
eye caught a familiar object in the little grated window of a sort of
shop or office. I looked a second time, and there, the central figure
amid a straggling display of bank notes of different nationalities, was
a five-hundred dollar United States five-twenty bond, a part of the
stock in trade of a Jew exchange and money broker, who, notwithstanding
the unpretending appearance of his shop, which looked like a prison cell
with the outside shutter down from the grated window, would probably
have been able to furnish a purchaser ten times the amount on demand if
he required it.

In striking contrast to the Judengasse is the Ziel, the finest street in
Frankfort, filled with elegant shops and houses. The Jews in Frankfort
were so tyrannically treated, that they founded the Jews Street
themselves in 1462, and lived exclusively in that quarter of the city
till the year 1806, and in olden times, on Sundays and holidays, the
entrances to this quarter were closed with gates and bars, and any Jew
who ventured into any other part of the city incurred a heavy penalty.
Now, midway between Judengasse and the Ziel rise the business offices of
the Rothschilds, that opulent family to whom even the proudest in their
hours of need would fain doff their caps for favors; and hard by the
progress of toleration is marked by a fine new synagogue, built in the
Oriental style in 1855.

We rode to the Hessian Monument, as it is called, near one of the city
gates; it consists of huge masses of rock heaped together, upon which
stands a pillar bearing a sword, helmet, and ram's head, and on the
sides are bronze tablets with the names of the Hessians who fell on that
spot in 1792. The Latin inscription informs the reader that the monument
was erected by Frederick William, King of Prussia, who was an admiring
witness of their bravery.

When we rattled over the pavements of the city of Heidelberg, on our way
to the Prince Charles Hotel, I looked on all sides for groups and bands
of the celebrated students who figure so prominently in novels and
stories, and half expected to meet a string of six, arm in arm, walking
in the middle of the streets, smoking big meerschaums, and wearing
queer-cut clothes and ornamental caps, or singing uproarious college
songs. Or I might encounter several devil-may-care fellows, each bearing
a scar upon some part of his face, the result of one of those noted
Heidelberg duels the story-writers tell of. But either the story-tellers
had romanced most magnificently, or we had arrived at a time of
day--which we afterwards found to be the case--when the students were
engaged in their favorite pastime of swilling lager beer, in the dense
atmosphere of tobacco smoke, from scores of pipes, in their favorite
coffee-house; for we only met a snuffy old professor in a black
velvet skull-cap and big round spectacles, and an occasional very
proper-looking young man, save one whose scarlet embroidered cap gave
him the appearance of a member of an American base-ball club.

Some forward Americans had gone before us, and secured the remaining
rooms in the Prince Charles, which were next the roof; so we were driven
to the Adler (eagle), on the same square, an enclosure known as the
Cornmarkt, where we were admirably served. Our apartments looked out
upon the curious old square with its fountain in the middle, to and from
which women went and came all day long, and bore off water in jars,
pails, and tubs, some poising a heavy wash-tub full upon their heads,
and walking off with a steady gait under the burden. Overlooking the
little square, rose the famous Heidelberg Castle, three hundred feet
above us; and we could see a steep foot-path leading to it, known as the
Burgweg (castle-way), which commenced on the side of the square opposite
our hotel.

Heidelberg is charmingly situated on the River Neckar, is rich in
historical associations, and, as all readers are aware, is attractive to
the tourist chiefly from its university, and its castle, which is one of
the last creations of the old castle-builders, and seems in its style to
be something between a stronghold and a chateau, a palace and a
fortification. It certainly is a most imposing and magnificent ruin,
with its lofty turrets, great round towers, terraces, arched gateways,
and still splendid court-yards and grounds; the splendor of the building
and beauty of its situation induce one enthusiastic guide-book to style
it "the Alhambra of the Germans."

A good, comfortable night's rest at the Eagle Hotel prepared us for the
ascent next morning by the steep pathway and steps that led up to it
from the Corn Market; up we go, and after an ascent of about fifteen
minutes, we pass through a massive arch-way, known as Frederic IV.'s
building, and stand in the great court-yard of the castle.

The portion of the buildings fronting on this grand enclosure are
elegantly carved and decorated with arcades and life-size sculptures;
here is one known as Rudolf's building, the oldest part of the castle, a
Gothic structure, then Rupprecht's building, founded in the year 1400,
by Rupprecht III., with beautiful Gothic windows, over which are the
architect's arms, three small shields upon an escutcheon. This carving
is taken by many to be some sort of a masonic mark, but is nothing of
the kind, but according to a little local guide, a coat of arms common
to all German artists; and an interesting legend as to its origin is
told, which is to the effect that one day the Emperor Charles V. visited
Holbein, the artist, and found him busy painting at the top of a high
scaffolding; the emperor signed to the artist not to disturb himself,
and at the same time motioned to one of his suite to steady the
tottering ladder; the young noble, however, thinking it beneath his
dignity to render such menial service to an artist, pretended not to
understand the emperor, who thereupon advanced and steadied it himself,
and commanded that from that time the German artists should be reckoned
among the nobility of the empire, and their coat of arms should be such
as Holbein decided upon. The artist then made choice of three small
uniform silver shields on a blue field.

Then we have other beautiful buildings fronting on the great court-yard,
and named after their builders, who at different periods made their
contributions of architectural ornament to this romantic old pile. One
of the most gorgeous is that known as Otto Heinrich's building, finished
in 1559, restored twice,--the last time in 1659, and finally destroyed
in 1764,--but the splendid front remains standing, and even now, in its
partially ruined condition, excites admiration, with its splendid
façade, rich to prodigality with statues, carvings, and decorations.
Ludwig's building is another, into which we can go and see the great
kitchen, with its huge fireplace and great hearth in the middle, where,
on festal occasions, whole oxen were roasted.

Near here is the castle well, fifty-four feet deep, with four pillars
taken from Charlemagne's palace, to support its canopy, the pillars
being those sent to Charlemagne by Rome for his royal edifice. Then
comes Frederick's building, founded by Frederick IV. in 1601, rich in
statues and sculpture, and under it a chapel, over the portal of which
is inscribed, in Latin, the words of the Psalmist,--

        "This is the gate of the Lord;
        The righteous shall enter into it."

But we are bewildered with the different façades, towers, fronts, and
buildings that succeed each other in this, what we now find to be a sort
of agglomeration of castles, and so pass out to the great stone terrace
or platform that looks down upon the town and the valley below.

These old castle-builders did have an eye for the beautiful; and a grand
point for observation is this great terrace. Only fancy a broad stone
platform, seventy or eighty feet long by thirty feet wide, midway up the
front wall of an elegant castle, rich in architectural beauty, the
terrace itself with heavy cut stone rails, vases, seats, and ornamental
stone bowers at the corners, while spread out far below and before the
spectator lies one of the loveliest landscape views that can be
imagined. We can look right into the streets of the town directly below
us; beyond is the winding River Neckar, with its beautiful arched
bridge, and beyond that a vine-clad height known as the Holy Mountain;
on one side is the lovely valley of the Neckar, romantically and
luxuriously beautiful as it stretches away in the distance. The town of
Heidelberg itself is squeezed in between the castle hill and the River
Neckar, which widens out below the town, and finally unites with the
Rhine, which we see in the distance, and beyond it blue mountains,
binding in the distant horizon, frame in the charming picture.

I cannot, of course, describe, in the limits of a sketch, the
massiveness, vast extent, and splendor of this castle, the production of
three centuries,--commenced when the crusades were at their height, and
not finished till long after cannon were in use; so that we mark the
progress and changes of architecture in each century, and cannot but
feel that, in some respects, the builders of old times were in advance
of those of the present day. One might stay here weeks, and enjoy the
romantic scenery of the vicinity and the never-ending new discoveries
which he makes in this picturesque old ruin. In 1689 the French captured
the place and undertook to blow up the principal round tower; it was so
solidly and compactly built, however, that the enormous mass of powder
they placed under it, instead of lifting the great cylinder into the air
to fall back a heap of ruins, only broke off a third part of it, which
toppled over entire in one solid chunk, and it lies as it fell, broken
off from the main body as if by the stroke of a gigantic mallet, and
exposes the wall of close-knit masonry _twenty feet in thickness_.

We wander through halls, court-yards, vaulted passages, deep dungeons,
and lofty banquet halls, into round and square towers; cross a regular
broad old drawbridge wide enough for a troop of mail-clad knights to
ride out from the great arched entrance, which stands in good
preservation, with its turrets and posts for warders and guards, and
there is the huge, deep castle moat and all, just as we have read about
them, or seen them illustrated in poetic fictions.

We pass out upon a sort of long spur or outwork from the castle--a kind
of outer battery, which is styled the great terrace, and was built in
1615--a charming promenade, upon which is a mall, shaded by trees, and
from which we get another picturesque view of the scene below, and of
the castle itself.

But we must not leave Heidelberg Castle without seeing the Great Tun;
and so we pay our kreutzers to the little maid who acts as guide, and
descend below, to the cellars of the famous wine-bibbers of old. We came
to a cellar in which there was a big barrel indeed, as it held two
hundred hogsheads of wine; but this not coming up to the expectations of
some of the party, there were expressions of dissatisfaction, until our
guide informed us that this was only the front cellar, where they used
to keep twelve _little_ barrels of this size, and pointed out the raised
platforms upon which they used to stand; but the _great_ barrel was in
the back cellar. So we followed in, and found a big barrel indeed, large
as a two-story house, thirty-two feet long and twenty-six feet high. It
holds eight hundred hogsheads of the vinous fluid, and its contents fill
two hundred and thirty-six thousand bottles. The diameter of the heads
of this big barrel is twenty-two feet, and the circumference of the
centre two hundred and thirty-one feet. The bung-hole of this great
cask, however, seems more out of proportion than an elephant's eye, for
it measured scarcely four inches in diameter. Steps lead around the tun,
and up to its top, upon which is laid a platform, on which a cotillon
has been danced by enthusiastic visitors. Remember, this is down cellar.
If they keep barrels of this kind _down cellar_, the reader may imagine
the size of the house above, and, perhaps, the drinking capacities of
those who used to inhabit it.

A beautiful carriage road, passing the ruined walls, and leaving them
below, leads up to a pretty _chalet_, three hundred feet above the
castle; and here, one day, we halted on the rocky platform, and
gladdened the heart of the landlord by an order for lunch for the party,
which was spread for us in the garden, from which we could look down
into the ruins of the old castle, upon the town below, and the winding
river. We were not permitted to enjoy our _al fresco_ repast, for a
thunder storm came rolling up the valley, and we were hustled in doors,
where, however, we found the host was prepared for such emergencies, as
our viands were spread out in an apartment with a glass side, looking
towards the valley, so that we sat there, and watched the great gusts
sweep up the river, and the rain come swirling down in sheets of
rattling drops, amid the peals of thunder that echoed and reverberated
between the hills, and finally swept past with the shower, angrily
muttering in the distance, as though the spirits of the Hartz Mountains
and Black Forest were retiring before the fairies of the valley, who
went sweeping after them in great clouds of shining mist, overarched by
a gorgeous rainbow.

We enjoyed the prospect from this place, which was the site of the
ancient castle, traces of which still remain, and then took carriage for
the Königsstuhl, or King's Seat, a round tower far above us. A ride of
about an hour through the dripping woods, with the vegetation bright and
fresh from the recent shower, brought us to this elevation, which is
eight hundred and fifty feet higher than the castle, and seventeen
hundred and fifty feet above the level of the sea.

Upon the summit of the King's Seat, a round stone tower, ninety feet in
height, is erected, which we ascended, and were rewarded with a still
more extensive view than any we had previously had of the surrounding
country. In one direction is the dark and sombre foliage of the Black
Forest; in another, the picturesque mountains and valleys of the
Odenwald; in another, we look down upon the old castle and town far
beneath, and see the River Rhine winding away off through the landscape,
like a crinkled ribbon of steel; there are the Hartz Mountains, of which
we have read so many old German legends, in which wehr wolves, and
mysterious huntsmen, who wound magic horns, figured. Far in the
distance, beyond the dark-green forests, we descry, with our
field-glass, the cathedral spire of Strasburg. Turn whichever way we
may, the view is superb, and the hill is indeed a kingly seat, for it
commands as magnificent a prospect as king could wish to look upon.

Heidelberg is a paradise of pipes--so I thought till I reached Vienna;
but meerschaums of splendid carving and quality are sold here at prices
so low, in comparison with what they cost in America, that the
temptation to smokers to lay in a stock is almost irresistible. Malacca
joint canes, with elegantly carved pure ivory handles, are another
article that is marvellously cheap here, twenty francs (four dollars,
gold) purchasing the best and most elaborate patterns, the grips or
handles of which were wrought into figures of fruit, flowers, wreaths,
and heads of birds and animals. The shop windows held many pictures of
students' clubs,--some clubs famed for the number of glasses of beer
their members could guzzle, he being elected president who could hold
the most of that liquid--in fact, who made the biggest beer barrel of
himself. In other windows were displayed huge horns, with a silver cup,
and a tall mug, of huge capacity, said to represent the draught of the
presidents of two rival clubs,--supposed to be what they could swill at
a single pull.

The beer halls frequented by the students are similar to the great lager
beer saloons in this country; and, in the evening, the tables are
thronged with students, talking, discussing questions, playing dominoes,
smoking, and drinking. There is a tremendous clatter of voices, and the
smoke is so thick--well, none but Germans and Spaniards could live in
such a dense cloud.

The University of Heidelberg, which is the oldest in Germany, I think
was founded in 1386. The university buildings--which are very old, some
of them erected in 1693--are plain and unpretending in their appearance.
The great library here contains over two hundred thousand volumes, and
many curious manuscripts, which we did not inspect, as they are of
interest chiefly to scientific scholars, and only accessible between the
hours of ten and twelve in the forenoon. There is but little in the town
of Heidelberg itself to interest the tourist. The great attraction is
the noble old castle, and the romantic highlands about it.

A three hours' ride from Heidelberg, and we are at Baden-Baden, that
gayest of the gay watering-places on the continent. We are driven to our
hotel, the Hotel de l'Europe, a most charming house, large, clean, and
splendidly kept by hosts who thoroughly know their business, and
entirely free from any of the extortions, swindles, and sharp practices
which disgrace our Saratoga and Newport hotels. Indeed, everything in
the hotels in Baden-Baden is so comfortable to the tourist, so pleasant,
and even luxurious, and at such comparatively moderate cost, that one is
half inclined to think the proprietors of them may be interested in the
gambling bank, and have an object in making their houses too agreeable
to leave with a short visit. There are three proprietors to this hotel;
and always one, and generally two, are in constant attendance in the
lower halls and at the table d'hote, to attend personally to their
guests, to answer all questions, and, in fact, to serve them in every
way possible, which, it is but justice to say, is done in the most
unexceptionable manner.

The Hotel de l'Europe is wide, deep, and cool; the broad staircase in
the centre is ornamented with pretty flowers in pots, and running and
trailing plants twining about the balusters, all the way up to the
second story. Directly beneath my window is a beautiful strip of
flower-garden, and the fresh air comes in at the casement laden with the
odors of roses, carnation pinks, honeysuckles, and a score of other
beautiful flowers, which are blooming in profusion. Beyond this little
garden, say twenty or thirty feet from the hotel, runs the little River
Oos, over a smooth-paved, artificial bed of stone--a swift, clear,
sparkling little stream, of scarce three feet deep, and its width of not
more than a score, spanned by little rustic bridges, connecting the
grounds of the different hotels that are strung along its banks with the
opposite shore, which is the broad, high road, along which the numerous
gay equipages which frequent watering-places are continually passing.

Beyond the road, beneath shady trees, is the Trink Halle, or, as the
English have dubbed the place, the pump-room, probably because there is
no pump there, except the natural one of the springs, whose mineral
waters are conducted into ornamental fountains, which the drinkers and
bathers visit at seven A. M., to the inspiriting and lively music of an
excellent band. This pump-room is a long, one-story building, two
hundred and seventy feet long and thirty-six wide, the façade resting on
sixteen Corinthian pillars. Beneath the façade, and upon large panels of
the building behind the colonnade of pillars, are fourteen great
frescoes, executed by an artist named Götzenbreger, and representing
pictorially some of those wild legends and weird stories of magic and
enchantment for which Germany is so noted.

Baden, be it remembered, lies at the entrance of the celebrated Black
Forest, popularly inhabited by various powerful enchanters, gnomes,
dwarfs, and sprites. These great pictures were all handsomely executed,
but the weather, to which they are partially exposed, is rapidly fading
away their rich tints. There was one, representing a beautiful,
light-haired, blue-eyed German girl, with but a light drapery flowing
around her shapely limbs as she walked down to a mountain stream with
her arm on the neck of a snow-white stag: an entranced huntsman knelt
upon the opposite bank, gazing at this lovely vision; and while he
gazed, one busy gnome was twisting a tough bramble about his ankle,
another huge-headed fellow was reaching out from beneath a rock, and
severing his bow-string, while a third, a sturdy, belted and hooded
dwarf, was robbing his quiver of its arrows: all around, the rocks
looked out in curious, wild, and grotesque faces; they leered from the
crags, grinned from pebbles in the water, or frowned awfully from the
great crags above the hunter, who, dazzled by the enchantress, sees
nothing of this frightful scene, which is like the figures of a troubled
dream--thoroughly phantasmagoric and German. Another picture shows a
brave knight just on the point of espousing a weird lady before an
abbot, the satanic glare of whose eyes betrays his infernal origin;
cock-crow has evidently prevented these nuptials, as at one side
chanticleer is represented vigorously sounding his clarion, and in the
foreground lies another figure of the same knight in a deep sleep. Other
scenes represent encounters of shepherds with beautiful water-sprites or
Undines of the mountain lakes and rivers, knights at enchanted castles,
and sprites in ruined churches, each one being the pictorial
representation of some well-known legend of the vicinity.

We arrived at Baden on Saturday, after dark, and I was roused Sunday
morning to look out upon the scene I have described, by the music of a
magnificent band, which commenced with the grand hymn of Old Hundred;
then a piece from Handel; next came the grand Wedding March of
Mendelssohn; and we looked from our windows to see throngs of people
promenading up and down the piazza in front of the Trink Halle, to the
inspiriting harmony, or coming in every direction from the different
hotels and _pensions_, or boarding-houses, for their morning drink of
spring-water. Gradually the music assumed a livelier character, till it
wound up with sprightly quadrilles and a lively polka, played with a
spirit that would almost have set an anchorite in a dancing fever.

A fit illustration was this of the regard for the Sabbath in this
headquarters of the enemy of man, where, at noon, the great doors of the
gambling-house swung open, and the _rouge-et-noir_ and roulette tables
were at once thronged with players, without intermission, till midnight.

This great gaming-house, which has been so often described, is styled
the Conversation-haus, and is beautifully fitted up with drawing-rooms,
lofty and elegant ball-room, with each end opening out into magnificent
gardens, that are rich in parterres of flowers, shady alleys, beautiful
trees, fountains, and statues. During the afternoon and evening these
gardens are thronged, the magnificent band plays the choicest of music,
elegantly-dressed people saunter amid the trees and flowers, or sit at
little tables and sip light wines, eat ices, and chat; you hear German,
French, English, and Italian amid the clatter of voices in any momentary
lull of the music; you may order your ice-cream in any of these
languages, and a waiter is at hand to understand and serve you; you may
spend the whole day in this beautiful spot, enjoy music that you gladly
pay a concert price at home to hear, without a penny expense, or even
the remotest hint for remuneration from any servant, except it be for
the refreshments you order--for the proprietor of the gaming
establishment gladly defrays all the expenses, for the privilege he
enjoys exclusively, and he pays besides the sum of sixty thousand
dollars per annum; so we enjoy it somewhat freely, although we cannot
help reflecting, however, that those who really bear the expense are the
victims insnared in the glittering and alluring net which they
themselves help to weave.

From the flutter of passing butterflies of fashion, the clatter of
tongues, the moving throng, and rich strains of music, we pass through
the noiselessly swinging doors that admit us to the almost hushed inner
court of the votaries of chance. Here, as at Wiesbaden, the only voices
above a subdued tone are those of the dealers, with their regular
formula of expression, while ever and anon, following the rattle of the
roulette wheel, comes the clink of the gold and silver which the
presiding high priests of Mammon rake into the clutches of the bank.
People of every grade, nation, and profession jostle each other at these
tables. Here all meet on a common level, and rank is not recognized. The
only rank here is the guinea-stamp, and that, if the possessor conduct
himself in an orderly manner, insures prince and peasant an equal chance
at the tables. The language used is French.

I have seen beautiful young ladies, scarce turned nineteen, seated here
next their young husbands, with whom they were making their bridal tour,
jostled by the elegant Parisian member of the demi-monde, whose noble
"friend" hands her a thousand francs to enjoy herself with for a while;
young students, trembling, eager old men; raw Americans, taking a
"flyer;" and sometimes astonishing the group by the magnitude of their
bets; old women, Russian counts, who commence by getting several notes
changed into a big pile of gold, which steadily diminishes beneath the
assaults they make on the bank, with as little effect as raw infantry
charging against a fortified breastwork; nay, I even saw the sallow
countenance of a Turk, looking on from beneath his fez cap, while its
owner fumbled uneasily at his girdle till he had detached his purse, and
gratified his curiosity by losing a few gold pieces; professional
gamblers, sharpers, women of uncertain character; old, young, and
middle-aged, all sacrificing at the same shrine.

"But some win?"

Yes, and the very ones whose success is least expected. Old habitués
will study the combination of figures for weeks, and keep a record of
the numbers, and the order in which they turn up, and then, having, by
mathematical certainty, made sure of lucky numbers, stake--and lose. The
croupiers go on regularly, mechanically, and, unmoved by success or
loss, or whatever takes place about them, they rake in heavy stakes, and
pay out huge losses, without moving a muscle of their countenances, or
betraying the least emotion, raking in a huge stake while I was watching
the game that made even the old habitués glare at the player, without
even so much as a glance at him, and paying out a big loss with only the
simple dialogue,--

"_Billets du banque?_"

"_Non._"

And a dozen rouleaux of twenty-franc pieces were pushed over to the
winner.

I saw one of these unexpected winners, in the person of a young
Heidelberg student, who commenced with a couple of Napoleons (forty
francs). He won; doubled his stake, won again; doubled, and won again;
then he took up the pile of gold, and placed two double Napoleons
(eighty francs) on a single number; it came up, and the bank paid him
the amount won, which was fifteen or twenty times the amount of his
stake; he put this whole heap on _rouge_ (red), and the ball fell in
rouge, and he won, and the amount was doubled; he moved the increased
heap to _noir_ (black), and won again! He pulled the heap of loose gold,
rouleaux, and notes towards him; players looked up, an obsequious
servant brought a chair for him to sit down, and two or three friends
gathered at his back; he crammed gold and notes--all but five
twenty-franc pieces--promiscuously into his pantaloons pocket, bet those
five on the red, won; moved the ten to the black, won again; the twenty
to another figure, and won thrice his stake.

By this time other players began to follow him in their bets; he put
forty francs on a single number, and half a dozen players crowded their
bets on to the same.

It lost.

Nothing daunted, they followed him, and rained down their Napoleons upon
the black; this time they were rewarded; black won.

The student pocketed his heap of gold again, all except five pieces, and
then with that capital bet again; lost three of the five; tried a single
number with one Napoleon, lost, of course; put the other on the black,
won again; balanced the two pieces on his fingers for a moment, while
half a dozen players were watching him, and then put one on the black
again, which in an instant was almost obscured by the thick plating of
metal that followed the lead of his stake from other players.

"_Rouge, dix-huit._"

Down came the croupier's rake, and away rattled the glittering heap
towards the banker, while the student smilingly balanced his remaining
Napoleon in a sort of uncertain manner on his forefinger, then turned
and whispered a word to his friends, rose and tossed the twenty francs
magnificently to the servant who had handed him a chair, and who was
still behind him, and then, with bulging pockets, walked away.

Baden is beautifully situated, and its scenery and surroundings
charming. A broad, well-kept, and shady avenue commences opposite our
hotel, and affords a splendid drive of over two miles, and, like the
drive at Newport, is frequented by gay equipages during the fashionable
season. Then there are the old and new castles above the town, reached
by winding and romantic roads, and from the summit of the former a fine
view of the valley of the Rhine, and the beautiful valley of Baden, with
its great hotels, elegant grounds, and pretty villas.

The bazaar, a sort of open-air fair of booths, in a pleasant grove, not
far from the grounds of the Conversation-haus, is another novelty, and
an attractive one to foreigners; for here is a collection of all those
miscellaneous trinkets that tourists load themselves down with, such as
carved wood of Switzerland, garnets from Prague, worsted work from
Berlin, shaded photographs from Munich, all sorts and kinds of
sleeve-buttons, breast-pins, shawl-pins, ivory carvings, ribbons,
crystals from the Alps, leather work from Vienna, and a thousand and one
curious and pretty articles to tempt the taste of purchasers.

We left the beautiful Hotel de l'Europe, with its pleasant rooms,
elegant _table d'hote_, and prompt attention, with regret, for two
reasons: one, that it was so agreeable a place of rest; and the other,
that the price, at this most expensive of the hotels, with all its
privileges, was less than two dollars per diem.

Up and away, for we must see the grand old Cathedral of Strasburg--a two
hours' journey; and here we are, at the magnificent portal of this
edifice, founded by old King Clovis, in 510. The carvings above the
portal are magnificent. Here are equestrian statues of Clovis, Dagobert,
and other old worthies, elegantly wrought, amid a wealth of rich
tracery and carving; but as the spectator looks up, up, up, at the
magnificent cathedral tower and spire, soaring away into the air till it
seems to have a needle-like sharpness, he gets almost dizzy with gazing;
and, upon being informed that the ascent of this highest spire in the
world is not unattended with danger, of coarse all Americans are seized
with an uncontrollable desire to ascend it; and so were we.

So we took a look at the splendid front, with the two great square
towers, something after the style of those of York Minster or
Westminster Abbey, with a huge rose window between them; the elegant
Gothic architecture of arches, pillars, and points; the grand, arched
portal, crowded, every inch of it, with carving and statues; and
finally, up again at the light steeple, which, from one of the square
towers, rose into the air with such grace and boldness.

We enter direct from the street, pay the custodian at the foot of a
flight of stairs of easy ascent, and, ladies and all, begin the
climb-up. We go till we have trodden over three hundred and thirty
stairs, and find ourselves two hundred and thirty feet above the street,
upon a place called the platform. Here are several rooms, and a
custodian lives up here, who acts as a watchman for fires, has general
charge of the place, keeps a visitors' register, and sells stereoscopic
views. The panoramic view from here is superb, and this point, which is
about two thirds of the way up, is as high as ladies generally ascend;
for the remainder of the ascent, which is by circular staircases on four
sides of the tower, requires some nerve and steadiness of head, the
masonry being of open-work, with the apertures nearly large enough for
the body to pass through, while the staircases, which are winding and
narrow, are likely to provoke an attack of giddiness. I could compare
the ascent to nothing but an ant climbing a corkscrew. Every turn
brought us to these great wrought openings, which, from the ground,
appeared like delicate lacework, and which seemed to give one the
feeling, as he went round and round, as if he were swinging and swaying
in the network between heaven and earth; and the wind, which pipes,
whistles, rushes, roars, and sighs, in every variety of tone, and
apparently from every point of the compass, owing to the innumerable and
different-shaped openings, adds to this illusion.

Breathless, we reach a circular gallery running round outside, and at
the top of the square part of the steeple, and pause, clinging to the
stone-work of the balustrade to look at the fine view, which takes in
Baden, the Black Forest, the Rhine, and the chain of the Jura, in the
distance.

Still higher! Here we are at the base of a pyramid of light, ornamental
turrets, which gradually converge towards a point, and support the
"lantern" above us. The winding staircases in these turrets were also
narrow, and through open stone-work, as before, till you reach the
lantern, an enclosed observatory. Higher up is the "crown" which, as the
steps leading to it are outside, and with no other protection than the
wall to which they were fastened, we did not care to attempt. The total
height of this lofty spire is four hundred and sixty-eight feet.

The descent through the open-work spire to the platform where the ladies
were left was far more trying to the nerves than the ascent. In
ascending, one is continually looking up, and the open spaces in the
stone-work have the appearance of passages through which you are to
pass, but continually avoid by the winding of the staircase; but in
descending, the gaze being directed downward, you have the vast height
continually before the view; the huge apertures, which appear at your
very feet at every turn, seem like yawning crevasses, through which to
shoot your body into the blue distance, or on to the Gothic points and
pinnacles that are far, far below. I clung to the rope and iron
hand-rails convulsively, and am not ashamed to mention that, more than
once, as I came to the more elaborate open-work of this stone filigree,
which seemed to dangle between heaven and earth, I closed my eyes, and
followed the rail, feeling the way downwards. The descent was made
almost in silence, and there was a sigh of relief when the platform was
reached, and we joined the ladies again.

The open-work that one encounters in the turrets during the ascent of
the spire, although scarcely large enough to admit the passage of a
man's body, is so frequent, and so directly on the staircases, which are
winding and narrow, as to give the semblance of great danger and
insecurity, though comparatively very little exists. The only thing to
be feared is giddiness, which might render it difficult for the
adventurer to go up or down, after reaching a certain point; and it is,
therefore, not advisable for those liable to be affected in that manner
to attempt the ascent above the gallery, which really adds very little
to the view.

Viewed architecturally, Strasburg Cathedral seems to bring together all
the styles or orders of architecture of the middle ages, from the
simplicity of the Byzantine to the Gothic, with its arches and excess of
superfluous ornament. The façade of the church, and especially the
portal, is so elaborately ornamented with carved work as to convey the
impression of chasing, instead of sculpture. The figures in bass-relief
and carving represent scenes in the life of the Saviour, the saints, and
the apostles, besides statues of kings and warriors.

A view of the interior is grand and impressive. Fourteen great cluster
pillars uphold the lofty Gothic arched roof, over a hundred feet above
the pavement. Midway, and above arches that unite the pillars, is a
beautiful Gothic gallery on both sides, and many of the great
stained-glass windows, representing scriptural subjects, are of wondrous
beauty.

In the nave is a beautiful pulpit, built in 1486, and covered with
little statues, delicately carved, and not far from it the organ, up
midway between the floor and arched ceiling. The perspective view in
these old cathedrals is grand, and figures hardly give one an idea of
their vastness. This cathedral is five hundred and twenty-five feet
long, one hundred and ninety-five feet in width, and is one of the
finest of those wonderful monuments of religious art that rose during
the middle ages.

The great astronomical clock here is a curious and wonderful piece of
mechanism. Fancy a structure twenty-five or thirty feet in height, and
twelve or fifteen broad at the base, having on either side two others
nearly of equal height, one being the masonic flight of winding stairs,
surmounted by five small emblematical Corinthian pillars, and the other
a Gothic pillar, its panellings enriched with figures.

Placed directly in front of the base of the clock is a celestial globe,
which, by means of the clock-work, shows the precession of the
equinoxes, solar and lunar equations for calculating geocentric
ascension and declination of the sun and moon at true times and places.
Then in the base itself is an orrery after the Copernican system, by
which the mean tropical revolution of each of the planets, visible to
the naked eye, is shown. Then comes an ecclesiastical calender, a sort
of perpetual almanac, indicating holy, feast, and fast days; above, and
about ten feet from the floor, and just beneath the clock-dial, is an
opening with a platform in front, upon which come forth figures
representing each day of the week, as Apollo on Tuesday, Diana on
Monday, &c. Thus a figure in a chariot representing the day appeared at
the entrance in the morning, it had reached the centre in full view by
noon, and drove gradually out of sight at the close of day. On either
side of the clock-dial sat two Cupids, the size of a three-years-old
child, one holding a bell and hammer, with which it strikes the hours
and quarters, and the other an hour-glass, which it reverses each hour.
Above is another dial, with the signs of the zodiac; above that a figure
of the moon, showing its different phases, also put in motion by the
clock-work; and, still above this, two sets of automaton figures, which
appear only at twelve o'clock, at which time there is always a crowd
gathered to witness their performance.

We viewed this wondrous piece of mechanism for an hour, and witnessed
the following movements: At quarter past eleven the Cupid near the dial
struck one; then from one of the upper compartments ran forth the figure
of a little child with a wand, and as he passed he struck one on a bell,
and ran away (Childhood, the first quarter). Round whirl the wheels of
time, and the second quarter chimes; but this time it is Youth that
passes, and taps the bell with his shepherd's staff twined with flowers.
Again, we reach the third quarter, and Manhood strides forth, the mailed
warrior, and smites the sonorous bell, ere he leaves the scene, three
sounding blows with his trenchant weapon--the third quarter. Once more,
the hands tremble on the point of noon; the fourth quarter is here, and
Old Age, a feeble, bent figure, hobbles out, pauses wearily at the bell,
raises a crutch, and taps four strokes, and totters away out of
sight--"last scene of all," when, as a finale, the skeleton figure of
Death, before whom all the four have passed, slowly raises his baton,
which the spectator now discovers to be a human bone, and solemnly
strikes the hour of twelve upon the bell. While he is engaged in this
act, a set of figures above him, representing the twelve apostles, pass
in procession before the Saviour, who blesses each as they pause before
him in turn, and chanticleer, the size of life, perched upon the
pinnacle of one of the side structures, lifts up his voice in three
rousing crows, with outstretched neck and flapping wings, while the
Cupid on one side of the dial reverses the hour-glass for the sand to
flow back, and the other also strikes the hour with his bell and hammer.

Not far from this clock, in a sort of niched window, there is a
sculptured figure, said to be that of the architect of this cathedral,
represented as looking towards the entrance of the transept, and in such
position as to attract attention and provoke inquiry--a cunning device
for perpetuating one's memory as long as the figure shall last.

Before leaving this fine cathedral we are reminded of the ancient order
of Masons by an enclosure opening out of one of the chapels, which is
the area of the workhouse of the stone-cutters of the edifice. These
Master Masons down to this day form a particular and exclusive society,
which originated in the days of the great master mason and architect of
this cathedral, Erwin of Steinbach, who rebuilt the nave in 1275,
commenced the façade of the church, designed its towers, and
superintended the work and the carrying out of the grand designs in its
construction through various vicissitudes till his death in 1318.

The masons of this cathedral were distinct from other operative masons,
did not admit all who presented themselves, and had secret signs, known
only to each other. From the lodge of this cathedral emanated several
others in Germany, and a general meeting of the masters was held at
Ratisbon in 1459, at which they were united under one government or
jurisdiction, and the Grand Masters chosen on that occasion were the
architects of the cathedral at Strasburg, in which city the Grand Lodge
was then established.

The Emperor Maximilian I. confirmed the establishment of this body
October 3, 1498, and it remained here till the early part of the
eighteenth century, when it was removed to Mayence. With this bit of
masonic history we will bid adieu to Strasburg Cathedral.

The Church of St. Thomas looks inferior after it, though its magnificent
monument to Marshal Saxe is one of the sights of the city. As we ride
through the streets we see long-legged storks soaring far overhead, and
perched on a tall old chimney-stack, behold the brushwood nest of one of
these long-billed residents.

We view the bronze statue of Guttenberg, who made his first experiments
in the newly-discovered art preservative of arts in this city in 1436,
and four hundred years afterwards he is remembered in this bronze
memorial.

I don't know what it was in particular that made me wish to see Basle,
except it was, that when a youngster, I read of a curious old clock
which the inhabitants on one side of the river put up to mock those on
the other, which, the story said, it did by sticking out its tongue and
rolling its eyes at every motion of the pendulum; so, when domiciled at
the hotel of the Three Kings in that ancient town, I looked out on the
swift-flowing Rhine, and as I gazed at the splendid bridge, nearly a
thousand feet long, wondered if that was the one over which the
wondrous head had ogled and mocked. Fancy my disappointment at being
shown at the collection of antiquities a wooden face scarcely twice the
size of life, which is said to be the veritable Lollenkonig, or lolling
king, that used to go through this performance in the clock tower on the
bank of the river till 1839. Here, in this collection, which is in a
hall or vestry attached to the cathedral, we saw many curiosities; among
them the arm-chair of Erasmus; for it was here in Basle that Erasmus, it
will be recollected, waged bitter war with the Church of Rome; here also
was preserved all that remains of the celebrated frescoes, the Dance of
Death, painted in the fifteenth century, and ascribed to Holbein. The
cathedral, a solid old Gothic structure, has some finely ornamented
ancient arched portals, and its two towers are each two hundred feet in
height.

Going through some of the quaint, old-fashioned streets of Basle, we
were struck with the quiet, antique, theatrical-canvas-look which they
had. Here was an old circular stone fountain, at which horses could
drink and the people fill their jars; the pavement was irregular, and
the houses were of odd architecture, which we in America, who have not
been abroad, are more than half inclined to think exist only in the
imagination of artists, or are the fancy of scene-painters. I came upon
one of these very scenes which I have before referred to, in this old
city, and stood alone a quarter of an hour looking at the curious street
that lay silent in the sunshine, with scarce a feature of it changed
since the days of the Reformation, when Basle held so important a
position in the history of Switzerland, and "Erasmus laid the egg that
Luther hatched;" and had a group of cavaliers in doublet and hose, or a
soldier with iron cap and partisan, sauntered through the street, they
would all have been so much in keeping with the scene as to have
scarcely excited a second glance at them.

In the evening we attended one of those cheap musical entertainments
which are so enjoyable here in the summer season of the year. It was
given in a large building, one side of which opened on the river bank;
and while thirty pieces of music played grand compositions, sprightly
waltzes, or inspiriting marches, we sat at the little tables, with
hundreds of other listeners, who sipped light wines or beer, enjoyed the
evening air, and looked out upon the dark cathedral towers, the lights
of the town reflected in the swift stream of the Rhine, watched the
small boats continually passing and re-passing, marked "the light drip
of the suspended oar," coming pleasantly to the ear, as they paused to
listen to the melody, while now and then the tall, dark form of some
great Dutch lugger-looking craft of a Rhine boat moved past, like a huge
spectre out of the darkness--a dreamy sort of scene, the realization of
old Dutch paintings, half darkened with age, that I have often gazed at
when a boy. And all this fine music and pleasant lounge for half a franc
(eleven cents).

"Wines extra?"

Yes. We called for a half flask, prime quality; price, a franc and a
half more; total, forty-four cents. But then we were luxurious; for beer
that was "_magnifique_" could be had in a "_gros pot_" for three cents.

We rode from Basle to Zurich in a luxurious, easy, comfortable
drawing-room car, which a party of us--six American tourists--had all to
ourselves, and whirled through long tunnels, and amid lovely scenery, in
striking contrast to our hot, uncomfortable railroad ride from Strasburg
to Basle. The Swiss railway carriages are on the American plan, and the
line of the road itself kept in exquisite order. The houses of the
switchmen were pretty little rustic buildings, covered with running
flowering vines, plats of flowers before them, and not a bit of rubbish
or a speck of dirt to be seen about them. The little country stations
are neatly kept, and have flower gardens around them; and, as we passed
one crossing where two roads met, a diamond-shaped plat, about twenty
feet space, enclosed by the crossing of three tracks, was brilliant with
its array of red, blue, and yellow flowers. At the stations and
stopping-places there seemed to be special pains taken to keep the rude,
unsightly objects, that are seen at stations in America lying about
uncared for, out of sight. Here, and in Germany, we notice the red poppy
scattered in and growing among the wheat, which one would suppose must
injure the grain; but the people say not, though it imparts, I think, a
slightly perceptible bitter taste to the bread.

We seem now to have got thoroughly into a land where they know how to
treat travellers, that is, properly appreciate the value of tourist
patronage, and treat them accordingly; and well they may, for a large
portion of the Swiss people make their living for the year off summer
tourists.

Notwithstanding this, and notwithstanding the English grumblers who
scold at these better hotels, better railway accommodations, and better
attention than they can get anywhere else,--notwithstanding the shoddy
Americans, whose absurd parade, lavish expenditure of money, ignorance,
and boorish manners make them a source of mortification to educated men,
and have served, in France and Italy during the past few years, almost
to double certain travelling expenses,--notwithstanding this, the
traveller will be more honorably dealt with, and less liable to be
cheated, in Switzerland than elsewhere in Europe. Efforts are made to
induce travellers to come often, and stay long. Roads, passes, and noted
points are made as accessible as possible, and kept in good order during
the season. No impositions are allowed by guides, post-drivers, &c., and
the hotel-keepers strive in every way to make their houses as attractive
as possible in every respect to the guest, who enjoys the real luxury of
an elegant hotel, in an attractive or celebrated resort, at a reasonable
price, and does not suffer to that extent the same irritation that he
experiences in England or America at such places--of knowing he is being
deliberately swindled in every possible manner.

Here we are in Zurich,--"by the margin of Zurich's fair waters,"--at the
Hotel Baur au Lac, fronting Lake Zurich--a large and beautiful hotel,
with an extensive garden, with flowers, shrubs, and pretty walks in
front of it. Our windows command a full view of the beautiful lake, with
its sides enlivened with chalets, villages, vineyards, and a
highly-cultivated country, while in the background rise the snow peaks
of the Alps, glittering in the morning sunlight, or rosy in its parting
rays. There was the great Reiseltstock, looming up over eighty-six
hundred feet, the Kammtistock, very nearly ten thousand feet, between
which and the Scheerhorn is imbedded a great glacier, the Bristenstock,
and other "stocks" and "horns" that I have not noted down, and therefore
forgotten, save that even in the distance they looked magnificently
grand, and like great altars with their snowy coverings lifted up to
heaven.

The scenery of mountain, lake, and valley, seen from the promenades in
Zurich, like grand pictures framed in the rim of the horizon, and
presenting charming aspects, varied by the setting sun, give the tourist
a foretaste of the picturesque beauty of the country he is now just
entering. Lake Zurich, or the Zuricher See, as they call it, looked so
pretty and romantic that we determined to embark on one of the little
steamboats, and sail up and down it, to know and enjoy it better. So,
after enjoying the creature comforts of the fine hotel, and fortified
with a good night's rest, we embarked in the morning.

This lake is twenty-five miles long, and, at its broadest part, two and
a half miles wide. As we sailed along, we noted the beautiful slopes of
the hills, which are finely cultivated at the base, close down to the
little villages on the shore. Above are vineyards and orchards, and
still farther up, the dark-green forests clothe the hills, which lift
their frontlets twenty-five hundred feet above the clear mirror that
reflects them on its surface. We passed numerous picturesque little
villages, making landings on alternate shores as we proceeded. Here was
Thalwyl, charmingly situated, Horgen, with its hotel and charming garden
upon the lake front, the picturesque little wooded peninsula of Au, and
a pretty little village of Mannedorf, behind which rises a romantic
height, called some sort of a "stiel" or "horn." And so we glided along,
sometimes stopping at little villages that seemed, as we approached
them, children's toys upon a green carpet, this effect heightened by
the huge mountains, which rose grand and sublime in the distance; but
they had all that novelty so charming to the tourist--their odd-shaped
little churches, and curious and quaint houses nestling in romantic
nooks, and the occasional odd dress worn by peasants who had come down
from the interior, and the customs which to us seemed so old-fashioned.

We found our steamer was a mail-boat, and at one station, instead of the
usual official in waiting, the sole occupant of the little pier was a
huge Newfoundland dog, who seized the little mail-pouch, holding perhaps
a couple of quarts, that was tossed ashore, and galloped off with it at
full speed for the village, half a mile distant, to the infinite
amusement of the spectators. He was the regular mail-carrier, performing
the service twice a day of bringing down the mail-pouch, which he
deposited on the pier on the arrival of the boat, and carrying back the
one which was left by it.

We went on shore at a town bearing the delightfully-euphonious name of
Rapperschwyl--a picturesque old place, with an old castle and church,
and wooded heights, which command fine views. At this point a fine
bridge, forty-five hundred feet long, and supported by one hundred and
eighty oaken pillars, crosses the lake. So we strolled over it, and
through the town, which contains about two thousand inhabitants, looked
at the old church and castle, and then reëmbarked on the return steamer,
once more to admire the beauty of the scenery of the lake shores in this
romantic region, and birthplace of Switzerland's freedom.



CHAPTER X.


Now let us tighten our girdles for our first experience in Swiss
mountain-climbing, for we start for Righi at nine A. M., on the summit
of which we propose to see the sun set, and watch his rising on the
morrow. Out of the handsome railway station we ride in an elegant and
comfortable car, and in two hours are at the steamboat landing at Lake
Zug, one of the most picturesque sheets of water in Switzerland--an
azure pond nine miles in length; and, as we float upon its blue bosom,
we see the object of our excursion, Righi-Kulm, which towers full
forty-two hundred feet above the lake. The "Righi" consists of a group
of mountains lying between the three Swiss lakes of Zug, Lucerne,
and Lowerz, and "Righi-Kulm" is the Righi summit, or highest
peak--fifty-five hundred and forty feet above the level of the sea. We
disembark at Arth, get a bad dinner, or lunch, of tough chicken, poor
soup, and bad claret, and start away for the foot of the mountain in an
open carriage, with our saddle horses, mules, and guides rattling along
behind us, for the ascent. Half an hour brings us to Goldau.

Goldau! And as I stood on the high road, and looked over into what was
once the little valley where stood the village, and marked the track of
the tremendous avalanche of a thousand feet broad and a hundred feet
thick, which started three thousand feet above, from the mountain, on
its resistless career of destruction, my memory went back to days in the
public schools of Boston, where, from that best of compilations as a
school reader, John Pierpont's American First Class Book, we used to
read the "Lament of a Swiss Minstrel over the Ruins of Goldau,"
commencing,--

        "O Switzerland, my country, 'tis to thee
        I strike my harp in agony,--"

and in which the author describes the catastrophe, more graphically than
grammatically, perhaps, as follows:--

        "An everlasting hill was torn
        From its primeval base, and borne,
        In gold and crimson vapors dressed,
        To where a people are at rest.
        Slowly it came in its mountain wrath,
        And the forests vanished before its path,
        And the rude cliffs bowed, and the waters fled,
        And the living were buried, while over their head
        They heard the full march of their foe as he sped,
        And the valley of life was the tomb of the dead."

But this avalanche occurred over half a century ago, and may be it is
too old-fashioned to recall its story, though it will long live in
historic record as destroying four villages, and overwhelming five
hundred of their inhabitants. The sole trace of it now is the track of
the avalanche on the side of the mountain, and some few huge bowlders
piled together here and there in the valley, which have not been covered
by the hand of time with vegetation.

And here our party descended from the carriage, and mounted their horses
preparatory to the ascent. A young physician and the author concluded
that their first experience in Alpine travel should be pedestrian; we
therefore started up our mules, riderless, after the rest of the party,
and, like all fresh tourists, stepped into a house here at the foot of
the mountain to purchase our first alpenstocks. These, as everyone
knows, are stout staffs, about six feet in length, with an iron spike at
one end and a hook of chamois horn at the other--the latter ornament
being generally an imitation, made of the head ornament of the common
goat, blackened and polished. Nevertheless, the alpenstocks are of great
assistance; indeed, the tourist who makes any attempts at pedestrianism
among the Alpine passes will find them almost an absolute necessity.

Away went the string of mules and guides with our merry party on their
winding way. The Swiss guides are excellent, and in many parts of the
country they seem to be formed into associations, and under the best of
regulations to prevent any imposition upon travellers, or the employment
of unskilled guides.

As an illustration of the excellence of their regulations, we copy a few
of those of the Righi guides:--

    "The horses must be sound and strong, the gear in good order.
    The chief of guides, who holds office under the superintendence
    of the burgomaster, is responsible for the observance of the
    regulations; and he shall maintain order among the guides,
    render assistance to travellers, and inform against any
    infraction of the rules. Guides are forbidden to importune
    travellers. Civility and sobriety are strictly enjoined, and
    guides are personally responsible for luggage intrusted to them.
    Guides are forbidden to ask for gratuities in excess of the
    regular tariff. The chief of guides has sole right to offer
    horses to tourists, without, however, dictating their choice,"
    &c.

Having procured our alpenstocks, we follow on over the broad, pleasant
road of the first part of the ascent, through the woods, hearing the
voices of our fellow-tourists, and now and then catching a glimpse of
them, as they zigzag across the hill-side, and beat gradually up its
steep height; we begin to come to the little mountain waterfalls,
foaming and tumbling over the rocks on their way to feed the lake below;
pass through scenery of the character not unlike the commencement of the
ascent of Mount Washington, in New Hampshire, until finally we reach a
halting-place--"Righi Inn." Bread, cheese--pah! the very smell of it
caused all to beat a retreat; and the inevitable Swiss honey, and good
French wine, were offered here. Causing a removal of the cheese, we
refreshed ourselves with the bread, wine, and honey, and, with renewed
vigor, pushed on.

Now the path is more open, we pass little crosses, or praying-places,
and can see them at intervals up the mountain; they mark the
halting-places of pilgrims to a little chapel above us, known as the
chapel of "Our Lady of the Snow;" and their frequency does not argue so
much in favor of the endurance of the pilgrims' powers of wind and
muscle as it does of their devotion. This little chapel is inhabited by
Capuchin monks, was built in 1689, and pilgrimages are generally made to
it and Mass celebrated once a year.

After about two hours' climbing we find ourselves at a place called
Oberes Dächli, and half way up the ascent; now we leave the woods below,
and begin to have a view of huge peaks rising all about us; as we mount
still higher, the air grows pure, bracing, and invigorating. Pedestrians
think climbing the Alps is pastime, songs are sung with a will, and
American songs, especially the choruses, make the guides stare with
astonishment.

Hurrah! Here is Righi Staffel, four thousand nine hundred feet above the
level of the sea, and a good hour's pull from our last halt; and now our
guides lead us out to a sort of bend in the pathway, and we begin to see
what we have climbed to enjoy. From this bend, which overhangs, and
seems to form, as it were, a sort of proscenium box of the scene, we
look down on the grand view below us--Lake Lucerne, Arth, the road we
have passed, the mountains swelling blue in the distance.

What beautiful views we have had as we ascended! An attempt at
description would be but a series of rhapsodies. Let any one who has
seen the view from the Catskill Mountains imagine the scene filled in
with eight Swiss lakes shining in the sunlight, dozens of Swiss villages
in the valleys, chapels on the mountain-sides, ribbons of rivers
sparkling in the distance, the melodious tinkle of cow-bells from the
many herds on the mountain-sides below, coming up like the faint notes
of a musical box, and the whole framed by a lofty chain of mountain
peaks, that seem to rim in the picture in a vast oval. The view changed
twenty times in the ascent, and a faint idea may be had of its grandeur
and beauty.

"But wait till you reach the Kulm, if you want to see a view," says one,
pointing to the tip-top hotel of the mountain, on its great platform
above us.

"Will monsieur ride now?"

"Pshaw! No."

The rest of the distance is so short--just up there--that monsieur,
though breathless and fatigued, will do no such thing, and so sits down
on a broad, flat stone, to look at the view and recover wind for the
last _brief_ "spurt," as he thinks; and the guide, with a smile, starts
on.

We have learned a lesson of the deceptive appearance of distance in the
mountains, for what appeared at most a ten minutes' journey, was a good
half hour's vigorous climb before the hotel of Righi-Kulm was gained;
and we stood breathless and exhausted in the portico, mentally vowing
never to attempt mountain climbing on foot when horses could be had--a
vow with which, perhaps, the last portion of the journey over a path
made slippery by a shower, making the pedestrian's ascent resemble that
of the arithmetical frog in the well, whose retrogression amounted to
two thirds of his progression, had something to do--and a vow which, it
is unnecessary to say, was not rigidly adhered to.

But Righi-Kulm was gained. Here we were, at a large, well-kept hotel.
The rattle of the French, German, Italian, and English tongues tells us
that Switzerland has attractions for all nations, and the fame of her
natural scenery attracts all to worship at its shrine. A brief rest,
after our nearly four hours' journey, and we are called out, one and
all, to see the sun set. Forth we went, and mounted on a high, broad
platform, a great, flat, table-like cliff, which, when contemplating the
scene below, I could liken only to a Titanic sacrificial altar, erected
to the Most High, it jutted out so towards heaven, with all the world
below it.

But were we to be disappointed in the sunset?

Look! huge clouds are rising; one already veils the sun, its edges
crimsoned, and its centre translucent. A moment more and the cloudy veil
is torn aside as by the hand of a genie, and as the red rays of the
great orb of day blaze into our faces like a huge conflagration, a
universal burst of admiration follows at one of the grandest and most
magnificent views the eye of man can look upon. The sudden effect of
the sunburst revealed a spectacle that was like a vision of the promised
land.

We realized now how "distance lends enchantment to the view." That blue
atmosphere of distance, that seems to paint everything with its
softening finish, is exquisite here. Lake Lucerne was at our very feet,
and looked as though we might toss a pebble into it; eight other lakes,
calm and still, and looking like polished blue steel plates resting in
the landscape, flashed in the sunbeams, the little water-craft like
motes upon their surface; silver ribbons of rivers glittered on the
bosom of the mountains like necklaces, while villages appeared like
pearls scattered on the dark-green carpet below, and we looked right
through a great rainbow, "the half of the signet ring of the Almighty,"
at one, and the landscape about it--a singular and beautiful effect.
Villages, lakes, landscapes were seen, as it were, through a river of
light in a great panorama of hundreds of miles in extent, forming a view
the grandeur and splendor of which it is impossible to describe.

But while we are looking at this wondrous picture, the sun sinks lower,
and we raise our gaze to the grand chain of mountains, whose edges are
now fringed with fire, or their snow peaks glowing in rose tints,
sending back reflections from their blue glaciers, or sparkling in the
latent rays.

There rises the great chain of Bernese Alps.

There _are_ mountains--eight, ten, twelve thousand feet into the air.
How sharply they are printed against the sky! and how they roll away off
towards the horizon in a great billowy swell, till lost in the far
distance, the white-topped peak of one tall sentinel just visible,
touched by the arrowy beam of the sun that glances from his icy helmet!

Look which way you may, and a new scene of surpassing beauty chains the
attention. Here rises rugged old Pilatus, almost from the bosom of Lake
Lucerne; beyond Lucerne, the whole canton is spread out to view, with a
little river crinkling through it, like a strip of silver bullion
thread; away off, at one side, the top of the Cathedral of Zurich
catches the eye; down at our very feet, on the lake, is a little
speck--Tell's Chapel; right around us rise the Righi group of mountains,
green to their summits, and in contrast to the perpetual snow mantles of
the distant Bernese. But the sun, which has been like a huge glittering
and red, flashing shield, is now only showing a flaming edge of fire
behind the apparently tallest peak, making it look like the flame
bursting from a volcano; the landscape is deepening in huge shadows,
which we can see are cast by the mountains, half obscuring it from view;
the blaze is fainter--it is extinguished; a few moments of red, fiery
glow where it sank, and anon a great, rushing group of clouds, and the
blackness of night closes in, and the fierce rush of the Alpine wind is
upon us.

We turned and groped our way back to the house, whose brightly-lighted
windows spoke of comfort within; and round the board at the meal, which
served alike for dinner and supper, we exhausted the vocabulary of terms
of admiration over the grand spectacle we had just witnessed, which
seemed worth a journey across the Atlantic to see.

At the supper table, we fraternize with other Americans from different
parts of our country; and even the reserved and reticent Englishman
finds it pleasant to converse, or address a few words to those he has
not been introduced to, it is "so pleasant to talk one's own language,
you know." Out in a little sanded sitting-room, where cigars and warming
fluids were enjoyed before retiring, the attention of us Americans was
attracted to an old and familiar friend, whose unlooked-for presence in
this quarter was no less surprising than it was gratifying to our
national pride. It was nothing more nor less than a print of Trumbull's
well-known picture of the Battle of Bunker Hill, suspended over the
mantelpiece. There were General Warren, falling into the arms of the
shirt-sleeved soldier, and the British captain, pushing aside the
bayonets that were thrust at his prostrate figure. There was Pitcairn,
falling backwards from the redoubt, shot dead in the moment of victory
by the colored soldier in the foreground. And there was old Putnam,
waving his sword over his head at the advancing grenadiers--the very
same old picture that every one of us had seen in our histories and
geographies in school-boy days.

        "The thing was neither rich nor rare,
        But how the devil it got there,"

away up at the top of one of the Alps, was the wonder.

However, it is not to be wondered at that, after its discovery, the
toast of America and Switzerland was drank, with all the honors. Now
that the night had come down, we could hear the mountain wind roaring
around the house, as if it were clamoring for admittance; but the great
dining-hall was full of light and cheerfulness; tourists of different
nationalities recounted their adventures in little groups, and the Swiss
carved work, which was brought out and spread upon the tables for sale,
found many purchasers among those who desired to preserve a memento of
their visit to the top of Mount Rhigi.

We were warned to retire early, as all would be roused at four A. M.,
next morning, to witness a sunrise, which we were assured was infinitely
more grand than sunset.

It was easier for me to get to bed than to sleep. The fatigue of the
climb, the bracing effect of the atmosphere, the remembrance of the
superb panorama, and, besides this, the rush, roar, and whistle of the
mountain breeze which rattled at the casement, all served to banish
sleep from my eyes till the time arrived when the horn should have
sounded for sunrise; but it did not, because of the thick clouds, as I
heard from the few restless ones who clattered through the corridors;
and so, relieved of the expectancy of the call, I sank into slumber,
broken only by morning's light, although thick clouds veiled the god of
day from view.

There appeared no prospect of clear weather; and so, after a late
breakfast, our horses were ordered, and we began the descent, which, for
the first half hour, was damp and cheerless enough, and made the coats
and water-proofs we had been thoughtful enough to bring comfortable
accessories. But, as we were slowly winding down the mountain, the
clouds began to break; the wind had changed; gap after gap was rent in
the vapor, which was rolled off at one side in great heaps; the bright
blue sky looked through the rifts, and the landscape began to come out
in great patches below; away went the clouds; what had seemed a great,
dull curtain was broken up into sheets of billowy mist and huge patches
of vapor, slowly rolling away in the distance, or heaping up in silvery
banks; and below once more came out the blue, quiet lakes, the white
villages, and the lovely landscape, while above, even above the clouds
themselves, would start great peaks, round which they clung like fleecy
garlands.

The rain-drops sparkled on the grass and bushes as I sat on a projecting
cliff gazing at the scene, and the train of my companions wound out of
sight, their voices growing fainter and fainter, till lost in the
distance, and all was silent. There was no song of bird, or chirp of
insect--a mountain solitude of stillness unbroken, when just below me
came up that peculiar and melodious cry of the Alpine shepherd,
"Ye-o-eo-o-leo-leo-leo-ye-ho-le-o," echoing and winding among the
mountains, clear and bell-like, as it floated away.

The yodlyn! and this was the first time I had ever heard it in
Switzerland.

But listen!

Above where I stand comes a reply, clear and musical, mellowed by
distance, the curious falsetto, the "yo-e-ho-o-leo," is returned, and
scarcely ceases ere taken up, away across the valley, by an answering
voice, so faint in the distance that it quavers like a flute on the ear.
And so the herdsmen in these solitudes call and answer one another
during their journeyings, or their lonely hours in the mountains.

Now we wind down, through trees, herbage, and wild flowers. Here is an
ocean of white and buff garden heliotropes, monkshood, handsome lilac
candytuft, and a flower in abundance which very much resembles the
Mexican ageratum. Now we come to a broad sort of open field, and a
_chalet_, where we halted, and rested upon rustic seats at the door,
while the horses were baited. While we sat here, the officious host
branded our Alpine stocks with the names of Goldau and Righi, showing
that we had passed those points. At this place, the open field was rich
in sweet red-clover, and pretty little flowers, like dwarfed sweet-peas.
As we rode on, the air was melodious with the tinkling of the bells of
the mountain herds, and the woods and fields rich in wild white roses
and numerous other flowers.

At length we reached Kusnacht, on Lake Lucerne; and, embarking on a
little steamboat, we glided along past the beautiful slopes of the Righi
range, having a fine view of the frowning peak of Pilatus, and some
towering snow-clads in the distance. Finally we rounded a point, and
there lay Lucerne, in a sort of natural amphitheatre, fronting on the
blue lake, and between the Righi and Pilatus on either side. Upon the
whole length of the long quay is a broad avenue of shady chestnut trees;
then, strung along behind it, are the great hotels; and in the
background, running over on the heights above the town, are the walls
and watch-towers, the whole forming a most charming and picturesque
scene.

The steamer glides up to the stone pier almost opposite to the great
hotel, where our rooms had been engaged and luggage forwarded, and in a
few minutes more the officious porters have us domiciled in fine
apartments in the "Schweizerhoff," where we proceed to remove the stains
of travel and mountain climbing, enjoy the luxury of a good bath, and in
other ways prepare for the _table d'hote_.

The Schweizerhoff is a splendid hotel, and, with its dependencies,
accommodates some three hundred or more guests. It is admirably kept,
the rooms clean, well furnished, and airy, and the front commanding a
superb view of the lake, Mount Pilatus, Righi, and a whole range of
Alps, green hill-sides, rocky crags, or great snow-clads, running up
five, six, seven, and eight thousand feet high. A picture it seemed we
could never tire gazing at, as we sat at our windows looking at them,
and the blue lake, with its steamboats coming and going, row-boats and
pleasure sail-boats gliding hither and thither. In this house is a
reading-room for ladies and gentlemen, with English, French, German, and
Italian newspapers, books and magazines, a billiard-room, pretty garden,
and great dining-room, with conservatory at one end of it, filled with
plants and birds. A fountain in the room spouts and flashes merrily
during the dinner hour, and a band of music plays. There are waiters and
porters who speak French, German, Italian, and English, and hearing the
latter spoken on every side so frequently, seeing so many Americans, and
the ladies going through with the usual display of dress and flirtations
as at home, it was difficult to imagine that we were not at some
Saratoga, or Newport, and that a few hours by rail would not bear us to
Boston or New York.

The sights in Lucerne are few and easily seen, the principal attraction
being the loveliness of the situation. The River Reuss emerges from the
lake at this point, and rushes off at a tremendous rate, and two of the
curious old wooden bridges that span it are features of the place; they
are roofed over and partially enclosed. In the inner triangular
compartments of the roof of the longest are a series of over a hundred
pictures, illustrating scenes in the lives of saints and in the history
of Switzerland; in the other the Dance of Death is quaintly and rudely
depicted; picturesque old places these bridges, cool and shady for a
summer afternoon's stroll.

The great attraction in the old cathedral in Lucerne is the fine organ,
which all visitors go to hear played; and we strolled in on a quiet
summer's evening, after dinner, to listen to it. The slanting beams of
the sun gleamed through the stained-glass windows, and lighted up some
of the old carved wood reliefs of the stalls in the church, as we took
our seats, with some fifty or sixty other tourists, here and there in
the body of the house; and soon the music began. First there were two or
three hymns, whose pure, simple melody was given with a grace and
delicacy that seemed to carry their sacred sentiment to the very heart;
from these the performer burst into one of the grandest performances of
Mendelssohn's Wedding March I ever listened to. There was the full band,
with hautboy, flute, clarinet, and trumpet accompaniment, introducing
perfect solo obligatos, and closing with the full, grand sweep of
melody, in which, amid the blending of all in one grand harmonious
whole, the strains of each were distinguishable, perfect, pure, and
faultless. The liquid ripple of the flute, the blare of the trumpet, and
the mellow murmur of the clarinet, till the march arose in one grand
volume of harmony that made the vaulted arches of the old cathedral ring
again, and it seemed as if every nook and corner was filled with
exultant melody. It was a glorious performance, and I felt like leaping
to my feet, swinging my hat, and shouting, Bravo! when it was finished.

But, if this was glorious, the last piece, which represented a thunder
storm amid the Alps, was little short of marvellous, and may be regarded
as a masterpiece of organ-playing. It commenced with a beautiful
pastoral introduction; this was succeeded by the muttering of distant
thunder, the fitful gusts of a gradually rising tempest, the sharp
_shirr_ of the wind, and the very rattling and trickling of the rain
drops; mountain streams could be heard, rushing, swollen into torrents;
the mutter of the tempest increased to a gradual and rising roar of
wind; a resistless rush of rain was heard, that made the spectator look
anxiously towards church windows, and feel nervous that he had no
umbrella. Finally the tremendous tempest of the Alps seemed to shake the
great cathedral, the winds howled and shrieked, the rain beat, rushed,
and came down in torrents; the roar of the swollen mountain streams was
heard between the terrific peals of thunder that reverberated among the
mountains, awaking a hundred echoes, and one of those sharp, terrible
rattles, that betokens the falling bolt, made more than one lady sit
closer to her protector, with an involuntary shudder.

But anon the thunder peals grew less and less frequent, and rolled
slowly and grandly off among the mountains, with heavy reverberations,
between which the rush of the mountain streams and the rattle of the
brooks were heard, till finally the peals of heaven's artillery died
away entirely, the streams rushed less fiercely, and the brooks purled
over the pebbles. Then, amid the subsiding of the tempest, the notes of
a little organ, which had been heard only at intervals during the war of
elements, became more clear and distinct: now, as the thunder ceased and
the rush of rain was over, you heard it as in some distant convent or
chapel among the mountains, and there arose a chant so sweet, so clear,
so heavenly as to seem hardly of this earth--a chant of nuns before
their altar; anon it increased in volume as tenor, alto, and even the
full bass of monkish chant joined, and the whole choir burst into a
glorious hymn of praise.

The audience were breathless as they listened to the chant of this
invisible choir, whose voices they could distinguish in sweet accord as
they arose and blended into a great anthem, and then gradually faded in
the distance, as though the meek sisterhood were gliding away amid their
cloisters, and the voices of the procession of hooded monks ceased one
after the other, as they sought the quiet of their cells. The chant
dropped away, voice by voice, into silence; all ceased but the little
chapel organ accompaniment, which lingered and quavered, till, like a
last trembling seraph breath, it faded away in the still twilight,
and--the performance was over.

There was full a moment's spell-bound hush among the listeners after its
conclusion, and then followed one universal burst of admiration and
applause in half a dozen different languages. Some of the ladies of our
party, not dreaming of the wonders of the vox humana stop, desired to
see the choir that sang so sweetly; and to gratify them we ascended to
the organ gallery, where, to their surprise, we met the sole performer
on the wonderful instrument to which they had listened, in the person of
an old German, with scattered gray hairs peeping out beneath his velvet
skull-cap, wearing black knee-breeches and silk stockings, and shoes
with broad buckles--a perfect old virtuoso in appearance, and a genuine
musical enthusiast, trembling with pleasure at our praise, and his eyes
glistening with tears at our admiration of his marvellous skill.

The lion of Lucerne is, in fact, literally the lion; that is, the
celebrated lion sculptured out of the natural rock by the celebrated
Danish sculptor Thorwaldsen, in memory of the Swiss guard that were
massacred in defence of the Tuileries in 1792. The figure is in a
beautiful grotto, a sheet of water, which is fed by springs that trickle
out from the stone that it is carved from, separating it from the
spectator.

The reclining figure of this dying lion, so familiar to all from
pictorial representations, is twenty-eight feet in length, and, as it
lies transfixed with the broken lance, and in the agonies of death,
sheltering the French shield and _fleur de lis_ with its great paws,
forms a most appropriate monument, and one not easily forgotten.

Lake Lucerne, the Lake of the Four Cantons, is the most beautiful in
Switzerland, and the grandeur and beauty of the scenery on every side
are heightened by the historical associations connected with the country
bordering on its waters; for these cantons are the birthplace of
Switzerland's freedom, and the scenes of the struggles of William Tell
and his brave associates. It was a beautiful summer's morning when we
embarked on board one of the little steamers that leave Lucerne four or
five times a day, and steamed out from the pier, leaving the long string
of hotels, the range of hills above them, with the curious walls and
watch-towers, behind us, and grim old Mount Pilatus with his necklace of
clouds standing guard over the whole.

We again pass the green slopes of the Righi, and in the distance the
great Alpine peaks begin to appear, printed against the sky. Soon we
come to Burgenstock, a great forest-clad hill that rises abruptly from
the very lake to the height of over three thousand four hundred feet; we
pass beautiful slopes rimmed with a background of lofty mountain peaks;
here is the picturesque little village of Waggis, from which many make
the ascent of the Righi; next we pass a beautiful little crescent-shaped
village, and then come in sight two great barren, rocky-looking peaks
named Mythen, nearly six thousand feet high; and the boat rounds up to
the pier of Brunnen, a lovely situation, where many tourists disembark
and others come on board. Shortly after leaving here, we pass a
perpendicular rock, nearly a hundred feet high, on which is inscribed,
in huge gilt letters, an inscription signifying it is to "Frederick
Schiller, the Bard of Tell." Just beyond this a passenger directs our
view to a green field, and a few scattered chalets. That is Rutli, what
little we can see of it, and where the founders of Swiss liberty met,
and bound themselves by oath to free the land from the invader.

The steamer glides close to the shore, and gives us an opportunity of
seeing Tell's Chapel, situated upon a rock on the shore, and marking the
place where Tell sprang out of Gessler's boat, as is told in the stories
of the Swiss hero. Leaving this behind, we soon come in sight of
Fluelen, our point of destination, situated in the midst of a
surrounding of grand Alpine scenery. Between two great peaks, in full
view, we can see a glacier, with its white snow and blue ice, and a
great peak, with castle-shaped summit, looms up seventy-five hundred
feet, while behind Fluelen rise two other peaks nearly ten thousand
feet. We are circled by great Alps, with their snowy crowns and glaciers
gleaming in the sunlight.

Landing at Fluelen, we engaged for our party of five a private open
carriage, for the journey through St. Gothard Pass, instead of taking
the great cumbrous ark of a diligence that was in waiting. By this means
we secured a vehicle very much like an open barouche, roomy,
comfortable, and specially designed for the journey, with privilege, of
course, of stopping when and where we liked, driving fast or slow; in
fact, travelling at our own convenience. This is by far the pleasantest
way of travelling the mountain passes accessible to carriages, and where
a party can be made up of four or five, the expense per head is but a
small advance on that charged in the diligence, a dusty, dirty, crowded
vehicle, with but few positions commanding the view, which is what the
tourist comes to see.

Crack, crack, crack! went the driver's whip, like a succession of
pistol-shots, as we rattled out of Fluelen, and, after a pleasant ride
of half an hour, rolled into the romantic little village of Altorf,
embosomed in a lovely valley, with the huge mountains rising all about
it.

Altorf! William Tell! "Men of Altorf!"

Yes; this was the place embalmed in school-boy memories with all that
was bold, heroic, brave, and romantic. Here was where William Tell
defied Gessler, dashed down his cap from the pole, and appealed to the
men of Altorf.

Pleasant little Swiss town. We ride through a narrow street, which
widens out into a sort of market-place, at one end of which stands a
huge plaster statue of the Swiss liberator, which is said to occupy the
very spot that he stood upon when he performed his wondrous feat of
archery, and one hundred and fifty paces distant a fountain marks the
spot where his son Albert stood awaiting the arrow from his father's
bow, though some of the Swiss insist that Albert's position was
thirty paces farther, where a tower now stands, upon which some
half-obliterated frescoes, representing scenes in Tell's life, are
painted.

We descended from our carriage, walked over the space of the arrow
flight, and called to each other from the opposite points; pictured to
ourselves the crowd of villagers, the fierce soldiery that pressed them
back, the anxiety of the father, the twang of the bow, distinctly heard
in the awe-struck hush of the assemblage as the arrow sped on its
flight, and then the shout that went up as the apple was cleft, and the
boy, unhurt, ran to his father's arms.

Away we sped from the town of Altorf, passed a little castle on a
height, said to be that of Gessler, and soon emerged on the broad, hard,
floor-like road of the St. Gothard Pass; and what pen can describe the
grandeur and beauty of this most magnificent of all Alpine passes! One
may read descriptions, see engravings, paintings, photographs, or
panoramas, and yet get no idea of the grandeur of the spectacle.

There were huge walls of splintered crags, so high that they seemed to
be rocky curtains hung down out of the blue heavens. These _were_
mountains, such as I imagined mountains were when a child. We had to
look straight up into the sky to see them. Great rocky walls rose almost
from the road-side sheer up thousands and thousands of feet. A whole
range of peaks is printed against the sky directly before us, half of
them glittering with snow and ice. On we rolled over the smooth road,
and emerged into a vast oval amphitheatre, as it were, the road passing
through the centre, the green slopes the sides, and the huge peaks
surrounding the outer barriers that enclosed it. We all stood up in our
carriage, with exclamations of admiration at the magnificent scene that
suddenly burst upon us.

Just below the broad road we were upon rushed the River Reuss, a foaming
torrent. Beyond it, on the opposite side, all the rest of the distance,
the whole beautiful valley, and along the green slope of the opposite
mountain, for three or four miles, were Swiss chalets, flocks feeding,
men and women at work, streams turning water-wheels, romantic waterfalls
spattering down in large and small ravines. We could see them starting
from their source miles away up among the blue glaciers, where, beneath
the sun's beams, they fluttered like little threads of silver, and
farther down came into view in great brooks of feathery foam, till they
rushed into the river that owed its life to their contributions.

The distance is so enormous, the scenery so grand, that it is beyond
description. I was like Gulliver among the Brobdingnagians, and feared I
never should get my head down to a level with ordinary mortals again. I
discovered, too, how deceptive the distance was among these huge peaks.
In attempting to toss a pebble into the stream that flowed apparently
thirty or forty feet below the road, and, as I thought, about twenty
feet from it, it fell far short. Another and another effort failed to
reach it; for it rolled over three hundred feet below, and more than two
hundred and fifty from us.

Every variety of mountain peak rose before us against the dark-blue
afternoon sky. There were peaks that ran away up into heaven, glittering
with snow; old gray crags, splintered, as it were, with thunder-bolts;
huge square, throne-like walls, the very throne of Jupiter; mountains
that were like great brown castles; and peaks that the blue atmosphere
of distance painted with a hundred softened and varied hues.

The reader may fancy himself viewing this scene, if possible, which we
saw as we rode over this smooth, well-kept road--at our right a ridge of
mountain wall, at our left the great ravine, with the white-foamed
torrent rushing over its rocky bed, every mile or so spanned by arched
stone bridges. On the other side of the stream were the pretty rural
picture of farms, chalets, gardens, herds, and flocks. Every inch of
ground that was available was cultivated, and the cultivation runs up
the mountain side as far as vegetation can exist. All around the air was
filled with the rattle of running water. Rushing torrents leaped from
great ravines, little ribbons tumbled down in silver sheets, brooks
clattered and flashed as they wound in and out of view on their way to
the valley, cascades vaulted over sharp crags, and the sides of this
vast amphitheatre were glistening with silvery veins. I counted over
twenty waterfalls within one sweep of the eye.

We were surprised into admiration at the state of the road. It is a
magnificent specimen of engineering, and, although it is a steady
ascent, it is rendered easy and comparatively imperceptible by numerous
curves. There are forty-six great curves, or zigzags, in the ascent. The
road itself is nearly twenty feet wide, kept in admirable order, free as
a floor from the least obstruction, and protected on the side towards
the precipice by strong stone posts planted at regular intervals. There
are many streets in Boston more difficult of ascent and more dangerous
of descent than the road of the St. Gothard Pass.

The magnificent roads in the mountain passes, the fine hotels, the
regulations respecting guides, and the care and attention bestowed upon
travellers in Switzerland, are all for a purpose; for the Swiss, as I
have remarked, live on the travel of foreigners, and are wise enough to
know that the more easy and pleasant they make travelling to tourists,
the more of them will come, and the more money will be spent. The roads
are almost as great a wonder as the scenery. Sometimes, when a spur of
the mountain juts out, a tunnel, or gallery, is cut right through it;
and really there is comparatively but very little danger in traversing
the Swiss passes, except to those venturesome spirits who persist in
attempting to scale almost inaccessible peaks, or ascending Mont Blanc,
Mont Rosa, or the dangerous Matterhorn.

As we rode on and on, and up and up, we came to a wild scene that seemed
a very chaos--the commencement of creation. We found ourselves in the
midst of great black and iron-rust colored crags, five or six thousand
feet high, jagged, splintered, and shattered into every variety of
shape. The torrent fairly roared hundreds of feet below. I had left the
carriage, and was walking some hundreds of yards in advance alone as I
entered this tremendous pass. The road hugged the great black rocky wall
of the mountain that rose so high as almost to shut out the light. On
the opposite side were mountains of solid black rock, not a spear of
grass, not a speck of verdure, from base to summit. The great rushing
mountain torrent tore, rushed, and leaped madly over the huge boulders
that had rolled into its jagged bed, and its fall was all that broke the
awful stillness and the gloomy grandeur of the place; for the whole
scene, which the eye took in for miles, was lofty masses of everlasting
granite, hurled together and cleft asunder as by supernatural means. I
could think of nothing like it but Gustave Doré's pictures in Dante's
Inferno; and this terrific pass was a good representation of the
approach to hell itself. It is astonishing to notice how the scene
hushes the visitor into an awe-struck silence; for it seems as if in
these wild and awful heights, as on mid-ocean, man stands more
immediately in the presence of the Almighty.

The scene culminates at the bridge itself,--appropriately named the
Devil's Bridge,--where is a tremendously rapid waterfall pouring down,
and where the eye takes in the whole of the black ravine, with the road
like a white snake clinging to the precipitous mountain wall. Thirty or
forty feet below, also spanning the torrent, are the remains of the old
bridge upon which the battle was fought between the French and
Austrians--a terrible place, indeed, for a death struggle. The new
bridge, over which we crossed, is a splendid structure of granite, and
has a single arch of twenty-five feet. Through the mighty ravines we
wound upward and onward, on through a great tunnel, fifteen feet high
and sixteen feet wide, cut through the solid rock a distance of over two
hundred feet, soon after emerging from which we came to a verdant,
broad, level pasture, here up among the mountains, a valley surrounded
by lofty snow-clads. This is the valley of Uri, and its pleasant
verdure, watered by the river which flows through it, is an agreeable
contrast to the savage and gloomy grandeur of the scenery we had left
behind us. There are only about four months of summer here, and the
inhabitants subsist by their herds, and by conveying travellers' baggage
and merchandise over to St. Gothard Pass.

We next came to the little village of Andermatt, and just beyond it, at
nightfall, reached Hospenthal, fatigued and glad to reach the Meyerhof
Hotel, just outside the village. The house, which had accommodations for
seventy or eighty guests, was crowded with tourists, among whom was a
liberal representation of Americans and Englishmen. In the morning,
after discussing a hearty breakfast, we started on our return, having a
fine view of the glacier of St. Anna, rising high above the mountain
ridges, and glittering in the morning sunshine. We drove back through
the same pass, and halted on the Devil's Bridge to watch the waterfall
of the Reuss, that leaps and foams down its descent here of a hundred
feet, as it passes beneath the bridge, and, looking up, saw the spray of
the descending torrent made into beautiful rainbows by the morning
sunbeams. There were the terrible masses of rock, the huge, splintered
peaks, and tremendous ravines; but the grand effect of ascending in the
twilight of afternoon, which is the time chosen, if possible, by
tourists, is lost, to a great extent, in the early part of the day.

Once more, adieu to Lucerne; and this time we start from the door of the
Schweizerhoff in private conveyance for Interlaken, _via_ the Brunig
Pass. We rode along for miles over a smooth, level road, on the very
banks of the Lake of the Four Cantons, the scenery being a succession of
charming pictures of lake and mountain. Our road led us through several
Swiss villages, generally closely built, with narrow and irregular
streets, and very dirty. The Swiss peasants that we meet are browned and
bent with hard toil. Men and women toil alike, in the fields and by the
roadside. All are trained to burden-bearing, which is by means of a long
basket made to fit the back and shoulders, the top higher than the head.
The women over thirty years of age are coarse and masculine, their faces
and hands browned, seamed, and wrinkled with toil. They clamber about in
the mountain passes, and gather grass for their herds, carrying the
burdens in their baskets, or the manure which may be found on the road
during the travelling season, or break stones for mending the roads.

The Brunig road was another one of those wonderful specimens of
engineering, with not a loose pebble upon its floor-like surface, the
scenery romantic and beautiful, but not of so grand a description as the
St. Gothard. We wind through the woods, have occasional glimpses of the
valley below, until finally, at the summit of the pass, the magnificent
scenery of the Meiringen valley bursts upon the view. This is, as it
were, a level, beautiful country, deep between two great ranges of
mountains, and you stand upon one and look down upon it, and across to
the other.

This smiling valley was like a framed picture in the sunshine; the
silver River Aare wound through it, white villages were nestled here and
there, orchards bloomed, and fields were verdant, sheltered by the high
crags from the north wind, and brown roads wound in and out among finely
cultivated farms. Directly opposite us, away over the other side of the
valley, rose up the sheer, rocky sides of the mountain wall, out of
which waterfalls were spurting and cascades dashing in every direction,
to feed the stream below. There were the beautiful falls of the
Reichenbach, rushing over the cliff, and dropping hundreds and hundreds
of feet down to the valley. The different waterfalls that we could see
at the opposite side of the valley seemed like white, waving wreaths
hung upon the mountain-sides. To the rear of these, overtopping all at
intervals, lofty snow-clads lifted their white crowns into the sunshine.
The view of this lovely valley, with its green pastures, meandering
rivers, and picturesque waterfalls; its verdant carpet, dotted with
villages, and the whole fringed with a belt of firs and dark green
foliage, as we looked down into it from our lofty platform, reminded me
of the story of the genius who stamped his foot on the mountain, which
was cleft open, and showed in its depths to an astonished peasant the
lovely country of the elves and fairies, in contrast with the desolation
of the rocky crags and mountains that rose about him.

Down we ride, amid beautiful mountain scenery on every side, and finally
through the town of Brienz, where the beautiful wood carving is wrought.
We have a good view of the Faulhorn in the distance, pass through two or
three little Swiss villages, and finally drive into a beautiful green
valley, with quite a New England appearance to the _pensions_, or
boarding-houses, which passed, we come to a string of splendid hotels
upon one side of the broad road, the other side being open, and
affording an unobstructed view of the Jungfrau and its snowy crown.
Fatigued with a ten-hours' ride, and sight-seeing, we drive up to the
door of the magnificent Hotel Victoria. Price of the carriage hire,
extra horses, driver's fee, horse baiting, and all, for the whole day's
journey, fifty francs,--ten dollars, or two dollars apiece,--and a very
reasonable price it was considered for private conveyance, _première
classe_, at the height of the travelling season.

The hotels at Interlaken are fine establishments, and well kept. The
Victoria, where we were domiciled, has fine grounds in front, and
commands a view of the Jungfrau glacier. It contains two hundred and
forty rooms, and has reading-rooms, parlors, and music-rooms equal to
the hotels at our fashionable watering-places. Prices high--about two
dollars per day, each person. There are numerous other smaller hotels,
where the living is equally good, and the prices are less; and still
others, known as _pensions_, where visitors stay for a few weeks or the
season, which are very comfortable, and at which prices are half the
rate above mentioned.

Interlaken is beautifully and romantically situated, and is a popular
resort for tourists in Switzerland, as a place from which many
interesting excursions may be made. We chose ours to be up over
the Wengernalp to Grindenwald, sending our carriage around from
Lauterbrunnen to Grindenwald, to meet us as we came down by the
bridle-path to that place. The ride to Lauterbrunnen was the
same succession of beautiful Alpine scenery that I have so often
described--lofty mountains, cascades, waterfalls, green slopes, distant
snow-clads, dark pines, blue distance, Swiss _chalets_, and picturesque
landscape.

Beggars now begin to be a serious nuisance, especially when your
carriage stops at different points for you to enjoy the view. Then boys
and girls come with milk, plums, apricots, cheap wood carvings, and
curious pebbles, to sell, till one gets perfectly nervous at their
approach, especially after the halt, the lame, and the blind have
besought you; and one fellow capped the climax, as we were enjoying a
beautiful view, by gracefully swaying a toy flexible snake into our
carriage, to our most intense disgust and indignation. As you progress,
women waylay the carriage at the top of a small ascent, which it must
approach slowly, and bawl Swiss songs, ending with an outstretched palm,
as you reach them. Boys and men, at certain points in the passes, sound
Alpine horns,--a wide-mouthed instrument of wood, six feet in
length,--which gives out a sonorous but mellow sound, peculiarly musical
in the Alpine echoes. The blowers expect that a few sous will be tossed
to them, and children chase you with bunches of mountain flowers to
sell.

How people manage to exist far up in some of these wild mountain defiles
is a wonder; and it seems as though it must be a struggle for some of
them to keep soul and body together: they save every bit of herbage,
scrape up manure from the roads, cultivate all they can in the short
summers, keep goats and cows, and live on travellers.

The Catholic priests have penetrated every pass and defile in the
country, and at their little chapels in the Alps and by the roadsides
are rude and fearfully rough-looking representations of our Saviour on
the cross, and of various saints undergoing all sorts of tortures. Now
and then we meet a party of peasants on foot, men and women travelling
over the mountain pass from one canton to another, the leader holding a
rosary, and all repeating a prayer together, invoking protection from
dangers on the road. The priests, with their long black robes and huge
hats, you meet all over Europe. We had one--a jolly fellow he was,
too--in the same compartment of a railway carriage on one of the Swiss
roads, who laughed, joked, had a pleasant chat with the ladies, asking
all sorts of questions about America, and at parting, bade us adieu with
an air.

As we approached Lauterbrunnen, we rode through the romantic valley of
the River Lutschine, which rushes and boils over the rocks at such a
rate that the cloudy glacier water has exactly the appearance of
soap-suds. Here, on this river's banks, rests the picturesque little
village of Lauterbrunnen, which name, we were told, signified springs.
The little waterfalls and cascades can be seen flashing out in every
direction from the lofty mountains that surround it; but chief among
them is the superb and graceful Staubbach, that tumbles down from a
lofty cliff _nine hundred and twenty-five feet_ in height. The best view
of this beautiful fall is at a point nearly half a mile distant, as the
water, which is not of great volume, becomes converted into a shower of
mist before reaching the ground, after its lofty leap; but at this
point, where we had the best view of it, it was like a wreath of snowy
foam, broadening at the base into a million of beautiful scintillations
in the sunlight, and the effect of the wind was to sway it hither and
thither like a huge strip of snowy lace that had been hung down over the
green side of the mountain.

Now we take horses, after leaving the road that runs through
Lauterbrunnen. Every half hour reveals to us new wonders of Alpine
scenery and beauty; we reach the little village of Wengen, and see great
peaks rising all around us; upward and onward, and from our mountain
path we can look back and down in the valley of Lauterbrunnen, that we
have left far, far below; we see the Staubbach fall dwarfed to a little
glittering line, and, above it its other waterfall, of several hundred
feet, which was not visible from the valley. But still upward and onward
we go, and now come to a long ridge, upon which the bridle-path runs, as
it were on the back-bone of the mountain. Here we have a view as grand,
as Alpine, as Swiss, as one has ever read about or imagined.

Right across the ravine, which appeared like a deep crevasse, scarcely
half a mile wide, was a huge blue wall of ice, seamed with great chasms,
rent into great fissures, cold, still, awful, and terrible, with its
background of lofty mountains covered with eternal snow. Now we had a
view of the Jungfrau in all its majesty, as its snow crest sparkled in
the sunshine, twelve thousand eight hundred and twenty-seven feet in
height. There were the Silverhorn and the Schneerhorn, springing their
lofty peaks out of a vast expanse of snow and ice; a whole chain of
gigantic cliffs, so lofty in height that you seem to look up into the
very heavens at their peaks of dazzling whiteness; the Shreckhorn,
twelve thousand two hundred feet high; the Black Monk, a dark mass of
rocks, twelve thousand feet, in striking contrast with the snowy mantles
that clothe the other mountains.

Great glaciers, miles in extent, put a chill into the air that makes you
shudder. The gap that I thought half a mile wide is a space nearly six
times that distance across; we feel dwarfed amid the immensity and
stupendous grandeur of the scene, and, as we unconsciously become
silent, are struck with the unbroken, awful stillness of the Alps.

We are above the murmur of brooks and the rush of waterfalls; no bird or
insect chirrups here; there is not even a bush for the wind to sigh
through. Now and then a deep, sonorous murmur, as of the sigh of some
laboring gnome in the mountain, or the twang of a gigantic harp-string,
breaks the silence for a moment, and then dies away. It is a distant
avalanche. We listen. It is gone! and all is still, awful, sublime.

We rode on; the view took in a whole chain of lofty mountains: now we
pass great walls of crag, three or four thousand feet high, now looked
across the ravine at the great glaciers, commencing with layers of snow
and ice, and running out till they became a huge sheet of blue ice, the
color deepening till it was blue as vitriol; but we were doomed to pay
one of the penalties of sight-seeing in the Alps, for swiftly came a
thick cloud, shutting out the whole view, and out of it came a heavy
shower, drenching all thoroughly. A quarter of an hour of this, and the
cloud had passed on, and we had nearly reached the little Hotel
Bellevue, our point of destination, and come in sight of a verdant
hill-side, a vast green, sheltered slope, in striking contrast to the
ice and snow of the other part of the pass.

Our guides made us first halt, and look at the herd of cattle that were
feeding upon it, and then pause, and listen to the tinkle of their
bells,--more than three hundred in number,--that sounded like a vast
music-box in the Alpine stillness. Then we looked away across the
valley, and saw the little village of Mürren, the highest village in
Switzerland, five thousand and eighteen feet, on a mountain-side; and
finally we reached the hotel on the highest point of the little
Scheideck, six thousand two hundred and eighty-four feet (Righi is five
thousand five hundred and forty-one feet), and as we approached across
the little plat of level ground in front of it, found we had arrived at
a "reapers' festival;" and there was quite a gathering of peasants, who
assemble here on the first Sunday in August, dressed in the Grindenwald
costume, for dancing, wrestling, and other festivities. They had been
driven in-doors by the rain; the entry of the little hotel was crowded;
and however romantic and picturesque the Swiss mountaineer may look in
his national costume in the picture-books, or poetical he and the Swiss
maiden may be in songs and ballads, there is an odor of garlic and
tobacco about them at close quarters that seriously affects poetic
sentimentality.

As the rain had ceased, the peasants once more betook themselves to
dancing to the music of a cracked clarinet and a melodeon; and another
group got up an extemporaneous fight, two of them tumbling down a dozen
or fifteen feet into a gully without injury, while we put the house
under contribution for wood for a fire in the best room, and were soon
drying our clothes by a blaze of claret-wine boxes. A capital mountain
dinner, in which tea, honey, sweet bread, butter, and chamois chops
figured, was so much better and cheaper than the soggy doughnuts,
indigestible pie, sour bread, and cold beans that used to be set before
the traveller at the Tip Top House, Mount Washington, New Hampshire, for
the tip top price of _one dollar_ a head, that we could not help drawing
the comparison.

A rest and an enjoyment of the grand view of mountain chain, snowy
peaks, and vast glaciers that surround us, and we start for the descent
to Grindenwald. Grand views we had of the Wetterhorn, the Faulhorn, and
the upper and lower glaciers of Grindenwald. We pass where avalanches
have torn down the mountain-side, and thrown huge boulders about like
pebbles, then over patches of open field, where stunted herbage grows,
and Alpine roses redden the ground with their blossoms; then we come to
woods, pastures, and peasants, and reach Grindenwald just before
nightfall, to find our carriage waiting to take us back to Interlaken,
which we reached after an absence of about eleven hours.

Interlaken is a grand depository and mart of the Swiss carved wood work,
Alpine crystals, &c.; and grand stores of this merchandise, after the
fashion of the "Indian stores" at Niagara Falls, attract the tourist.
Some of this carving is very beautifully and artistically done, and
some of it is cheap and not worth the trouble of taking away; but it is
positively amusing to see how some American travellers will load
themselves down with this trash because it _is_ cheap. Some of the smoke
crystals and rock crystals, fashioned into sleeve-buttons and
watch-seals, were both handsome and low priced.

I strolled into the little shop of an honest old Hebrew from Prague, who
had a cheaply-painted little sign, in English, that he sold "Garnets,
real Stones," and found that he did not, or had not learned to charge
extravagant prices; he spoke English, and was teaching it to his little
daughter, from a primer, when we entered, for "English and Americans buy
garnet, and must be talk wis." The old fellow's garnets were excellent
and cheap, and I soon had sleeve-buttons, and scarf-pin, large pin, and
small pin, studs, and the garnet in forms enough to render me ruddy for
the next ten years, and was preparing to take my departure, when leaning
too heavily upon the little show-case, my elbow went through it with a
crash. Here was a chance for damage! To be sure the pane of glass was
little larger than a sheet of foolscap; but we must pay what the
proprietor charged; and was he not a Jew? Well, this Jew thought two
francs would amply reimburse him; but monsieur had been so kind, be
could only charge him one.

After being deceived in the Rue de la Paix, cheated on the Boulevards,
swindled barefacedly in the Grand Hotel, and humbugged outrageously in
the Palais Royal, I rather relished being "Jewed" in this manner; none
the less agreeable and satisfactory from its being so un-Christian-like
a transaction. Accordingly I hailed two other Americans from the street,
men who "bought everything everywhere," one of whom had got one of his
trunks so mixed up, and tightly packed with shirts, curiosities, gloves,
carved wood-work, stockings, photographs, crystals, boots, guide-books,
under clothing, fans, and stereoscopic views, that he denominated it the
Chinese puzzle, gave up trying to find his articles of wearing apparel
in it, and sent it back to Paris. I hailed these two as they were
passing, commended the merchandise and "much kindness in the Jew," and
the old fellow, in less than half an hour, felt that he had brought his
glittering gems from Prague to some purpose, as many of his best jewels
changed places with the gold Napoleons of the Americans.

The little hotel at Giessbach was full when we arrived, although we had
telegraphed a day in advance for rooms; and a polite porter met us at
the pier, as the boat drew up, with regrets, and commended the "Bear,"
which was situated in the village of Brienz, opposite, where we could
sup, lodge, and breakfast, and row over to see the Giessbach Falls.
There was no resource but to go to the Bear, and we went; and after a
bad supper, a boat's crew of two men and a woman rowed us back across
the lake to Giessbach to see the lime light illumination of the falls.
From the landing to the terrace commanding the falls is a good twenty
minutes' climb; but in the darkness, preceded by a couple of guides
bearing lanterns, there is not much opportunity for a critical
examination of the surrounding scenery: however, we determined to
revisit it by daylight, and all agreed that the idea of exhibiting a
waterfall on a dark night, by means of an illumination, at a franc a
head, was an idea worthy a Barnum, or at least the inventive qualities
of an American.

We reached the terrace, and there waited in the blackness of night with
an expectant group. We could hear the torrent dashing and tumbling down
opposite to where we stood, and high above among the cliffs, but our
vision failed to penetrate half a dozen yards into the Cimmerian gloom.

Suddenly a little rocket shot out from below us; another, above, with
momentary flash revealed a tumbling cascade and the dark green foliage,
and then all again was blackness. In a moment or two, however, a bright
glare shot out from below, another above it, another and another flashed
up, and then from out the blackness, like an illuminated picture, we saw
the beautiful fall, a series of seven cascades, leaping and tumbling
down amid the verdant foliage, every twig of which stood out in the
powerful light, while through the romantic and picturesque ravine
poured a mass of foam of molten silver, beneath the colored light, rich,
gleaming and dazzling. But while we gazed, the hue changed, and purple
equal to Tyrian dye for robe of Roman emperor tumbled over purple rocks,
and dashed up violet spray into the air. Once more, and the rocks were
ingots, the stream was Pactolus itself, the bark on trees at the brink
were as if Midas himself had smote them, and the branches bore gold leaf
above the yellow current. But it changed again, and a torrent red as
ruby gushed over the rocks, the ravine was lighted with a red glare as
of a conflagration, and as we gazed on those spurting, tumbling crimson
torrents there was something horribly suggestive in the sight.

"Blood, blood! Iago."

But we did not see it long in that light, for the herbage, trees, and
foliage were next clothed in an emerald hue, till the ravine looked like
a peep into Aladdin's cavern, and the torrent was of that deep green
tinge which marks that great bend of the falling water when it pours
with such majestic sweep over the crag near Table Rock, at Niagara.

The green faded gradually, the torrent leaped a few moments in paler
light, cascade after cascade disappeared; we were again in darkness, and
the exhibition was over. Preceded by our lantern-bearers, we gained the
boat, and our crew started out into the blackness of the lake for the
opposite shore, and for one of the dozen groups of lights that marked
the landings.

We were compelled to bear with the "Bear" for one night, but cannot
commend it as the "Great Bear" or a planet of much brilliancy; so we
bore away from it early in the morning for the opposite shores, again to
see the falls by daylight, ere the steamer started on the return trip to
Interlaken. The ascent is a series of curves up a delightful, romantic
pathway, and when part way up crosses a bridge commanding a view of a
portion of the falls; but from the charming terrace near the hotel, the
sight of the series of six or seven successive leaps or continuous
cascades of the water as it rushes down an impetuous foaming torrent
from a height of three to four hundred feet in the mountain wall is
magnificent. We sat beneath the trees and enjoyed the sight till the
last moment, and saw, by turning towards the lake, that the steamer had
left the opposite shore, then reluctantly tore ourselves away from the
charming scene, and descended to the pier.

A pleasant sail back to Interlaken, an omnibus ride over to a steamboat
landing, and we were once more embarked on another Swiss lake,--Lake
Thun,--a beautiful sheet of water ten miles long, a portion of its banks
covered with vineyards, and the view of Alps on Alps, in every direction
in the distance, most magnificent; there were our old acquaintances, the
Jungfrau, Monk, Eiger, and Wetterhorn, also the Faulhorn, and dozens of
others, with their pure frosted summits and blue glaciers all around us
as we paddled over the little blue lake, till reaching the town of Thun,
we stepped into the railway carriage of the Central Swiss Railway, and
in an hour were at Berne, at the fine hotel known as the Bernerhoff,
which commands a view of the whole line of snow-clad Bernese Alps in one
continuous chain in the distance, looking like gigantic ramparts thrown
up by Titans. This city is on the River _Aare_, or, rather, on the high
bank above it; for the river is more than a hundred feet below, and that
portion of the city towards its bank seems placed, as it were, on a
grand terrace for a lookout to the distant mountains.

If the tourist has not previously learned that the Bear is the heraldic
emblem of Berne, he will learn that fact before he has been in the city
a quarter of an hour. Two granite bears guard the city gates; a shield
in the Corn Exchange is upheld by a pair of them, in wood; fountains
have their effigy carved upon the top; and in the cathedral square,
keeping guard of a large bronze statue of a mounted knight in full
armor, Rudolf von Erlach, are four huge fellows, the size of life, in
bronze, at the four corners of the pedestal. Then the city government
keep a bears' den at the public expense--a huge circular pit, in which
three or four living specimens of their tutelar deity solemnly promenade
or climb a pole for buns and biscuits from visitors.

Wood-carving can be bought at Berne of very pretty and artistic
execution, and the wood-carvers have exhausted their ingenuity in
producing groups of bears, engaged in all sorts of occupations. I had no
idea what a comical figure this clumsy beast makes when put in such
positions. We have stopped at many a shop window and laughed heartily at
the comical groups. Here were a party of bears playing at ten-pins: a
solemn old Bruin is adding up the score; another, with one foot advanced
and the ball poised, is about to make a ten strike, and a bear with body
half bent forward watches the effect of the roll. Another group
represented a couple at the billiard table, with one, a rakish-looking
cub, making a scientific stroke, and his companion, another young
"buster," with arm akimbo and cigar in mouth, watching them. There was a
group of bear students, all drunk, arm in arm; two old bears meeting and
shaking hands on 'Change; whole schools studying, with a master putting
the rod upon a refractory bear; and a full orchestra of bears playing on
every variety of musical instrument; in fact, bears doing almost
everything one had seen men do, and presenting a most irresistibly comic
appearance. These figures were all carved from wood, and were from a
couple of inches to six inches in height. Scarce any tourist leaves
without a bear memento.

The great music-box and carved wood-work stores here are museums in
their way. Of course the more elaborate and best wrought specimens of
wood-carving command high prices, but nothing like the extortions of the
fancy goods stores in America. Berne is a grand place to buy music-boxes
in carved wood-work, and cuckoo clocks; some of these contrivances are
very ingenious. We visited one great "_magasin_" near the hotel, where
they had photograph albums, with carved wood covers, that played three
tunes when you opened them; cigar buffets that performed a polka when
you turned out the weed to your guests; work-boxes that went off into
quadrilles when you lifted the lid, and tables that performed grand
marches when you twisted their drawer-knobs. Every once in a while the
cuckoos darted out of one or two of the threescore clocks, of which no
two were set alike, bobbed their heads, cuckooed, and went back again
with a snap; and there was one clock fashioned like a Swiss _chalet_,
from the door of which at the hour a figure of a little fellow, six
inches in height, emerged, and, raising a horn to his mouth, played an
air of a minute's duration, and retired. Fatigued, I sank into a chair
whose arms were spread invitingly, when I was startled by that
well-known air, the Sailor's Hornpipe, going off as if somebody had put
a band of music into my coat-tail pocket. Springing to my feet, the
music stopped; but as I sat down, away it went again right underneath
me. It was a musical chair, and I _sat_ it playing.

We strolled through the curious old streets with the sidewalks under the
arcades of the buildings, saw the curious old clock-tower, where, a few
minutes before the hour, an automaton cock crows, and then it is struck
by a comical figure with a bell and a hammer, while a troop of automaton
bears appear, and march around on a wooden platform. An old fellow with
an hour-glass turns it over, and the cock concludes the performance by
again flapping his wings and crowing.

One of the most delightful places of promenade in the city is the
cathedral terrace, a broad, shady walk, three or four hundred feet long
and two hundred or more wide. It is one hundred feet above the river,
and about ninety above the city street at the base. This terrace
commands a fine view of the whole range of distant mountains, and is a
favorite resort on summer evenings, where one may enjoy an ice-cream,
cigar, cup of coffee, or light wine, and long after the twilight has
deepened in the valley, watch the rosy hue that varies its tints upon
the shining mountain peaks in the distance.

At the old cathedral we heard a finer and larger organ than that at
Lucerne, but an inferior performer, which made even the beautiful
harmony that pealed beneath the Gothic arches seem tame in comparison.
From Berne by rail, a ride of an hour and a half brought us to Freiburg,
where we tarried a few hours to see its great suspension bridges, and
hear its great organ. The hotel at which we stopped commanded a fine
view of both the bridges, black threads spanning a deep ravine. Freiburg
is upon a steep rocky hill-side, at the base of which winds the river,
and extending over the chasm, to the opposite bank, are the graceful and
wondrous bridges. The first we crossed was nine hundred and eighty-five
feet long, and one hundred and seventy-five feet above the river
beneath, and is suspended by four chains of about twelve hundred feet in
length. The ends of this great bridge are secured by one hundred and
twenty huge anchors, fastened to granite blocks sunk deep into the
earth. After crossing, we took a pleasant walk upon the lofty bank
opposite, from which we had a good view of the town, with the River
Sarine winding close about it. We passed on to some distance above,
where the other bridge, known as the Bridge of Gotteron, spanned a
romantic rocky ravine; and from the centre of this structure we looked
down two hundred and eighty-five feet, into the very streets of a little
village directly under us, jammed in between the cliffs. This bridge is
seven hundred feet long.

The great organ in Freiburg is said to be one of the finest in Europe,
and a little guide-book says it has sixty-seven stops and seven thousand
eight hundred pipes, some of them thirty-two feet in length. We heard
almost the same programme performed as at Lucerne, and had, therefore,
opportunity of comparison. The instrument was not managed with the
consummate skill of that at Lucerne, and the vox humana stop was vastly
inferior; but in the Storm piece the performer, in addition to the music
of the convent organ, faintly heard amid the war of elements, also
introduced the pealing of the convent bell, a wonderfully correct
imitation; and in the Wedding March the blast of the trumpet was blown
with a vigor and naturalness not exceeded even by human lips.

From Freiburg we sped on to Lausanne, and, without stopping in the town,
rode down to the little port of the place, Ouchy, on the very bank of
the very blue and beautiful Lake Leman, and stopped at the Hotel Beau
Rivage. This hotel is another one of those handsome and well-kept
hotels, which, from their comfort, elegant surroundings, and many
conveniences, add so much to the tourist's enjoyment. This house is
three hundred feet long and five stories high, fronts upon the lake, and
has a beautifully laid out garden and park of nearly two acres in front
and about it. My fine double room looks out upon the blue lake, with its
plying steamboats and its superb background of distant mountains. At the
little piers in front of the hotel grounds are row and sail boats for
the use of visitors; and some of the former are plying hither and
thither, with merry parties of ladies and gentlemen beneath their gay
striped awnings. Flowers of every hue bloom in the gardens. A band of
eight or ten pieces performs on the promenade balcony in front of the
house every evening from six to ten o'clock. There are reading-rooms,
parlors, and saloons. The table is excellent, and attention perfect.
Prices--for one of the best rooms looking out on the lake, for two
persons, eight francs; breakfast, three francs each; dinner, four francs
each; service, one franc each; total, for two persons, twenty-one
francs, or four dollars and twenty-five cents, gold, per day; and these
are the high prices at the height of the season for the best rooms.
Reasonable enough here, but which they are fast learning to charge at
inferior inns, in other parts of the country, on account of the
prodigality of "shoddy" Americans.

The view of Lake Geneva, or Lake Leman, as it is called, is beautiful
from Ouchy. The panorama of mountains upon the opposite shore extends as
far as the eye can reach, and in the sunset they assume a variety of
beautiful hues--red, blue, violet, and rose-color. We have been
particularly fortunate in arriving here while the moon is near its full;
and the effect of the silver rays on the lake, mountains, and
surrounding scenery is beautiful beyond description.

Up in Lausanne we have visited the old cathedral, which is built upon a
high terrace, and reached by a dirty, irregular flight of plank steps,
about one hundred and seventy-five in number; at any rate, enough to
render the climber glad to reach the top of them. From the cathedral
terrace we have a view of the tortuous streets of the town, with its
picturesque, irregular piles of buildings, a beautiful view of the blue
lake, and the battlements of the distant peaks of Savoy. The cathedral,
which is now a Protestant church, is very fine, with its cluster columns
supporting the graceful vaulted roof over sixty feet above. It is three
hundred and thirty-three feet long and one hundred and forty-three feet
in width; and at one end, near where the high altar once stood, we were
shown deep marks worn into the stone floor, which the guide averred were
worn by the mailed knees of thousands of crusaders, who knelt there, one
after the other, as they received the priestly blessing as their army
passed through here on its way to do battle with the Saracen, and
recover the Holy Sepulchre.

From the Beau Rivage Hotel we took steamer, and sailed along the shore,
passing Vevay, with its handsome hotels, the romantic village of
Clarens, and finally landing at Villeneuve, rode up to the beautifully
situated Hotel Byron. This hotel, although small compared with the
others, was admirably kept, and is in one of the most romantic and
lovely positions that can be imagined. It is placed upon a broad
terrace, a little above the shore, and, being at the very end of the
lake, commands an extensive view of both sides, with all lovely and
romantic scenery.

There, as we sat beneath the trees, we looked upon the scene, which is
just as Byron wrote about it, and as true to the description as if
written yesterday. The "clear placid Leman" is as blue as if colored
with indigo. There was Jura; there were "the mountains, with their
thousand years of snow;" the wide, long lake below; there, at our left,
went the swift Rhone, who

                          "cleaves his way between
        Heights which appear as lovers who have parted in hate."

At a little distance we could see

        "Clarens, sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep love;"

and there, directly before us, was the "small green isle" that the
prisoner of Chillon saw from his dungeon window; and only a quarter of a
mile away is the Castle of Chillon itself. Down the dusty road we
started to visit this celebrated place, which almost every visitor who
has read the poem feels that he is acquainted with.

The castle, which is small, is on a point of land that juts out into the
lake, and its whole appearance realizes an imagination of a gloomy old
feudal castle, or prison. It was formerly surrounded by the waters of
the lake, and is still connected on one side with the land by a
drawbridge, and the lake washes up to its very base, seven hundred feet
deep, on the other. Something of the romance of the place is taken away
by the railway track, within a few rods of the drawbridge, and the
shrieking locomotive rushes past the very point where once stood the
castle outworks.

The massive, irregular walls of this old castle have five or six towers,
with the loopholes and battlements of old times. We crossed the bridge,
passed into the old rooms--the Hall of Knights, and the Chamber of
Question, where the rack and other instruments of torture were used upon
the victims of jealous tyrants. Here we grasped a now useless fragment
of old shattered machinery, which had once been bathed with the sweat of
agony, as the victim's limbs stretched and cracked beneath the terrible
force of the executioner. Here was the huge stone that was fastened to
the sufferer's feet when he was hoisted by the wrists to the iron staple
above. This was the square chamber in the solid masonry, where the
victim's groans were unheard by those without, now transformed into a
peaceful storehouse for an old wagon or two, with the sun streaming in
at a square opening in the thick wall. But a few steps from here, and we
come to the _oubliette_, the staircase down which the victim made three
or four steps, and then went plunging a hundred feet or more into the
yawning chasm of blackness upon the jagged rocks, or into the deep
waters of the lake below.

But what we all came to see were the dungeons beneath the castle, the
scene of Byron's story. These dungeons are several cells, of different
sizes, dug out of the rock upon which the massive arches of the castle
seem to rest. The two largest of them are beneath the dining and justice
halls. From the latter we were shown a narrow staircase, descending into
a little narrow recess, where victims were brought down, and strangled
with a rope thrown across an oak beam, which still remains, blackened
with age. Near it was another narrow, gloomy cell, said to be that in
which the prisoner passed the night previous to execution, and near by
the place where thousands of Jews were beheaded in the thirteenth
century, on accusation of poisoning the wells, and causing the plague.
The gloomy place fairly reeked with horror; its stones seemed cemented
with blood, and the very sighing of the summer breeze without was
suggestive of the groans of the sufferers who had been tortured and
murdered within this terrible prison.

Next we came to the dungeon where

        "There are seven pillars of Gothic mould,"

and there _are_ the pillars to which the prisoners were chained, and
there is the stone floor, worn by the pacing of the prisoner, as his
footsteps, again and again as the weary years went by, described the
circuit of his chain. Bonivard's pillar, to which he was chained for six
weary years, hearing no sound but the plashing of the waters of the lake
without, or the clanking of his own chain, is thickly covered with
autographs, carved and cut into it. Conspicuous among them is that of
Byron, which looks so fresh and new as to excite suspicion that it has
been occasionally deepened, "Old Mortality" like, in order that the
record may not be lost.

Here we were, then,

        "In Chillon's dungeons, deep and old."

Now every word of Byron's poem, that we had read and heard recited at
school, and which made such an impression on our mind when a boy, came
back to us.

Which was the pillar the younger brother was chained to?

There was "the crevice in the wall," where the slanting sunbeam came in.

Here was the very iron ring at the base of the huge pillar; there were
the barred windows--narrow slits, through which the setting sun
streamed, and to which the prisoner climbed to look upon the scene
without,--

                                  "to bend
        Once more upon the mountains high
        The quiet of a loving eye."

I stood, and mused, and dreamed, as my companions passed on, and
suddenly started to find myself alone in that terrible place, and, with
a shudder, I hurried after the voices, leaving the gloomy dungeon behind
me; after which the white-curtained, quiet room of the Hotel Byron
seemed a very palace, and the beautiful view of lovely lake and lofty
mountain a picture that lent additional charm to liberty and freedom.

Is it to be wondered at that so many people quote Byron at this place?
For it is his poetry that has given such a peculiar and nameless charm
to it, that if one has a spark of poetic fire in his composition, and
sits out amid the flowers and trees, of a pleasant afternoon, looking at
the blue lake, the distant, white-walled town, the little isle, with its
three trees, that the prisoner saw from his dungeon, and even sees the
eagle riding on the blast, up towards the great Jura range,--Jura, that
answered,--

                      "through her misty shroud,
        Back to the joyous Alps, that call on her aloud,"--

and follows up his thought by reading part of the third canto of Childe
Harold, in which Lake Leman and a thunder storm in the Alps are
described, he feels very much like repeating it aloud.

Not having Childe Harold to read, I found relief in quoting those
passages that everybody knows, and doing the following bit of
inspiration upon the spot:--

        Dreams of my youth, my boyhood's castles fair,
        That seemed, in later years, but made of air,
        Are these the scenes that now my soul entrance,
        Scenes hallowed in dim history and romance?
        This dark old castle, with its wave-washed wall,
        Its ancient drawbridge, and its feudal hall,
        Its dreary dungeon, where the sweet sun's ray
        Scarce tells the tenant that without 'tis day;
        These seven grim pillars of the Gothic mould,
        Where weary years the chainéd captive told,
        Waited, and wept, and prayed for freedom sweet,
        Paced round the dungeon pillar, till his feet
        Wore in the floor of rock this time-enduring mark
        Of cruelty of men, in ages past and dark.
        Glorious Childe Harold! How, in boyhood's age,
        Longing I traced that wondrous pilgrimage.
        Thine imperishable verse invests these mountains grand
        With new glories. Can it be that here I stand
        And gaze, as thou, upon the self-same things?
        The glassy lake, "the eagle on the blast," who slowly wings
        His flight to the gray peaks that lift their crests on high,
        In everlasting grandeur to the sky?
        There rise the mountain peaks, here shines the lake;
        Familiar scenes the beauteous picture make.
        The "white-walled, distant town," glassed in the tide,
        And on its breast the whiter sails still ride,
        As when thine eye swept o'er the lovely view;
        Thy glorious fancies and imagination grew
        T' immortal verse, and with a nameless charm
        Embalmed the scene for ages yet to come.
        Others shall, deep in Chillon's dungeon drear,
        Muse round th' historic pillars, for 'twas here,
        If we accept th' entrancing fable of thy lay,
        The brothers pined, and wasted life away.
        The guide clanks here the rusted iron ring--
        We shudder; "iron is a cankering thing."
        Through the rent walls a silver sunbeam flashes;
        Faint is the sound of waves that 'gainst them dashes;
        There is the window where, with azure wing,
        The bright bird perched the prisoner heard sing;
        Here, 'neath our very feet, perhaps, the place
        The boy, "his mother's image in fair face,"
        Was laid. 'Tis but a fable; yet we love to trace
        These pictures, hallowed in our youthful dreams,
        And think thy lay all truthful as it seems.

We leave Villeneuve, and the pleasant Hotel Byron, with regret, and

        "Once more on the deck I stand,
        Of my own swift-gliding craft;"

or, in other words, we are again on board one of the pretty little lake
steamers, paddling through the blue waters of Lake Geneva. Back we went,
past Vevay and Ouchy, with their elegant hotels and gardens; past
Clarens, and amid scenes of exquisite and picturesque beauty, for five
or six hours, till we reach Geneva, at the other extreme of this lovely
sheet of water, about fifty-five miles from Villeneuve. There is nothing
very striking in this city to the tourist,--none of those curious old
walls, towers, cathedrals, or quaint and antique-looking streets that he
finds in so many of the other old European cities. There is a long and
splendid row of fine buildings upon the quay on the river bank, elegant
jewelry stores and hotels, a few other good streets, and the usual
amount of narrow alleys and dirty lanes.

The pleasantest part of the city seen during our brief stay was the fine
quays, and the town at that part of the lake where it began to narrow
into a river, with the splendid bridge spanning it, and a little island
at about the middle of the bridge, or rather just at one side of it, and
connecting with it by a pretty suspension bridge. This little island is
Rousseau's Island, has his bronze statue, and pleasant shade trees upon
it, a charming little promenade and seats, and is an agreeable resort,
besides being an admirable point to view the blue lake, the River Rhone
emerging from it with arrowy swiftness, and the snowy Mont Blanc chain
of mountains in the distance. From the windows of our room in Hotel Ecu
de Genève, we look down upon the swiftly-flowing blue tide of the river,
upon which, nearly all day, black and white swans float, breasting
against the current, and apparently keeping just about in the same
place, arching their necks gracefully, and now and then going over to
their home on a little isle just above Rousseau's, or coming on shore
here and there--popular pets, and well cared for.

The display of jewelry, particularly watches and chains, in the splendid
shops along the grand quay, is very fine. Geneva is headquarters for
watches and chains, and nearly all Americans who mean to buy those
articles abroad do so at Geneva, for two reasons; first, because a very
good article can be bought there much cheaper than at home; and next,
because they are always assured of the quality of the gold. None is sold
at any of the shops in Geneva under eighteen carats in fineness. Very
handsome enamelled jewelry, of the best workmanship, is also sold in
Geneva. Indeed, the quality of the material and the excellence of the
workmanship of the Geneva jewelry are obvious even to the uninitiated.
In Paris more elaborate designs and a greater variety can be found, but
the prices are from fifteen to twenty per cent. higher.

I had always supposed, from a boy, that Geneva was overflowing with
musical box manufacturers, from the fact that all I used to see in the
stores at home were stamped with the name of that city. Judge of my
surprise in finding scarcely any exhibited in the shop windows here. At
the hotel a fine large one played in the lower hall, with drum
accompaniment, and finding from the dealer's cards beside it that it was
intended as a sample of his wares, we went to his factory across the
river, where the riddle was explained in the fact that the retail
shopkeepers demanded so large a commission for selling, that the
music-box makers had refused to send any more to them for sale. This may
be a good move for their jobbing trade, but death to the retail trade
with foreigners. Berne is the place for music-boxes.

Returning across the long bridge to our hotel, we saw a specimen of
Swiss clothes washing, and which in a measure may constitute some of the
reasons why some of the inhabitants of this part of the world change
their linen so seldom. Beneath a long wooden shed, with its side open to
the swift-flowing stream, were a row of stout-armed, red-cheeked women
bending over a long wash-board, which extended into the stream before
them. Seizing a shirt, they first gave it a swash into the stream; next
it was thoroughly daubed with soap, and received other vigorous swashes
into the water, and was then drawn forth dripping, moulded into a moist
mass, and beaten with a short wooden bludgeon with a will; then come two
or three more swashes and a thrashing by the stalwart washerwoman of the
garment down upon the hard board before her with a vigor that makes the
buttons spatter out into the stream like a charge of bird shot. After
witnessing this, I accounted for the recent transformation of a new
linen garment by one washing into a mass of rags and button splinters.
This style of washing may be avoided to some extent by particular
direction, but the gloss or glazing which the American laundries put
upon shirt fronts seems to be unknown on the continent.

The sun beat down fiercely as we started out of Geneva,--one of the
hottest places in Switzerland I really believe,--and for fifteen miles
or so its rays poured down pitilessly upon the unshaded road. Grateful
indeed was a verdant little valley, bounded by lofty mountains, and the
cliff road shaded with woods, that we next reached, and rattled through
a place called Cluses; and going over a bridge spanning the River Arve,
we entered a great rocky gorge, and again began to feel the cold breath
of the mountains, and come in sight of grand Alpine ranges, snowy peaks,
and rushing waterfalls. Finally we reach Sallanches. Here we have a fine
view of the white and dazzling peaks of Mont Blanc towering into the
blue sky, apparently within two or three miles from where we stand, but
which our driver tells us are nearly fifteen miles away.

Again we are in the midst of the magnificent scenery of the great
mountain passes, verdant and beautiful slopes, gray splintered peaks,
huge mountain walls, wild picturesque crags, waterfalls dashing down the
mountain sides far and near, the whole air musical with their rush; and
the breath of the Alps was pure, fresh, and invigorating as cordial to
the lungs.

We that a few hours ago were limp, wilted, and moist specimens of
humanity, were now bright, cheery, and animated; we quoted poetry,
laughed, sang, and exhausted our terms of admiration at the great rocky
peaks that seemed almost lost in the heavens, or the fir-clad mountain
side that jutted its dark fringe sharply against the afternoon sky.
Beyond, as ever, rose the pure frosted peaks, and as they glowed and
sparkled, and finally grew rose-colored and pink in the sunset, it
became almost like a dream of enchantment, that darkness gradually
blotted out from view.

We had started from Geneva with coat and vest thrown aside for a linen
duster; we descended into the valley of Chamouny with coat and vest
replaced, and covered with a substantial surtout. As we came down to the
village, the driver pointed out to us what looked like a great blue
steel shield, thousands of feet up in the heavens, hanging sharply out
from the dome of impenetrable blackness above, and shining in a
mysterious light. It was the first beams of the rising moon, as yet
invisible, striking upon the clear, blue ice of a great glacier far
above us. It gradually came more distinctly into view, flashing out in
cold, icy splendor, as the moon began to frost the opposite mountain,
from behind which it seemed to climb into the heavens with a fringe of
pale silver. We had expressed disappointment at not being able to enter
Chamouny by daylight, but found some compensation in the novel scene of
moonlight upon these vast fields of ice, with their sharp points rising
up like the marshalled spears of an army of Titans, glittering in the
moonlight, or stretching away in other directions in great sheets of
blue ice, or ghostly snow shrouds in the dark distance. We reached the
Hotel Royal at nine and a half P. M., thoroughly tired with our eleven
hours' ride.

Fatigued with travel, I certainly felt no inclination to rise early the
next morning; and so, when a sonorous cow-bell passed, slowly sounding
beneath our window at about four and a half A. M., I mentally
anathematized the wearer, and composed myself for a renewal of sleep.
Scarce comfortably settled ere another cow-bell, with a more spiteful
clang, was heard approaching; clank, clink, clank, clink, like the
chain about a walking ghost, it neared the window at the foot of my
couch, passed, and faded off into the distance. That's gone; but what is
this distant tinkle? Can it be there is sleighing here, and this is a
party returning home? Tinkle, jinkle, tinkle, tinkle--there they come!

        "Away to the window I flew like a flash,
        Tore open"--the curtain, looked out through the sash,--
        "When what to my wondering eyes should appear
        But"

a procession of goats being driven to pasture by a girl in the gray
light of the morning! With an ejaculation more fervid than elegant, the
couch was sought again; but it was of no avail; a new campanologian
company was heard approaching with differently toned instruments of
torture; this was in turn succeeded by another, till it seemed as if
every note in the bell-ringing gamut had been sounded, and every
contrivance, from a church to a tea bell, had been rung.

After half an hour of this torture, flesh and blood could endure it no
longer, and I went once more to the window, to find that beneath it ran
the path by which the goats and cattle of the whole district were driven
to pasture, and, casting my eyes upwards, saw the gorgeous spectacle of
sunrise on Mont Blanc, whose glistening peaks were in full view. Half an
hour's admiration of this spectacle was enough for one not clad for the
occasion, and having made the discovery that the cows and goats were all
driven to pasture before half past six A. M., we took our revenge in two
hours of tired nature's sweet restorer after that time, before
discussing breakfast and topographically examining Chamouny.

Chamouny appears to be a village of eight or ten hotels, a church or
two, and a collection of peasants' huts and poor Swiss houses,
surrounded on all sides by the grandest and most sublime scenery ever
looked upon. It seems to be a grand central point in Switzerland for the
tourists of all nations. The great hotels are full, their _table
d'hotes_ are noisy with the clatter of tongues of half a dozen
nationalities, and gay with the fashions of Paris. The principal portion
of the inhabitants are either employés of the hotels; or guides, and
these Chamouny guides are the best, most honest, and most reliable of
their craft in Europe. They are formed into a regular association, and
bound by very strict rules, such as not being permitted to guide until
of a certain age, not to take the lead till after a certain amount of
experience; and absolute honesty and temperance being requisite for the
service. Indeed, I find that some consider honesty a characteristic
of the Swiss in this region; for upon my remonstrating with a
fellow-tourist, an old traveller, for leaving his watch and chain
exposed upon his dressing-table during his absence from his room at the
hotel, he replied there was no danger, as the attendants in the wing of
the house he occupied were all Swiss, and no English, French, or
Americans ever came there. To be a guide upon the excursions from
Chamouny requires a man of very steady habits, and of unquestionable
skill and endurance; and all of these men that we saw appeared so. They
are very jealous also of their reputation, and never allow it to be
injured by incompetency, dishonesty, or any species of imposition upon
travellers.

Here we are in the midst of Alps, a whole panorama of them in full view
on every side. The River Arve, a dark-colored stream fresh from the
glaciers, roars and rushes through the valley into which Chamouny seems
sunk. Above us are great mountains with snowy peaks; great mountains
with dark-green pines at their base, and splintered, gray, needle-like
points; glittering glaciers, like frozen rivers, can be seen coming down
through great ravines; waterfalls are on the mountain-sides; and
towering up like a gigantic dome, the vastness and awful sublimity of
which is indescribable, is Mont Blanc, which the lover of grand mountain
scenery will pause and gaze at, again and again, in silent awe and
admiration. But whither shall we go? There are dozens of excursions that
may be made. Looking across a level pasture of the valley from our
window, we see a waterfall leaping down the mountain. An easy path to
it is visible, and we make a little excursion, in the forenoon, to the
Falls of Blatière, just to get used to climbing; for at two P. M. mules
were at the door, with trusty guides at their heads, and away we started
for the ascent of the Flegère, a height on the spur of one of the
mountains, commanding a fine view of the Mer de Glace and Glacier des
Bois, which are directly opposite. The ascent of this occupied some
three hours, and the path reminds one very much of the ascent of Mount
Washington, New Hampshire, although the distant scenery is of course
incomparably more grand. We went through woods, and over rocks, across
stony slopes, and up zigzags, until finally we reached the Cross of
Flegère, the point of view.

From this perch we looked right over across on to the Mer de Glace,
where it gushed out like a great frozen torrent around the Montanvert,
and the Glacier des Bois, another silent ice torrent, that flowed out of
it. At our right, far down, five thousand feet below, rested Chamouny,
with the cloudy Arve running beside it. Away off to the left were a
number of needle-like peaks, with vast snow-fields between them; and
nearly in front of us, a little to the left, rose the sharp, jagged
points about the Aiguille Verte, and a right lofty needle it was, its
point piercing the air to the height of twelve thousand five hundred
feet; and then there were the Red Needles, and the Middle Needles, and,
in fact, a whole chain of peaks of the range--the best view we have had
yet, including, of course, the grand old snowy sovereign, Mont Blanc, at
the right, overtopping all the rest.

An hour was spent gazing upon this magnificent scene; after which we
began the descent, which was made in about an hour and a quarter,
bringing us to the hotel door at seven P. M. Our leading guide we
discovered to be an experienced one, of many years' service, who had
guided Louis Napoleon, on his visit here in 1861, soon after Savoy was
annexed to France--a service of which he was quite proud, as the emperor
held his hand during his excursion to the centre of the Mer de Glace
(always necessary for safety); he was also interested in the American
war of the rebellion, and, like all the Swiss who know enough to read,
was strong on the Union side of the question. Being an old soldier, the
song of "Tramp, tramp, the boys are marching," had especial charms for
him, and he called for a repetition of the "Glory, glory, hallelujah"
chorus, till he had mastered the words himself, from a young Union
officer of our party. Of course we were glad to engage our cheerful
_vieux moustache_ for our excursion on the morrow to the Montanvert and
Mer de Glace. In the evening we were called out to see the lights of a
party at the Grand Mulets, where they had halted for the night,
preparatory to completing the ascent of Mont Blanc. The sight of the
little twinkling flame, away up in the darkness, I confess, awakened no
desire in my mind to make the ascent; and I fully agree with one of the
guide-books, which says it cannot conceive why people will undergo the
trial and fatigue of the ascent, when they can risk their lives in a
balloon for one half of the expense.

Next morning we started with guides, and on muleback, for the
Montanvert, directly opposite the Flegère, the scene of our ascent the
day before, twenty minutes' ride across the meadow, and by the river
side; and then we began to ascend the mountain, through romantic pine
woods, and by a zigzag pathway upon the brow of the mountain, crossing,
occasionally, the deep channel of an avalanche, or an earth-slide, and
getting occasional glimpses of the valley below or the mountain
opposite, till, after a three hours' climb, we stand upon a rugged crag,
overlooking the tremendous and awful sea of ice, and the huge mountains
that enclose it.

This great petrified or frozen stream, between its precipitous banks,
seemed more like a mass of dirty snow or dingy plaster than ice. Looking
far up into the gorge between the mountains, we could see where the ice
and snow looked purer and more glistening than that directly beneath us.
Indeed, we began to imagine that the terrors of the passage, told by
travellers and letter-writers, were pure fables; and, to some extent,
they are; and a marked instance of magnifying the dangers is shown in
the account of Miss Frederika Bremer's experience, quoted in Harper's
Guide-Book, which, to any one of ordinary nerves, who has recently made
the passage, appears to be a most ridiculous piece of affectation.

We descended the rocky sides of the cliff, seamed and creased by the
ice-flood, and stood upon the great glacier. At first, near the shore,
it seemed like a mixture of dirty snow and ice, such as is frozen in a
country road after a thaw, and its surface but slightly irregular, and
but little trouble to be anticipated in crossing; but as we advanced far
into its centre, we began to realize more forcibly the appropriateness
of the title given to this great ice-field. On every side of us were
frozen billows, sharp, upheaved points, great spires of ice, congealed
waves, as if a mighty torrent were tumbling down this great ravine, and
had been suddenly arrested by the wand of the ice-king in mid career. We
came to crevasses,--broad splits,--revealing the clear, clean, blue ice,
as we looked hundreds of feet down into them. We crossed and passed some
of them on narrow ice-bridges, not more than two or three feet wide,
where notched steps were cut for us by the forward guide's hatchet, and
we held the firm grasp of one before and one behind, to guard against a
slip, which might have been fatal.

We passed little pools, which were melted into the bosom of this silent
field, and now and then a huge piece of rock in the midst of a pellucid
pool, which had been borne along upon the surface of this slow-moving
stream since it fell from the mountain-side, and gradually sank by its
weight, and the action of the sun. Midway, we were bidden to halt and
look away up the ravine, and see the frozen stream that was coming
tumbling down towards us. There was genuine ice enough now--waves,
mounds, peaks, hillocks, great blue sheets, and foaming masses. It
sparkled like silver beneath the sunbeams between the dark framework of
the two mountains on either side. We stopped talking. Not a sound was
heard. The stillness was as profound as the hush preceding a thunder
storm; and, as we listened, the crash of a great boulder that had become
loosed by the slow-moving torrent, falling into a crevasse from its
brink, echoed for a moment in the solitude, and all was still again.

The sure-footed guides, with their iron-spiked shoes, led us on. The
ladies were a trifle nervous as we passed one or two of the narrower
ice-bridges; but on the route we crossed there were not above three or
four such, and the whole passage was made in less than an hour. Arrived
at the other side, we clambered up the cliff, and began our descent. I
should have remarked, that we sent back the mules from Montanvert, to
meet us upon our descent on the other side of the Mer de Glace, on foot,
by the way of the Mauvais Pas, a tiresome, but most interesting tramp of
three or four miles, over rugged rocks and rough pathways, but such a
one as gives real zest to Alpine journeys, from its exciting scenes.

We now entered upon the celebrated Mauvais Pas. I had read so much, from
youth upwards, about the dangers of this pass, that I began to wonder if
we had done right in bringing ladies, and how we should get around that
sharp projection of the cliff; where a traveller is said to be obliged
to hold on to the face of the rock, and stretch his leg around the
projecting cliff, and feel for a foothold, the guides guarding him from
a slip out into empty space, by standing, one on each side of the
projection, and forming an outside hand-rail, by holding each end of an
alpenstock. Was not this the pass where the Swiss hunter met the
chamois, and, finding that neither could turn backward, had lain down
and let the herd jump over him?

But how these travellers' tales and sublime exaggerations vanish as one
approaches them! The Mauvais Pas may have been _très mauvais_ many years
ago; but either its dangers have been greatly exaggerated, or the hand
of improvement has rendered it _pas mauvais_ at present. It is a series
of steps, hewn for some distance along the rocky side of the mountain.
These steps are about three feet in width from the face of the cliff,
into which a strong iron rail is fastened, by which the traveller may
hold on, the whole distance. The outer edge is unprotected, and, at some
points, it must be confessed, it is an ugly look to glance down the
tremendous heights to the jagged rocks below, that form the shores of
the icy sea; but in some of the more dangerous places, modern
improvement has provided an additional safeguard in an outer rail, so
that the danger is but trifling to persons of ordinary nerve.

Finally, we reach the end of this narrow pathway, and find ourselves at
a small house on a jutting precipice, called the _Chapeau_; and here we
pause and breathe a while, buy beer, Swiss bread and honey, curious
Alpine crystals, &c., and enjoy another one of those wondrous Alpine
views which, once seen, live in memory forever as a scene of sublime
beauty and grandeur.

They call all the mountain peaks needles here. There were the Aiguilles
de Charmoz, ten thousand two hundred feet high, and ever so many other
"_aiguilles_," whose names I have not noted. As we looked down here upon
the glacier, it seemed to be more broken and upheaved; it rose into
huge, sharp, icicle-pointed waves, rent in every direction by large
cracks and fissures; the great pointed pinnacles and upheavals assumed
as curious appearances as the frost-work upon a window; there were a
procession of monks, the pinnacles of a Gothic cathedral, and the ruins
of a temple. It is here that the Mer de Glace begins to debouche into
the Glacier des Bois, which, in turn, runs down into the Chamouny
valley, and from which runs the Arveiron; in fact, the end of this
glacier is the river's source.

Down we go through the woods, and finally strike upon a rocky, rugged
path, on through a mass of miles of pulverized rock, fragments of
boulders, stone chips, and the rocky debris of ages, which has been
brought down by the tremendous grinding of the slow-moving glaciers,
till we reach a valley covered with the moraine in front of the great
ice arches of the Glacier des Bois, out of which rushes the river. Of
course here was a wooden hut, with Swiss crystals, carved work, and a
fee of a franc, if we would like to go under the glacier. There had been
a winding cavern hewed into this great ice wall, and planks laid along
into it for two hundred feet or more, and, with umbrellas to protect us,
the author and two other gentlemen started for this ice grotto, about a
hundred rods distant.

Arrived near its mouth, we beheld, on one side, the river, rushing out
from under a great natural ice arch, fifty feet in height, the glacier
here appearing to be about one hundred feet in height; the stream came
out with a force and vigor, gained, doubtless, from running a long
distance beneath the ice before it came out into the daylight. The ice
grotto, which has been hollowed out for visitors, is eight or ten feet
high, and the guide, who goes on before, lights it up with numerous
candles, placed at intervals, causing the clear, deep-blue ice to
resemble walls of polished steel; but the thought suggested by one
visitor when we had reached the farthermost extremity, "What if the
arches overhead should give way beneath the pressure?" did not incline
us to protract our stay in its chilly recesses; so, returning to the
chalet, where our mules were waiting, that had been sent round and down
from the Montanvert, we completed the day's laborious excursion by an
hour's ride back to the hotel at Chamouny.

Now good by to Chamouny, and away to the Tête Noir Pass, on our way to
Martigny. Starting at eight o'clock A. M., a vehicle carried us to
Argentière, about two hours' ride, where mules were found in waiting, by
the aid of which the rest of the journey, occupying the remainder of the
day, was made, though why the road of this pass is not laid out like
others, as a carriage road, I am at a loss to comprehend, unless it be
that the fees for mules and guides are too profitable a source of income
to be easily relinquished. Indeed, a large portion of the pass, in
its present condition, could be traversed safely by a one-horse
vehicle--some improvement over the tedious muleback ride of a whole
day's duration.

The road is romantic, pleasant, and picturesque, with deep gorges, dark
pine-clad mountains, crags, and waterfalls. Invigorated by the fresh
mountain air, we left our mules to follow in the train with the guides
and ladies, and, alpenstock in hand, trudged forward on foot, keeping in
advance by short cuts, and having an infinitely better opportunity,
under the guidance of a tourist who had been over the route, of enjoying
the scenery. We passed two or three waterfalls, walked over a spot noted
as being swept by avalanches in the early spring, where was a cross in
memory of a young count and two guides who fell beneath one: the guides
say, when the avalanche is heard approaching, it is already too late to
think of escaping, so swift is its career, and nothing but the hand of
Providence will save the traveller from destruction.

Our path carried us through a wild, stony ravine, with great mountains
on either side, and the inevitable river in the centre, rushing and
foaming over the rocks. Then we went up and over a beautiful mountain
path, commanding fine views of the distant mountains, with deep gorges
below, then wound round the base of the Tête Noir Mountain and through
the woods, and a tunnel, pierced through a rocky spur of the mountain,
that jutted out upon the pass. We saw away across, from one point on our
journey, the wild-looking road that was the route to the Pass of the
Great St. Bernard, and at another, looked far down into the valley,
where we could see the River Trient rushing and tumbling on its course.
We soon came to a point, before commencing our descent, which commanded
a view of the Rhone valley as far as Sion, spread out, seemingly, as
flat as a carpet, with the river meandering through its entire length,
the white chalets and brown roads looking rather hot in the blaze of the
afternoon sunlight. The view of this valley--what little we saw of
it--is far better at this distance than when one reaches its tumble-down
towns and poor inhabitants.

We went down a pleasant descent, past orchards and farm-houses, till we
reached Martigny, where we had supper, and were nearly devoured by
mosquitos, so that at nine P. M. we were glad to take the railway
train. How odd it seemed to be rattling over a railroad, in a
comfortable railway carriage, after our mountain experiences! The train,
at quarter past ten o'clock, landed us at Sion, where we took up our
quarters at the Hotel de la Poste, an Italian inn, with an obsequious
little French landlord, who was continually bowing, and rubbing his
hands, as if washing them with invisible soap, and saying, "_Oui,
monsieur_," to every question that was asked him, and withal looking so
like the old French teacher of my boyhood's days, that it seemed as
though it must be the old fellow, who had stopped growing old, and been
transported here by some mysterious means.

The fifteen-mile mountain tramp I had made, and the day's journey, as a
whole, caused the not very comfortable beds of the hotel to seem
luxurious couches soon after arrival, and we therefore deferred
interviews with Italian drivers, a crowd of whom were in attendance
from Stressa, via the Simplon Road, and who were anxious to open
negotiations, till the next morning, notwithstanding their assertions
that they might be engaged and gone when we should come down to
breakfast, and that we should, therefore, lose the magnificent
opportunities they were offering.

We were fortunate in having the company of a gentleman who had
frequently been over this route, and fully understood the _modus
operandi_ of making contracts with Italian post drivers, as will be
seen. It seems that there are often drivers here at Sion who have driven
parties from Stressa (via the Simplon) who desire to get a freight back,
and with whom the tourist, if he understands matters, can make a very
reasonable contract, as they prefer to take a party back at a low rate,
rather than to wait long at an expense, or return with empty vehicles.
If there be more than one (as in our case) of these waiting post
drivers, there is likely to be a competition among them, which of course
results to the tourist's advantage.

Therefore, after breakfast, instead of "having been engaged and gone,"
we found two or three anxious drivers, who jabbered with all their might
about the merits of their respective vehicles and themselves, and were
anxious to be engaged. The price mentioned as _bon marché_ at first was
four hundred francs for our whole party of seven for the three days'
journey over the Simplon Pass to Lake Maggiore; and really, I thought it
was, and had I been the negotiator for the party, should have closed;
but not so he who acted for us--acted in more senses than one; for when
this price was named, he gave the true French deprecatory shrug of the
shoulders, filled his pipe, and sat down on the hotel portico to smoke.
Ere long he was waited upon by driver number two, who represented that
three hundred and fifty francs would induce _him_ to take the party, "if
monsieur would start _to-day_." Smoker only elevated his eyebrows, and
thought if he "waited a few days there would be more carriages here."

In fifteen minutes the price was down to three hundred francs--no
anxiety on the part of monsieur to close.

A smart young driver, whose team had been "eating their heads off" for
three days, proposed two hundred and twenty francs, and to pay all
expenses, except our own hotel bills; and monsieur concluded to accept
him, putting the agreement, to prevent mistakes, in writing, which is
necessary with the Italian drivers. The contract was duly signed.

"When would monsieur's party be ready?"

"In fifteen minutes;" and the calm, indifferent smoker, to the driver's
surprise, became a lithe, elastic American, driving half a dozen
servants nearly crazy by hurrying them down with the luggage, mustering
the whole party with explanations of the necessity of starting at once,
and helping the landlord's major-domo make out the bills, without giving
any opportunity of getting in extras that we didn't have.

He shouted in Italian at the driver, who, with the stable-helpers, was
putting in the horses, jabbered in French with the hotel servants, and
in half an hour we were seated in the vehicle, with the luggage strapped
on behind, and the old landlord and the waiters and porters bowing at
the door, as we started, amid a volley of whip smacks, sounding like the
firing of a bunch of Chinese crackers.

These post drivers are marvellously skilful at whip-snapping. They can
almost crack out a tune with their whips, and they make a noise
consistent with their ideas of the importance of their freight, or
perhaps as a signal to the landlords that especial attention is
required, as distinguished foreigners are coming; for, as they
approached hotels, or drove into their court-yards, it was always with
eight or a dozen pistol-like cracks in succession that brought out a
bowing landlord and string of servants, who formed a double line from
the carriage to the door, welcoming the tourist in with great deference
and politeness. On the road the whip-cracks admonish all peasants,
donkey-carts, and market-wagons to sheer off, and allow monsieur's
carriage to pass; and, as he enters a little village, the fusillade from
his lash brings half the population to the doors and windows.

Our first day's journey, after leaving Sion, was through the Rhone
Valley--rather a hot ride, and tame and uninteresting after the grand
views we had been enjoying. We passed Sierre on a hill-side, rattled
over a bridge across the Rhone, having a view of pleasantly-wooded hills
near at hand, and the great mountains in the background; then passed
two or three other villages, and finally halted at a place called
Tourtemagne for dinner. After this we pushed on, went past Visp, and in
the afternoon trotted into Brieg, where, with a view to a good night's
rest before the morrow's journey, we stopped for the night. After tea
we had a magnificent view of sunset upon the lofty snow-clads above
us, which fairly glowed in a halo of rose-pink--a beautiful and
indescribable effect. Far away up on one of the mountain sides we were
pointed to the road over which we were to journey on the morrow. After
an early breakfast we started off with the usual fusillade of
whip-cracks, and were soon upon the famous Simplon Road.

This magnificent road is one of the wonders of the old world. Its cost
must have been enormous, and the cost of keeping it in such splendid
condition very large, owing to the injury it must inevitably sustain
from storms and avalanches during the winter season. The cost of the
road is said to have averaged over three thousand pounds sterling per
mile. The splendid engineering excites admiration from even the
inexperienced in those matters. You go sometimes right up the very face
of a steep mountain, that would seem to have originally been almost
inaccessible, by means of a series of zigzags. Then again the road winds
round a huge mountain wall, thousands of feet high on one side, with a
yawning ravine thousands of feet deep on the other. Long tunnels pierce
through the very heart of mountains. Bridges span dizzy heights and mad
torrents. Great galleries, or shelters, protect some parts of the road,
which are suspended midway up the mountain, from the avalanches which
ever and anon thunder down from above. At one place, where a great a
roaring cataract comes down, the road is conducted safely under the
sheet, which scatters but a few drops of spray upon it, except the
covered portion, as it leaps clear over the passage, and plunges into
the deep abyss below, a mass of thundering foam.

This part of the road, we were told, although it was a section not six
hundred feet long, was one of the most difficult to construct, and
required the labor of a hundred men for over a year and a half before it
could be completed, it being necessary in some places to suspend the
workmen by ropes from above, until a platform and a footing could be
built. And, indeed, standing there with the torrent roaring above, and
leaping clear over our heads away down into that rocky gorge, the clean,
broad road the only foothold about there, we could only wonder at human
skill, perseverance, and ingenuity in overcoming natural obstacles. From
the great glaciers far above the Kaltwasser come several other rushing
cascades, one of which, as you approach, seems as if it would drop
directly upon the road itself, but hits just short of it, and plunges
directly under, so that you can stand on the arched bridge, and look
right at it, as it comes leaping fiercely to wards you.

Murray gives the bridges, great and small, on this wonderful road
between Brieg and Sesto as "six hundred and eleven, in addition to the
far more vast and costly constructions, such as terraces of massive
masonry, miles in length, ten galleries, either cut out of the living
rock or built of solid stone, twenty houses of refuge to shelter
travellers, and lodge the laborers constantly employed in taking care of
the road. Its breadth is throughout at least twenty-five feet, in some
places thirty feet, and the average slope nowhere exceeds six inches in
six feet and a half."

After emerging from the Kaltwasser Glacier Gallery, we had a superb view
of the Rhone Valley, with Brieg, which we had left in the morning,
directly beneath us, while away across the valley, distinctly visible in
the clear atmosphere, rose the Bernese Alps, with the Breithorn, and
Aletshorn, and the great Aletsch Glacier distinctly visible. At the
highest point of the pass is the Hospice, over six thousand two hundred
feet above the level of the sea; and here we halted for a lunch, and
then trudged on in advance, leaving the carriage and ladies to overtake
us--enjoying the wild scenery of distant snow-capped mountains, great
glaciers, with cascades pouring from their ruffled edges to the green
valleys that were far below.

Soon after passing the little village of Simplon, we came to the
never-to-be-forgotten ravine of Gondo, one of the wildest, grandest, and
most magnificent gorges in the whole Alps. The ravine, as you proceed,
grows narrower and narrower, with its huge, lofty walls of rock rising
on either side. The furious River Diveria rushes through it like a
regiment of white-plumed cavalry at full gallop, and its thundering roar
is not unlike the tremendous rush of their thousand hoof-beats, as it
goes up between these massy barriers. The gorge narrows till there is
nought but road and river, with the black crags jutting out over the
pathway, and we come to a huge black mass that seems a barrier directly
across it; but through this the determined engineers have bored a great
gallery, and we ride through a tunnel of six hundred and eighty-three
feet in length, to emerge upon a new surprise, and a scene which called
forth a shout of admiration from every one of us.

As we emerged from this dark, rocky grotto, we beheld the towering
masses of rock on either side, like great walls of granite upholding,
the blue masonry of heaven, that seemed bent like a vaulted arch above;
and from one side, right at our very path, coming from far above with a
roar like thunder, leaped a mass of foam, like a huge cascade of snowy
ostrich plumes--the Fressinone Waterfall, which tossed its fine,
scintillating spray upon the slender bridge that spanned the gorge,
while the roaring cataract itself passed beneath, striking sixty or
eighty feet below upon the black rocks. It is a magnificent cascade, and
prepared us for the grandeur of the great gorge of Gondo, with its huge
walls of rock rising two thousand feet high, which seemed, when we were
hemmed in to their prison walls of black granite, as though there was no
possible way out, except upwards to the strip of sky that roofed the
narrow ravine.

Other cascades and waterfalls we saw, but none like the magnificent
Fressinone, with the graceful and apparently slender-arched bridge, that
almost trembled beneath its rush as we stood upon it--the huge rocky
walls towering to heaven, the black entrance to the tunnel just beyond,
looking, in the midst of this wild scene of terrific grandeur, like the
cavern of some powerful enchanter--the wild, deep gorge, with the
foaming waters swiftly gliding away in masses of tumbling foam far
below, and all the surroundings so grand and picturesque as to make it
no wonder that it is a favorite study for artists, as one of the most
spirited of Alpine pictures.

We passed the granite pillar that marked the boundary line, and were in
Italy; and soon after at the mountain custom-house and inn, where we
were to dine. The officials are very polite, make scarce any examination
whatever of the luggage of tourists; and our trunks remained undisturbed
on the travelling carriage while we dined.

Now we begin to ride towards the valley, and soon begin to have Italian
views of sunny landscape and trellised vines. We reach the town of Domo
d' Ossola, and our driver proclaims his coming by a _feu de joie_ with
the whip. The town looks like a collection of worn-out scenery thrown
together promiscuously from an old theatre. Old shattered arches cross
the street; half-ruined houses of solid masonry have the graceful
pillars of their lower stories broken and cracked, and ornamented with
strings of onions and bunches of garlic, sold in the shops within; old
churches, with a Gothic arch here and there, are turned into a warehouse
or a stable; tough old mahogany-colored women are seen squatting before
baskets of peaches, grapes, and figs in the streets; dark-skinned,
black-eyed girls, with the flat Italian head-dresses seen in pictures;
men, dirty and lazy-looking, with huge black whiskers, dark, greasy
complexions, in red and blue flannel shirts, and their coats thrown over
their shoulders without putting their arms in the sleeves, the coats
looking as though they had done many years duty in cleaning oiled
machinery; curious houses with overhanging upper stories; striped
awnings project outside of upper windows; a garlicky, greasy, Italian
smell pervades the narrower streets, from which we were glad to emerge
into the more open square, upon which our hotel--quite a spacious
affair--was located.

Our carriage rattled beneath the arched entrance, and into the paved
court-yard, where were three or four other similar equipages, and two
great lumbering diligences, while the rattling peal of whip-crack
detonations must have made the landlord think that a grand duke and
suite, at least, were arriving; for he tumbled out, with half a dozen
waiters, porters, and helpers, in a twinkling, and we were soon bestowed
in cool and lofty rooms, with many bows and flourishes. This old hotel
was a curiosity, many of its rooms opening upon the wooden gallery that
ran all around and above the large paved court-yard, into which
diligences arrived, stopped for the night, or took up their loads and
departed, and post carriages came with their freights to and from the
Simplon. It always had a group or two of drivers harnessing up, or
wrangling over something or other, or travellers, stowing themselves
away in the diligence; horses stamping, and jingling their bells and
harnesses; tourists, hunting up luggage; or couriers, arranging matters
for the travelling parties they were cheating.

The fatigue of a day's mountain ride, and continued sight-seeing,
however, made us sleep soundly, despite any of these noises. Of all
fatigues, the tourist ere long discovers the fatigue of a constant
succession of sight-seeing to be the most exhausting; so that he soon
comes to regard a tolerably good bed and clean room as among the most
agreeable experiences of his journey. In the morning we were escorted to
the carriage with many bows by the young Italian landlord, and his wife,
who, with one of those splendid oval faces, beautiful hair descending in
graceful curve to and away from her rich, pure brunette complexion, her
wonderful great lustrous eyes, a head such as one seldom sees, except in
a painting or upon a cameo, made every Englishman or American, when he
first saw her, start with surprise, utter something to his neighbor, and
always look at her a second time, evidently to the landlord's
gratification, for he did not seem to have a particle of the traditional
Italian jealousy about him--perhaps he had been married too long.

The landlord and his wife said something very pretty by way of a
farewell, no doubt, for there were "_grazias_," "_buonos_," "_addios_,"
and some other words, which I remember having heard sung by singers at
the opera, in his speech, to which our driver responded with a royal
salute of whip-cracks, and we dashed out of the court-yard once more on
our journey.

Our road now lay through the Italian valley, and we pass Vogogna,
Ornavasso, and other towns, and things begin to wear a decidedly Italian
aspect--the grape trellises, with their clustering fruit; half-ruined
dwellings, with stucco work peeling off them; the general greasy, lazy,
half-brigandish look of the men; and the partiality for high colors in
dress on the part of the peasant women. Fresh from the invigorating air
of the Alpine passes, we felt the full force of the Italian sun.
Although late in August, the weather is not hotter, apparently, than in
Boston; but when the sun gets fairly at you in Italy, it seems to shine
clear through, and come out on the other side. Fifteen minutes in its
blaze, without the protection of one of the yellow, green-lined
umbrellas, will almost wilt the vigor out of anybody but a native. It
goes through the frame like a Boston east wind.

With this sun shining from a blue, cloudless, Italian sky, it may well
be imagined how grateful was a beautiful portion of the country, where
there were shady olive groves, chestnut and fig trees, and how luscious
were our first grapes and fruit purchased of the peasant women at the
roadside. We passed, as we approached Lake Maggiore, a fine granite
quarry, which seemed to have been laid under contribution to furnish
posts for the telegraphic line. Think of that luxury, granite telegraph
posts, fifteen feet high, of clear, handsome stone. We rode past them
for miles and miles, and soon came in sight of the far-famed Maggiore.
It was beautiful as a picture; and as our carriage drove along its
shore, the cool afternoon breeze came fresh and grateful to us, after
our heated experiences. Across one corner of the lake in a ferry-boat, a
short drive farther by the lake shore, and we whirled up to the splendid
Hotel des Iles Borromées directly fronting the lake, with its beautiful
flower-garden, with walks and fountains. We found the interior of this
hotel delightfully cool and clean, the staircases and floors of stone,
and the bedsteads of iron--advantages of construction in Italy the
utility of which the traveller soon learns to appreciate.

The lake is as charming as poets have sung and travellers told, with its
beautiful island and lovely blue waters. The Isola Bella, directly
opposite my windows, with its splendid terraces, one above the other,
rising a hundred feet above the lake, and rich with its graceful
cypresses, lemon trees, magnolias, orange trees, with golden fruit, and
sparkling fountains, statues, and pillars, peeping through the luxurious
foliage, is charming to look upon. But when--my _siesta_ over, and as
the sun was low in the west, with a cool air coming from the water, and
the little pleasure-boats, with their striped awnings, were gliding
hither and thither--I saw come down the road for his evening walk a
brown-robed, barefooted, rope-girdled, shaven friar, and, from the
opposite direction, a little dark-skinned Italian lad, with pointed hat,
decorated with gay ribbons, rough leggings bound to his knee, and a
mandolin in his hand, it seemed, in the soft, dreamy, hazy atmosphere,
that I was looking upon an old oil painting. The effect was heightened
when the boy struck his instrument, and began to sing--and beautifully
he did sing, too. I have heard worse singing by some whose names were in
large letters on the opera bills. The friar halted, and leaned on a gray
rock at the road-side to listen, while he toyed absently with his
rosary. Two or three peasant girls, in their bright costumes, and one
with an earthen jar on her head, paused in a group, and a barelegged
boatman, in a red cap, rested two tall oars upon the ground, the whole
forming so picturesque a group as to look as if posed for a picture.

How pleasant is an evening sail on this lovely lake! how romantic are
Isola Bella and its sister islands! how like a soft, dreamy picture is
the whole scene! and how all the surroundings seemed exactly fitted to
harmonize with it!--a purely Italian scene, the picturesque beauty of
which will long linger in the memory.

We had a delightful sail from Stressa, along the shores of Maggiore to
Sesto Calende, heard the sweet sound of convent bells come musically
across its glassy tide, passed Arona, behind which we could see the
colossal bronze statue of San Carlo Borromeo, sixty-six feet high,
placed upon a pedestal forty feet in height, looking like an immense
giant, with its hand stretched out towards the lake from the hill on
which it stands. From Sesto Calende the railway train conveyed us to
Milan, where we were landed in a magnificent railway station, the
waiting rooms large and lofty, the ceilings elegantly frescoed, and the
walls painted with beautifully executed allegorical pictures and Italian
landscapes, giving one the idea that he had arrived in a country where
artistic painting was a drug in the market, so lavishly was it used in
this manner in the railway stations.

Our rooms at the Hotel Cavour look out on a handsome square and the
public gardens. In the square stands a statue of Cavour, upon a pedestal
placed at the top of a set of granite steps. Upon these steps, seated in
the most natural position, is a bronze figure of the genius of fame or
history (a female figure) represented in the act of inscribing Cavour's
name with her pen upon the bronze pedestal. And so natural is this
representation, that strangers who see the group in the evening for the
first time, often fancy that some unauthorized person has got into the
enclosure, and is defacing the statue.

The first sight to be seen in Milan is the cathedral; and before this
magnificent architectural wonder, all cathedrals I have yet looked upon
seem to sink into insignificance.

A forest of white marble pinnacles, a wilderness of elegant statues, an
interminable maze, and never-ending mass of bewildering tracery, greets
the beholder, who finds himself gaping at it in astonishment, and
wondering where he will begin to look it over, or if it will be possible
for him to see it all. The innumerable graceful pinnacles, surmounted by
statues, the immense amount of luxurious carving prodigally displayed on
every part of the exterior, strike the visitor with amazement. Its
architecture is Gothic, and the form that of a Latin cross; and to give
an idea of its size, I copy the following authentic figures of its
dimensions: "The extreme length is four hundred and eighty-six feet, and
the breadth two hundred and fifty-two feet; the length of the transept
two hundred and eighty-eight feet, and the height inside, from pavement
to roof, one hundred and fifty-three feet; height from pavement to top
of the spire, three hundred and fifty-five feet."

After taking a walk around the exterior of this wonderful structure, and
gazing upon the architectural beauties of the great white marble
mountain, we prepared to ascend to the roof before visiting the
interior.

This ascent is made by a broad white marble staircase of one hundred and
fifty-eight steps, the end of which being reached, the visitor finds
himself amid an endless variety of beautiful pinnacles, flying
buttresses, statues, carvings, and tracery. Here are regular walks laid
out, terminating in or passing handsome squares, in the centre of which
are life-size statues by Canova, Michael Angelo, and other great
sculptors. You come to points commanding extensive views of the elegant
flying buttresses, which are beautifully wrought, and present a vista of
hundreds of feet of white marble tracery as elegant, elaborate, and
bewildering as the tree frost-work of a New England winter.

Here is a place called the "Garden," where you are surrounded by
pinnacles, richly ornamented Gothic arches, flying buttresses, with
representations of leaves, flowers, pomegranate heads, tracery,
statuary, and ornaments in such prodigality as to fairly excite
exclamation at the profuseness displayed. In every angle of the building
the eye meets new and surprising beauties, magnificent galleries,
graceful arcs, and carved parapets, pointed, needle-like pinnacles,
Gothic arches, and clustered pillars.

We come to where the carvers and stone-cutters are at work. They have a
regular stone-cutters' yard up here on the roof, with sheds for the
workmen and stone-carvers, and their progress is marked on the building
by the fresher hue of the work. These old cathedrals are never finished;
their original plans are lost, and there always seems to be some great
portion of the work that is yet to be carried out. We should have got
lost in the maze of streets, squares, and passages upon the roof,
without a guide.

A total ascent of five hundred and twelve steps carries the visitor to
the platform of the great cupola, from which a fine view of the city is
obtained, the plains surrounding it bounded by the girdle of distant,
snow-capped mountains. Directly beneath can be seen the cruciform shape
of the great cathedral; and looking down, we find that one hundred and
thirty-six spires and pinnacles rise from the roof, and that clustered
on and about them is a population of over _thirty-five hundred_ statues.
Nearly a hundred are said to be added each year by the workmen. Amid
this bewildering scene of architectural wonders, it is not surprising
that two hours passed ere we thought of descending; and even then we
left no small portion of this aerial garden, this marble forest of
enchantment, with but the briefest glance.

But if the roof was so beautiful, what must be the appearance of the
interior of this great temple?

It was grand beyond description; the great nave over four hundred feet
in length, the four aisles with their vistas of nearly the same length
of clustered pillars--four complete ranges of them, fifty-two in
all--supporting the magnificent vaulted arch one hundred and fifty feet
above our heads. The vastness of the space as you stand in it beside one
of the great Gothic pillars, the base of which, even, towers up nearly
as high as your head--the very vastness of the interior causes you to
feel like a fly under the dome of St. Paul's. An idea of the size of
this cathedral may be had from the fact, that while workmen with ladder,
hammer, and tools were putting up a painting upon the walls at one end
of the church, the priests were conducting a service with sixty or
seventy worshippers at the other, undisturbed by the noise of hammer or
metal tool, the blows of which, even if listened for, could scarce be
heard beyond a faint click.

A good opera-glass is a necessity in these great cathedrals, a good
guide-book is another; and I find the glass swung by its strap beneath
one arm, and the tourist's satchel beneath the other, positive
conveniences abroad, however snobbish they may appear at home.

There are five great doorways to the church, and the visitor's attention
is always called by the guide to the two gigantic pillars near the
largest door. These are single columns of polished red granite,
thirty-five feet high and four feet in diameter at the base; they
support a sort of balcony, upon which stand the colossal figures of two
saints. All along the sides of the cathedral are chapels, elegant
marble altars and altar tombs, interspersed with statues and pictures.
The capitals of many of the great columns have finely carved statues
grouped about them; some have eight, and others more. The ceiling of the
vaulted roof, which, from the pavement, appears to be sculptured
stone-work, is only a clever imitation in painting; but the floor of the
cathedral is laid out in mosaic of different colored marbles.

With what delight we wandered about this glorious interior! There was
the great window, with its colored glass, representing the Virgin Mary's
assumption, executed by Bertini. Here were the monument raised by Pius
IV. to his brothers, cut from fine Carrara marble, except the statues,
after Michael Angelo's designs; the pulpits, that are partly of bronze
work, and elegantly ornamented with bass-reliefs which encircle two of
the great pillars, and are themselves held up by huge caryatides;
numerous monuments, among them the bright-red marble tomb of Ottone
Visconti, who left his property to the Knights of St. John, who erected
this monument; the beautiful carved stalls of the choir, the high altar
and magnificent Gothic windows behind it.

In the south transept is the celebrated statue of St. Bartholomew, who
was flayed alive, and who is represented as having undergone that
operation and taking a walk, with his own skin thrown carelessly over
one arm, after the manner of an overcoat which the weather has rendered
oppressive to the wearer. But this statue can hardly fail to chain the
spectator some moments to the spot, on account of the hideous accuracy
with which every artery, muscle, and tendon appear to be represented. I
had never thought before how a man might look when stripped of that
excellent fitting garment, the _cutis vera_; but this statue gave me as
correct an idea of it as I ever wish to obtain. It is said to have been
executed by the great sculptor Phidias, and to be wonderfully correct in
anatomical detail. The latter fact can hardly be doubted by any who look
upon the marvellous skill which appears to have been exhausted upon
every part of it. Shocking as it appeared, I found myself drawn, again
and again, to look upon it; such is its effect as a wondrous work of
art.

Now the guide leads to a crypt below the pavement. We are to visit the
chapel where rests the good St. Charles Borromeo, who died nearly three
centuries ago. We go down nine or ten steps, pass through a passage
lined with the richest marbles, a portal adorned with splendid columns,
with their capitals and bases richly gilt, and stand in the sepulchral
chapel of the saint. It is a small octagonal apartment, lighted by an
opening from above, which is surrounded by a rail, so that the faithful
may look down upon the sarcophagus below. The walls of this apartment
are formed of eight massive silver bass-reliefs, representing remarkable
events in the saint's life. Then in the angles are eight caryatides of
massive silver, representing his virtues. The sarcophagus, which rests
upon the altar, is a large bronze box mounted with silver. A douceur of
five francs to the attendant priest, and he reverently crosses himself,
and, bending at a crank, causes the bronze covers of the shrine to fold
away, revealing to our view the dead body of the saint, in a splendid
transparent coffin of pure rock crystal, bound with silver, and
ornamented also with small silver statues, bearing the cipher of the
royal donor, Philip IV. of Spain.

There lay the good bishop, who had preached humility all his life,
arrayed in his episcopal garb, which was one blaze of precious stones.
Diamonds of the purest water flashed back their colored light to the
glare of the altar candles; rubies, like drops of blood, glowed in fiery
splendor, and emeralds shone green as sea-waves in the sunlight. The
saint held in his left hand a golden pastoral staff, fairly crusted with
precious stones. A splendid cross of emeralds and diamonds is suspended
above him within the shrine; it is the gift of Maria Theresa, and about
the head is a magnificent golden crown, rich with the workmanship of
that wonderful artificer, Benvenuto Cellini, the gift of the Elector of
Bavaria. But there, amid all these flashing jewels, that which the rich
habiliments failed to conceal, was the grinning skull, covered with the
shrivelled skin black with age, the sunken eye-sockets, and all bearing
the dread signet-stamp of Death; making it seem a hideous mockery to
trick out these crumbling remains with senseless trappings, now so
useless to the once mortal habitation of an immortal soul. We leave the
saint to sleep in his costly mausoleum, his narrow, eight-sided chamber,
and its riches, representing one hundred and sixty thousand pounds
sterling, and follow our guide to view more of the wealth of the church.

Here we are in the sacristy, and the custodian shows us two huge statues
of St. Charles and St. Ambrose of solid silver, and their sacerdotal
robes thickly studded with jewels; magnificent silver busts, life-size,
of other bishops; elegant gold candelabra; goblets and altar furniture
of rare and exquisite workmanship; silver lamps, censers, chalices, &c.,
of those rare, delicate, and beautiful old patterns that were a charm to
look upon; missals studded with precious stones; rich embroideries, rare
altar-pieces, and one solid ornamental piece of silver-work, weighing
over one hundred pounds. All these riches locked up, useless here, save
as a sight to the wonder-seeking tourist; while poor, ragged worshippers
of the church of Rome are prostrating themselves without, before the
great altar, from which they rise and waylay him as he passes out, to
beseech him--the heretic--for a few coppers, for the love of God, to
keep them from starvation. I can well imagine what rich plunder old
Cromwell's bluff Round-heads must have found in the Roman Catholic
cathedrals of England, although I have more than once mentally
anathematized their vandalism, which was shown in defacing and
destroying some of the most beautiful specimens of art of the middle
ages.

The old Church of St. Ambrosio is an interesting edifice to visit, with
its curious relics, tombs, altars, and inscriptions. The principal altar
here is remarkable for its richness; its sides are completely enclosed
in a strong iron-bound and padlocked sheathing, which, however, the
silver key unlocked, and we found the front to be sheathed in solid
gold, elegantly enamelled and ornamented, the back and sides being of
solid silver; all about the border, corners, and edges were set every
species of precious stones, cameos, and rich jewels. The rubies,
amethysts, topazes, &c., were in the rough, uncut; but the goldsmith's
work, carving and chasing, was elaborate, and the dirty friar who
exhibited the sight, with small candles, about the size of pen-holders,
stuck between his fingers, took much pride in pointing out the beauties
of the work, and holding his little candles so that their light might be
the more effectual to display them. The back was all covered with
representations of the principal events in the life of St. Ambrose,
separated from each other by enamelled borders.

We next went to the refectory of the Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie,
and saw Leonardo da Vinci's celebrated painting of the Last Supper, the
picture that we are all familiar with from childhood, from having seen
it in Bibles, story-books, and engravings. In fact, it is _the_ picture
of the Last Supper always referred to when the representation is spoken
of. I could not go into raptures over this half-defaced fresco, which
has had a door cut through one portion of it, has sustained the damage
incidental to the refectory, being used as a cavalry stable, and has
twice been nearly all painted over by bad artists since the great
painter left it; and he, in his preparation of the wall for the
painting, used a process which proved a failure, causing it to fade and
flake off. Although this is the great original, from which so many
copies are taken,--and it is something to have seen the original,--we
think we have seen more than one copy far more striking, and more
beautiful in its finish.

A ramble through Victor Emmanuel's palace gave us an opportunity of
seeing some fine pictures, the great state ball-room, elegantly-frescoed
ceilings, and the rich furniture and tapestry, that one ere long begins
to find are in some degree, when no historical association is connected
with them, so much alike in all palaces. The celebrated La Scala Theatre
was closed for the season during our visit to Milan; but the custodians
have an eye to business. They keep the lower row of gas-lights burning,
turned low, and for a consideration turn on the gas, and light up the
vast interior sufficiently for visitors to get something of an idea of
it.

Notwithstanding its vast size, the excellence of its internal
arrangements for seeing and hearing is remarkable. Standing upon the
stage, we delivered a Shakespearian extract to an extremely select but
discriminating audience, whose applause was liberally, and, need we add,
deservedly bestowed. I know not how it may be when the house is filled
with an audience, but it appeared to us that its acoustic properties
were remarkable, for a "stage whisper" could be distinctly heard at the
extreme rear of the centre of the first row of boxes, while the echo of
the voice seemed to return to the speaker on the stage, as from a
sounding-board above his head, with marvellous distinctness. This house
will hold an audience of thirty-six hundred persons. The distance from
the centre box to the curtain is ninety-six feet; width of the stage,
fifty-four feet; and depth of the stage behind the curtain, one hundred
and fifty feet--room enough for the most ambitious scenic display.
The form of the house is the usual semicircle, there being forty-one
boxes in each row. Many of those in the first row have small
withdrawing-rooms. One--the Duke Somebody's--has a supper room, in which
his highness and friends partake of a _petit souper_ between the acts,
there being cooking conveniences for the preparation of the same below.

The brevity of our visit to Milan causes the day that was devoted to the
wonderful library, the Biblioteca Ambrosiana, with its grand halls, its
one hundred and fifty thousand volumes, and eight thousand manuscripts,
rare autographic and literary treasures, and the great halls of
paintings, where the works of Guido, Paul Veronese, Raphael, Da Vinci,
and Rubens adorn the walls, to seem like a wondrous dream; and our
general rule being to see thoroughly what we saw, we regretted that we
had even attempted these two interesting galleries--places which, to any
one having any taste whatever for art or literature, it is little less
than an aggravation to be hurried through.

By rail from Milan we came to a place about a mile from Como, where
omnibuses conveyed us through that hot, vilesmelling, filthy Italian
town to the pier on the lake, where the steamer was waiting our arrival,
and which we were right glad to have paddle out into the lake from the
vile odors that surrounded us. But once out upon the blue waters, and
free from the offence to our nostrils, how charming was the scene! The
dirty city that we had left was picturesque on the undulating shore,
with its old tower, spires, and quaint houses. As we sailed along,
beautiful villas were seen on the shore, their fronts with marble
pillars, their gardens with terraces rich in beautiful flowers, and
adorned with statues, vases, and fountains; marble steps, with
huge carved balusters, ran down to the very water's edge, where
awning-covered pleasure-boats were in waiting--just such scenes as you
see on the act-drop at the theatre, and believe to be mere flights of
artistic fancy, but which now are found to exist in reality.

At a point where Lake Como divides into two arms, one extending to Como
and the other to Lecco, we passed Bellaggio, one of the most beautiful
spots ever seen. It is on a high promontory at this point, commanding
extensive views of the lake and surrounding country. The promontory is
covered with the elegant villas of wealthy people.

There is something luxurious and charming in a sail upon this lovely
lake, with the beautiful villas upon its shores, the vine-clad hills,
with the broad-hatted peasant women seen among the grape-vines, white
turreted churches, brown, distant convents, from which the faint music
of the bell came softened over the water, the long reaches of beautiful
landscape view between the hills, the soft, blue sky, and the delicious,
dreamy atmosphere. A charming lake is Como, but with many objects, "'tis
distance lends enchantment to the view."

A boat put off from a romantic little cove for the steamer, which paused
for its arrival. Its occupants were a stalwart rower, in blue shirt, red
cap, and black slashed breeches, a sort of Massaniello-looking fellow,
who bent to the oars with a will, and a friar, with shaven crown and
brown cowl, with cross and rosary at his waist. Soon after we saw the
holy man on board; and certainly he did not believe cleanliness was
next to godliness, for all that was visible of his person was filthy,
and evidently not on frequent visiting acquaintance with soap and water,
while the vile odor of garlic formed a halo of nearly three feet in
circumference about his person--an odor of sanctity requiring the
possession of a stomach not easily disturbed to enable one to endure it.
I once saw one of these friars at a railway station, whose curious
blending of the mediæval and modern together in his costume and
occupation struck me as so irresistibly comical that I could not resist
a laugh, much to his amazement. But fancy seeing a friar, or monk, in
the sandals, brown robe, and corded waist, just such as you have seen in
engravings, and whom you naturally associate with Gothic cathedrals,
cloistered convents, as bearing a crosier, or engaged in some
ecclesiastical occupation--fancy seeing a monk in this well-known
costume, near a railway station, his head surmounted with a modern straw
hat, a sort of market-basket in his hand, and smoking a cigarette with
great nonchalance as he watched the train!

We landed at Colico, at the end of the lake--a filthy place, where dirt
was trumps, and garlic and grease were triumphant. We attempted a meal
at the hotel while the diligence was getting ready; but on coming to the
board, notwithstanding it was with sharpened appetites, the dirt and
odor were too much for us, and we retreated in good order, at the
expense of five francs for the landlord's trouble and unsuccessful
attempt. A diligence ride of eighteen miles brought us to Chiavenna at
eight o'clock P.M. Here the hotel was tolerable, the landlord and head
waiter spoke English, and, late as it was, we ordered dinner, for we
were famished; and a very delectable one we had, and comfortable rooms
for the night. Chiavenna is a dull old place, with the ruins of the
former residences and strongholds of the old dukes of Milan scattered
about it. One old shattered castle was directly opposite our hotel.

We now prepared for a journey from here over another Alpine pass, the
Splügen. This pass was constructed by the Austrians, in 1821, in order
to preserve for themselves a good passage over to Lombardy. We engaged
our post carriage as usual, with a fair _written_ contract with the
driver,--necessary when agreeing with an Italian, to prevent
_mistakes_,--and preliminaries being settled, started off with the usual
rattle of whip-cracks, rode through pleasant scenery of vineyards,
mountain slopes, and chestnut trees, and soon began to wind on our way
upwards. Passing the custom-house in the little village of Campo
Dolcino, thirty-three hundred feet above the level of the sea, we are
again upon the beautifully engineered road of an Alpine pass, and at one
point the zigzags were so sharp and frequent that the granite posts
protecting the edge of the road presented the appearance of a straight
row directly in front of us, rising at an angle of forty-five degrees,
although the real ascent by the numerous windings is comparatively easy
and apparently slight.

As we went winding up, back and forth, we came in sight of the beautiful
Madesimo Waterfall, seen from various angles of the road pouring down
from far above us to the valley below. Each turn gave us a different
view. It was a succession of pictures of valley and cascade, until we
finally passed through a covered gallery, and our road led us past the
cliff over which the level stream took its leap for its downward career.

Leaving the carriage, we walked to a small projecting table rock
directly overhanging the ravine,--a portion of the rock over which the
stream falls,--where, leaning over the iron railing,--grasped, we
confess, with a firm clutch,--we looked down to the frothy foam of the
waterfall, seven hundred feet below. It was a fine point of view--an
exciting position to feel one's self so near a terribly dangerous place,
and yet be safe, to defy danger, enjoy the beauty of the cascade, and
measure with the eye the great distance of its leap.

After leaving here, we begin to enter a wild, and in winter a dangerous,
portion of the pass. This is the Cardinell Gorge. Not only are the
zigzags sharp and frequent, but we come to great covered galleries, made
of solid masonry, with sloping roofs, to cause avalanches, that are
constantly precipitated from above, to slide off, and thus protect
travellers and the road itself. The galleries are wonderful pieces of
workmanship. One of them is six hundred and fifty, another seven
hundred, and a third fifteen hundred and thirty feet in length. They are
lighted by openings at the sides. We have fine views of the lofty
mountains all around, and the deep gorges torn by countless avalanches;
and now we reach one of the houses of refuge. We stand fifty-eight
hundred and sixty feet above the level of the sea. The air is cold, and
overcoats are comfortable. On we go, and at length shiver in the
glacier's breath at the boundary line between Switzerland and Italy--the
summit of the pass six thousand eight hundred and eighty feet above the
sea.



CHAPTER XI.


Once more we are in sight of the familiar snow-clads and ice-fields; the
glaciers are in sight in every direction; there are the mountain peaks,
the names all terminating with "horn." Our old friend, the Schneehorn,
shoots his peak ten thousand feet into the air, and the Surettahorn
lifts its mass of ice nine thousand three hundred feet high into the
clear sunlight, and we are again amid the grand Alpine scenery I have so
often described. Now we begin our descent, zigzag, as usual, through
wild mountain scenery, till at last we whirl through a long gallery,
and, with a salute of whip-snappings, enter the village of Splügen;
through this, and out again into another grand Alpine landscape, taking
in a view of the peaks of the Zapporthorn and Einshorn, each over nine
thousand feet high, and away off in the distance, the chalets of a Swiss
village, perched in among the mountains. Down we go, at full trot,
through the beautiful Roffla Ravine, picturesque in the twilight, with
its rocky walls, and its rattling cascades of the River Rhine dashing
over the rocky bed. There is one place where there is barely room for
the Rhine and the road to pass through the rocky gateway of the pass.
The scenery is wild, but at the same time there were trees, with
luxuriant foliage, that were pleasant to the eye; beautiful larches,
black spruces, and other trees of that kind, softened the rough aspect
of the mountains.

We were not sorry to draw rein at dusk at the village of Andeer, where
we had only a tolerable lodging, and a very bad breakfast; after which
we were once more on the road, and soon reached the valley of six
streams, which glide down the mountains, on either side, to the green
valley below, with its pretty farm-houses and green pastures. Soon after
leaving this, we enter upon the celebrated Via Mala.

This narrow pass seems like a great cleft, cut by a giant's knife, into
a huge loaf; the pathway through it, until 1822, was only four feet
wide. The carriage-road and the river now seem as if squeezed into the
gap, that might at any moment snap together and crush them. Huge
perpendicular rocky walls rise to the height of fifteen hundred feet on
either side; the River Rhine runs through the gorge three hundred feet
below the road, which crosses and recrosses it three or four times by
means of bridges; the great walls of rock, in some places, seem almost
to meet above, and shut out the full light of day, the space is so
narrow; for the river forces its way through a cleft, only fifteen feet
wide between the rock, and at one place there is a gallery, two hundred
feet long, cut through the solid rock. Although the river is three
hundred feet below the road, yet the cleft between the mountain is so
narrow that spring freshets will raise it a hundred feet or more. A
woman, who, at the highest bridge, drops stones down to the tide below,
for tourists to count ten before they strike the water, points out a
mark upon one of the bridges, noting a remarkable rise of the river in
1834, when it came up nearly two hundred and fifty feet, to the arch of
this bridge, and then solicits a few sous for her services.

This wild, dark, and gloomy gorge, with its huge overhanging curtains of
solid rock, the pathway clinging to its sides, the roaring torrent under
foot, arched bridges crossing its chasms, and tunnels piercing its
granite barricades, is literally a pathway wrenched through the
mountain's everlasting wall. It cannot fail to make a profound
impression by its gloomy grandeur and wild beauty, especially at one
point, where the eye can sweep away through the gorge, as if looking
through a vast rocky tube, and rest upon green, sunny slopes, and
pleasant, smiling scenery beyond.

We reach the pleasant village of Thusis, where the river Nolla flows
into the Rhine; and there is, from the bridge that spans it, a beautiful
view of the valley in a ring of mountains and an old castle, the oldest
in Switzerland, perched on a crag, high above the river. Here, at the
Hotel Adler, rest and an excellent lunch were both obtained, after which
the whip cracked good by, and we rattled on, through villages, and now
and then over arched bridges, and past picturesque water-wheels, or
little Roman Catholic churches, till at last we come to one great bridge
of a single arch, crossing the Rhine near Reicehnau--a bridge eighty
feet above the river, and two hundred and thirty-seven feet long. We
pass the pretty village of Ems, and next reach Coire, where our carriage
journey ends, the driver is paid, and we enjoy the novelty of half an
hour's ride by rail to Ragatz.

Here, while enjoying a rest at sunset, we had from the hotel balcony a
glorious view of a long line of mountains, and a huge, flat wall of
rock, upon which the setting sun strikes after streaming between two
great mountains, and makes it look like a huge sheet of light
bronze--one of those novel had indescribable effects that you see only
in the Alps.

The great wonder here, and, in fact, one of the greatest wonders of
Switzerland, is the Tamina Gorge and Pfaffers Baths, which next morning
we rode to see. A drive of two miles, through a wild, romantic
gorge,--the road, a part of the distance, hewn out of the solid
ledge, and the river tearing along over its jagged bed of rocks
below,--brought us to the hotel of the bath establishment (or, rather,
it is the hotel and bath establishment combined), excellently kept and
managed, and planted here between two great walls of rock on either
side, six hundred feet high. The water is conveyed down to it from the
hot springs in the gorge, about a quarter of a mile above, in pipes.
Leaving the hotel, we ascend on foot up through this wonderful crack in
the mountains. It is a cleft, ranging in width from twenty to forty
feet, the pathway a plank walk, five feet wide, affixed by staples to
one side of the solid rock.

These walls of rock rise to the height of four or five hundred feet
above the path, and, at some points, actually meet together overhead,
while the narrow strip, or aperture, for most of the way, lets in light
only sufficient to render visible a huge, black, awful chasm, the sides
shiny, and dripping with moisture, and a torrent roaring, fifty feet
beneath our path, waking a hundred strange echoes. This wild and
wondrous passage is "into the bowels of the land" a distance of eighteen
hundred and twenty feet; and sometimes the passage brings us to where
the action of the waters has hollowed out a huge, rocky dome, and the
foaming river whirls round in a great, black pool, as if gathering
strength for a fresh rush from its rocky prison.

As we gradually approach the upper end of this wild gorge, and leave
these weird chambers behind, we come to a point where clouds of steam
are issuing from a cavern--a cave within a cavern--apparently the very
pit of Acheron itself. Into this steaming grotto we penetrate. It is a
vaulted cave, ninety feet in length; a great natural steam-bath. Our
visages were damp with perspiration, which started from every pore, as
we stood at the brink of the hot spring, which was clear as crystal,
scentless, and at a temperature of one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. One
does not wish to remain in this cavern any length of time, unless fully
prepared for a vapor bath; consequently, we were soon outside, in the
outer cavern or gorge again. The pipes conveying the waters from the
springs to the bath-house and hotel run along the side of the rocky
wall, next the plank pathway. We retrace our steps back through this
wondrous gorge, with its tall, rocky walls hundreds of feet above our
heads, and its foaming torrent leaping beneath us; pass again beneath
the granite dome, pass little weird grottos, and, through the narrow
cleft; look away up to the strip of sky, shining like a band of blue
satin ribbon over the gap, and finally emerge once more upon the open
road, where our carriage is waiting. We returned over the romantic road
that brought us to this great wonder of the Alpine region.

From Ragatz we took train _en route_ for Schaffhausen, via Sargans and
Wallenstadt, passing the beautiful Serenbach Waterfall, and along the
shore of the Lake of Wallenstadt, or Wallenstadt See,--as they call it
here,--and which we had flitting and momentary glances of, through the
openings at the sides of the nine tunnels which the railroad train
thundered through. But the landscape views all along this portion of the
route of lake, mountains, waterfalls, valleys, and villages, formed one
continuous charming picture.

Our hotel,--the Schweizerhof,--at the Falls of Schaffhausen, is
admirably situated for a view of these falls, which, however, will
disappoint the American who has seen Niagara, and hears it stated (which
I think is incorrect) that these are the finest falls in Europe. The
actual fall of water is not above sixty feet, and appears at first to be
even less than this, and it looks more like a series of huge rapids than
a waterfall; indeed, reminding one of the rapids above Niagara, though
the descent is, of course, more abrupt. Right in the centre of the
falls, dividing them into three parts, are two small but high islands of
crag, accessible only by boats, and said to be very safely and easily
reached by the boatmen in attendance at the shore, who were ready to
take us to the middle island and to the old chateau on the opposite
side, which is the best point of view, for the usual fee.

We entered the boat, which was soon in the midst of the stream, and
began a series of regular approaches to the rock, propelled by the
muscular arms of the boatmen; but in the midst of these boiling surges,
lashing about us in every direction, and spattering us with their angry
spray, as the rowers took advantage of certain eddies and currents, the
appearance of the surroundings was decidedly dangerous, and it was with
a long-drawn breath of relief that we heard the keel of the boat grate
on the pebbles at the little landing at the foot of the central island.
This was a tall mass of rock, and we climbed from point to point, by a
not very difficult ascent, till we reached the summit, some fifty feet
above the boiling flood--a very favorable point of view, from whence the
clouds of silvery spray and the war of waters could be seen, and also a
very fine view of the rapids and river above, which is about three
hundred and fifty feet wide at this point. One of these rocks has a
complete natural arch, ten or fifteen feet high, worn through it by the
furious waters which leap, lash, and tumble about at the base of our
rocky citadel.

Descending, we took to the boat again, and started for the opposite
landing. Taking advantage of the current, the boatmen pushed out into
the swiftest part of it, and were swept with frightful velocity, in half
a dozen seconds of time, over a space which, to accomplish on our
approach, required nearly fifteen minutes. A few dexterous whirls, some
steady pulling, and we were landed at the foot of the ascent to the
Castle of Laufen, picturesquely situated on a wooded height above us,
and a fine point of view. We ascended the path, and enjoyed the prospect
from the balcony of the castle, and then looked at it through the
stained glass windows of a summer-house on the grounds, and finally
descended to a wooden gallery which is built out directly over the
foaming abyss, and so near the rushing water that you may plunge your
hand into the seething mass of waves. India-rubber overcoats are a
necessity for this excursion, which are provided by the owners of the
place, and included in the fee of admission.

The sensation of being in the midst of a great waterfall, and yet safe,
is about as correct a one, I should judge, as can be had, when you stand
at the end of this protecting gallery in the shower of spray, the great
body of water rushing towards the point as if to overwhelm you, while
you now and then receive a liberal dash of a huge wave, and the thunder
of the waters and rush of the torrent drown all other sounds, and render
conversation impracticable. We enjoyed this defying of the torrent, the
foam, rush and war of the waters, and the brilliant little rainbows
which the sunlight formed in the clouds of spray, and then descended to
the landing, to be rowed back to the opposite shore.

This boat-passage to the central rock is said to be perfectly safe, but
it certainly has not that appearance, and it is one that a person at all
inclined to be timid would not care to repeat. It has just that hint of
the dangerous which gives the excursion a zest which a little peril
seldom fails to produce. Timid though you may be, you cannot help
feeling exhilarated by the roaring of the waters and the quick dash of
the spray all around you; and the exultant emotion which you experience
when you jump on shore, and witness, from a safe stand-point, the
"perils you have passed," fully compensates for the moment of suspense,
when it seemed as though one misstroke of the boatmen would have dashed
you into eternity.

We left Schaffhausen at nine A. M. for Munich, had two hours and a half
on Lake Constance, passed Augsburg, and at half past nine reached
Munich.

        "Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
        And charge with all thy chivalry"--

Munich, with its magnificent art collections, its picture and sculpture
galleries, its thousand artists; Munich, with its bronze statues, the
home of Schwanthaler, the city of broad streets, the capital of Bavaria,
and the city that makes the best beer in all Europe.

The great hotel, "The Four Seasons," was filled with guests, but good
rooms were obtained at the Baierischer Hof, on the Promenaden Platz; and
our comfortable quarters were welcome indeed, after eleven hours' rapid
journeying. The last portion of the way approaching Munich was dull
enough, as it was over a broad, flat plain, with scarcely any trees, and
the signs of life were confined to an occasional lonely shepherd, with
his dog, guarding a flock. In fact, Munich is built in the middle of a
great plain, which is flat and uninteresting, and the city itself is not
considered healthy for Americans or English to reside in any length of
time. It is, however, one of the European cities that have grown in size
very rapidly the last thirty years, and the newer parts, built out into
the plain, away from the old city, waiting for the gap between to fill
up, remind the American traveller of cities in his native land.

The first sights of all others in Munich to which the tourist turns his
attention, are the art collections. The Glyptothek is the gallery of
sculpture, and the Pinacothek the picture gallery; and the admission to
these superb and priceless collections is free to all. The buildings
stand opposite to each other; and, as we find how much this city owes to
old King Louis for its position as a seat of the fine arts; how many
beautiful buildings, statues, galleries, public edifices, and streets,
were built by his order; and, still further, that the expenses of the
Glyptothek and other collections were paid for from his own privy
purse,--we feel inclined to look with a lenient eye upon the old
monarch's regard for pretty women, and the Lola Montez scandal.

The Pinacothek is a magnificent building, shaped like the letter I, and
is divided off into nine splendid halls, devoted to different schools of
art. Opening off or out of these halls are twenty-three smaller rooms,
or cabinets, for the smaller pictures of each school. Thus there are
three great halls devoted to the Italian school of art, two to the Dutch
school, two to the German, one to the French and Spanish, and a great
central hall to Rubens. In these great halls the larger pictures are
hung, and the light, which comes from the roof, is well and artistically
managed for displaying their beauties. In the cabinets are the ordinary
sized and smaller paintings. But what a wealth of art! There are nearly
fifteen hundred elegant paintings, hundreds of them by some of the most
celebrated artists that ever lived, and nearly all of them works that
you want time to study and admire.

The American who has been shown an occasional old dingy head or
blackened landscape, half obliterated by age, in his own country, and
told it is a rare treasure,--one of the old masters,--and who, as many
do, comes to the conclusion that the old masters did not put what he
should call finish into their works, will have all impressions of that
nature removed by his visit to this priceless collection. Here he will
see pictures that startle even the casual observer by their wondrous
faithfulness to nature; pictures upon which the hand of the artist is
visible in the minutest detail, the coloring and finish of which betray
the most laborious application, and which excite from him who may have
been silent over expressions of admiration at pictures at home which
were not his ideals of excellence,--silent, perhaps, from fearing that
he might be incorrect in judgment,--the honest assertion, that here is
his ideal of the artistic, and convince him that a picture cleanly
finished in all its details, fresh in color, sharp, distinct, and well
defined, can be artistic; and that even the best of the old masters, if
their works can be taken as an indication, thought so, too.

There is a good deal of humbug in the popular admiration of muddy,
indistinct old daubs, half defaced by age; and the visitor here, in
inspecting some of these wondrous creations, where the artist, in groups
of angels and cherubs, puts exquisite features to faces the size of
one's thumb nail, and grace into those ten times that size in the same
work, ascertains that a picture, to be really beautiful, must be
completely and artistically finished.

It would be useless, in these limits, to attempt a detailed description
of this world-renowned collection, to which two or three visits are but
an aggravation to the lover of art. Tourists generally "do" it in one
hasty visit, like many other sights, simply to say they have been there.

My note-book and catalogues are crammed with sentences of admiration
and marginal notes; but a few extracts will give the reader who has not
been abroad an idea of the interest of this gallery. First, there were
two great halls and six or eight ante-rooms devoted to the German school
of art. Here we saw numerous pictures by Albert Dürer--a Knight in
Armor, St. Peter and St. John, the Birth of Christ, &c.; a number by
Holbein, the elder and younger; Wohlgemuth, some strikingly effective
pictures from the life of Christ; Quentin Matsys' well-known picture of
the Misers; Mabeuse's noble picture of the archangel Michael; Dietrich's
splendid sea scenes; Van Eyck's Adoration of the Magi, Annunciation, and
Presentation in the Temple--pictures of wonderful execution, the faces
finished exquisitely, and the minutest details executed in a manner to
command admiration; Albert Dürer's Mater Dolorosa; the head of an old
woman and man, the most wonderful pictures of the kind I ever saw,
painted by Balthasar Denner, and every wrinkle, hair, speck, pore of the
skin, depicted with such wonderful and microscopic exactness as to
render it an impossibility to tell it from a living person at three feet
distance.

The third and fifth halls are filled with paintings of the Dutch school
by the pupils of Rubens and other artists, and the nine cabinets, or
smaller halls opening out of them, with pictures by various Flemish and
Dutch masters. Here were Teniers' elegantly finished and admirable
pictures of Boors Smoking, Boors at Cards; Ostade's Boors Quarrelling
and Boors Merry-making; Gerard Dow's Mountebank at the Fair, Wouvermans'
Stag Hunt, Vandyke's Susanna and the Elders, Rembrandt's magnificent
Descent from the Cross, &c., besides many other Rembrandts, Teniers,
Ostades, and Van der Werfs, any one of which was a study, a plethora, a
wilderness of beauty.

The fourth apartment, or central hall, is devoted entirely to the works
of Rubens, and contains nearly a hundred of the great master's pictures.
There was his Christ on the Cross, a most terribly real picture, that
made one almost shudder to look upon; the Fall of the Angels, a
remarkable and wondrous work of art; the Massacre of the Innocents, the
Sabine Women, the Last Judgment, Triumph of Religion, Rubens and his
Wife in a Garden, the Lion Hunt, &c. But just think of one room in a
gallery with a hundred of Rubens's best works surrounding you; it is
useless to attempt description. The ante-room, containing the best
pictures, to my mind, was that filled with Van der Werf's paintings,
which were marvellously clear and sharp in their execution, and finished
with exquisite skill. Here were the Magdalen in a Grotto, Rest on the
Flight into Egypt, Ecce Homo--all pictures of superb coloring never seen
in any modern work of art; Abraham sending forth Hagar and Ishmael;
portrait of the wife of the Elector John William; these two paintings
were finished equal to engravings. In Jesus disputing with the Doctors
in the Temple, the faces of the disputants are wondrous studies,
exhibiting various emotions, and the figure of Christ, a beautiful boy,
has the look of Heaven in every lineament of his face. Many other
perfectly finished pictures that hold one entranced with their wondrous
beauty are in this room.

Now we come to the sixth hall, containing the Spanish and French
schools; and here are those pictures of Murillo's with which we are all
so familiar from engravings, viz., the Beggar Boys eating Melons and
Grapes, Boys playing Dice, Beggar Boys, &c.; Nicolas Poussin's pictures,
&c.

The seventh and eighth great halls contain other paintings of the same
schools of art; among them Carlo Dolce, Tintoretto, Domenichino, and
Correggio. So also does the ninth apartment, formerly the private
cabinet of the king, in which there are beautiful works from the pencil
of Leonardo da Vinci, Andrea del Sarto, Giorgione, and Raphael. We come
from this gallery of art literally surfeited, fatigued with long gazing,
walking, pausing, looking, wondering, and admiring, and realize over
again what an exhausting work is continuous sight-seeing.

Besides the art collections which have already been described, we
visited the new Pinacothek, containing ten halls and fourteen cabinets
for the exhibition of modern paintings, among which we saw Kaulbach's
Destruction of Jerusalem, a magnificent picture, familiar from the print
that has been made of it; Wilkie's capital painting of the Reading of
the Will; the Deluge, by Charles Schorn, a Dusseldorf artist; Peasant's
Wedding, an excellent picture by Maurice Muller; Frederic Bischof's
First Snow; Battle of Custozza, by Adam; Two Boys buying their first
Cigars, by H. Rhomberg, a Munich artist, &c. There were nearly three
hundred pictures in this collection, which was first opened to the
public in 1853.

The Glyptothek, or Hall of Sculpture, is another priceless collection of
art. The exterior is handsomely adorned with statues, and the interior,
which consists of twelve halls, and each devoted to different branches
of art, is admirably planned and appropriately decorated.

In the hall known as the Æginetan, which is devoted to marbles
discovered in the Island of Ægina, we saw a splendid group of marble
figures, fourteen in number, which have been set up exactly in the
position they formerly occupied on the Grecian temple they adorned,
being carefully put together, and such parts as were broken carefully
restored by Thorwaldsen, giving one some idea of the beauty of the
sculpture of the ancient Greeks, and showing the actual figures in all
their spirited grace and action, which has never been excelled by modern
sculptors.

There were Hercules and Telamon fighting the Trojans, and the struggle
of the Greeks and Trojans over the body of Patroclus, as described by
Homer, the warriors with helmet, shield, and javelin, in the most
spirited attitudes--specimens of the wondrous skill of the ancient
sculptors, and the reality of those outline engravings, by Flaxman and
others, of statues and sculpture, which adorn the illustrated books of
Greek and Roman history. In the Hall of Apollo, among many other fine
works, were a superb Bacchus, found at Athens, with a crown of vine
leaves most exquisitely cut, a beautiful Ceres, and a grand and majestic
statue of Minerva.

The Hall of Bacchus, however, contains the gem of the whole collection,
and, in fact, the most wonderful and life-like statue I ever looked
upon--the celebrated Barberini Faun, a colossal figure of a Satyr, half
sitting, half reclining, as if in a deep sleep after a carouse. The
attitude is so perfect, the appearance of relaxation of the muscles and
limbs so thoroughly true to nature, and the very atmosphere of complete
languor and repose so pervades the countenance and whole body of the
figure, that the spectator almost forgets it is but senseless stone
before him in half expectancy of the breast heaving to the breathings of
the sleeper, which seems all that is lacking to make it a living
reality; and yet this wondrous work is from an unknown hand. The
catalogues and guide-books claim it is from the chisel of Praxiteles;
but that is only surmise. On account of its excellence they doubtless
think it ought to be; but it was dug out of the ditch of the Castle of
St. Angelo, where it was supposed to have been hurled from the walls in
the year 537. In this hall is also a magnificently executed figure of
Silenus, Bacchus and Panther.

In the Hall of Heroes are some splendid figures; Jason binding on his
Sandal; Nero as a gladiator, a fine head, with the brow and curls of a
Hercules; the Victorious Gladiator, Alexander the Great, &c. In the hall
of modern sculpture were Canova's beautiful figures of Paris and Venus;
Adonis, by Thorwaldsen; Love and the Muse, by Eberhardt; and others,
giving the visitor an opportunity of comparing ancient with modern art.

The great bronze statue of Bavaria, just outside the city, is a huge
figure of sixty feet in height, standing upon a pedestal thirty feet
high. It represents a female with a sword in her right hand, while the
left raises on high the wreath of victory. At her side sits the lion of
Bavaria. By the staircase inside we ascended to the head of the bronze
giant, which we found would comfortably accommodate eight or nine
persons; and from a window in its curling locks we had a fine view of
Munich and the surrounding country. This great statue was modelled by
Schwanthaler, and cast by F. Miller at the royal foundery of Munich,
where so many bronze figures for this country have been cast; and having
for that reason a desire to see it, we drove thither. On sending our
cards in, with a message that we were a party of Americans, we were
immediately waited upon by the superintendent, who, with the greatest
courtesy, showed us over the entire establishment, where were bronze
giants in every process of manufacture, from the mass of liquid metal to
the shapely figure under the artistic files of the finishers.

We were shown here the Hall of the Colossi, in which were the plaster
models of all the works that have been executed at the foundery. Here,
among others, we saw the cast of the statue of Henry Clay, made for New
Orleans, those of Beethoven for Boston Music Hall, and Horace Mann for
Boston State House grounds, Colonel Benton for St. Louis, and the
figures of Jefferson, Mason, Henry, Nelson, Lewis, and Marshall, which
adorn the Washington Monument at Richmond, Va.; also the model of the
triumphal car, drawn by lions, which adorns the arch at one end of the
fine street (Ludwigstrasse) named after King Louis. The lions were
giants ten feet high, and a cast of the hand of the great figure of
Bavaria was six or seven feet long and two feet thick, suggesting that a
box on the ear from such a palm would undoubtedly be a "stunner." From
here we naturally went to the studio of the great sculptor Schwanthaler,
where we were courteously received by his son, and were interested in
the processes of sculpture, which we saw in all its phases under the
workmen's hands.

Many of the streets of Munich are broad and beautiful, and the squares
adorned with statues. A bronze obelisk in the Karolinenplatz, nearly a
hundred feet high, formed from captured cannon, is erected in memory of
the Bavarians who fell in the army of Bonaparte during the Russian
campaign; and statues of King Louis and Schiller are in the Odeon Platz;
while in another square is another statue, formed from captured cannon,
of Maximilian I., surrounded by four other statues of distinguished
Bavarians.

The new palace which we visited was rich in elegant pictures, beautiful
frescoes, and works of art. In one series of rooms were great paintings
illustrating the history of Bavaria. Some of the rooms containing them
bore the names of Hall of Marriage, Hall of Treachery, Hall of Revenge,
&c., the scenes in these apartments being those historical events in
which these characteristics were prominent. Schwanthaler and Kaulbach's
pencils have contributed liberally to the decoration of many of the
rooms, particularly the Throne Room, which contains the illustrations of
a German poem, painted by Kaulbach, and another room with thirty or
forty illustrations of Goethe's works, by the same artist.

The Hall of Frederick Barbarossa contains fine large paintings of scenes
in his life, including his battle and victory in the third crusade. Then
we have the Hall of Charlemagne, with great pictures of his battle
scenes, and the Hall of Beauties, which contains a series of portraits
of beautiful women of Bavaria, painted by order of the late king,
without regard to rank or station; so that here the peasant girl jostles
the banker's daughter, and the duchess finds herself face to face with
the child of a cobbler--the stamp of beauty being the signet that
admitted each to this collection, which, in truth, does honor to the
king's judgment.

The great Throne Room is a magnificent apartment, one hundred and eight
feet long and seventy-five wide. At the upper end of the throne, and on
either side between the tall marble Corinthian pillars with gold
capitals, stand twelve colossal statues in gilt bronze. The statues,
which are ten feet high, were designed by Schwanthaler, and represent
the different princes of the house of Bavaria, beginning with Otho,
1253, and ending with Charles XII., 1798. The figures are very finely
executed, and in the costumes and weapons show the progress of
civilization. This room is, in truth, a royal one, and is as fit to hold
a royal reception in as one could wish. In fact, as we look round
through Munich, capital of the little kingdom of Bavaria, with its less
than five million souls, we get the impression that it has art, wealth,
galleries, libraries, &c., enough for the capital of an empire of five
times its size.

Munich makes beer that is celebrated for its quality, and the quantity
drank here is something fabulous. I am confident it is a necessity at
all the gardens where the musical performances are given; and apropos,
the superb music which one may listen to here for a mere trifle is
astonishing. I visited one of these gardens, where Gung'l's band of
about forty performers played a splendid programme--twelve compositions
of Strauss, Wagner, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, and Gung'l. But those
Strauss and Gung'l waltzes and galops--they were given with a precision
and spirit that were positively electrical. One could almost hear the
dancers' feet slip to the luxurious murmuring of the waltz, or catch the
gusts of air that whirled from the rush of the rattling galop. Admission
to this concert was eight cents, and order what you choose--a glass of
beer for four or five cents, or a bottle of wine at from twenty cents to
two dollars.

One of the monuments which old King Louis, or Ludwig, as they call him
here, leaves behind him is the Basilica of St. Boniface, built to
commemorate the twenty-fifth anniversary of the king's marriage--the
finest church in Munich, and built in imitation of a Roman basilica of
the sixth century. The interior presents a superb sight, the roof being
supported by sixty-four splendid columns of gray marble, making a nave
and four aisles. The view through the length of these aisles, amid the
forest of pillars for a distance of two hundred and eighty-five feet,
and up to the roof, which is eighty feet from the pavement, and
represents the firmament studded with golden stars, is inexpressibly
beautiful. The magnificent frescoes on the walls, perfections in the
art, by Henry Hess and his students, and the splendid pictures
illustrating the progress of Christianity in Germany, and scenes in the
life of St. Boniface, heighten the effect. The church was finished in
1850, and has all the beauty and freshness of modern workmanship upon an
ancient model. It is certainly one of the most elegant and artistical of
ecclesiastical interiors. The sarcophagus of King Louis and of his
queen, Therese, is in this church, and beneath it a crypt for the
interment of the Benedictine monks, who are in some way or other
attached to the church.

In the great cathedral--a huge brick building three hundred and twenty
feet in length, with its windows sixty-seven feet high, filled with the
rich stained glass of the fifteenth century--we saw the monument of the
Emperor Louis, erected in 1622, upheld upon the shoulders of four
stalwart knights, armed _cap-à-pie_, in bronze, the size of life.

The public library of Munich is another storehouse of treasures. It is a
huge three-story building, with a superb staircase and magnificent
architectural interior, and contains eight hundred and fifty thousand
books, and twenty-two thousand manuscripts, besides coins and literary
curiosities of priceless value, such as block-books, printed anterior to
1500, manuscripts of the New Testament, in the seventh and eighth
centuries, the code of laws given by Alaric to the West Goths in 506,
Luther's Bible, containing his own and Melanchthon's portraits, and
other rarities of like interest. This library is the second largest in
existence, being exceeded in extent only by that of Paris.

But the reader will tire of Munich and its art treasures, if we do not;
so we will bid them a reluctant adieu, and take train for Salzburg. This
was an eight hours' ride, and of no particular note, except that at
every crossing on the railroad, and at intervals on the line, we saw
switch-tenders, or station-masters, who were in the red uniform of the
railroad company, and stood upright in military position, with hand
raised to the cap in salute, as the train whizzed past them. Arrived at
Salzburg, we went to the fine Hotel de l'Europe, where, among other
excellences of the Austrian cuisine, we had Austrian bread, the best in
the world, such as, once tasted, makes the eater ever long for it, and
establish it in his mind as the standard by which the quality of all
others is regulated.

The city is on the River Salza, and in quite a picturesque situation, at
the foot of the great Alpine heights, with a semicircle of mountains
about it. The plain, or valley, about the city is rich in beautiful
gardens, orchards, groves, and country houses, the dark-wooded heights
and slopes of the mountains forming the framework of the picture, and in
the centre Salzburg Castle perched upon its high rock, reminding one
very much, from its appearance and position, of Edinburgh Castle.

We have driven round the dull old town, seen the house where Mozart was
born, and his statue by Schwanthaler in one of the squares, and bought
elegantly-painted china covers for the tops of beer mugs--drinkers at
the bier halles having their special mugs, and recognizing them by the
design upon the cover. Some of the beer flagons and tankards exposed for
sale here were very beautiful and elaborate, and got up with much
artistic taste.

One of the most delightful rides we ever took was over the romantic road
from Salzburg out to the Chateau of Hellbrunn, for the whole distance of
nearly three miles was one continuous arch of splendid elms, shading the
broad, smooth, level road. The view of the town, and the old castle in
the centre, with the background of grand Alpine walls, which we had
constantly before us, and from many different points of observation, was
very picturesque and beautiful.

The gardens of the chateau are celebrated for containing the most
wonderful and curious of water-works. The grounds are beautifully laid
out, and at every turn we met new surprises. There was, of course, every
variety of ordinary fountain, dolphins and nymphs spouting, &c., and
besides these many curious contrivances for the fluid. There were two
beautiful pictures painted on copper, before which was apparently a
sheet of glass; but it was only a broad, thin, falling, transparent,
aqueous curtain. A beautiful bouquet of flowers was enclosed in a
complete hemisphere of falling water, as pure and unbroken as a glass
globe, with scarcely a perceptible motion in its swift current. Two
turtles, directly opposite each other, five feet apart, seemed to hold a
glass cord, the size of a man's finger between them, in their mouths.
Touching the transparent cord with a cane, we interrupted a swift
stream, and the liquid spattered in every direction. The cane was
withdrawn, the stream immediately reunited, and the turtles again held
their apparently motionless crystal cord as before. We came to automaton
old men grinding their scythes at a grindstone, millers at work at their
mill, all running by water power; entered a wondrous grotto, where
Neptune in his car drawn by sea-horses swam around, the horses and
dolphins spouting liquid streams from their mouths, and birds piping
their liquid notes from the wall, all moved by water power.

In another beautiful grotto a whirling fountain lifted a handsome golden
crown eight feet into the air, and kept it suspended amid a shower of
sparkling drops. Taking a position at the rear of a dark cavern, and
looking out towards the little arched entrance, the water was let on in
fine mist, and the arched doorway was as rich as the gates of Paradise
in wreathed rainbows. Two huge stags guarded another cavern, streams
issuing from their mouths and every point of their huge antlers. Hunters
were on galloping steeds, and blew torrents from their horns, or were
enveloped in the floods that spouted from their spear-heads. Luxurious
seats invited the tired pedestrian to repose, when, on seating himself,
he was ringed in with a circle of miniature water-spouts, rendering dry
egress apparently impossible. Finally we came to a place where two huge
doors were thrown open, displaying a space about twelve feet high and
eight or ten wide, in which was the complete representation in miniature
of the square in a city.

There were cathedral, palace, dwelling-house, and artisans' shops, all
faithfully represented; and in the streets, the shops and the houses
which were open to view, were over one hundred automaton figures of men,
women, and children, all moved by water power, and giving life to the
scene before you. There were masons hoisting stone and building a house,
coopers and tinkers clattering away in their shops, butchers killing and
cutting up, cobblers pegging away in their little stalls, wood-sawyers,
blacksmiths beating with a regular clink-clank-clink upon their anvils,
artisans in their shops; also all the usual street scenes of a city.
Here was a man with a dancing bear, surrounded by a curious crowd; there
a shrewish old woman shaking her head, gesticulating, and scolding at
her tipsy husband; children playing in the street; ladies, looking from
windows of houses, returned the courtly salutes of gallants who passed
by in the streets with graceful bow or wave of the hand; loaded teams
passed by; people went in and out of houses; Turks, priests, Jews, and
courtiers passed along in the most natural manner, and finally came a
whole regiment of soldiers, marching across the square; at last, the
notes of the organ were heard in the cathedral, and into its broad
portal filed priests and people, and the scene closed. The size of these
automatons was from six to eight inches; they were very well executed;
and the whole scene, with the cathedral, square, streets, and throng of
moving figures, seemed a sort of realization of Gulliver's experiences
in Lilliput. This place is the property of the king, and no fee is
charged for viewing it and its many wonders; nevertheless, the
custodian, who had so kindly and faithfully exhibited them to our party,
was extremely gratified at the magnificent fee of thirty cents, and took
leave of us with a profusion of bows and polite expressions.

Our visit to the old castle was also an interesting one. From its
battlements we looked directly down upon the town, and, afar off, on a
beautiful landscape of fields, winding river, and distant mountain.
Within the walls we saw the grand apartments of the old bishops, and the
remains of the torture chamber, fragments of the rack, and other hellish
inventions of cruel ingenuity which they used to apply to their victims.

Following the advice of a friend, we telegraphed on in advance to the
Hotel Archduke Charles, at Vienna, that we were coming, and to secure
rooms. An eight hours' ride by rail brought us to the capital of the
Austrian dominions, and I had scarce stepped from the railway carriage
ere a well-dressed, gentlemanly-looking individual, in dress coat, dark
pants and vest, gloves, spotless shirt-front, and immaculate neck-tie,
called me by name, and in perfectly correct English inquired if the
luggage of the party was upon the train, and was to be taken to the
hotel. I looked at him inquiringly, and assented.

"I am attached to the hotel, sir, and have received your despatch
(exhibiting it). If you will please to step into this carriage we have
in waiting for you, after pointing out your trunks, I will follow you
with them."

We were amazed, and began to wonder whether or not the fellow might not
be a clever English impostor, who had obtained our telegraphic despatch
with a view of getting our luggage into his hands, and running away with
it. Our doubts were, however, soon settled by a young Prussian lady of
the party, who conversed with him in his native tongue, and found that
he was a sort of chief clerk, or managing man, for the proprietors of
the hotel, and was equally at home in the German, French, or English
languages. We therefore committed our _impedimenta_ to his charge, were
escorted by him to the carriage, when, as he helped us in, tumbled and
travel-stained as we were, and passed in the travelling-pouches and
shawls, and stood in his spotless linen and polished boots, raising his
French hat, as if he had just stepped from a ball-room or the opera,--I
could not help feeling a little awkward at presuming to permit so
gentlemanly-appearing a personage to perform a menial act; but our
reflections were cut short by his rapid directions to the driver in his
own tongue. The coach-door was clapped to, and we were soon whirling
through the brilliantly-lighted streets on our way to the hotel.

Vienna appears to be a city that is having immense additions made to it;
in fact, to have recently taken a fresh start in new and spacious
squares, wide streets, and new buildings. The different portions of it
are known as the old and new cities. The new city streets are open,
wide, and airy, with broad and handsome sidewalks; the streets of the
old are narrow and crooked, with no sidewalk or curbstone. Our
hotel--the Archduke Charles--is situated on a street scarcely wide
enough for two vehicles to pass, and the noise (for it is always
crowded) that comes up between the tall buildings is almost unbearable
in warm weather, when open casements are a necessity. Talk of the
crooked streets of Boston! Why, some of the corkscrew passages of the
old city of Vienna will wind up an expert Bostonian into a most
inexplicable tangle.

The large, new streets, however, will, in time, rival the Boulevards in
beauty and attractiveness. Great blocks of buildings are built on the
Parisian model, elegant restaurants and stores, with plate glass
windows, rich displays of goods, and a profusion of gas-jets, give quite
a Paris air to the scene; in fact, the improvements in the way of new
buildings and new streets, not only here but in Munich and other cities,
seem to be after the Paris, or Haussman model. The tourist can hardly
help thinking that Louis Napoleon made his influence to be felt in more
ways than one, and has taught the monarchs of some of these sleepy old
empires a good lesson in widening, enlarging, and beautifying their
capitals, making them attractive to visit and pleasant to live in, and
to realize that it is money in their purses, or those of their
subjects,--which is much the same,--to render their cities inviting to
the hosts of travellers who traverse the continent, and to induce them
to remain and spend money, or come again and spend more.

To _bona fide_ tourists there are now very few restrictions.
Custom-house examinations are a mere form; passports, except in the
intolerant Roman States, are never called for, and admissions to
galleries, palaces, or collections, which require tickets from
government officials, are granted to foreigners without restraint. One
of our first sight-seeing excursions took us to the Imperial Library--a
magnificent collection of books and manuscripts, commenced in the
thirteenth century, and which now contains nearly three hundred thousand
books, and over sixteen thousand manuscripts, including many rare
literary curiosities, among which we saw Charlemagne's psalm book; a
roll of hieroglyphics on skin, sent by Cortes from Mexico to the King
of Spain; Tasso's own manuscript of Jerusalem Delivered; the Latin Bible
of 1462, on parchment; elegant illuminated manuscripts and parchment
volumes, whose exquisite penmanship and still brilliant colors make it
hard to believe that the hands that laboriously fashioned them, in shady
cloister and convent cell, have crumbled into undistinguishable dust
hundreds of years ago.

One of the most magnificent collections of royal jewelry we have ever
looked upon we saw at the Imperial Treasury, or Jewel House. Here were
necklaces of diamonds as big as filberts, and of a brilliancy that
others pale before; a bow-knot as large as a half sheet of commercial
note-paper, that blazed like fire with clear, pure diamonds; great
crowns; conquerors' wreaths in emeralds and diamonds; royal orders and
decorations; magnificent chains and collars belonging to the dresses
of various orders worn by the emperor. But it was not only the
sparkling collection of gems of purest ray serene that attracted our
attention--the curious historic relics that are preserved here are of
great value and interest. Think of standing and looking upon the
coronation robe, crown, and sceptre of the stout old Charlemagne
himself; the great diamond worn by Charles the Bold; the robes and crown
worn by Napoleon at his coronation at Milan; an elegant crucifix, with
the wondrous carving and chasing of that renowned artificer, Benvenuto
Cellini; a collection of curious watches of olden times, the "Nuremburg
eggs" that we have so often read of. Besides the huge falchion of
Charlemagne, we were shown the sword of Maximilian I., that of Francis
I. of France, the scimeter that was once wielded by Tamerlane, and the
celebrated iron crown of Lombardy.

I cannot begin to enumerate the stories of relics connected with the
history of Austria; the wealth of cut and uncut jewels which we were
hurried through by the thick-headed, stupid guide, who recited a
description he had learned by rote in the most monotonous manner; who
was utterly unable to answer the simplest question, and only went from
one object to another that was in his programme of performance,
commencing with his everlasting "_Dies is der_," and going on with a
monotonous enumeration of facts, running his words and sentences
together, like a state official repeating a formula. I ought not to omit
mentioning that they have several sacred relics here, some of which
cannot fail to excite a smile, and others such as tourists always expect
to find in every collection. Among the first is what is said to be part
of the table-cloth used at the Last Supper! The visitor is not expected
to inquire if table-cloths were used in those days, or he might be
answered, "Of course they were; else how came this piece here?" The
piece of the true cross is here, of course, for no well-regulated
collection of relics or cathedral is complete without it; while the
tooth of St. John the Baptist and leg bone of St. Anne may cause some
unbelieving Thomases to wonder how long these mortuary relics can be
kept preserved from the crumbling touch of time.

I had no idea what an intensely curious exhibition a cabinet of minerals
could be, till I stood within the great building containing the
collection here, which is in a series of apartments in all as long as
Quincy Market, in Boston, and most admirably arranged and classified. It
seemed as if the whole world had been ransacked for specimens in every
nook and corner, from the frozen regions of the poles to the coral caves
of the tropics; from the surface to the centre; and that geology might
be studied here by illustration, and metallurgy and mineralogy
thoroughly learned from specimens, so numerous are they, and so
perfectly are the different varieties and branches arranged.

Here are marbles from every part of the world, even Greenland; copper
from the slave-worked mines of Siberia, and the prolific pits of the
Lake Superior country, in fragments, dust, ingots, and masses; coal
bearing the familiar names of our American mines, those of the great
English pits, and specimens from China, Japan, Bohemia, and New Zealand;
gold in all its curious shapes, as found in rock that showed not its
glitter, and in the smooth nuggets from California and Australia; the
less precious, but not less useful iron, from every part of the globe;
diamonds from Brazil; agates; malachite from the Ural Mountains;
crystals from the Alps; amethysts, rubies, and uncut gems, plucked
from streams or rocky prisons; silver ore from the mines of Potosi;
solid lead from Great Britain, Spain, and America; tin, cinnabar,
platina--till it seemed that every known metal, ore, rock, mineral, or
gem, from every quarter of the world, had its representative specimen in
this priceless collection.

Among the remarkable curiosities of the museum were the largest opal in
the world,--as large as a man's fist, and weighing seventeen
ounces,--too big for the breastpin of the most ambitious American
expressman or negro minstrel; a great rock crystal, as big as a man's
leg; a great bed or mass of crystals, four and a half feet in diameter;
elegant specimens of uncut gems and diamond crystals; a large collection
of aerolites, or meteoric stones, which have fallen in various parts of
the world. Among the most curious of these is one mass looking like
melted rock, weighing over five hundred pounds. Then there are curious
fossil remains, bird tracks, and ferns, in stone, and various other
interesting illustrations of geology. A very costly wonder is a
beautiful bouquet of flowers, made entirely of precious stones, for the
Empress Maria Theresa,--the colors of leaves, buds, and petals all being
preserved by different-colored gems,--a sparkling but scentless nosegay.
This superb collection is one of the wonders of Vienna, and must afford
an admirable opportunity to students and others engaged in the study of
mineralogy, &c., numbers of whom we saw in different departments, as we
passed through, making notes and examinations.

A museum where one having any taste for antiquities may positively
luxuriate, is the Ambras Museum of ancient arms and armor, a real,
authenticated historical collection,--armor that had actually been worn
and fought in by men whose names figure in history hundreds of years
ago. How the antiquary will thank the old Archduke Ferdinand, who made
this collection in 1560, expressly for the purpose of interesting future
ages, and left his own autographic manuscripts (still preserved),
authenticating them beyond a doubt.

Three large rooms of six in the museum are devoted to the collection of
arms and armor. Here were the helmet of Francis I., of France, that may
have been worn in his battle with his warlike opponent, the German
emperor, Charles V., or at his meeting with Henry VIII. on the Field of
the Cloth of Gold; the complete armor, for man and horse, of the Emperor
Maximilian; the armor of Charles V.; that of Philip II.,--armor that he
may have ridden in, side by side with his English wife, Bloody Mary; the
dinted armor of that fierce warrior, Don John of Austria, that may have
shielded its owner in many a deadly encounter; a magnificent steel suit,
fluted with gold, belonging to the Archbishop of Salzburg; the
handsomely-wrought steel armor of Maurice, Elector of Saxony; a whole
room full of armor suits and weapons used at tournaments during the
middle ages; the elegant suit of Alexander Farnese, of Parma, made in
1592, of great beauty of workmanship, and which would put our artificers
of the present day to their best skill to rival. Here are the battle-axe
of Montezuma, emperor of Mexico; the horse-tail standards captured from
the Turks, and elegant swords and weapons of Italian warriors, rich in
ornament and chasing. Of these interesting memorials of ancient
chivalry, there are nearly one hundred and fifty suits of armor,
weapons, &c.--historical mementos of the manners of the middle ages.



CHAPTER XII.


On our first Sunday in Vienna we attended service at the Church of St.
Augustine, the chief features of the service being the splendid robes of
the priests, and the magnificent music--the instrumental portion, in
addition to the organ, being the full orchestra from the opera-house,
led by its leader, baton in hand, and giving some of the compositions of
the great composers in a style that made the lofty arches of the old
church to seem filled with heavenly melody. In this church is Canova's
superb monument to the Archduchess Christiana, a marble pyramid thirty
feet high, upon a broad marble pedestal, with two wide steps. In the
centre of this pyramid, designed to represent the tomb, is a door, and
grouped upon the steps, on their way towards it, are several life-sized
allegorical figures, most exquisitely wrought. A female figure, in
flowing drapery, bearing a flower-wreathed urn, with a child walking on
either side of her, followed by another figure, Benevolence, supporting
by the arm Old Age, a bent, decrepit, tottering old man leaning upon a
staff, are the figures on one side; while upon the other reposes a lion,
with an angel seated by his side, and half reclining upon his rugged
mane. The white, flowing drapery of these figures is so beautifully
wrought as to fairly rival reality, and the figure of Old Age, with
tottering limbs, weary face, and relaxed muscles, a perfect masterpiece
of art. The angel, reclining upon the lion, is a figure of exquisite
beauty, while the grouping of the whole, and the natural positions of
the figures, render the composition both apt and beautiful.

At the Capuchin Church we went down into the vault of the imperial
family, under the guidance of a sandalled friar, torch in hand. Here
rest the mortal remains of royalty, in seventy great metallic coffins or
sarcophagi,--the oldest that of Ferdinand, 1610, and the most splendid
being that of Joseph I., which has over two thousand pounds of silver
about it, wrought into armorial bearings, crowns, death's heads, wreaths
of flowers, and other designs. The rest are chiefly wrought from zinc
into the forms of mortuary caskets, with appropriate designs.

While the group of visitors were tediously following the monotonous
description of the friar, I unconsciously seated myself upon the end of
one of these ornamented chests of human ashes, from which, when
discovered, I was requested to rise by an indignant wave of the hand,
and a look upon the friar's face that savored strongly of indignation,
as he approached the spot with the party, and commenced his description.
Then it was I discovered that I had been making my seat of the funeral
casket of the Duke of Reichstadt, son of the great Napoleon; and near by
we saw that of the Emperor Francis, his grandfather.

From this gloomy chamber of dead royalty, we were glad once more to
emerge to the busy street and to close the day's sight-seeing by a visit
to a musical festival given in an immense garden just outside the city,
called, I think, the New World Garden. The occasion being the Virgin's
birthday, there was an extra attraction; first there was the splendid
Strauss band, about seventy pieces, led by Strauss himself; then two
large military bands, and these played alternately, and _such_ music!
The Strauss waltzes and dance music were given with a "voluptuous
swell," precision, and beauty that were enchanting to listen to. They
were liquid billows of harmony, and as inspiriting to the feet of the
dancers as a draught of nitrous oxide to the imagination. The voluptuous
waltz ceased, the military band would then burst forth with grand march
or quickstep that would make one's very pulses thrill, and when this
closed, the other band gave an overture or grand musical composition,
which concluded, the lively dance music of Strauss again burst forth
with its exhilarating strains.

There were three or four thousand persons present strolling through the
pleasant walks and shady alleys, or sitting at the tables near the music
pavilions eating ices, drinking light wines or beer, chatting, and
listening to the music. The price of admission to the regular concerts
of the Strauss band here is about eighteen cents! But to this
entertainment, which was an extra occasion, or a sort of a fête day, the
enormous fee of nearly thirty cents was demanded! The excellence of the
music as well as the cheapness of the entertainment, was marvellous to
us Americans.

It is a pleasant excursion to the Schönbrunn, or summer palace, and the
gardens connected with it, about three miles from Vienna. These gardens
on fine Sunday afternoons are thronged with people from the city,
strolling through their shady alleys and beautiful walks. The shrubbery
and landscape gardening here are great curiosities; long, straight
avenues are laid out, with the trees on each side trimmed like hedges to
the height of thirty or forty feet, presenting a perspective of an
avenue as smooth and unbroken as if sliced out of a solid mass of green,
with a keen blade; then the masses of foliage are trimmed into niches
for marble statues, graceful curves, and columns, and curious walks. The
flower-gardens of the palace were beautiful, and the hot-houses rich in
great palms and other tropical wonders; there were quite a number, some
dozen or more, of these conservatories, each devoted to different
varieties of plants, a description of which would be wearisome. As some
of the royal family were at the palace we could not visit the interior,
but passing through the gardens, we ascended to the _Gloriette_, a sort
of open temple with a colonnade of pillars, situated upon rising ground,
and commanding a fine view of Vienna and the surrounding country,
including the battle-fields of Aspern and Wagram.

The Imperial Picture Gallery of Vienna is a collection of paintings
worth a journey over the ocean to see--rich in the masterpieces of the
old masters, and containing in all about two thousand pictures, which
are arranged in different apartments according to the school of art to
which they belong. Here, again, we were bewildered with a wealth of
beauty: here one begins to realize what wonders the painter's brush is
capable of; what laborious finishers the old masters were; how very
little advance, if any at all, has been made in the art; what skill must
have been used in the manufacture and laying on of colors which, after
the lapse of two or three hundred years, are as fresh, bright and
effective as if but yesterday applied to the canvas.

It would be like enumeration by catalogue to give the list of pictures
that we have pencilled notes of admiration against; but only think of
seeing elegant pictures from the pencils of Paul Veronese, Titian,
Raphael, Guido, Correggio, Murillo, Rembrandt, Cuyp, Poussin, Vandyke,
Rubens, Teniers, Albert Dürer, Van Eyck, Andrea del Sarto, Gerard Dow,
and Schneyders! Why, after going through this gallery, having seen that
at Munich, it seemed as if we had seen the originals of half of all the
engravings and copies of great works that we have ever looked upon; and
as in other galleries, we found the longest time we could possibly give
to it allowed us only a glance, comparatively speaking, at its
treasures.

There was Titian's Ecce Homo, a masterpiece of artistic skill that one
wanted hours to study; the Entombment, and his beautiful figure of
Danaë; Correggio's elegant picture of Christ and the Woman of Samaria;
Guido's Holy Family--a room entirely filled with the works of that
industrious artist, Rubens, among which was his Assumption of the
Virgin, Loyola casting out Evil Spirits, and Xavier healing the Sick.
Teniers also had a room, among which his Peasants' Marriage, and Village
Fête, were conspicuous; Albert Dürer's Martyrdom of Ten Thousand
Christians--a wonderful work, in which every form of torture and death
seemed to have been represented; a student for the torture chamber of
the Holy Inquisition might have obtained new ideas by studying it;
Dürer's magnificent picture of the Holy Trinity, surrounded by a crowd
of saints, cherubs, and angels--a representation in which perfect finish
in all the details of features and heavenly beauty was marvellously
executed; Paul Veronese's Holy Family, and two splendid battle-pieces
by Salvator Rosa.

In the modern gallery there were also many wonderfully beautiful works
of art--a fearfully real picture of the Massacre of the Innocents, by
Charles Arrienti; a wonderfully funny one of Mischief-Makers in an
Artist's Studio, by Joseph Danhauser--a picture that will make one laugh
aloud; a fine picture, of the Adieu of a soldier of the Austrian
_Landwehr_ to his wife and children--figures all of life-size, painted
by Pierre Krafft; a sortie of a garrison against Turkish assailants--a
great painting crowded with figures in the most spirited action, and all
beautifully finished by the same artist.; Shnorr's Mephistophiles
appearing to Faust--an elegant and effective composition; Grand Canal of
Venice, by Schoefft--a lovely scene. And so it continued--great
battle-pieces with life-like warriors, with weapons and mail strikingly
like reality; lovely landscapes that filled one with admiration to gaze
upon; religious subjects, on which the loftiest art and the sublimest
conceptions were exhausted; wonderful trickery of art in some
compositions; quiet beauty in others, that drew the beholder, again and
again, back to gaze upon them, till, with aching limbs and fatigued
vertebræ, we closed our first visit to this glorious collection, with
the thought of how discouraging is the effort to attempt, in a day or
two, that over which weeks, and even months, might be used with pleasure
and intellectual profit.

Tourists, who are always buying something in every European capital they
visit, find the beautiful fancy goods shops and Vienna goods potent
attractions. It is in this city that all the beautiful leather-work,
known as Russia leather, is manufactured, its deep-red stain and
peculiar perfume as fascinating as the many-colored hues and glossy
surface of fresh kid gloves, or the fragrance of the leaves of a new
volume, to the purchaser. Travelling satchels of this material, which at
home are an extravagant luxury, are here obtainable at less than half
the American price. Then the leather is wrought in a hundred fanciful
ways: it appears in trunks; portfolios soft, elegant, and portable;
pocket-books smooth and elastic; work-boxes, hat-boxes, covered
smelling-bottles, flasks, and canes; in watch-chains or portable
inkstands, whip-stocks, boots and shoes, elegantly mounted horse
harnesses; and, in fact, in about every way it can be used to court the
eye and be of service.

The meerschaum pipe stores of Vienna must make a smoker half crazy with
delight; and indeed, to those who do not use the weed, their windows are
among the most attractive upon the great streets, from the ingenuity and
skill displayed in the innumerable forms into which pipe bowls are
carved. The most artistic skill and elaborate workmanship appear to have
been expended upon these pipes, and the great pipe stores vie with each
other in displaying in their windows specimens of delicate carvings and
curious designs, beautiful amber mouth-pieces, tobacco-boxes, pouches,
and the smoker's paraphernalia. An American rarely leaves Vienna without
some of its meerschaums in his baggage. Gentlemen's clothing,
excellently made to order, can be bought here at astonishingly low
prices, and the ladies find fans, fancy goods, and laces to be not so
dear as in Paris.

The prices at the leading hotels are rather high, but the cuisine is
unexceptionable, and Vienna bread the best in the world. Once eaten, the
traveller will establish it as his standard of excellence. It is snowy
white, without flake, fine-grained, has a light, brown, crisp crust, no
particle of flavor of yeast, gas, or acidity, but a fragran