SAUNTERINGS

By Charles Dudley Warner

MISAPPREHENSIONS CORRECTED

I should not like to ask an indulgent and idle public to saunter aboutwith me under a misapprehension. It would be more agreeable to invite itto go nowhere than somewhere; for almost every one has been somewhere, and has written about it. The only compromise I can suggest is, that weshall go somewhere, and not learn anything about it. The instinct of thepublic against any thing like information in a volume of this kind isperfectly justifiable; and the reader will perhaps discover that this isilly adapted for a text-book in schools, or for the use of competitivecandidates in the civil-service examinations. 

Years ago, people used to saunter over the Atlantic, and spend weeksin filling journals with their monotonous emotions. That is allchanged now, and there is a misapprehension that the Atlantic has beenpractically subdued; but no one ever gets beyond the "rolling forties"without having this impression corrected. 

I confess to have been deceived about this Atlantic, the roughest andwindiest of oceans. If you look at it on the map, it does n't appear tobe much, and, indeed, it is spoken of as a ferry. What with the eightand nine days' passages over it, and the laying of the cable, whichannihilates distance, I had the impression that its tedious threethousand and odd miles had been, somehow, partly done away with; butthey are all there. When one has sailed a thousand miles due east andfinds that he is then nowhere in particular, but is still out, pitchingabout on an uneasy sea, under an inconstant sky, and that a thousandmiles more will not make any perceptible change, he begins to have someconception of the unconquerable ocean. Columbus rises in my estimation. 

I was feeling uncomfortable that nothing had been done for the memoryof Christopher Columbus, when I heard some months ago that thirty-sevenguns had been fired off for him in Boston. It is to be hoped that theywere some satisfaction to him. They were discharged by countrymen ofhis, who are justly proud that he should have been able, after a searchof only a few weeks, to find a land where the hand-organ had neverbeen heard. The Italians, as a people, have not profited much by thisdiscovery; not so much, indeed, as the Spaniards, who got a reputationby it which even now gilds their decay. That Columbus was born in Genoaentitles the Italians to celebrate the great achievement of his life;though why they should discharge exactly thirty-seven guns I do notknow. Columbus did not discover the United States: that we partly foundourselves, and partly bought, and gouged the Mexicans out of. He did noteven appear to know that there was a continent here. He discoveredthe West Indies, which he thought were the East; and ten guns wouldbe enough for them. It is probable that he did open the way to thediscovery of the New World. If he had waited, however, somebody elsewould have discovered it, --perhaps some Englishman; and then we mighthave been spared all the old French and Spanish wars. Columbus let theSpaniards into the New World; and their civilization has uniformly beena curse to it. If he had brought Italians, who neither at that timeshowed, nor since have shown, much inclination to come, we should havehad the opera, and made it a paying institution by this time. Columbuswas evidently a person who liked to sail about, and did n't care muchfor consequences. 

Perhaps it is not an open question whether Columbus did a good thing infirst coming over here, one that we ought to celebrate with salutes anddinners. The Indians never thanked him, for one party. The Africans hadsmall ground to be gratified for the market he opened for them. Hereare two continents that had no use for him. He led Spain into a danceof great expectations, which ended in her gorgeous ruin. He introducedtobacco into Europe, and laid the foundation for more tracts and nervousdiseases than the Romans had in a thousand years. He introduced thepotato into Ireland indirectly; and that caused such a rapid increaseof population, that the great famine was the result, and an enormousemigration to New York--hence Tweed and the constituency of the Ring. Columbus is really responsible for New York. He is responsible for ourwhole tremendous experiment of democracy, open to all comers, the bestthree in five to win. We cannot yet tell how it is coming out, what withthe foreigners and the communists and the women. On our great stage weare playing a piece of mingled tragedy and comedy, with what denouementwe cannot yet say. If it comes out well, we ought to erect a monumentto Christopher as high as the one at Washington expects to be; and wepresume it is well to fire a salute occasionally to keep the ancientmariner in mind while we are trying our great experiment. And thisreminds me that he ought to have had a naval salute. 

There is something almost heroic in the idea of firing off guns for aman who has been stone-dead for about four centuries. It must have hada lively and festive sound in Boston, when the meaning of the salute wasexplained. No one could hear those great guns without a quicker beatingof the heart in gratitude to the great discoverer who had made Bostonpossible. We are trying to "realize" to ourselves the importance of the12th of October as an anniversary of our potential existence. If any onewants to see how vivid is the gratitude to Columbus, let him start outamong our business-houses with a subscription-paper to raise money forpowder to be exploded in his honor. And yet Columbus was a well-meaningman; and if he did not discover a perfect continent, he found the onlyone that was left. 

Columbus made voyaging on the Atlantic popular, and is responsible formuch of the delusion concerning it. Its great practical use in this fastage is to give one an idea of distance and of monotony. 

I have listened in my time with more or less pleasure to very rollickingsongs about the sea, the flashing brine, the spray and the tempest'sroar, the wet sheet and the flowing sea, a life on the ocean wave, andall the rest of it. To paraphrase a land proverb, let me write the songsof the sea, and I care not who goes to sea and sings 'em. A square yardof solid ground is worth miles of the pitching, turbulent stuff. Itsinability to stand still for one second is the plague of it. To lie ondeck when the sun shines, and swing up and down, while the waves runhither and thither and toss their white caps, is all well enough to liein your narrow berth and roll from side to side all night long; to walkuphill to your state-room door, and, when you get there, find you havegot to the bottom of the hill, and opening the door is like lifting upa trap-door in the floor; to deliberately start for some object, and, before you know it, to be flung against it like a bag of sand; toattempt to sit down on your sofa, and find you are sitting up; to slipand slide and grasp at everything within reach, and to meet everybodyleaning and walking on a slant, as if a heavy wind were blowing, and thelaws of gravitation were reversed; to lie in your berth, and hear allthe dishes on the cabin-table go sousing off against the wall in ageneral smash; to sit at table holding your soup-plate with one hand, and watching for a chance to put your spoon in when it comes high tideon your side of the dish; to vigilantly watch, the lurch of the heavydishes while holding your glass and your plate and your knife and fork, and not to notice it when Brown, who sits next you, gets the whole swashof the gravy from the roast-beef dish on his light-colored pantaloons, and see the look of dismay that only Brown can assume on such anoccasion; to see Mrs. Brown advance to the table, suddenly stop andhesitate, two waiters rush at her, with whom she struggles wildly, only to go down in a heap with them in the opposite corner; to see herpartially recover, but only to shoot back again through her state-roomdoor, and be seen no more;--all this is quite pleasant and refreshingif you are tired of land, but you get quite enough of it in a coupleof weeks. You become, in time, even a little tired of the Jew who goesabout wishing "he vas a veek older;" and the eccentric man, who looksat no one, and streaks about the cabin and on deck, without any purpose, and plays shuffle-board alone, always beating himself, and goes on thedeck occasionally through the sky-light instead of by the cabindoor, washes himself at the salt-water pump, and won't sleep in hisstate-room, saying he is n't used to sleeping in a bed, --as if the hardnarrow, uneasy shelf of a berth was anything like a bed!--and you haveheard at last pretty nearly all about the officers, and their twentyand thirty years of sea-life, and every ocean and port on the habitableglobe where they have been. There comes a day when you are quite readyfor land, and the scream of the "gull" is a welcome sound. 

Even the sailors lose the vivacity of the first of the voyage. The firsttwo or three days we had their quaint and half-doleful singing in chorusas they pulled at the ropes: now they are satisfied with shortha-ho's, and uncadenced grunts. It used to be that the leader sang, in ever-varying lines of nonsense, and the chorus struck in with fineeffect, like this:

 "I wish I was in Liverpool town. Handy-pan, handy O! O captain! where 'd you ship your crew Handy-pan, handy O! Oh! pull away, my bully crew, Handy-pan, handy O!"

There are verses enough of this sort to reach across the Atlantic; andthey are not the worst thing about it either, or the most tedious. Onelearns to respect this ocean, but not to love it; and he leaves it withmingled feelings about Columbus. 

And now, having crossed it, --a fact that cannot be concealed, --let usnot be under the misapprehension that we are set to any task other thanthat of sauntering where it pleases us. 

PARIS AND LONDON

SURFACE CONTRASTS OF PARIS AND LONDON

I wonder if it is the Channel? Almost everything is laid to the Channel:it has no friends. The sailors call it the nastiest bit of water in theworld. All travelers anathematize it. I have now crossed it three timesin different places, by long routes and short ones, and have alwaysfound it as comfortable as any sailing anywhere, sailing being one ofthe most tedious and disagreeable inventions of a fallen race. But suchis not the usual experience: most people would make great sacrificesto avoid the hour and three quarters in one of those loathsome littleChannel boats, --they always call them loathsome, though I did n't seebut they are as good as any boats. I have never found any boat thathasn't a detestable habit of bobbing round. The Channel is hated: and noone who has much to do with it is surprised at the projects for bridgingit and for boring a hole under it; though I have scarcely ever met anEnglishman who wants either done, --he does not desire any more facilecommunication with the French than now exists. The traditional hatredmay not be so strong as it was, but it is hard to say on which side isthe most ignorance and contempt of the other. 

It must be the Channel: that is enough to produce a physicaldisagreement even between the two coasts; and there cannot be a greatercontrast in the cultivated world than between the two lands lying soclose to each other; and the contrast of their capitals is even moredecided, --I was about to say rival capitals, but they have not enoughin common to make them rivals. I have lately been over to London for aweek, going by the Dieppe and New Haven route at night, and returningby another; and the contrasts I speak of were impressed upon me anew. Everything here in and about Paris was in the green and bloom ofspring, and seemed to me very lovely; but my first glance at an Englishlandscape made it all seem pale and flat. We went up from New Havento London in the morning, and feasted our eyes all the way. The Frenchfoliage is thin, spindling, sparse; the grass is thin and light incolor--in contrast. The English trees are massive, solid in substanceand color; the grass is thick, and green as emerald; the turf is likethe heaviest Wilton carpet. The whole effect is that of vegetableluxuriance and solidity, as it were a tropical luxuriance, condensed andhardened by northern influences. If my eyes remember well, the Frenchlandscapes are more like our own, in spring tone, at least; but theEnglish are a revelation to us strangers of what green really is, andwhat grass and trees can be. I had been told that we did well to seeEngland before going to the Continent, for it would seem small and onlypretty afterwards. Well, leaving out Switzerland, I have seen nothing inthat beauty which satisfies the eye and wins the heart to compare withEngland in spring. When we annex it to our sprawling country which liesout-doors in so many climates, it will make a charming little retreatfor us in May and June, a sort of garden of delight, whence we shalldraw our May butter and our June roses. It will only be necessary to putit under glass to make it pleasant the year round. 

When we passed within the hanging smoke of London town, threading ourway amid numberless railway tracks, sometimes over a road and sometimesunder one, now burrowing into the ground, and now running along amongthe chimney-pots, --when we came into the pale light and the thickeningindustry of a London day, we could but at once contrast Paris. Unpleasant weather usually reduces places to an equality ofdisagreeableness. But Paris, with its wide streets, light, handsomehouses, gay windows and smiling little parks and fountains, keeps upa tolerably pleasant aspect, let the weather do its worst. But London, with its low, dark, smutty brick houses and insignificant streets, settles down hopelessly into the dumps when the weather is bad. Evenwith the sun doing its best on the eternal cloud of smoke, it is dingyand gloomy enough, and so dirty, after spick-span, shining Paris. Andthere is a contrast in the matter of order and system; the lack of bothin London is apparent. You detect it in public places, in crowds, in thestreets. The "social evil" is bad enough in its demonstrations in Paris:it is twice as offensive in London. I have never seen a drunken woman inParis: I saw many of them in the daytime in London. I saw men andwomen fight in the streets, --a man kick and pound a woman; and nobodyinterfered. There is a brutal streak in the Anglo-Saxon, I fear, --adownright animal coarseness, that does not exhibit itself the other sideof the Channel. It is a proverb, that the London policemen are neverat hand. The stout fellows with their clubs look as if they might doservice; but what a contrast they are to the Paris sergents de ville!The latter, with his dress-coat, cocked hat, long rapier, white gloves, neat, polite, attentive, alert, --always with the manner of a jesuitturned soldier, --you learn to trust very much, if not respect; and youfeel perfectly secure that he will protect you, and give you your rightsin any corner of Paris. It does look as if he might slip that slenderrapier through your body in a second, and pull it out and wipe it, and not move a muscle; but I don't think he would do it unless he weredirectly ordered to. He would not be likely to knock you down and dragyou out, in mistake for the rowdy who was assaulting you. 

A great contrast between the habits of the people of London and Paris isshown by their eating and drinking. Paris is brilliant with cafes: allthe world frequents them to sip coffee (and too often absinthe), readthe papers, and gossip over the news; take them away, as all travelersknow, and Paris would not know itself. There is not a cafe in London:instead of cafes, there are gin-mills; instead of light wine, there isheavy beer. The restaurants and restaurant life are as different as canbe. You can get anything you wish in Paris: you can live very cheaply orvery dearly, as you like. The range is more limited in London. I do notfancy the usual run of Paris restaurants. You get a great deal for yourmoney, in variety and quantity; but you don't exactly know what it is:and in time you tire of odds and ends, which destroy your hunger withoutexactly satisfying you. For myself, after a pretty good run of Frenchcookery (and it beats the world for making the most out of little), whenI sat down again to what the eminently respectable waiter in white andblack calls "a dinner off the Joint, sir, " with what belongs to it, andended up with an attack on a section of a cheese as big as a bass-drum, not to forget a pewter mug of amber liquid, I felt as if I had touchedbottom again, --got something substantial, had what you call a squaremeal. The English give you the substantials, and better, I believe, thanany other people. Thackeray used to come over to Paris to get a gooddinner now and then. I have tried his favorite restaurant here, thecuisine of which is famous far beyond the banks of the Seine; but Ithink if he, hearty trencher-man that he was, had lived in Paris, hewould have gone to London for a dinner oftener than he came here. 

And as for a lunch, --this eating is a fascinating theme, --commend me toa quiet inn of England. We happened to be out at Kew Gardens the otherafternoon. You ought to go to Kew, even if the Duchess of Cambridge isnot at home. There is not such a park out of England, consideringhow beautiful the Thames is there. What splendid trees it has! thehorse-chestnut, now a mass of pink-and-white blossoms, from itsbroad base, which rests on the ground, to its high rounded dome; thehawthorns, white and red, in full flower; the sweeps and glades ofliving green, --turf on which you walk with a grateful sense of drawinglife directly from the yielding, bountiful earth, --a green set outand heightened by flowers in masses of color (a great variety ofrhododendrons, for one thing), to say nothing of magnificent greenhousesand outlying flower-gardens. Just beyond are Richmond Hill and HamptonCourt, and five or six centuries of tradition and history and romance. Before you enter the garden, you pass the green. On one side of itare cottages, and on the other the old village church and its quietchurchyard. Some boys were playing cricket on the sward, and childrenwere getting as intimate with the turf and the sweet earth as theirnurses would let them. We turned into a little cottage, which gavenotice of hospitality for a consideration; and were shown, by a prettymaid in calico, into an upper room, --a neat, cheerful, common room, with bright flowers in the open windows, and white muslin curtainsfor contrast. We looked out on the green and over to the beautifulchurchyard, where one of England's greatest painters, Gainsborough, liesin rural repose. It is nothing to you, who always dine off the best athome, and never encounter dirty restaurants and snuffy inns, or run thegauntlet of Continental hotels, every meal being an experiment of greatinterest, if not of danger, to say that this brisk little waitressspread a snowy cloth, and set thereon meat and bread and butter and asalad: that conveys no idea to your mind. Because you cannot see thatthe loaf of wheaten bread was white and delicate, and full of thegoodness of the grain; or that the butter, yellow as a guinea, tasted ofgrass and cows, and all the rich juices of the verdant year, and was notmere flavorless grease; or that the cuts of roast beef, fat andlean, had qualities that indicate to me some moral elevation inthe cattle, --high-toned, rich meat; or that the salad was crisp anddelicious, and rather seemed to enjoy being eaten, at least, did n'tdisconsolately wilt down at the prospect, as most salad does. I do notwonder that Walter Scott dwells so much on eating, or lets his heroespull at the pewter mugs so often. Perhaps one might find a better lunchin Paris, but he surely couldn't find this one. 

PARIS IN MAY--FRENCH GIRLS--THE EMPEROR AT LONGCHAMPS

It was the first of May when we came up from Italy. The spring grew onus as we advanced north; vegetation seemed further along than it wassouth of the Alps. Paris was bathed in sunshine, wrapped in deliciousweather, adorned with all the delicate colors of blushing spring. Nowthe horse-chestnuts are all in bloom and so is the hawthorn; and inparks and gardens there are rows and alleys of trees, with blossomsof pink and of white; patches of flowers set in the light green grass;solid masses of gorgeous color, which fill all the air with perfume;fountains that dance in the sunlight as if just released from prison;and everywhere the soft suffusion of May. Young maidens who make theirfirst communion go into the churches in processions of hundreds, allin white, from the flowing veil to the satin slipper; and I see themeverywhere for a week after the ceremony, in their robes of innocence, often with bouquets of flowers, and attended by their friends; allconcerned making it a joyful holiday, as it ought to be. I hear, ofcourse, with what false ideas of life these girls are educated; howthey are watched before marriage; how the marriage is only one ofarrangement, and what liberty they eagerly seek afterwards. I met acharming Paris lady last winter in Italy, recently married, who saidshe had never been in the Louvre in her life; never had seen any of themagnificent pictures or world-famous statuary there, because girls werenot allowed to go there, lest they should see something that they oughtnot to see. I suppose they look with wonder at the young American girlswho march up to anything that ever was created, with undismayed front. 

Another Frenchwoman, a lady of talent and the best breeding, recentlysaid to a friend, in entire unconsciousness that she was saying anythingremarkable, that, when she was seventeen, her great desire was tomarry one of her uncles (a thing not very unusual with the papaldispensation), in order to keep all the money in the family! That wasthe ambition of a girl of seventeen. 

I like, on these sunny days, to look into the Luxembourg Garden: nowhereelse is the eye more delighted with life and color. In the afternoon, especially, it is a baby-show worth going far to see. The avenuesare full of children, whose animated play, light laughter, and happychatter, and pretty, picturesque dress, make a sort of fairy groveof the garden; and all the nurses of that quarter bring their chargesthere, and sit in the shade, sewing, gossiping, and comparing the meritsof the little dears. One baby differs from another in glory, I suppose;but I think on such days that they are all lovely, taken in the mass, and all in sweet harmony with the delicious atmosphere, the tendergreen, and the other flowers of spring. A baby can't do better than tospend its spring days in the Luxembourg Garden. 

There are several ways of seeing Paris besides roaming up and downbefore the blazing shop-windows, and lounging by daylight or gaslightalong the crowded and gay boulevards; and one of the best is to go tothe Bois de Boulogne on a fete-day, or when the races are in progress. This famous wood is very disappointing at first to one who has seen theEnglish parks, or who remembers the noble trees and glades and avenuesof that at Munich. To be sure, there is a lovely little lake and apretty artificial cascade, and the roads and walks are good; but thetrees are all saplings, and nearly all the "wood" is a thicket of smallstuff. Yet there is green grass that one can roll on, and there is agrove of small pines that one can sit under. It is a pleasant place todrive toward evening; but its great attraction is the crowd there. Allthe principal avenues are lined with chairs, and there people sit towatch the streams of carriages. 

I went out to the Bois the other day, when there were races going on;not that I went to the races, for I know nothing about them, per se, and care less. All running races are pretty much alike. You see a leanhorse, neck and tail, flash by you, with a jockey in colors on his back;and that is the whole of it. Unless you have some money on it, in thepool or otherwise, it is impossible to raise any excitement. The dayI went out, the Champs Elysees, on both sides, its whole length, wascrowded with people, rows and ranks of them sitting in chairs and onbenches. The Avenue de l'Imperatrice, from the Arc de l'Etoile to theentrance of the Bois, was full of promenaders; and the main avenues ofthe Bois, from the chief entrance to the race-course, were lined withpeople, who stood or sat, simply to see the passing show. There couldnot have been less than ten miles of spectators, in double or triplerows, who had taken places that afternoon to watch the turnouts offashion and rank. These great avenues were at all times, from three tillseven, filled with vehicles; and at certain points, and late in the day, there was, or would have been anywhere else except in Paris, a jam. Isaw a great many splendid horses, but not so many fine liveries asone will see on a swell-day in London. There was one that I liked. Ahandsome carriage, with one seat, was drawn by four large and elegantblack horses, the two near horses ridden by postilions in blue andsilver, --blue roundabouts, white breeches and topboots, a round-toppedsilver cap, and the hair, or wig, powdered, and showing just a littlebehind. A footman mounted behind, seated, wore the same colors; and thewhole establishment was exceedingly tonnish. 

The race-track (Longchamps, as it is called), broad and beautifulspringy turf, is not different from some others, except that theinclosed oblong space is not flat, but undulating just enough forbeauty, and so framed in by graceful woods, and looked on by chateauxand upland forests, that I thought I had never seen a sweeter bit ofgreensward. St. Cloud overlooks it, and villas also regard it from otherheights. The day I saw it, the horse-chestnuts were in bloom; and therewas, on the edges, a cloud of pink and white blossoms, that gave asoft and charming appearance to the entire landscape. The crowd in thegrounds, in front of the stands for judges, royalty, and people who areprivileged or will pay for places, was, I suppose, much asusual, --an excited throng of young and jockey-looking men, with a fewwomen-gamblers in their midst, making up the pool; a pack of carriagesalong the circuit of the track, with all sorts of people, except thevery good; and conspicuous the elegantly habited daughters of sinand satin, with servants in livery, as if they had been born to it;gentlemen and ladies strolling about, or reclining on the sward, and arefreshment-stand in lively operation. 

When the bell rang, we all cleared out from the track, and I happened toget a position by the railing. I was looking over to the Pavilion, whereI supposed the Emperor to be, when the man next to me cried, "Voila!"and, looking up, two horses brushed right by my face, of which I sawabout two tails and one neck, and they were gone. Pretty soon they cameround again, and one was ahead, as is apt to be the case; and somebodycried, "Bully for Therise!" or French to that effect, and it was allover. Then we rushed across to the Emperor's Pavilion, except that Iwalked with all the dignity consistent with rapidity, and there, inthe midst of his suite, sat the Man of December, a stout, broad, andheavy-faced man as you know, but a man who impresses one with a sense offorce and purpose, --sat, as I say, and looked at us through his narrow, half-shut eyes, till he was satisfied that I had got his featuresthrough my glass, when he deliberately arose and went in. 

All Paris was out that day, --it is always out, by the way, when the sunshines, and in whatever part of the city you happen to be; and itseemed to me there was a special throng clear down to the gate of theTuileries, to see the Emperor and the rest of us come home. He wentround by the Rue Rivoli, but I walked through the gardens. The soldiersfrom Africa sat by the gilded portals, as usual, --aliens, and yet alwayswith the port of conquerors here in Paris. Their nonchalant indifferenceand soldierly bearing always remind me of the sort of force the Emperorhas at hand to secure his throne. I think the blouses must look askanceat these satraps of the desert. The single jet fountain in the basin wasspringing its highest, --a quivering pillar of water to match the stoneshaft of Egypt which stands close by. The sun illuminated it, and threwa rainbow from it a hundred feet long, upon the white and green domeof chestnut-trees near. When I was farther down the avenue, I had thedancing column of water, the obelisk, and the Arch of Triumph all inline, and the rosy sunset beyond. 

AN IMPERIAL REVIEW

The Prince and Princess of Wales came up to Paris in the beginning ofMay, from Italy, Egypt, and alongshore, stayed at a hotel on the PlaceVendome, where they can get beef that is not horse, and is rare, andbeer brewed in the royal dominions, and have been entertained withcordiality by the Emperor. Among the spectacles which he has shown themis one calculated to give them an idea of his peaceful intentions, -agrand review of cavalry and artillery at the Bois de Boulogne. It alwaysseems to me a curious comment upon the state of our modern civilization, when one prince visits another here in Europe, the first thing that thevisited does, by way of hospitality is to get out his troops, and showhis rival how easily he could "lick" him, if it came to that. 

It is a little puerile. At any rate, it is an advance upon the oldfashion of getting up a joust at arms, and inviting the guest to comeout and have his head cracked in a friendly way. 

The review, which had been a good deal talked about, came off in theafternoon; and all the world went to it. The avenues of the Boiswere crowded with carriages, and the walks with footpads. Such aconstellation of royal personages met on one field must be seen; for, besides the imperial family and Albert Edward and his Danish beauty, there was to be the Archduke of Austria and no end of titled personagesbesides. At three o'clock the royal company, in the Emperor's carriages, drove upon the training-ground of the Bois, where the troops awaitedthem. All the party, except the Princess of Wales, then mounted horses, and rode along the lines, and afterwards retired to a wood-covered knollat one end to witness the evolutions. The training-ground is a noble, slightly undulating piece of greensward, perhaps three quarters of amile long and half that in breadth, hedged about with graceful trees, and bounded on one side by the Seine. Its borders were rimmed that daywith thousands of people on foot and in carriages, --a gay sight, initself, of color and fashion. A more brilliant spectacle than the fieldpresented cannot well be imagined. Attention was divided between thegentle eminence where the imperial party stood, --a throng of noblepersons backed by the gay and glittering Guard of the Emperor, as bravea show as chivalry ever made, --and the field of green, with its longlines in martial array; every variety of splendid uniforms, the colorsand combinations that most dazzle and attract, with shining brass andgleaming steel, and magnificent horses of war, regiments of black, gray, and bay. 

The evolutions were such as to stir the blood of the most sluggish. Aregiment, full front, would charge down upon a dead run from the farfield, men shouting, sabers flashing, horses thundering along, so thatthe ground shook, towards the imperial party, and, when near, stopsuddenly, wheel to right and left, and gallop back. Others would succeedthem rapidly, coming up the center while their predecessors filed downthe sides; so that the whole field was a moving mass of splendid colorand glancing steel. Now and then a rider was unhorsed in the furiousrush, and went scrambling out of harm, while the steed galloped off withfree rein. This display was followed by that of the flying artillery, battalion after battalion, which came clattering and roaring along, in double lines stretching half across the field, stopped and rapidlydischarged its pieces, waking up all the region with echoes, filling theplain with the smoke of gunpowder, and starting into rearing activityall the carriage-horses in the Bois. How long this continued I do notknow, nor how many men participated in the review, but they seemed topour up from the far end in unending columns. I think the regiments musthave charged over and over again. It gave some people the impressionthat there were a hundred thousand troops on the ground. I set it atfifteen to twenty thousand. Gallignani next morning said there were onlysix thousand! After the charging was over, the reviewing party rode tothe center of the field, and the troops galloped round them; and theEmperor distributed decorations. We could recognize the Emperor andEmpress; Prince Albert in huzzar uniform, with a green plume in hiscap; and the Prince Imperial, in cap and the uniform of a lieutenant, onhorseback in front; while the Princess occupied a carriage behind them. 

There was a crush of people at the entrance to see the royals make theirexit. Gendarmes were busy, and mounted guards went smashing throughthe crowd to clear a space. Everybody was on the tiptoe of expectation. There is a portion of the Emperor's guard; there is an officer of thehousehold; there is an emblazoned carriage; and, quick, there! with arush they come, driving as if there was no crowd, with imperialhaste, postilions and outriders and the imperial carriage. There is asensation, a cordial and not loud greeting, but no Yankee-like cheers. That heavy gentleman in citizen's dress, who looks neither to right norleft, is Napoleon III. ; that handsome woman, grown full in the face oflate, but yet with the bloom of beauty and the sweet grace of command, in hat and dark riding-habit, bowing constantly to right and left, and smiling, is the Empress Eugenie. And they are gone. As we look forsomething more, there is a rout in the side avenue; something is coming, unexpected, from another quarter: dragoons dash through the dense mass, shouting and gesticulating, and a dozen horses go by, turning the cornerlike a small whirlwind, urged on by whip and spur, a handsome boy ridingin the midst, --a boy in cap and simple uniform, riding gracefully andeasily and jauntily, and out of sight in a minute. It is the boy PrinceImperial and his guard. It was like him to dash in unexpectedly, as hehas broken into the line of European princes. He rides gallantly, andFortune smiles on him to-day; but he rides into a troubled future. Therewas one more show, --a carriage of the Emperor, with officers, in Englishcolors and side-whiskers, riding in advance and behind: in it the futureKing of England, the heavy, selfish-faced young man, and beside him hisprincess, popular wherever she shows her winning face, --a fair, sweetwoman, in light and flowing silken stuffs of spring, a vision of lovelyyouth and rank, also gone in a minute. 

These English visitors are enjoying the pleasures of the French capital. On Sunday, as I passed the Hotel Bristol, a crowd, principally English, was waiting in front of it to see the Prince and Princess come out, and enter one of the Emperor's carriages in waiting. I heard anEnglishwoman, who was looking on with admiration "sticking out" allover, remark to a friend in a very loud whisper, "I tell you, the Princelives every day of his life. " The princely pair came out at length, anddrove away, going to visit Versailles. I don't know what the Queen wouldthink of this way of spending Sunday; but if Albert Edward never doesanything worse, he does n't need half the praying for that he gets everySunday in all the English churches and chapels. 

THE LOW COUNTRIES AND RHINELAND

AMIENS AND QUAINT OLD BRUGES

They have not yet found out the secret in France of banishing dust fromrailway-carriages. Paris, late in June, was hot, but not dusty: thecountry was both. There is an uninteresting glare and hardness ina French landscape on a sunny day. The soil is thin, the trees areslender, and one sees not much luxury or comfort. Still, one doesnot usually see much of either on a flying train. We spent a night atAmiens, and had several hours for the old cathedral, the sunset lighton its noble front and towers and spire and flying buttresses, and themorning rays bathing its rich stone. As one stands near it in front, it seems to tower away into heaven, a mass of carving andsculpture, --figures of saints and martyrs who have stood in the sun andstorm for ages, as they stood in their lifetime, with a patient waiting. It was like a great company, a Christian host, in attitudes of praiseand worship. There they were, ranks on ranks, silent in stone, whenthe last of the long twilight illumined them; and there in the sameimpressive patience they waited the golden day. It required little fancyto feel that they had lived, and now in long procession came down theages. The central portal is lofty, wide, and crowded with figures. Theside is only less rich than the front. Here the old Gothic builders lettheir fancy riot in grotesque gargoyles, --figures of animals, and impsof sin, which stretch out their long necks for waterspouts above. Fromthe ground to the top of the unfinished towers is one mass of richstone-work, the creation of genius that hundreds of years ago knew noother way to write its poems than with the chisel. The interior is verymagnificent also, and has some splendid stained glass. At eight o'clock, the priests were chanting vespers to a larger congregation than manychurches have on Sunday: their voices were rich and musical, and, joinedwith the organ notes, floated sweetly and impressively through the dimand vast interior. We sat near the great portal, and, looking down thelong, arched nave and choir to the cluster of candles burning on thehigh altar, before which the priests chanted, one could not but rememberhow many centuries the same act of worship had been almost uninterruptedwithin, while the apostles and martyrs stood without, keeping watch ofthe unchanging heavens. 

When I stepped in, early in the morning, the first mass was in progress. The church was nearly empty. Looking within the choir, I saw two stoutyoung priests lustily singing the prayers in deep, rich voices. Oneof them leaned back in his seat, and sang away, as if he had takena contract to do it, using, from time to time, an enormous redhandkerchief, with which and his nose he produced a trumpet obligato. AsI stood there, a poor dwarf bobbled in and knelt on the bare stones, andwas the only worshiper, until, at length, a half-dozen priests sweptin from the sacristy, and two processions of young school-girls enteredfrom either side. They have the skull of John the Baptist in thiscathedral. I did not see it, although I suppose I could have done so fora franc to the beadle: but I saw a very good stone imitation of it; andhis image and story fill the church. It is something to have seen theplace that contains his skull. 

The country becomes more interesting as one gets into Belgium. Windmillsare frequent: in and near Lille are some six hundred of them; and theyare a great help to a landscape that wants fine trees. At Courtrai, we looked into Notre Dame, a thirteenth century cathedral, which has aVandyke ("The Raising of the Cross"), and the chapel of the Countsof Flanders, where workmen were uncovering some frescoes that werewhitewashed over in the war-times. The town hall has two fine oldchimney-pieces carved in wood, with quaint figures, --work that one mustgo to the Netherlands to see. Toward evening we came into the ancienttown of Bruges. The country all day has been mostly flat, but thoroughlycultivated. Windmills appear to do all the labor of the people, --raisingthe water, grinding the grain, sawing the lumber; and they everywherelift their long arms up to the sky. Things look more and more what wecall "foreign. " Harvest is going on, of hay and grain; and men and womenwork together in the fields. The gentle sex has its rights here. We sawseveral women acting as switch-tenders. Perhaps the use of the switchcomes natural to them. Justice, however, is still in the hands of themen. We saw a Dutch court in session in a little room in the town hallat Courtrai. The justice wore a little red cap, and sat informallybehind a cheap table. I noticed that the witnesses were treated withunusual consideration, being allowed to sit down at the table oppositethe little justice, who interrogated them in a loud voice. At thestations to-day we see more friars in coarse, woolen dresses, andsandals, and the peasants with wooden sabots. 

As the sun goes to the horizon, we have an effect sometimes producedby the best Dutch artists, --a wonderful transparent light, in which thelandscape looks like a picture, with its church-spires of stone, itswindmills, its slender trees, and red-roofed houses. It is a good lightand a good hour in which to enter Bruges, that city of the past. Oncethe city was greater than Antwerp; and up the Rege came the commerce ofthe East, merchants from the Levant, traders in jewels and silks. Nowthe tall houses wait for tenants, and the streets have a desertedair. After nightfall, as we walked in the middle of the roughly pavedstreets, meeting few people, and hearing only the echoing clatter of thewooden sabots of the few who were abroad, the old spirit of the placecame over us. We sat on a bench in the market-place, a treeless square, hemmed in by quaint, gabled houses, late in the evening, to listen tothe chimes from the belfry. The tower is less than four hundred feethigh, and not so high by some seventy feet as the one on Notre Dame nearby; but it is very picturesque, in spite of the fact that it springs outof a rummagy-looking edifice, one half of which is devoted to soldiers'barracks, and the other to markets. The chimes are called the finest inEurope. It is well to hear the finest at once, and so have done with thetedious things. The Belgians are as fond of chimes as the Dutch are ofstagnant water. We heard them everywhere in Belgium; and in some townsthey are incessant, jangling every seven and a half minutes. The chimesat Bruges ring every quarter hour for a minute, and at the full hourattempt a tune. The revolving machinery grinds out the tune, which ischanged at least once a year; and on Sundays a musician, chosen by thetown, plays the chimes. In so many bells (there are forty-eight), the least of which weighs twelve pounds, and the largest over eleventhousand, there must be soft notes and sonorous tones; so sweet jangledsounds were showered down: but we liked better than the confused chimingthe solemn notes of the great bell striking the hour. There is somethingvery poetical about this chime of bells high in the air, flinging downupon the hum and traffic of the city its oft-repeated benediction ofpeace; but anybody but a Lowlander would get very weary of it. Thesechimes, to be sure, are better than those in London, which became anuisance; but there is in all of them a tinkling attempt at a tune, which always fails, that is very annoying. 

Bruges has altogether an odd flavor. Piles of wooden sabots are for salein front of the shops; and this ugly shoe, which is mysteriously kept onthe foot, is worn by all the common sort. We see long, slender carts inthe street, with one horse hitched far ahead with rope traces, and nothills or pole. 

The women-nearly every one we saw-wear long cloaks of black cloth with asilk hood thrown back. Bruges is famous of old for its beautiful women, who are enticingly described as always walking the streets with coveredfaces, and peeping out from their mantles. They are not so handsomenow they show their faces, I can testify. Indeed, if there is in Brugesanother besides the beautiful girl who showed us the old council-chamberin the Palace of justice, she must have had her hood pulled over herface. 

Next morning was market-day. The square was lively with carts, donkeys, and country people, and that and all the streets leading to it werefilled with the women in black cloaks, who flitted about as numerous asthe rooks at Oxford, and very much like them, moving in a wingedway, their cloaks outspread as they walked, and distended with themarket-basket underneath. Though the streets were full, the town did notseem any less deserted; and the early marketers had only come to lifefor a day, revisiting the places that once they thronged. In the shadeof the tall houses in the narrow streets sat red-cheeked girls and womenmaking lace, the bobbins jumping under their nimble fingers. At thechurch doors hideous beggars crouched and whined, --specimens of thefifteen thousand paupers of Bruges. In the fishmarket we saw odd oldwomen, with Rembrandt colors in faces and costume; and while we strayedabout in the strange city, all the time from the lofty tower the chimesfell down. What history crowds upon us! Here in the old cathedral, with its monstrous tower of brick, a portion of it as old as the tenthcentury, Philip the Good established, in 1429, the Order of the GoldenFleece, the last chapter of which was held by Philip the Bad in 1559, inthe rich old Cathedral of St. Bavon, at Ghent. Here, on the square, isthe site of the house where the Emperor Maximilian was imprisoned byhis rebellious Flemings; and next it, with a carved lion, that in whichCharles II. Of England lived after the martyrdom of that patient andvirtuous ruler, whom the English Prayerbook calls that "blessed martyr, Charles the First. " In Notre Dame are the tombs of Charles the Bold andMary his daughter. 

We begin here to enter the portals of Dutch painting. Here died Jan vanEyck, the father of oil painting; and here, in the hospital of St. John, are the most celebrated pictures of Hans Memling. The most exquisite incolor and finish is the series painted on the casket made to contain thearm of St. Ursula, and representing the story of her martyrdom. Youknow she went on a pilgrimage to Rome, with her lover, Conan, andeleven thousand virgins; and, on their return to Cologne, they were allmassacred by the Huns. One would scarcely believe the story, if he didnot see all their bones at Cologne. 

GHENT AND ANTWERP

What can one do in this Belgium but write down names, and let memoryrecall the past? We came to Ghent, still a hand some city, thoughone thinks of the days when it was the capital of Flanders, and itsmerchants were princes. On the shabby old belfry-tower is the giltdragon which Philip van Artevelde captured, and brought in triumph fromBruges. It was originally fetched from a Greek church in Constantinopleby some Bruges Crusader; and it is a link to recall to us how, at thattime, the merchants of Venice and the far East traded up the Scheldt, and brought to its wharves the rich stuffs of India and Persia. The oldbell Roland, that was used to call the burghers together on the approachof an enemy, hung in this tower. What fierce broils and bloody fightsdid these streets witness centuries ago! There in the Marche auVendredi, a large square of old-fashioned houses, with a statue ofJacques van Artevelde, fifteen hundred corpses were strewn in a quarrelbetween the hostile guilds of fullers and brewers; and here, later, Alvaset blazing the fires of the Inquisition. Near the square is theold cannon, Mad Margery, used in 1382 at the siege of Oudenarde, --ahammered-iron hooped affair, eighteen feet long. But why mentionthis, or the magnificent town hall, or St. Bavon, rich in pictures andstatuary; or try to put you back three hundred years to the wild dayswhen the iconoclasts sacked this and every other church in the LowCountries?

Up to Antwerp toward evening. All the country flat as the flattest partof Jersey, rich in grass and grain, cut up by canals, picturesque withwindmills and red-tiled roofs, framed with trees in rows. It has beenall day hot and dusty. The country everywhere seems to need rain; anddark clouds are gathering in the south for a storm, as we drive up thebroad Place de Meir to our hotel, and take rooms that look out to thelace-like spire of the cathedral, which is sharply defined against thered western sky. 

Antwerp takes hold of you, both by its present and its past, verystrongly. It is still the home of wealth. It has stately buildings, splendid galleries of pictures, and a spire of stone which charms morethan a picture, and fascinates the eye as music does the ear. It stillkeeps its strong fortifications drawn around it, to which the broad anddeep Scheldt is like a string to a bow, mindful of the unstable stateof Europe. While Berlin is only a vast camp of soldiers, every less citymust daily beat its drums, and call its muster-roll. From the towerhere one looks upon the cockpit of Europe. And yet Antwerp ought to haverest: she has had tumult enough in her time. Prosperity seems returningto her; but her old, comparative splendor can never come back. In thesixteenth century there was no richer city in Europe. 

We walked one evening past the cathedral spire, which begins in therichest and most solid Gothic work, and grows up into the sky into anexquisite lightness and grace, down a broad street to the Scheldt. Whattraffic have not these high old houses looked on, when two thousand andfive hundred vessels lay in the river at one time, and the commerceof Europe found here its best mart. Along the stream now is a not veryclean promenade for the populace; and it is lined with beer-houses, shabby theaters, and places of the most childish amusements. There isan odd liking for the simple among these people. In front of the booths, drums were beaten and instruments played in bewildering discord. Actorsin paint and tights stood without to attract the crowd within. On onelow balcony, a copper-colored man, with a huge feather cap and thetraditional dress of the American savage, was beating two drums; aburnt-cork black man stood beside him; while on the steps was a woman, in hat and shawl, making an earnest speech to the crowd. In anotherplace, where a crazy band made furious music, was an enormous "go-round"of wooden ponies, like those in the Paris gardens, only here, insteadof children, grown men and women rode the hobby-horses, and seemeddelighted with the sport. In the general Babel, everybody wasgood-natured and jolly. Little things suffice to amuse the lowerclasses, who do not have to bother their heads with elections and massmeetings. 

In front of the cathedral is the well, and the fine canopy of iron-work, by Quentin Matsys, the blacksmith of Antwerp, some of whose pictures wesaw in the Museum, where one sees, also some of the finest picturesof the Dutch school, --the "Crucifixion" of Rubens, the "Christ on theCross" of Vandyke; paintings also by Teniers, Otto Vennius, Albert Cuyp, and others, and Rembrandt's portrait of his wife, --a picture whose sweetstrength and wealth of color draws one to it with almost a passion ofadmiration. We had already seen "The Descent from the Cross" and "TheRaising of the Cross" by Rubens, in the cathedral. With all his powerand rioting luxuriance of color, I cannot come to love him as I doRembrandt. Doubtless he painted what he saw; and we still find thetypes of his female figures in the broad-hipped, ruddy-colored women ofAntwerp. We walked down to his house, which remains much as it was twohundred and twenty-five years ago. From the interior court, an entrancein the Italian style leads into a pleasant little garden full of oldtrees and flowers, with a summer-house embellished with plaster casts, and having the very stone table upon which Rubens painted. It is a quietplace, and fit for an artist; but Rubens had other houses in the city, and lived the life of a man who took a strong hold of the world. 

AMSTERDAM

The rail from Antwerp north was through a land flat and sterile. Aftera little, it becomes a little richer; but a forlorner land to live in Inever saw. One wonders at the perseverance of the Flemings and Dutchmento keep all this vast tract above water when there is so much good solidearth elsewhere unoccupied. At Moerdjik we changed from the cars to alittle steamer on the Maas, which flows between high banks. The wateris higher than the adjoining land, and from the deck we look down uponhouses and farms. At Dort, the Rhine comes in with little promise ofthe noble stream it is in the highlands. Everywhere canals and ditchesdividing the small fields instead of fences; trees planted in straightlines, and occasionally trained on a trellis in front of the houses, with the trunk painted white or green; so that every likeness of natureshall be taken away. From Rotterdam, by cars, it is still the same. TheDutchman spends half his life, apparently, in fighting the water. He hasto watch the huge dikes which keep the ocean from overwhelming him, and the river-banks, which may break, and let the floods of the Rhineswallow him up. The danger from within is not less than from without. Yet so fond is he of his one enemy, that, when he can afford it, hebuilds him a fantastic summer-house over a stagnant pool or a slimycanal, in one corner of his garden, and there sits to enjoy the aquaticbeauties of nature; that is, nature as he has made it. The river-banksare woven with osiers to keep them from washing; and at intervals on thebanks are piles of the long withes to be used in emergencies when theswollen streams threaten to break through. 

And so we come to Amsterdam, the oddest city of all, --a city whollybuilt on piles, with as many canals as streets, and an architecture soquaint as to even impress one who has come from Belgium. The wholetown has a wharf-y look; and it is difficult to say why the tall brickhouses, their gables running by steps to a peak, and each one leaningforward or backward or sideways, and none perpendicular, and no two on aline, are so interesting. But certainly it is a most entertaining placeto the stranger, whether he explores the crowded Jews' quarter, with itsswarms of dirty people, its narrow streets, and high houses hung withclothes, as if every day were washing-day; or strolls through theequally narrow streets of rich shops; or lounges upon the bridges, andlooks at the queer boats with clumsy rounded bows, great helms' paintedin gay colors, with flowers in the cabin windows, --boats where familieslive; or walks down the Plantage, with the zoological gardens on the onehand and rows of beer-gardens on the other; or round the great docks;or saunters at sunset by the banks of the Y, and looks upon flat NorthHolland and the Zuyder Zee. 

The palace on the Dam (square) is a square, stately edifice, and theonly building that the stranger will care to see. Its interior is richerand more fit to live in than any palace we have seen. There is nothingusually so dreary as your fine Palace. There are some good frescoes, rooms richly decorated in marble, and a magnificent hall, or ball-room, one hundred feet in height, without pillars. Back of it is, of course, a canal, which does not smell fragrantly in the summer; and I do notwonder that William III. And his queen prefer to stop away. From the topis a splendid view of Amsterdam and all the flat region. I speak of itwith entire impartiality, for I did not go up to see it. But betterthan palaces are the picture-galleries, three of which are open to thesightseer. Here the ancient and modern Dutch painters are seen at theirbest, and I know of no richer feast of this sort. Here Rembrandt isto be seen in his glory; here Van der Helst, Jan Steen, Gerard Douw, Teniers the younger, Hondekoeter, Weenix, Ostade, Cuyp, and other namesas familiar. These men also painted what they saw, the people, thelandscapes, with which they were familiar. It was a strange pleasure tomeet again and again in the streets of the town the faces, or types ofthem, that we had just seen on canvas so old. 

In the Low Countries, the porters have the grand title ofcommissionaires. They carry trunks and bundles, black boots, and act asvalets de place. As guides, they are quite as intolerable in Amsterdamas their brethren in other cities. Many of them are Jews; and they havea keen eye for a stranger. The moment he sallies from his hotel, thereis a guide. Let him hesitate for an instant in his walk, either to lookat something or to consult his map, or let him ask the way, and he willhave a half dozen of the persistent guild upon him; and they cannoteasily be shaken off. The afternoon we arrived, we had barely got intoour rooms at Brack's Oude Doelan, when a gray-headed commissionaireknocked at our door, and offered his services to show us the city. Wedeferred the pleasure of his valuable society. Shortly, when we camedown to the street, a smartly dressed Israelite took off his hat to us, and offered to show us the city. We declined with impressive politeness, and walked on. The Jew accompanied us, and attempted conversation, inwhich we did not join. He would show us everything for a guilder anhour, --for half a guilder. Having plainly told the Jew that we did notdesire his attendance, he crossed to the other side of the street, andkept us in sight, biding his opportunity. At the end of the street, wehesitated a moment whether to cross the bridge or turn up by the broadcanal. The Jew was at our side in a moment, having divined that we wereon the way to the Dam and the palace. He obligingly pointed the way, and began to walk with us, entering into conversation. We told himpointedly, that we did not desire his services, and requested him toleave us. He still walked in our direction, with the air of one muchinjured, but forgiving, and was more than once beside us with a piece ofinformation. When we finally turned upon him with great fierceness, and told him to begone, he regarded us with a mournful and pityingexpression; and as the last act of one who returned good for evil, before he turned away, pointed out to us the next turn we were to make. I saw him several times afterward; and I once had occasion to say tohim, that I had already told him I would not employ him; and he alwayslifted his hat, and looked at me with a forgiving smile. I felt thatI had deeply wronged him. As we stood by the statue, looking up at theeastern pediment of the palace, another of the tribe (they all speak alittle English) asked me if I wished to see the palace. I told him Iwas looking at it, and could see it quite distinctly. Half a dozen morecrowded round, and proffered their aid. Would I like to go into thepalace? They knew, and I knew, that they could do nothing more than goto the open door, through which they would not be admitted, and that Icould walk across the open square to that, and enter alone. I asked thefirst speaker if he wished to go into the palace. Oh, yes! he would liketo go. I told him he had better go at once, --they had all better goin together and see the palace, --it was an excellent opportunity. Theyseemed to see the point, and slunk away to the other side to wait foranother stranger. 

I find that this plan works very well with guides: when I see oneapproaching, I at once offer to guide him. It is an idea from which hedoes not rally in time to annoy us. The other day I offered to show apersistent fellow through an old ruin for fifty kreuzers: as his pricefor showing me was forty-eight, we did not come to terms. One of themost remarkable guides, by the way, we encountered at Stratford-on-Avon. As we walked down from the Red Horse Inn to the church, a full-grown boycame bearing down upon us in the most wonderful fashion. Early rickets, I think, had been succeeded by the St. Vitus' dance. He came down uponus sideways, his legs all in a tangle, and his right arm, bent andtwisted, going round and round, as if in vain efforts to get into hispocket, his fingers spread out in impotent desire to clutch something. There was great danger that he would run into us, as he was like asteamer with only one side-wheel and no rudder. He came up puffing andblowing, and offered to show us Shakespeare's tomb. Shade of thepast, to be accompanied to thy resting-place by such an object! But hefastened himself on us, and jerked and hitched along in his side-wheelfashion. We declined his help. He paddled on, twisting himself intoknots, and grinning in the most friendly manner. We told him to begone. "I am, " said he, wrenching himself into a new contortion, "I am whatshowed Artemus Ward round Stratford. " This information he repeated againand again, as if we could not resist him after we had comprehended that. We shook him off; but when we returned at sundown across the fields, from a visit to Anne Hathaway's cottage, we met the sidewheelercheerfully towing along a large party, upon whom he had fastened. 

The people of Amsterdam are only less queer than their houses. Themen dress in a solid, old-fashioned way. Every one wears the straight, high-crowned silk hat that went out with us years ago, and the cut ofclothing of even the most buckish young fellows is behind the times. I stepped into the Exchange, an immense interior, that will hold fivethousand people, where the stock-gamblers meet twice a day. It was verydifferent from the terrible excitement and noise of the Paris Bourse. There were three or four thousand brokers there, yet there was verylittle noise and no confusion. No stocks were called, and there was nocentral ring for bidding, as at the Bourse and the New York Gold Room;but they quietly bought and sold. Some of the leading firms had desksor tables at the side, and there awaited orders. Everything wasphlegmatically and decorously done. 

In the streets one still sees peasant women in native costume. There wasa group to-day that I saw by the river, evidently just crossed over fromNorth Holland. They wore short dresses, with the upper skirt looped up, and had broad hips and big waists. On the head was a cap with a fall oflace behind; across the back of the head a broad band of silver (or tin)three inches broad, which terminated in front and just above the ears inbright pieces of metal about two inches square, like a horse's blinders, Only flaring more from the head; across the forehead and just abovethe eyes a gilt band, embossed; on the temples two plaits of hair incircular coils; and on top of all a straw hat, like an old-fashionedbonnet stuck on hindside before. Spiral coils of brass wire, coming to apoint in front, are also worn on each side of the head by many. Whetherthey are for ornament or defense, I could not determine. 

Water is brought into the city now from Haarlem, and introduced into thebest houses; but it is still sold in the streets by old men and women, who sit at the faucets. I saw one dried-up old grandmother, who sat inher little caboose, fighting away the crowd of dirty children who triedto steal a drink when her back was turned, keeping count of the pails ofwater carried away with a piece of chalk on the iron pipe, and trying todarn her stocking at the same time. Odd things strike you at every turn. There is a sledge drawn by one poor horse, and on the front of it is acask of water pierced with holes, so that the water squirts out and wetsthe stones, making it easier sliding for the runners. It is an ingeniouspeople!

After all, we drove out five miles to Broek, the clean village; acrossthe Y, up the canal, over flatness flattened. Broek is a humbug, asalmost all show places are. A wooden little village on a stagnant canal, into which carriages do not drive, and where the front doors of thehouses are never open; a dead, uninteresting place, neat but notspecially pretty, where you are shown into one house got up for thepurpose, which looks inside like a crockery shop, and has a stifflittle garden with box trained in shapes of animals and furniture. Aroomy-breeched young Dutchman, whose trousers went up to his neck, andhis hat to a peak, walked before us in slow and cow-like fashion, andshowed us the place; especially some horrid pleasure-grounds, with animage of an old man reading in a summer-house, and an old couple ina cottage who sat at a table and worked, or ate, I forget which, byclock-work; while a dog barked by the same means. In a pond was a woodenswan sitting on a stick, the water having receded, and left it high anddry. Yet the trip is worth while for the view of the country andthe people on the way: men and women towing boats on the canals; thered-tiled houses painted green, and in the distance the villages, withtheir spires and pleasing mixture of brown, green, and red tints, arevery picturesque. The best thing that I saw, however, was a traditionalDutchman walking on the high bank of a canal, with soft hat, short pipe, and breeches that came to the armpits above, and a little below theknees, and were broad enough about the seat and thighs to carry his nodoubt numerous family. He made a fine figure against the sky. 

COLOGNE AND ST. URSULA

It is a relief to get out of Holland and into a country nearer to hills. The people also seem more obliging. In Cologne, a brown-cheeked girlpointed us out the way without waiting for a kreuzer. Perhaps the womenhave more to busy themselves about in the cities, and are not socurious about passers-by. We rarely see a reflector to exhibit us to theoccupants of the second-story windows. In all the cities of Belgiumand Holland the ladies have small mirrors, with reflectors, fastenedto their windows; so that they can see everybody who passes, withoutputting their heads out. I trust we are not inverted or thrown outof shape when we are thus caught up and cast into my lady's chamber. Cologne has a cheerful look, for the Rhine here is wide and promising;and as for the "smells, " they are certainly not so many nor so vile asthose at Mainz. 

Our windows at the hotel looked out on the finest front of thecathedral. If the Devil really built it, he is to be credited with onegood thing, and it is now likely to be finished, in spite of him. Largeas it is, it is on the exterior not so impressive as that at Amiens;but within it has a magnificence born of a vast design and the mostharmonious proportions, and the grand effect is not broken by anysubdivision but that of the choir. Behind the altar and in front of thechapel, where lie the remains of the Wise Men of the East who came toworship the Child, or, as they are called, the Three Kings of Cologne, we walked over a stone in the pavement under which is the heart of Maryde Medicis: the remainder of her body is in St. Denis near Paris. Thebeadle in red clothes, who stalks about the cathedral like a convertedflamingo, offered to open for us the chapel; but we declined a sight ofthe very bones of the Wise Men. It was difficult enough to believe theywere there, without seeing them. One ought not to subject his faith totoo great a strain at first in Europe. The bones of the Three Kings, by the way, made the fortune of the cathedral. They were the greatestreligious card of the Middle Ages, and their fortunate possessionbrought a flood of wealth to this old Domkirche. The old feudal lordswould swear by the Almighty Father, or the Son, or Holy Ghost, or byeverything sacred on earth, and break their oaths as they would breaka wisp of straw: but if you could get one of them to swear by the ThreeKings of Cologne, he was fast; for that oath he dare not disregard. 

The prosperity of the cathedral on these valuable bones set all theother churches in the neighborhood on the same track; and one canstudy right here in this city the growth of relic worship. But the mostsuccessful achievement was the collection of the bones of St. Ursula andthe eleven thousand virgins, and their preservation in the church on thevery spot where they suffered martyrdom. There is probably not so largea collection of the bones of virgins elsewhere in the world; and I amsorry to read that Professor Owen has thought proper to see and say thatmany of them are the bones of lower orders of animals. They are builtinto the walls of the church, arranged about the choir, interred instone coffins, laid under the pavements; and their skulls grin at youeverywhere. In the chapel the bones are tastefully built into the walland overhead, like rustic wood-work; and the skulls stand in rows, somewith silver masks, like the jars on the shelves of an apothecary's shop. It is a cheerful place. On the little altar is the very skull ofthe saint herself, and that of Conan, her lover, who made the holypilgrimage to Rome with her and her virgins, and also was slain by theHuns at Cologne. There is a picture of the eleven thousand disembarkingfrom one boat on the Rhine, which is as wonderful as the trooping ofhundreds of spirits out of a conjurer's bottle. The right arm of St. Ursula is preserved here: the left is at Bruges. I am gradually gettingthe hang of this excellent but somewhat scattered woman, and bringingher together in my mind. Her body, I believe, lies behind the altarin this same church. She must have been a lovely character, if HansMemling's portrait of her is a faithful one. I was glad to see here oneof the jars from the marriage-supper in Cana. We can identify it by apiece which is broken out; and the piece is in Notre Dame in Paris. It has been in this church five hundred years. The sacristan, a veryintelligent person, with a shaven crown and his hair cut straight acrosshis forehead, who showed us the church, gave us much useful informationabout bones, teeth, and the remains of the garments that the virginswore; and I could not tell from his face how much he expected us tobelieve. I asked the little fussy old guide of an English party who hadjoined us, how much he believed of the story. He was a Protestant, andreplied, still anxious to keep up the credit of his city, "Tousands istoo many; some hundreds maybe; tousands is too many. "

A GLIMPSE OF THE RHINE

You have seen the Rhine in pictures; you have read its legends. Youknow, in imagination at least, how it winds among craggy hills ofsplendid form, turning so abruptly as to leave you often shut in with novisible outlet from the wall of rock and forest; how the castles, somein ruins so as to be as unsightly as any old pile of rubbish, otherswith feudal towers and battlements, still perfect, hang on the crags, orstand sharp against the sky, or nestle by the stream or on some lonelyisland. You know that the Rhine has been to Germans what the Nile wasto the Egyptians, --a delight, and the theme of song and story. Here theRoman eagles were planted; here were the camps of Drusus; here Caesarbridged and crossed the Rhine; here, at every turn, a feudal baron, fromhis high castle, levied toll on the passers; and here the French found amomentary halt to their invasion of Germany at different times. You canimagine how, in a misty morning, as you leave Bonn, the Seven Mountainsrise up in their veiled might, and how the Drachenfels stands in new andchanging beauty as you pass it and sail away. You have been told thatthe Hudson is like the Rhine. Believe me, there is no resemblance; norwould there be if the Hudson were lined with castles, and Julius Caesarhad crossed it every half mile. The Rhine satisfies you, and you do notrecall any other river. It only disappoints you as to its "vine-cladhills. " You miss trees and a covering vegetation, and are not enamouredof the patches of green vines on wall-supported terraces, looking fromthe river like hills of beans or potatoes. And, if you try the Rhinewine on the steamers, you will wholly lose your faith in the vintage. Wedecided that the wine on our boat was manufactured in the boiler. 

There is a mercenary atmosphere about hotels and steamers on the Rhine, a watering-place, show sort of feeling, that detracts very much fromone's enjoyment. The old habit of the robber barons of levying toll onall who sail up and down has not been lost. It is not that one actuallypays so much for sightseeing, but the charm of anything vanishes when itis made merchandise. One is almost as reluctant to buy his "views" as heis to sell his opinions. But one ought to be weeks on the Rhine beforeattempting to say anything about it. 

One morning, at Bingen, --I assure you it was not six o'clock, --we tooka big little rowboat, and dropped down the stream, past the Mouse Tower, where the cruel Bishop Hatto was eaten up by rats, under theshattered Castle of Ehrenfels, round the bend to the little village ofAssmannshausen, on the hills back of which is grown the famous redwine of that name. On the bank walked in line a dozen peasants, men andwomen, in picturesque dress, towing, by a line passed from shoulder toshoulder, a boat filled with marketing for Rudesheim. We were boundup the Niederwald, the mountain opposite Bingen, whose noble crown offorest attracted us. At the landing, donkeys awaited us; and we beganthe ascent, a stout, good-natured German girl acting as guide anddriver. Behind us, on the opposite shore, set round about with a wealthof foliage, was the Castle of Rheinstein, a fortress more pleasing inits proportions and situation than any other. Our way was through thelittle town which is jammed into the gorge; and as we clattered upthe pavement, past the church, its heavy bell began to ring loudly formatins, the sound reverberating in the narrow way, and following uswith its benediction when we were far up the hill, breathing the fresh, inspiring morning air. The top of the Niederwald is a splendid forest oftrees, which no impious Frenchman has been allowed to trim, and cut intoallees of arches, taking one in thought across the water to thefree Adirondacks. We walked for a long time under the welcome shade, approaching the brow of the hill now and then, where some tower orhermitage is erected, for a view of the Rhine and the Nahe, the villagesbelow, and the hills around; and then crossed the mountain, down throughcherry orchards, and vine yards, walled up, with images of Christ onthe cross on the angles of the walls, down through a hot road where wildflowers grew in great variety, to the quaint village of Rudesheim, withits queer streets and ancient ruins. Is it possible that we can have toomany ruins? "Oh dear!" exclaimed the jung-frau as we sailed along thelast day, "if there is n't another castle!"

HEIDELBERG

If you come to Heidelberg, you will never want to go away. To arrivehere is to come into a peaceful state of rest and content. The greathills out of which the Neckar flows, infold the town in a sweetsecurity; and yet there is no sense of imprisonment, for the view isalways wide open to the great plains where the Neckar goes to join theRhine, and where the Rhine runs for many a league through a rich andsmiling land. One could settle down here to study, without a desire togo farther, nor any wish to change the dingy, shabby old buildings ofthe university for anything newer and smarter. What the students canfind to fight their little duels about I cannot see; but fight they do, as many a scarred cheek attests. The students give life to the town. They go about in little caps of red, green, and blue, many of themembroidered in gold, and stuck so far on the forehead that they requirean elastic, like that worn by ladies, under the back hair, to keepthem on; and they are also distinguished by colored ribbons across thebreast. The majority of them are well-behaved young gentlemen, who carryswitch-canes, and try to keep near the fashions, like students at home. Some like to swagger about in their little skull-caps, and now and thenone is attended by a bull-dog. 

I write in a room which opens out upon a balcony. Below it is a garden, below that foliage, and farther down the town with its old speckledroofs, spires, and queer little squares. Beyond is the Neckar, with thebridge, and white statues on it, and an old city gate at this end, withpointed towers. Beyond that is a white road with a wall on one side, along which I see peasant women walking with large baskets balanced ontheir heads. The road runs down the river to Neuenheim. Above it onthe steep hillside are vineyards; and a winding path goes up tothe Philosopher's Walk, which runs along for a mile or more, givingdelightful views of the castle and the glorious woods and hills backof it. Above it is the mountain of Heiligenberg, from the other sideof which one looks off toward Darmstadt and the famous road, theBergstrasse. If I look down the stream, I see the narrow town, and theNeckar flowing out of it into the vast level plain, rich with grainand trees and grass, with many spires and villages; Mannheim to thenorthward, shining when the sun is low; the Rhine gleaming here andthere near the horizon; and the Vosges Mountains, purple in the lastdistance: on my right, and so near that I could throw a stone into them, the ruined tower and battlements of the northwest corner of the castle, half hidden in foliage, with statues framed in ivy, and the gardenterrace, built for Elizabeth Stuart when she came here the bride of theElector Frederick, where giant trees grow. Under the walls a steeppath goes down into the town, along which little houses cling to thehillside. High above the castle rises the noble Konigstuhl, whence thewhole of this part of Germany is visible, and, in a clear day, StrasburgMinster, ninety miles away. 

I have only to go a few steps up a narrow, steep street, lined with thequeerest houses, where is an ever-running pipe of good water, to whichall the neighborhood resorts, and I am within the grounds of the castle. I scarcely know where to take you; for I never know where to go myself, and seldom do go where I intend when I set forth. We have been hereseveral days; and I have not yet seen the Great Tun, nor the inside ofthe show-rooms, nor scarcely anything that is set down as a "sight. "I do not know whether to wander on through the extensive grounds, withsplendid trees, bits of old ruin, overgrown, cozy nooks, and seatswhere, through the foliage, distant prospects open into quiet retreatsthat lead to winding walks up the terraced hill, round to the openterrace overlooking the Neckar, and giving the best general view ofthe great mass of ruins. If we do, we shall be likely to sit in somedelicious place, listening to the band playing in the "Restauration, "and to the nightingales, till the moon comes up. Or shall we turn intothe garden through the lovely Arch of the Princess Elizabeth, with itsstone columns cut to resemble tree-trunks twined with ivy? Or go ratherthrough the great archway, and under the teeth of the portcullis, intothe irregular quadrangle, whose buildings mark the changing style andfortune of successive centuries, from 1300 down to the seventeenthcentury? There is probably no richer quadrangle in Europe: there iscertainly no other ruin so vast, so impressive, so ornamented withcarving, except the Alhambra. And from here we pass out upon the broadterrace of masonry, with a splendid flanking octagon tower, its basehidden in trees, a rich facade for a background, and below the town theriver, and beyond the plain and floods of golden sunlight. What shall wedo? Sit and dream in the Rent Tower under the lindens that grow in itstop? The day passes while one is deciding how to spend it, and the sunover Heiligenberg goes down on his purpose. 

ALPINE NOTES

ENTERING SWITZERLAND BERNE ITS BEAUTIES AND BEARS

If you come to Bale, you should take rooms on the river, or stand on thebridge at evening, and have a sunset of gold and crimson streaming downupon the wide and strong Rhine, where it rushes between the houses builtplumb up to it, or you will not care much for the city. And yet it ispleasant on the high ground, where are some stately buildings, and wherenew gardens are laid out, and where the American consul on the Fourthof July flies our flag over the balcony of a little cottage smotheredin vines and gay with flowers. I had the honor of saluting it that day, though I did not know at the time that gold had risen two or three percent. Under its blessed folds at home. Not being a shipwrecked sailor, or a versatile and accomplished but impoverished naturalized citizen, desirous of quick transit to the land of the free, I did not call uponthe consul, but left him under the no doubt correct impression that hewas doing a good thing by unfolding the flag on the Fourth. 

You have not journeyed far from Bale before you are aware that you arein Switzerland. It was showery the day we went down; but the ridefilled us with the most exciting expectations. The country recalledNew England, or what New England might be, if it were cultivated andadorned, and had good roads and no fences. Here at last, after the dustyGerman valleys, we entered among real hills, round which and throughwhich, by enormous tunnels, our train slowly went: rocks looking outof foliage; sweet little valleys, green as in early spring; the darkevergreens in contrast; snug cottages nestled in the hillsides, showinglittle else than enormous brown roofs that come nearly to the ground, giving the cottages the appearance of huge toadstools; fine harvests ofgrain; thrifty apple-trees, and cherry-trees purple with luscious fruit. And this shifting panorama continues until, towards evening, behold, ona hill, Berne, shining through showers, the old feudal round tower andbuildings overhanging the Aar, and the tower of the cathedral over all. From the balcony of our rooms at the Bellevue, the long range of theBernese Oberland shows its white summits for a moment in the slantsunshine, and then the clouds shut down, not to lift again for two days. Yet it looks warmer on the snow-peaks than in Berne, for summer sets inin Switzerland with a New England chill and rigor. 

The traveler finds no city with more flavor of the picturesque andquaint than Berne; and I think it must have preserved the Swisscharacteristics better than any other of the large towns in Helvetia. It stands upon a peninsula, round which the Aar, a hundred feet below, rapidly flows; and one has on nearly every side very pretty views ofthe green basin of hills which rise beyond the river. It is a mostcomfortable town on a rainy day; for all the principal streets havetheir houses built on arcades, and one walks under the low arches, withthe shops on one side and the huge stone pillars on the other. Thesepillars so stand out toward the street as to give the house-fronts acurved look. Above are balconies, in which, upon red cushions, sit thedaughters of Berne, reading and sewing, and watching their neighbors;and in nearly every window are quantities of flowers of the mostbrilliant colors. The gray stone of the houses, which are piled upfrom the streets, harmonizes well with the colors in the windows andbalconies, and the scene is quite Oriental as one looks down, especiallyif it be upon a market morning, when the streets are as thronged asthe Strand. Several terraces, with great trees, overlook the river, andcommand prospects of the Alps. These are public places; for the citygovernment has a queer notion that trees are not hideous, and that apart of the use of living is the enjoyment of the beautiful. I saw anelegant bank building, with carved figures on the front, and ateach side of the entrance door a large stand of flowers, --oleanders, geraniums, and fuchsias; while the windows and balconies above bloomedwith a like warmth of floral color. Would you put an American bankpresident in the Retreat who should so decorate his banking-house? Weall admire the tasteful display of flowers in foreign towns: we gohome, and carry nothing with us but a recollection. But Berne has alsofountains everywhere; some of them grotesque, like the ogre that devourshis own children, but all a refreshment and delight. And it has also itsclock-tower, with one of those ingenious pieces of mechanism, in whichthe sober people of this region take pleasure. At the hour, a processionof little bears goes round, a jolly figure strikes the time, a cockflaps his wings and crows, and a solemn Turk opens his mouth to announcethe flight of the hours. It is more grotesque, but less elaborate, thanthe equally childish toy in the cathedral at Strasburg. 

We went Sunday morning to the cathedral; and the excellent woman whoguards the portal--where in ancient stone the Last Judgment is enacted, and the cheerful and conceited wise virgins stand over against thefoolish virgins, one of whom has been in the penitential attitudeof having a stone finger in her eye now for over three hundredyears--refused at first to admit us to the German Lutheran service, which was just beginning. It seems that doors are locked, and no oneis allowed to issue forth until after service. There seems to be animpression that strangers go only to hear the organ, which is a sort ofrival of that at Freiburg, and do not care much for the well-preparedand protracted discourse in Swiss-German. We agreed to the terms ofadmission; but it did not speak well for former travelers that the womanshould think it necessary to say, "You must sit still, and not talk. " Itis a barn-like interior. The women all sit on hard, high-backed benchesin the center of the church, and the men on hard, higher-backed benchesabout the sides, inclosing and facing the women, who are more directlyunder the droppings of the little pulpit, hung on one of the pillars, --avery solemn and devout congregation, who sang very well, and paid strictattention to the sermon. 

I noticed that the names of the owners, and sometimes theircoats-of-arms, were carved or painted on the backs of the seats, asif the pews were not put up at yearly auction. One would not call it adressy congregation, though the homely women looked neat in black waistsand white puffed sleeves and broadbrimmed hats. 

The only concession I have anywhere seen to women in Switzerland, asthe more delicate sex, was in this church: they sat during most of theservice, but the men stood all the time, except during the delivery ofthe sermon. The service began at nine o'clock, as it ought to with us insummer. The costume of the peasant women in and about Berne comes nearerto being picturesque than in most other parts of Switzerland, where itis simply ugly. You know the sort of thing in pictures, --the broad hat, short skirt, black, pointed stomacher, with white puffed sleeves, andfrom each breast a large silver chain hanging, which passes under thearm and fastens on the shoulder behind, --a very favorite ornament. Thiscostume would not be unbecoming to a pretty face and figure: whetherthere are any such native to Switzerland, I trust I may not be put uponthe witness-stand to declare. Some of the peasant young men wentwithout coats, and with the shirt sleeves fluted; and others worebutternut-colored suits, the coats of which I can recommend to those wholike the swallow-tailed variety. I suppose one would take a man intothe opera in London, where he cannot go in anything but that sort. Thebuttons on the backs of these came high up between the shoulders, andthe tails did not reach below the waistband. There is a kind of roosterof similar appearance. I saw some of these young men from the country, with their sweethearts, leaning over the stone parapet, and looking intothe pit of the bear-garden, where the city bears walk round, or sit ontheir hind legs for bits of bread thrown to them, or douse themselves inthe tanks, or climb the dead trees set up for their gambols. Yearsago they ate up a British officer who fell in; and they walk round nowceaselessly, as if looking for another. But one cannot expect good tastein a bear. 

If you would see how charming a farming country can be, drive out on thehighway towards Thun. For miles it is well shaded with giant trees ofenormous trunks, and a clean sidewalk runs by the fine road. On eitherside, at little distances from the road, are picturesque cottages andrambling old farmhouses peeping from the trees and vines and flowers. Everywhere flowers, before the house, in the windows, at the railwaystations. But one cannot stay forever even in delightful Berne, with itsfountains and terraces, and girls on red cushions in the windows, andnoble trees and flowers, and its stately federal Capitol, and its bearscarved everywhere in stone and wood, and its sunrises, when all theBernese Alps lie like molten silver in the early light, and the cloudsdrift over them, now hiding, now disclosing, the enchanting heights. 

HEARING THE FREIBURG ORGAN--FIRST SIGHT OF LAKE LEMAN

Freiburg, with its aerial suspension-bridges, is also on a peninsula, formed by the Sarine; with its old walls, old watch-towers, its piled-upold houses, and streets that go upstairs, and its delicious cherries, which you can eat while you sit in the square by the famous linden-tree, and wait for the time when the organ will be played in the cathedral. For all the world stops at Freiburg to hear and enjoy the greatorgan, --all except the self-satisfied English clergyman, who says hedoes n't care much for it, and would rather go about town and seethe old walls; and the young and boorish French couple, whose refinedamusement in the railway-carriage consisted in the young man's catchinghis wife's foot in the window-strap, and hauling it up to the level ofthe window, and who cross themselves and go out after the first tune;and the two bread-and-butter English young ladies, one of whom asks theother in the midst of the performance, if she has thought yet tocount the pipes, --a thoughtful verification of Murray, which is verycommendable in a young woman traveling for the improvement of her littlemind. 

One has heard so much of this organ, that he expects impossibilities, and is at first almost disappointed, although it is not long indiscovering its vast compass, and its wonderful imitations, now of afull orchestra, and again of a single instrument. One has not to waitlong before he is mastered by its spell. The vox humana stop did notstrike me as so perfect as that of the organ in the Rev. Mr. Hale'schurch in Boston, though the imitation of choir-voices responding to theorgan was very effective. But it is not in tricks of imitation that thisorgan is so wonderful: it is its power of revealing, by all its compass, the inmost part of any musical composition. 

The last piece we heard was something like this: the sound of a bell, tolling at regular intervals, like the throbbing of a life begun; aboutit an accompaniment of hopes, inducements, fears, the flute, the violin, the violoncello, promising, urging, entreating, inspiring; thelife beset with trials, lured with pleasures, hesitating, doubting, questioning; its purpose at length grows more certain and fixed, thebell tolling becomes a prolonged undertone, the flow of a definite life;the music goes on, twining round it, now one sweet instrument and nowmany, in strife or accord, all the influences of earth and heaven andthe base underworld meeting and warring over the aspiring soul; thestruggle becomes more earnest, the undertone is louder and clearer;the accompaniment indicates striving, contesting passion, an agony ofendeavor and resistance, until at length the steep and rocky way ispassed, the world and self are conquered, and, in a burst of triumphfrom a full orchestra, the soul attains the serene summit. But the restis only for a moment. Even in the highest places are temptations. Thesunshine fails, clouds roll up, growling of low, pedal thunder is heard, while sharp lightning-flashes soon break in clashing peals about thepeaks. This is the last Alpine storm and trial. After it the sun burstsout again, the wide, sunny valleys are disclosed, and a sweet eveninghymn floats through all the peaceful air. We go out from the cool churchinto the busy streets of the white, gray town awed and comforted. 

And such a ride afterwards! It was as if the organ music stillcontinued. All the world knows the exquisite views southward fromFreiburg; but such an atmosphere as we had does not overhang them manytimes in a season. First the Moleross, and a range of mountains bathedin misty blue light, --rugged peaks, scarred sides, white and tawny atonce, rising into the clouds which hung large and soft in the blue; soonMont Blanc, dim and aerial, in the south; the lovely valley of the RiverSense; peasants walking with burdens on the white highway; the quiet andsoft-tinted mountains beyond; towns perched on hills, with old castlesand towers; the land rich with grass, grain, fruit, flowers; atPalezieux a magnificent view of the silver, purple, and blue mountains, with their chalky seams and gashed sides, near at hand; and at length, coming through a long tunnel, as if we had been shot out into the airabove a country more surprising than any in dreams, the most wonderfulsight burst upon us, --the low-lying, deep-blue Lake Leman, andthe gigantic mountains rising from its shores, and a sort of mist, translucent, suffused with sunlight, like the liquid of the golden winethe Steinberger poured into the vast basin. We came upon it out of totaldarkness, without warning; and we seemed, from our great height, to beabout to leap into the splendid gulf of tremulous light and color. 

This Lake of Geneva is said to combine the robust mountain grandeur ofLuzerne with all the softness of atmosphere of Lake Maggiore. Surely, nothing could exceed the loveliness as we wound down the hillside, through the vineyards, to Lausanne, and farther on, near the foot of thelake, to Montreux, backed by precipitous but tree-clad hills, frontedby the lovely water, and the great mountains which run away south intoSavoy, where Velan lifts up its snows. Below us, round the curving bay, lies white Chillon; and at sunset we row down to it over the bewitchedwater, and wait under its grim walls till the failing light brings backthe romance of castle and prisoner. Our garcon had never heard of theprisoner; but he knew about the gendarmes who now occupy the castle. 

OUR ENGLISH FRIENDS

Not the least of the traveler's pleasure in Switzerland is derived fromthe English people who overrun it: they seem to regard it as a kindof private park or preserve belonging to England; and they establishthemselves at hotels, or on steamboats and diligences, with a certainair of ownership that is very pleasant. I am not very fresh in mygeology; but it is my impression that Switzerland was created especiallyfor the English, about the year of the Magna Charta, or a little later. The Germans who come here, and who don't care very much what they eat, or how they sleep, provided they do not have any fresh air in diningroomor bedroom, and provided, also, that the bread is a little sour, growla good deal about the English, and declare that they have spoiledSwitzerland. The natives, too, who live off the English, seem tothoroughly hate them; so that one is often compelled, in self-defense, to proclaim his nationality, which is like running from Scylla uponCharybdis; for, while the American is more popular, it is believed thatthere is no bottom to his pocket. 

There was a sprig of the Church of England on the steamboat on LakeLeman, who spread himself upon a center bench, and discoursed veryinstructively to his friends, --a stout, fat-faced young man in a whitecravat, whose voice was at once loud and melodious, and whom ourmanly Oxford student set down as a man who had just rubbed through theuniversity, and got into a scanty living. 

"I met an American on the boat yesterday, " the oracle was saying to hisfriends, "who was really quite a pleasant fellow. He--ah really was, youknow, quite a sensible man. I asked him if they had anything like thisin America; and he was obliged to say that they had n't anything likeit in his country; they really had n't. He was really quite a sensiblefellow; said he was over here to do the European tour, as he called it. "

Small, sympathetic laugh from the attentive, wiry, red-faced woman onthe oracle's left, and also a chuckle, at the expense of the American, from the thin Englishman on his right, who wore a large white waistcoat, a blue veil on his hat, and a face as red as a live coal. 

"Quite an admission, was n't it, from an American? But I think they havechanged since the wah, you know. "

At the next landing, the smooth and beaming churchman was left byhis friends; and he soon retired to the cabin, where I saw himself-sacrificingly denying himself the views on deck, and consolinghimself with a substantial lunch and a bottle of English ale. 

There is one thing to be said about the English abroad: the varietyis almost infinite. The best acquaintances one makes will beEnglish, --people with no nonsense and strong individuality; and one getsno end of entertainment from the other sort. Very different from theclergyman on the boat was the old lady at table-d'hote in one of thehotels on the lake. One would not like to call her a delightfully wickedold woman, like the Baroness Bernstein; but she had her own witty andsatirical way of regarding the world. She had lived twenty-five years atGeneva, where people, years ago, coming over the dusty and hot roadsof France, used to faint away when they first caught sight of the Alps. Believe they don't do it now. She never did; was past the susceptibleage when she first came; was tired of the people. Honest? Why, yes, honest, but very fond of money. Fine Swiss wood-carving? Yes. You'll getvery sick of it. It's very nice, but I 'm tired of it. Years ago, I sentsome of it home to the folks in England. They thought everything of it;and it was not very nice, either, --a cheap sort. Moral ideas? I don'tcare for moral ideas: people make such a fuss about them lately (thisin reply to her next neighbor, an eccentric, thin man, with bushy hair, shaggy eyebrows, and a high, falsetto voice, who rallied the wittyold lady all dinner-time about her lack of moral ideas, and accuratelydescribed the thin wine on the table as "water-bewitched"). Why did n'tthe baroness go back to England, if she was so tired of Switzerland?Well, she was too infirm now; and, besides, she did n't like totrust herself on the railroads. And there were so many new inventionsnowadays, of which she read. What was this nitroglycerine, that explodedso dreadfully? No: she thought she should stay where she was. 

There is little risk of mistaking the Englishman, with or without hisfamily, who has set out to do Switzerland. He wears a brandy-flask, afield-glass, and a haversack. Whether he has a silk or soft hat, he iscertain to wear a veil tied round it. This precaution is adopted when hemakes up his mind to come to Switzerland, I think, because he has readthat a veil is necessary to protect the eyes from the snow-glare. Thereis probably not one traveler in a hundred who gets among the ice andsnow-fields where he needs a veil or green glasses: but it is wellto have it on the hat; it looks adventurous. The veil and the spikedalpenstock are the signs of peril. Everybody--almost everybody--has analpenstock. It is usually a round pine stick, with an iron spike in oneend. That, also, is a sign of peril. We saw a noble young Briton on thesteamer the other day, who was got up in the best Alpine manner. Hewore a short sack, --in fact, an entire suit of light gray flannel, whichclosely fitted his lithe form. His shoes were of undressed leather, withlarge spikes in the soles; and on his white hat he wore a large quantityof gauze, which fell in folds down his neck. I am sorry to say thathe had a red face, a shaven chin, and long side-whiskers. He carried aformidable alpenstock; and at the little landing where we first sawhim, and afterward on the boat, he leaned on it in a series of the mostgraceful and daring attitudes that I ever saw the human form assume. OurOxford student knew the variety, and guessed rightly that he was an armyman. He had his face burned at Malta. Had he been over the Gemmi? Or upthis or that mountain? asked another English officer. "No, I have not. "And it turned out that he had n't been anywhere, and did n't seem likelyto do anything but show himself at the frequented valley places. Andyet I never saw one whose gallant bearing I so much admired. We saw himafterward at Interlaken, enduring all the hardships of that fashionableplace. There was also there another of the same country, got up for themost dangerous Alpine climbing, conspicuous in red woolen stockings thatcame above his knees. I could not learn that he ever went up anythinghigher than the top of a diligence. 

THE DILIGENCE TO CHAMOUNY

The greatest diligence we have seen, one of the few of the old-fashionedsort, is the one from Geneva to Chamouny. It leaves early in themorning; and there is always a crowd about it to see the mount andstart. The great ark stands before the diligence-office, and, for halfan hour before the hour of starting, the porters are busy stowingaway the baggage, and getting the passengers on board. On top, in thebanquette, are seats for eight, besides the postilion and guard; in thecoupe, under the postilion's seat and looking upon the horses, seats forthree; in the interior, for three; and on top, behind, for six or eight. The baggage is stowed in the capacious bowels of the vehicle. At seven, the six horses are brought out and hitched on, three abreast. We climbup a ladder to the banquette: there is an irascible Frenchman, who getsinto the wrong seat; and before he gets right there is a terrible warof words between him and the guard and the porters and the hostlers, everybody joining in with great vivacity; in front of us are three quietAmericans, and a slim Frenchman with a tall hat and one eye-glass. Thepostilion gets up to his place. Crack, crack, crack, goes the whip; and, amid "sensation" from the crowd, we are off at a rattling pace, the whipcracking all the time like Chinese fireworks. The great passion of thedrivers is noise; and they keep the whip going all day. No sooner does afresh one mount the box than he gives a half-dozen preliminary snaps; towhich the horses pay no heed, as they know it is only for the driver'samusement. We go at a good gait, changing horses every six miles, tillwe reach the Baths of St. Gervais, where we dine, from near which weget our first glimpse of Mont Blanc through clouds, --a section of adazzlingly white glacier, a very exciting thing to the imagination. Thence we go on in small carriages, over a still excellent but morehilly road, and begin to enter the real mountain wonders; until, atlength, real glaciers pouring down out of the clouds nearly to the roadmeet us, and we enter the narrow Valley of Chamouny, through which wedrive to the village in a rain. 

Everybody goes to Chamouny, and up the Flegere, and to Montanvert, andover the Mer de Glace; and nearly everybody down the Mauvais Pas to theChapeau, and so back to the village. It is all easy to do; and yetwe saw some French people at the Chapeau who seemed to think they hadaccomplished the most hazardous thing in the world in coming down therocks of the Mauvais Pas. There is, as might be expected, a great dealof humbug about the difficulty of getting about in the Alps, and thenecessity of guides. Most of the dangers vanish on near approach. TheMer de Glace is inferior to many other glaciers, and is not nearly sofine as the Glacier des Bossons: but it has a reputation, and is easy ofaccess; so people are content to walk over the dirty ice. One sees itto better effect from below, or he must ascend it to the Jardin to knowthat it has deep crevasses, and is as treacherous as it is grand. Andyet no one will be disappointed at the view from Montanvert, of theupper glacier, and the needles of rock and snow which rise beyond. 

We met at the Chapeau two jolly young fellows from Charleston, S. C. Who had been in the war, on the wrong side. They knew no language butAmerican, and were unable to order a cutlet and an omelet for breakfast. They said they believed they were going over the Tete Noire. Theysupposed they had four mules waiting for them somewhere, and a guide;but they couldn't understand a word he said, and he couldn't understandthem. The day before, they had nearly perished of thirst, because theycould n't make their guide comprehend that they wanted water. Oneof them had slung over his shoulder an Alpine horn, which he blewoccasionally, and seemed much to enjoy. All this while we sit on a rockat the foot of the Mauvais Pas, looking out upon the green glacier, which here piles itself up finely, and above to the Aiguilles de Charmozand the innumerable ice-pinnacles that run up to the clouds, while ourmuleteer is getting his breakfast. This is his third breakfast thismorning. 

The day after we reached Chamouny, Monseigneur the bishop arrived thereon one of his rare pilgrimages into these wild valleys. Nearly all theway down from Geneva, we had seen signs of his coming, in preparationsas for the celebration of a great victory. I did not know at first butthe Atlantic cable had been laid; or rather that the decorations were onaccount of the news of it reaching this region. It was a holiday forall classes; and everybody lent a hand to the preparations. First, thelittle church where the confirmations were to take place was trimmedwithin and without; and an arch of green spanned the gateway. At LesPres, the women were sweeping the road, and the men were setting smallevergreen-trees on each side. The peasants were in their best clothes;and in front of their wretched hovels were tables set out with flowers. So cheerful and eager were they about the bishop, that they forgot tobeg as we passed: the whole valley was in a fever of expectation. At onehamlet on the mulepath over the Tete Noire, where the bishop was thatday expected, and the women were sweeping away all dust and litterfrom the road, I removed my hat, and gravely thanked them for theirthoughtful preparation for our coming. But they only stared a little, asif we were not worthy to be even forerunners of Monseigneur. 

I do not care to write here how serious a drawback to the pleasures ofthis region are its inhabitants. You get the impression that half ofthem are beggars. The other half are watching for a chance to prey uponyou in other ways. I heard of a woman in the Zermatt Valley who refusedpay for a glass of milk; but I did not have time to verify the report. Besides the beggars, who may or may not be horrid-looking creatures, there are the grinning Cretins, the old women with skins of parchmentand the goitre, and even young children with the loathsome appendage, the most wretched and filthy hovels, and the dirtiest, ugliest people inthem. The poor women are the beasts of burden. They often lead, mowingin the hayfield; they carry heavy baskets on their backs; they balanceon their heads and carry large washtubs full of water. The moreappropriate load of one was a cradle with a baby in it, which seemed notat all to fear falling. When one sees how the women are treated, he doesnot wonder that there are so many deformed, hideous children. I thinkthe pretty girl has yet to be born in Switzerland. 

This is not much about the Alps? Ah, well, the Alps are there. Goread your guide-book, and find out what your emotions are. As I said, everybody goes to Chamouny. Is it not enough to sit at your window, andwatch the clouds when they lift from the Mont Blanc range, disclosingsplendor after splendor, from the Aiguille de Goute to the AiguilleVerte, --white needles which pierce the air for twelve thousand feet, until, jubilate! the round summit of the monarch himself is visible, andthe vast expanse of white snow-fields, the whiteness of which is ratherof heaven than of earth, dazzles the eyes, even at so great a distance?Everybody who is patient and waits in the cold and inhospitable-lookingvalley of the Chamouny long enough, sees Mont Blanc; but every onedoes not see a sunset of the royal order. The clouds breaking up andclearing, after days of bad weather, showed us height after height, and peak after peak, now wreathing the summits, now settling below orhanging in patches on the sides, and again soaring above, until we hadthe whole range lying, far and brilliant, in the evening light. Theclouds took on gorgeous colors, at length, and soon the snow caught thehue, and whole fields were rosy pink, while uplifted peaks glowed red, as with internal fire. Only Mont Blanc, afar off, remained purely white, in a kind of regal inaccessibility. And, afterward, one star came outover it, and a bright light shone from the hut on the Grand Mulets, arock in the waste of snow, where a Frenchman was passing the night onhis way to the summit. 

Shall I describe the passage of the Tete Noire? My friend, it istwenty-four miles, a road somewhat hilly, with splendid views ofMont Blanc in the morning, and of the Bernese Oberland range in theafternoon, when you descend into Martigny, --a hot place in the dustyRhone Valley, which has a comfortable hotel, with a pleasant garden, inwhich you sit after dinner and let the mosquitoes eat you. 

THE MAN WHO SPEAKS ENGLISH

It was eleven o'clock at night when we reached Sion, a dirty little townat the end of the Rhone Valley Railway, and got into the omnibus for thehotel; and it was also dark and rainy. They speak German in this partof Switzerland, or what is called German. There were two very pleasantAmericans, who spoke American, going on in the diligence at half-pastfive in the morning, on their way over the Simplex. One of them wasaccustomed to speak good, broad English very distinctly to all races;and he seemed to expect that he must be understood if he repeated hisobservations in a louder tone, as he always did. I think he would forceall this country to speak English in two months. We all desired tosecure places in the diligence, which was likely to be full, as isusually the case when a railway discharges itself into a postroad. 

We were scarcely in the omnibus, when the gentleman said to theconductor:

"I want two places in the coupe of the diligence in the morning. Can Ihave them?"

"Yah" replied the good-natured German, who did n't understand a word. 

"Two places, diligence, coupe, morning. Is it full?"

"Yah, " replied the accommodating fellow. "Hotel man spik English. "

I suggested the banquette as desirable, if it could be obtained, and theGerman was equally willing to give it to us. Descending from the omnibusat the hotel, in a drizzling rain, and amidst a crowd of portersand postilions and runners, the "man who spoke English" immediatelypresented himself; and upon him the American pounced with a torrent ofquestions. He was a willing, lively little waiter, with his moony faceon the top of his head; and he jumped round in the rain like a parchingpea, rolling his head about in the funniest manner. 

The American steadied the little man by the collar, and began, "I wantto secure two seats in the coupe of the diligence in the morning. "

"Yaas, " jumping round, and looking from one to another. "Diligence, coupe, morning. "

"I--want--two seats--in--coupe. If I can't get them, two--in--banquette. "

"Yaas banquette, coupe, --yaas, diligence. "

"Do you understand? Two seats, diligence, Simplon, morning. Will you getthem?"

"Oh, yaas! morning, diligence. Yaas, sirr. "

"Hang the fellow! Where is the office?" And the gentleman left thespry little waiter bobbing about in the middle of the street, speakingEnglish, but probably comprehending nothing that was said to him. Iinquired the way to the office of the conductor: it was closed, butwould soon be open, and I waited; and at length the official, a stoutFrenchman, appeared, and I secured places in the interior, the only onesto be had to Visp. I had seen a diligence at the door with three placesin the coupe, and one perched behind; no banquette. The office isbrightly lighted; people are waiting to secure places; there is theusual crowd of loafers, men and women, and the Frenchman sits at hisdesk. Enter the American. 

"I want two places in coupe, in the morning. Or banquette. Two places, diligence. " The official waves him off, and says something. 

"What does he say?"

"He tells you to sit down on that bench till he is ready. "

Soon the Frenchman has run over his big waybills, and turns to us. 

"I want two places in the diligence, coupe, " etc, etc, says theAmerican. 

This remark being lost on the official, I explain to him as well as Ican what is wanted, at first, --two places in the coupe. 

"One is taken, " is his reply. 

"The gentleman will take two, " I said, having in mind the diligence inthe yard, with three places in the coupe. 

"One is taken, " he repeats. 

"Then the gentleman will take the other two. "

"One is taken!" he cries, jumping up and smiting the table, --"one istaken, I tell you!"

"How many are there in the coupe?"

"TWO. "

"Oh! then the gentleman will take the one remaining in the coupe and theone on top. "

So it is arranged. When I come back to the hotel, the Americans areexplaining to the lively waiter "who speaks English" that they are togo in the diligence at half-past five, and that they are to be called athalf-past four and have breakfast. He knows all about it, --"Diligence, half-past four breakfast, Oh, yaas!" While I have been at thediligence-office, my companions have secured room and gone to them; andI ask the waiter to show m to my room. First, however, I tell him thatwe three two ladies and myself, who came together, are going in thediligence at half-past five, and want to be called and have breakfast. Did he comprehend?

"Yaas, " rolling his face about on the top of his head violently. "Youthree gentleman want breakfast. What you have?"

I had told him before what we would I have, an now I gave up all hope ofkeeping our parties separate in his mind; so I said, "Five persons wantbreakfast at five o'clock. Five persons, five hours. Call all of themat half-past four. " And I repeated it, and made him repeat it in Englishand French. He then insisted on putting me into the room of one of theAmerican gentlemen and then he knocked at the door of a lady, who criedout in indignation at being disturbed; and, finally, I found my room. At the door I reiterated the instructions for the morning; and hecheerfully bade me good-night. But he almost immediately came back, andpoked in his head with, --

"Is you go by de diligence?"

"Yes, you stupid. "

In the morning one of our party was called at halfpast three, and savedthe rest of us from a like fate; and we were not aroused at all, butwoke early enough to get down and find the diligence nearly ready, andno breakfast, but "the man who spoke English" as lively as ever. And wehad a breakfast brought out, so filthy in all respects that nobody couldeat it. Fortunately, there was not time to seriously try; but we paidfor it, and departed. The two American gentlemen sat in front of thehouse, waiting. The lively waiter had called them at half-past three, for the railway train, instead of the diligence; and they had theirwretched breakfast early. They will remember the funny adventure with"the man who speaks English, " and, no doubt, unite with us inwarmly commending the Hotel Lion d'Or at Sion as the nastiest inn inSwitzerland. 

A WALK TO THE GORNER GRAT

When one leaves the dusty Rhone Valley, and turns southward from Visp, he plunges into the wildest and most savage part of Switzerland, andpenetrates the heart of the Alps. The valley is scarcely more than anarrow gorge, with high precipices on either side, through which theturbid and rapid Visp tears along at a furious rate, boiling and leapingin foam over its rocky bed, and nearly as large as the Rhone at thejunction. From Visp to St. Nicolaus, twelve miles, there is only amule-path, but a very good one, winding along on the slope, sometimeshigh up, and again descending to cross the stream, at first by vineyardsand high stone walls, and then on the edges of precipices, but alwaysromantic and wild. It is noon when we set out from Visp, in true pilgrimfashion, and the sun is at first hot; but as we slowly rise up the easyascent, we get a breeze, and forget the heat in the varied charms of thewalk. 

Everything for the use of the upper valley and Zermatt, now a place ofconsiderable resort, must be carried by porters, or on horseback; and wepass or meet men and women, sometimes a dozen of them together, laboringalong under the long, heavy baskets, broad at the top and comingnearly to a point below, which are universally used here for carryingeverything. The tubs for transporting water are of the same sort. Thereis no level ground, but every foot is cultivated. High up on the sidesof the precipices, where it seems impossible for a goat to climb, arevineyards and houses, and even villages, hung on slopes, nearly up tothe clouds, and with no visible way of communication with the rest ofthe world. 

In two hours' time we are at Stalden, a village perched upon a rockypromontory, at the junction of the valleys of the Saas and the Visp, with a church and white tower conspicuous from afar. We climb up to theterrace in front of it, on our way into the town. A seedy-looking priestis pacing up and down, taking the fresh breeze, his broad-brimmed, shabby hat held down upon the wall by a big stone. His clothes are wornthreadbare; and he looks as thin and poor as a Methodist minister ina stony town at home, on three hundred a year. He politely returns oursalutation, and we walk on. Nearly all the priests in this regionlook wretchedly poor, --as poor as the people. Through crooked, narrowstreets, with houses overhanging and thrusting out corners and gables, houses with stables below, and quaint carvings and odd little windowsabove, the panes of glass hexagons, so that the windows looked likesections of honey-comb, --we found our way to the inn, a many-storiedchalet, with stairs on the outside, stone floors in the upper passages, and no end of queer rooms; built right in the midst of other houses asodd, decorated with German-text carving, from the windows of which theoccupants could look in upon us, if they had cared to do so; but theydid not. They seem little interested in anything; and no wonder, withtheir hard fight with Nature. Below is a wine-shop, with a little sidebooth, in which some German travelers sit drinking their wine, andsputtering away in harsh gutturals. The inn is very neat inside, and weare well served. Stalden is high; but away above it on the opposite sideis a village on the steep slope, with a slender white spire that rivalssome of the snowy needles. Stalden is high, but the hill on which itstands is rich in grass. The secret of the fertile meadows is the mostthorough irrigation. Water is carried along the banks from the river, and distributed by numerous sluiceways below; and above, the littlemountain streams are brought where they are needed by artificialchannels. Old men and women in the fields were constantly changing thedirection of the currents. All the inhabitants appeared to be porters:women were transporting on their backs baskets full of soil; hay wasbeing backed to the stables; burden-bearers were coming and going uponthe road: we were told that there are only three horses in the place. There is a pleasant girl who brings us luncheon at the inn; but theinhabitants for the most part are as hideous as those we see all day:some have hardly the shape of human beings, and they all live in themost filthy manner in the dirtiest habitations. A chalet is a sweetthing when you buy a little model of it at home. 

After we leave Stalden, the walk becomes more picturesque, theprecipices are higher, the gorges deeper. It required some engineeringto carry the footpath round the mountain buttresses and over theravines. Soon the village of Emd appears on the right, --a veryconsiderable collection of brown houses, and a shining whitechurch-spire, above woods and precipices and apparently unscalableheights, on a green spot which seems painted on the precipices; withnothing visible to keep the whole from sliding down, down, into thegorge of the Visp. Switzerland may not have so much population to thesquare mile as some countries; but she has a population to some ofher square miles that would astonish some parts of the earth'ssurface elsewhere. Farther on we saw a faint, zigzag footpath, that weconjectured led to Emd; but it might lead up to heaven. All day we hadbeen solicited for charity by squalid little children, who kiss theirnasty little paws at us, and ask for centimes. The children of Emd, however, did not trouble us. It must be a serious affair if they everroll out of bed. 

Late in the afternoon thunder began to tumble about the hills, andclouds snatched away from our sight the snow-peaks at the end of thevalley; and at length the rain fell on those who had just arrived andon the unjust. We took refuge from the hardest of it in a lonely chalethigh up on the hillside, where a roughly dressed, frowzy Swiss, whospoke bad German, and said he was a schoolmaster, gave us a bench in theshed of his schoolroom. He had only two pupils in attendance, and Idid not get a very favorable impression of this high school. Itsmaster quite overcame us with thanks when we gave him a few centimes onleaving. It still rained, and we arrived in St. Nicolaus quite damp. 

There is a decent road from St. Nicolaus to Zermatt, over which gowagons without springs. The scenery is constantly grander as weascend. The day is not wholly clear; but high on our right are the vastsnow-fields of the Weishorn, and out of the very clouds near it seemsto pour the Bies Glacier. In front are the splendid Briethorn, with itswhite, round summit; the black Riffelhorn; the sharp peak of the littleMatterhorn; and at last the giant Matterhorn itself rising before us, the most finished and impressive single mountain in Switzerland. Notso high as Mont Blanc by a thousand feet, it appears immense in itsisolated position and its slender aspiration. It is a huge pillar ofrock, with sharply cut edges, rising to a defined point, dusted withsnow, so that the rock is only here and there revealed. To ascend itseems as impossible as to go up the Column of Luxor; and one can believethat the gentlemen who first attempted it in 1864, and lost their lives, did fall four thousand feet before their bodies rested on the glacierbelow. 

We did not stay at Zermatt, but pushed on for the hotel on the top ofthe Riffelberg, --a very stiff and tiresome climb of about three hours, an unending pull up a stony footpath. Within an hour of the top, andwhen the white hotel is in sight above the zigzag on the breast of theprecipice, we reach a green and widespread Alp where hundreds of cowsare feeding, watched by two forlorn women, --the "milkmaids all forlorn"of poetry. At the rude chalets we stop, and get draughts of rich, sweetcream. As we wind up the slope, the tinkling of multitudinous bells fromthe herd comes to us, which is also in the domain of poetry. All the wayup we have found wild flowers in the greatest profusion; and the higherwe ascend, the more exquisite is their color and the more perfect theirform. There are pansies; gentians of a deeper blue than flower ever wasbefore; forget-me-nots, a pink variety among them; violets, the Alpinerose and the Alpine violet; delicate pink flowers of moss; harebells;and quantities for which we know no names, more exquisite in shape andcolor than the choicest products of the greenhouse. Large slopes arecovered with them, --a brilliant show to the eye, and most pleasantlybeguiling the way of its tediousness. As high as I ascended, I stillfound some of these delicate flowers, the pink moss growing in profusionamongst the rocks of the GornerGrat, and close to the snowdrifts. 

The inn on the Riffelberg is nearly eight thousand feet high, almost twothousand feet above the hut on Mount Washington; yet it is not so coldand desolate as the latter. Grass grows and flowers bloom on its smoothupland, and behind it and in front of it are the snow-peaks. Thatevening we essayed the Gorner-Grat, a rocky ledge nearly ten thousandfeet above the level of the sea; but after a climb of an hour and ahalf, and a good view of Monte Rosa and the glaciers and peaks of thatrange, we were prevented from reaching the summit, and driven back bya sharp storm of hail and rain. The next morning I started for theGornerGrat again, at four o'clock. The Matterhorn lifted its huge bulksharply against the sky, except where fleecy clouds lightly draped itand fantastically blew about it. As I ascended, and turned to look atit, its beautifully cut peak had caught the first ray of the sun, andburned with a rosy glow. Some great clouds drifted high in the air: thesummits of the Breithorn, the Lyscamm, and their companions, lay coldand white; but the snow down their sides had a tinge of pink. When Istood upon the summit of the Gorner-Grat, the two prominent silver peaksof Monte Rosa were just touched with the sun, and its great snow-fieldswere visible to the glacier at its base. The Gorner-Grat is a roundedridge of rock, entirely encirled by glaciers and snow-peaks. Thepanorama from it is unexcelled in Switzerland. 

Returning down the rocky steep, I descried, solitary in that great wasteof rock and snow, the form of a lady whom I supposed I had left sleepingat the inn, overcome with the fatigue of yesterday's tramp. Lured onby the apparently short distance to the backbone of the ridge, she hadclimbed the rocks a mile or more above the hotel, and come to meet me. She also had seen the great peaks lift themselves out of the gray dawn, and Monte Rosa catch the first rays. We stood awhile together to seehow jocund day ran hither and thither along the mountain-tops, untilthe light was all abroad, and then silently turned downward, as one goesfrom a mount of devotion. 

THE BATHS OF LEUK

In order to make the pass of the Gemmi, it is necessary to go throughthe Baths of Leuk. The ascent from the Rhone bridge at Susten is full ofinterest, affording fine views of the valley, which is better to look atthan to travel through, and bringing you almost immediately to the oldtown of Leuk, a queer, old, towered place, perched on a precipice, withthe oddest inn, and a notice posted up to the effect, that any one whodrives through its steep streets faster than a walk will be fined fivefrancs. I paid nothing extra for a fast walk. The road, which is one ofthe best in the country, is a wonderful piece of engineering, spanningstreams, cut in rock, rounding precipices, following the wild valley ofthe Dala by many a winding and zigzag. 

The Baths of Leuk, or Loeche-les-Bains, or Leukerbad, is a littlevillage at the very head of the valley, over four thousand feet abovethe sea, and overhung by the perpendicular walls of the Gemmi, whichrise on all sides, except the south, on an average of two thousandfeet above it. There is a nest of brown houses, clustered together likebee-hives, into which the few inhabitants creep to hibernate in the longwinters, and several shops, grand hotels, and bathing-houses open forthe season. Innumerable springs issue out of this green, sloping meadowamong the mountains, some of them icy cold, but over twenty of them hot, and seasoned with a great many disagreeable sulphates, carbonates, andoxides, and varying in temperature from ninety-five to one hundred andtwenty-three degrees Fahrenheit. Italians, French, and Swiss resorthere in great numbers to take the baths, which are supposed to be veryefficacious for rheumatism and cutaneous affections. Doubtless many ofthem do up their bathing for the year while here; and they may need nomore after scalding and soaking in this water for a couple of months. 

Before we reached the hotel, we turned aside into one of thebath-houses. We stood inhaling a sickly steam in a large, close hall, which was wholly occupied by a huge vat, across which low partitions, with bridges, ran, dividing it into four compartments. When we entered, we were assailed with yells in many languages, and howls in the commontongue, as if all the fiends of the pit had broken loose. We took offour hats in obedience to the demand; but the clamor did not whollysubside, and was mingled with singing and horrible laughter. Floatingabout in each vat, we at first saw twenty or thirty human heads. Thewomen could be distinguished from the men by the manner of dressing thehair. Each wore a loose woolen gown. Each had a little table floatingbefore him or her, which he or she pushed about at pleasure. One worea hideous mask; another kept diving in the opaque pool and coming up toblow, like the hippopotamus in the Zoological Gardens; some were takinga lunch from their tables, others playing chess; some sitting on thebenches round the edges, with only heads out of water, as doleful asowls, while others roamed about, engaged in the game of spattering withtheir comrades, and sang and shouted at the top of their voices. Thepeople in this bath were said to be second class; but they looked aswell and behaved better than those of the first class, whom we saw inthe establishment at our hotel afterward. 

It may be a valuable scientific fact, that the water in these vats, inwhich people of all sexes, all diseases, and all nations spend so manyhours of the twenty-four, is changed once a day. The temperature atwhich the bath is given is ninety-eight. The water is let in at night, and allowed to cool. At five in the morning, the bathers enter it, andremain until ten o'clock, --five hours, having breakfast served to themon the floating tables, "as they sail, as they sail. " They then have arespite till two, and go in till five. Eight hours in hot water! Nothingcan be more disgusting than the sight of these baths. Gustave Doremust have learned here how to make those ghostly pictures of thelost floating about in the Stygian pools, in his illustrations of theInferno; and the rocks and cavernous precipices may have enabled himto complete the picture. On what principle cures are effected in thesefilthy vats, I could not learn. I have a theory, that, where so manydiseases meet and mingle in one swashing fluid, they neutralize eachother. It may be that the action is that happily explained by one ofthe Hibernian bathmen in an American water-cure establishment. "You see, sir, " said he, "that the shock of the water unites with the electricityof the system, and explodes the disease. " I should think that the shockto one's feeling of decency and cleanliness, at these baths, wouldexplode any disease in Europe. But, whatever the result may be, I am notsorry to see so many French and Italians soak themselves once a year. 

Out of the bath these people seem to enjoy life. There is a longpromenade, shaded and picturesque, which they take at evening, sometimesas far as the Ladders, eight of which are fastened, in a shacklingmanner, to the perpendicular rocks, --a high and somewhat dangerousascent to the village of Albinen, but undertaken constantly by peasantswith baskets on their backs. It is in winter the only mode Leukerbadhas of communicating with the world; and in summer it is the only way ofreaching Albinen, except by a long journey down the Dala and up anothervalley and height. The bathers were certainly very lively and social attable-d'hote, where we had the pleasure of meeting some hundred ofthem, dressed. It was presumed that the baths were the subject of theentertaining conversation; for I read in a charming little work whichsets forth the delights of Leuk, that La poussee forms the staple ofmost of the talk. La poussee, or, as this book poetically calls it, "that daughter of the waters of Loeche, " "that eruption of which wehave already spoken, and which proves the action of the baths upon theskin, "--becomes the object, and often the end, of all conversation. Andit gives specimens of this pleasant converse, as:

"Comment va votre poussee?"

"Avez-vous la poussee?"

"Je suis en pleine poussee"

"Ma poussee s'est fort bien passee!"

Indeed says this entertaining tract, sans poussee, one would not be ableto hold, at table or in the salon, with a neighbor of either sex, the least conversation. Further, it is by grace a la poussee that onearrives at those intimacies which are the characteristics of the baths. Blessed, then, be La poussee, which renders possible such a high societyand such select and entertaining conversation! Long may the bathers ofLeuk live to soak and converse! In the morning, when we departed for theascent of the Gemmi, we passed one of the bathing-houses. I fancied thata hot steam issued out of the crevices; from within came a discord ofsinging and caterwauling; and, as a door swung open, I saw that theheads floating about on the turbid tide were eating breakfast from theswimming tables. 

OVER THE GEMMI

I spent some time, the evening before, studying the face of the cliff wewere to ascend, to discover the path; but I could only trace its zigzagbeginning. When we came to the base of the rock, we found a way cut, anarrow path, most of the distance hewn out of the rock, winding upwardalong the face of the precipice. The view, as one rises, is ofthe break-neck description. The way is really safe enough, even onmule-back, ascending; but one would be foolhardy to ride down. We met alady on the summit who was about to be carried down on a chair; andshe seemed quite to like the mode of conveyance: she had harnessed herhusband in temporarily for one of the bearers, which made it still morejolly for her. When we started, a cloud of mist hung over the edge ofthe rocks. As we rose, it descended to meet us, and sunk below, hidingthe valley and its houses, which had looked like Swiss toys from ourheight. When we reached the summit, the mist came boiling up after us, rising like a thick wall to the sky, and hiding all that great mountainrange, the Vallais Alps, from which we had come, and which we hopedto see from this point. Fortunately, there were no clouds on the otherside, and we looked down into a magnificent rocky basin, encircled bybroken and overtopping crags and snow-fields, at the bottom of which wasa green lake. It is one of the wildest of scenes. 

An hour from the summit, we came to a green Alp, where a herd of cowswere feeding; and in the midst of it were three or four dirty chalets, where pigs, chickens, cattle, and animals constructed very much likehuman beings, lived; yet I have nothing to say against these chalets, for we had excellent cream there. We had, on the way down, fine viewsof the snowy Altels, the Rinderhorn, the Finster-Aarhorn, a deep valleywhich enormous precipices guard, but which avalanches neverthelessinvade, and, farther on, of the Blumlisalp, with its summit ofcrystalline whiteness. The descent to Kandersteg is very rapid, and ina rain slippery. This village is a resort for artists for its splendidviews of the range we had crossed: it stands at the gate of themountains. From there to the Lake of Thun is a delightful drive, --a richcountry, with handsome cottages and a charming landscape, even if thepyramidal Niesen did not lift up its seven thousand feet on the edgeof the lake. So, through a smiling land, and in the sunshine after therain, we come to Spiez, and find ourselves at a little hotel on theslope, overlooking town and lake and mountains. 

Spiez is not large: indeed, its few houses are nearly all picturesquelygrouped upon a narrow rib of land which is thrust into the lake onpurpose to make the loveliest picture in the world. There is the oldcastle, with its many slim spires and its square-peaked roofed tower;the slender-steepled church; a fringe of old houses below on the lake, one overhanging towards the point; and the promontory, finished by awillow drooping to the water. Beyond, in hazy light, over the lucidgreen of the lake, are mountains whose masses of rock seem soft andsculptured. To the right, at the foot of the lake, tower the great snowymountains, the cone of the Schreckhorn, the square top of the Eiger, theJungfrau, just showing over the hills, and the Blumlisalp rising intoheaven clear and silvery. 

What can one do in such a spot, but swim in the lake, lie on the shore, and watch the passing steamers and the changing light on the mountains?Down at the wharf, when the small boats put off for the steamer, one canwell entertain himself. The small boat is an enormous thing, after all, and propelled by two long, heavy sweeps, one of which is pulled, and theother pushed. The laboring oar is, of course, pulled by a woman; whileher husband stands up in the stern of the boat, and gently dips theother in a gallant fashion. There is a boy there, whom I cannot makeout, --a short, square boy, with tasseled skull-cap, and a face thatnever changes its expression, and never has any expression to change; hemay be older than these hills; he looks old enough to be his own father:and there is a girl, his counterpart, who might be, judging her age byher face, the mother of both of them. These solemn old-young people arequite busy doing nothing about the wharf, and appear to be afflictedwith an undue sense of the responsibility of life. There is abeer-garden here, where several sober couples sit seriously drinkingtheir beer. There are some horrid old women, with the parchment skin andthe disagreeable necks. Alone, in a window of the castle, sits a ladyat her work, who might be the countess; only, I am sorry, there is nocountess, nothing but a frau, in that old feudal dwelling. And there isa foreigner, thinking how queer it all is. And while he sits there, themelodious bell in the church-tower rings its evening song. 

BAVARIA. 

AMERICAN IMPATIENCE

We left Switzerland, as we entered it, in a rain, --a kind of doublebaptism that may have been necessary, and was certainly not too heavy aprice to pay for the privileges of the wonderful country. The wind blewfreshly, and swept a shower over the deck of the little steamboat, on board of which we stepped from the shabby little pier and town ofRomanshorn. After the other Swiss lakes, Constance is tame, except atthe southern end, beyond which rise the Appenzell range and the woodedpeaks of the Bavarian hills. Through the dash of rain, and under thepromise of a magnificent rainbow, --rainbows don't mean anything inSwitzerland, and have no office as weather-prophets, except to assureyou, that, as it rains to-day, so it will rain tomorrow, --we skirted thelower bend of the lake, --and at twilight sailed into the little harborof Lindau, through the narrow entrance between the piers, on one ofwhich is a small lighthouse, and on the other sits upright a giganticstone lion, --a fine enough figure of a Bavarian lion, but with acomical, wide-awake, and expectant expression of countenance, as ifhe might bark right out at any minute, and become a dog. Yet in themoonlight, shortly afterward, the lion looked very grand and stately, as he sat regarding the softly plashing waves, and the high, driftingclouds, and the old Roman tower by the bridge which connects the Islandof Lindau with the mainland, and thinking perhaps, if stone lions everdo think, of the time when Roman galleys sailed on Lake Constance, andwhen Lindau was an imperial town with a thriving trade. 

On board the little steamer was an American, accompanied by two ladies, and traveling, I thought, for their gratification, who was very anxiousto get on faster than he was able to do, --though why any one shoulddesire to go fast in Europe I do not know. One easily falls into thehabit of the country, to take things easily, to go when the slow Germanfates will, and not to worry one's self beforehand about times andconnections. But the American was in a fever of impatience, desirous, ifpossible, to get on that night. I knew he was from the Land of the Freeby a phrase I heard him use in the cars: he said, "I'll bet a dollar. "Yet I must flatter myself that Americans do not always thus betraythemselves. I happened, on the Isle of Wight, to hear a bland landlord"blow up" his glib-tongued son because the latter had not driven astiffer bargain with us for the hire of a carriage round the island. 

"Didn't you know they were Americans?" asks the irate father. "I knew itat once. "

"No, " replies young hopeful: "they didn't say GUESS once. "

And straightway the fawning-innkeeper returns to us, professing, withhis butter-lips, the greatest admiration of all Americans, and theintensest anxiety to serve them, and all for pure good-will. The Englishare even more bloodthirsty at sight of a travelere than the Swiss, and twice as obsequious. But to return to our American. He had all therailway timetables that he could procure; and he was busily studyingthem, with the design of "getting on. " I heard him say to hiscompanions, as he ransacked his pockets, that he was a mass ofhotel-bills and timetables. He confided to me afterward, that his wifeand her friend had got it into their heads that they must go both toVienna and Berlin. Was Berlin much out of the way in going from Viennato Paris? He said they told him it was n't. At any rate, he mustget round at such a date: he had no time to spare. Then, besides theslowness of getting on, there were the trunks. He lost a trunk inSwitzerland, and consumed a whole day in looking it up. While thesteamboat lay at the wharf at Rorschach, two stout porters cameon board, and shouldered his baggage to take it ashore. To hisremonstrances in English they paid no heed; and it was some time beforethey could be made to understand that the trunks were to go on toLindau. "There, " said he, "I should have lost my trunks. Nobodyunderstands what I tell them: I can't get any information. " Especiallywas he unable to get any information as to how to "get on. " I confessthat the restless American almost put me into a fidget, and revivedthe American desire to "get on, " to take the fast trains, make all theconnections, --in short, in the handsome language of the great West, to "put her through. " When I last saw our traveler, he was getting hisluggage through the custom-house, still undecided whether to push onthat night at eleven o'clock. But I forgot all about him and his hurrywhen, shortly after, we sat at the table-d'hote at the hotel, and thesedate Germans lit their cigars, some of them before they had finishedeating, and sat smoking as if there were plenty of leisure foreverything in this world. 

A CITY OF COLOR

After a slow ride, of nearly eight hours, in what, in Germany, is calledan express train, through a rain and clouds that hid from our view theTyrol and the Swabian mountains, over a rolling, pleasant country, past pretty little railway station-houses, covered with vines, gaywith flowers in the windows, and surrounded with beds of flowers, pastswitchmen in flaming scarlet jackets, who stand at the switches andraise the hand to the temple, and keep it there, in a military salute, as we go by, we come into old Augsburg, whose Confession is not so freshin our minds as it ought to be. Portions of the ancient wall remain, andmany of the towers; and there are archways, picturesquely opening fromstreet to street, under several of which we drive on our way to theThree Moors, a stately hostelry and one of the oldest in Germany. 

It stood here in the year 1500; and the room is still shown, unchangedsince then, in which the rich Count Fugger entertained Charles V. Thechambers are nearly all immense. That in which we are lodged islarge enough for Queen Victoria; indeed, I am glad to say that hersleeping-room at St. Cloud was not half so spacious. One feels eitherlike a count, or very lonesome, to sit down in a lofty chamber, saythirty-five feet square, with little furniture, and historical andtragical life-size figures staring at one from the wall-paper. Onefears that they may come down in the deep night, and stand at thebedside, --those narrow, canopied beds there in the distance, like themarble couches in the cathedral. It must be a fearful thing to be aroyal person, and dwell in a palace, with resounding rooms and naked, waxed, inlaid floors. At the Three Moors one sees a visitors' book, begun in 1800, which contains the names of many noble and great people, as well as poets and doctors and titled ladies, and much sentimentalwriting in French. It is my impression, from an inspection of the book, that we are the first untitled visitors. 

The traveler cannot but like Augsburg at once, for its quaint houses, colored so diversely and yet harmoniously. Remains of its formerbrilliancy yet exist in the frescoes on the outside of the buildings, some of which are still bright in color, though partially defaced. Thoseon the House of Fugger have been restored, and are very brave pictures. These frescoes give great animation and life to the appearance of astreet, and I am glad to see a taste for them reviving. Augsburg musthave been very gay with them two and three hundred years ago, when, also, it was the home of beautiful women of the middle class, whomarried princes. We went to see the house in which lived the beautifulAgnes Bernauer, daughter of a barber, who married Duke Albert III. OfBavaria. The house was nought, as old Samuel Pepys would say, only ahigh stone building, in a block of such; but it is enough to make ahouse attractive for centuries if a pretty woman once looks out of itslatticed windows, as I have no doubt Agnes often did when the duke andhis retinue rode by in clanking armor. 

But there is no lack of reminders of old times. The cathedral, which wasbegun before the Christian era could express its age with four figures, has two fine portals, with quaint carving, and bronze doors of very oldwork, whereon the story of Eve and the serpent is literally given, --arepresentation of great theological, if of small artistic value. Andthere is the old clock and watch tower, which for eight hundred yearshas enabled the Augsburgers to keep the time of day and to look out overthe plain for the approach of an enemy. The city is full of finebronze fountains some of them of very elaborate design, and adding aconvenience and a beauty to the town which American cities wholly want. In one quarter of the town is the Fuggerei, a little city by itself, surrounded by its own wall, the gates of which are shut at night, withnarrow streets and neat little houses. It was built by Hans JacobFugger the Rich, as long ago as 1519, and is still inhabited by indigentRoman-Catholic families, according to the intention of its founder. Inthe windows were lovely flowers. I saw in the street several of thosemysterious, short, old women, --so old and yet so little, all body andhardly any legs, who appear to have grown down into the ground withadvancing years. 

It happened to be a rainy day, and cold, on the 30th of July, whenwe left Augsburg; and the flat fields through which we passed wereuninviting under the gray light. Large flocks of geese were feeding onthe windy plains, tended by boys and women, who are the living fencesof this country. I no longer wonder at the number of feather-beds atthe inns, under which we are apparently expected to sleep even in thewarmest nights. Shepherds with the regulation crooks also were watchingherds of sheep. Here and there a cluster of red-roofed houses werehuddled together into a village, and in all directions rose taperingspires. Especially we marked the steeple of Blenheim, where JackChurchill won the name for his magnificent country-seat, early in theeighteenth century. All this plain where the silly geese feed has beenmarched over and fought over by armies time and again. We effect thepassage of, the Danube without difficulty, and on to Harburg, a littletown of little red houses, inhabited principally by Jews, huddledunder a rocky ridge, upon the summit of which is a picturesque medievalcastle, with many towers and turrets, in as perfect preservation as whenfeudal flags floated over it. And so on, slowly, with long stops at manystations, to give opportunity, I suppose, for the honest passengers totake in supplies of beer and sausages, to Nuremberg. 

A CITY LIVING ON THE PAST

Nuremberg, or Nurnberg, was built, I believe, about the beginning oftime. At least, in an old black-letter history of the city which I haveseen, illustrated with powerful wood-cuts, the first representationis that of the creation of the world, which is immediately followedby another of Nuremberg. No one who visits it is likely to dispute itsantiquity. "Nobody ever goes to Nuremberg but Americans, " said a cynicalBritish officer at Chamouny; "but they always go there. I never sawan American who had n't been or was not going to Nuremberg. " Well, Isuppose they wish to see the oldest-looking, and, next to a true Britonon his travels, the oddest thing on the Continent. The city lives in thepast still, and on its memories, keeping its old walls and moat entire, and nearly fourscore wall-towers, in stern array. But grass grows inthe moat, fruit trees thrive there, and vines clamber on the walls. Onewanders about in the queer streets with the feeling of being transportedback to the Middle Ages; but it is difficult to reproduce the impressionon paper. Who can describe the narrow and intricate ways; the oddhouses with many little gables; great roofs breaking out from eaves toridgepole, with dozens of dormer-windows; hanging balconies of stone, carved and figure-beset, ornamented and frescoed fronts; the archways, leading into queer courts and alleys, and out again into broad streets;the towers and fantastic steeples; and the many old bridges, withobelisks and memorials of triumphal entries of conquerors and princes?

The city, as I said, lives upon the memory of what it has been, andtrades upon relics of its former fame. What it would have been withoutAlbrecht Durer, and Adam Kraft the stone-mason, and Peter Vischer thebronze-worker, and Viet Stoss who carved in wood, and Hans Sachs theshoemaker and poet-minstrel, it is difficult to say. Their statues areset up in the streets; their works still live in the churches and citybuildings, --pictures, and groups in stone and wood; and their statues, in all sorts of carving, are reproduced, big and little, in all theshop-windows, for sale. So, literally, the city is full of the memoryof them; and the business of the city, aside from its manufactory ofendless, curious toys, seems to consist in reproducing them and theirimmortal works to sell to strangers. 

Other cities project new things, and grow with a modern impetus:Nuremberg lives in the past, and traffics on its ancient reputation. Ofcourse, we went to see the houses where these old worthies lived, andthe works of art they have left behind them, --things seen and describedby everybody. The stone carving about the church portals and on sidebuttresses is inexpressibly quaint and naive. The subjects are sacred;and with the sacred is mingled the comic, here as at Augsburg, whereover one portal of the cathedral, with saints and angels, monkeysclimb and gibber. A favorite subject is that of our Lord praying in theGarden, while the apostles, who could not watch one hour, are sleepingin various attitudes of stony comicality. All the stone-cutters seem tohave tried their chisels on this group, and there are dozens ofthem. The wise and foolish virgins also stand at the church doors intime-stained stone, --the one with a perked-up air of conscious virtue, and the other with a penitent dejection that seems to merit bettertreatment. Over the great portal of St. Lawrence--a magnificentstructure, with lofty twin spires and glorious rosewindow is carved "TheLast Judgment. " Underneath, the dead are climbing out of their stonecoffins; above sits the Judge, with the attending angels. On the righthand go away the stiff, prim saints, in flowing robes, and with palmsand harps, up steps into heaven, through a narrow door which St. Peteropens for them; while on the left depart the wicked, with wry faces anddistorted forms, down into the stone flames, towards which the Devil isdragging them by their stony hair. 

The interior of the Church of St. Lawrence is richer than any other Iremember, with its magnificent pillars of dark red stone, rising andfoliating out to form the roof; its splendid windows of stained glass, glowing with sacred story; a high gallery of stone entirely round thechoir, and beautiful statuary on every column. Here, too, is the famousSacrament House of honest old Adam Kraft, the most exquisite thing Iever saw in stone. The color is light gray; and it rises beside one ofthe dark, massive pillars, sixty-four feet, growing to a point, whichthen strikes the arch of the roof, and there curls up like a vine toavoid it. The base is supported by the kneeling figures of Adam Kraftand two fellow-workmen, who labored on it for four years. Above isthe Last Supper, Christ blessing little children, and other beautifultableaux in stone. The Gothic spire grows up and around these, now andthen throwing out graceful tendrils, like a vine, and seeming tobe rather a living plant than inanimate stone. The faithful artistevidently had this feeling for it; for, as it grew under his hands, hefound that it would strike the roof, or he must sacrifice something ofits graceful proportion. So his loving and daring genius suggested thehappy design of letting it grow to its curving, graceful completeness. 

He who travels by a German railway needs patience and a full haversack. Time is of no value. The rate of speed of the trains is so slow, thatone sometimes has a desire to get out and walk, and the stoppages atthe stations seem eternal; but then we must remember that it is a longdistance to the bottom of a great mug of beer. We left Lindau on one ofthe usual trains at half-past five in the morning, and reached Augsburgat one o'clock in the afternoon: the distance cannot be more than ahundred miles. That is quicker than by diligence, and one has leisureto see the country as he jogs along. There is nothing more sedate thana German train in motion; nothing can stand so dead still as a Germantrain at a station. But there are express trains. 

We were on one from Augsburg to Nuremberg, and I think must have runtwenty miles an hour. The fare on the express trains is one fifth higherthan on the others. The cars are all comfortable; and the officials, who wear a good deal of uniform, are much more civil and obliging thanofficials in a country where they do not wear uniforms. So, not swiftly, but safely and in good-humor, we rode to the capital of Bavaria. 

OUTSIDE ASPECTS OF MUNICH

I saw yesterday, on the 31st of August, in the English Garden, deadleaves whirling down to the ground, a too evident sign that the summerweather is going. Indeed, it has been sour, chilly weather for a weeknow, raining a little every day, and with a very autumn feeling inthe air. The nightly concerts in the beer-gardens must have shiveringlisteners, if the bands do not, as many of them do, play within doors. The line of droschke drivers, in front of the post-office colonnade, hide the red facings of their coats under long overcoats, and stand incold expectancy beside their blanketed horses, which must need twicethe quantity of black-bread in this chilly air; for the horses here eatbread, like people. I see the drivers every day slicing up the blackloaves, and feeding them, taking now and then a mouthful themselves, wetting it down with a pull from the mug of beer that stands withinreach. And lastly (I am still speaking of the weather), the gay militaryofficers come abroad in long cloaks, to some extent concealing theirmanly forms and smart uniforms, which I am sure they would not do, except under the pressure of necessity. 

Yet I think this raw weather is not to continue. It is only a roughvisit from the Tyrol, which will give place to kinder influences. Wecame up here from hot Switzerland at the end of July, expecting to findMunich a furnace. It will be dreadful in Munich everybody said. So weleft Luzerne, where it was warm, not daring to stay till the expectedrival sun, Victoria of England, should make the heat overpowering. Butthe first week of August in Munich it was delicious weather, --clear, sparkling, bracing air, with no chill in it and no languor in it, justas you would say it ought to be on a high, gravelly plain, seventeenhundred feet above the sea. Then came a week of what the Muncheners callhot weather, with the thermometer up to eighty degrees Fahrenheit, andthe white wide streets and gray buildings in a glare of light; sincethen, weather of the most uncertain sort. 

Munich needs the sunlight. Not that it cannot better spare it than grimyLondon; for its prevailing color is light gray, and its many-tinted andfrescoed fronts go far to relieve the most cheerless day. Yet Munichattempts to be an architectural reproduction of classic times; and, inorder to achieve any success in this direction, it is necessary to havethe blue heavens and golden sunshine of Greece. The old portion ofthe city has some remains of the Gothic, and abounds in archways andrambling alleys, that suddenly become broad streets and then againcontract to the width of an alderman, and portions of the old walland city gates; old feudal towers stand in the market-place, and fadedfrescoes on old clock-faces and over archways speak of other days ofsplendor. 

But the Munich of to-day is as if built to order, --raised in a dayby the command of one man. It was the old King Ludwig I. , whoseflower-wreathed bust stands in these days in the vestibule of theGlyptothek, in token of his recent death, who gave the impulse for allthis, though some of the best buildings and streets in the cityhave been completed by his successors. The new city is laid out on amagnificent scale of distances, with wide streets, fine, open squares, plenty of room for gardens, both public and private; and the artbuildings and art monuments are well distributed; in fact, many astately building stands in such isolation that it seems to askevery passer what it was put there for. Then, again, some of the newadornments lack fitness of location or purpose. At the end of the broad, monotonous Ludwig Strasse, and yet not at the end, for the road runsstraight on into the flat country between rows of slender trees, standsthe Siegesthor, or Gate of Victory, an imitation of the Constantinearch at Rome. It is surmounted by a splendid group in bronze, bySchwanthaler, Bavaria in her war-chariot, drawn by four lions; and it isin itself, both in its proportions and its numerous sculptural figuresand bas-reliefs, a fine recognition of the valor "of the Bavarian army, "to whom it is erected. Yet it is so dwarfed by its situation, that itseems to have been placed in the middle of the street as an obstruction. A walk runs on each side of it. The Propylaeum, another magnificentgateway, thrown across the handsome Brienner Strasse, beyond theGlyptothek, is an imitation of that on the Acropolis at Athens. It hasfine Doric columns on the outside, and Ionic within, and the pedimentgroups are bas-reliefs, by Schwanthaler, representing scenes in modernGreek history. The passageways for carriages are through the sidearches; and thus the "sidewalk" runs into the center of the street, andfoot-passers must twice cross the carriage-drive in going through thegate. Such things as these give one the feeling that art has been forcedbeyond use in Munich; and it is increased when one wanders throughthe new churches, palaces, galleries, and finds frescoes so prodigallycrowded out of the way, and only occasionally opened rooms so overloadedwith them, and not always of the best, as to sacrifice all effect, andleave one with the sense that some demon of unrest has driven paintersand sculptors and plasterers, night and day, to adorn the city at astroke; at least, to cover it with paint and bedeck it with marbles, andto do it at once, leaving nothing for the sweet growth and blossoming oftime. 

You see, it is easy to grumble, and especially in a cheerful, open, light, and smiling city, crammed with works Of art, ancient and modern, its architecture a study of all styles, and its foaming beer, said byantiquarians to be a good deal better than the mead drunk in Odin'shalls, only seven and a half kreuzers the quart. Munich has so much, that it, of course, contains much that can be criticised. The long, wideLudwig Strasse is a street of palaces, --a street built up by the oldking, and regarded by him with great pride. But all the buildings arein the Romanesque style, --a repetition of one another to a monotonousdegree: only at the lower end are there any shops or shop-windows, anda more dreary promenade need not be imagined. It has neither shade norfountains; and on a hot day you can see how the sun would pour into it, and blind the passers. But few ever walk there at any time. A streetthat leads nowhere, and has no gay windows, does not attract. Towardthe lower end, in the Odeon Platz, is the equestrian statue of Ludwig, a royally commanding figure, with a page on either side. The street isclosed (so that it flows off on either side into streets of handsomeshops) by the Feldherrnhalle, Hall of the Generals, an imitation of thebeautiful Loggia dei Lanzi, at Florence, that as yet contains only twostatues, which seem lost in it. Here at noon, with parade of infantry, comes a military band to play for half an hour; and there are alwaysplenty of idlers to listen to them. In the high arcade a colony of dovesis domesticated; and I like to watch them circling about and wheelinground the spires of the over-decorated Theatine church opposite, andperching on the heads of the statues on the facade. 

The royal palace, near by, is a huddle of buildings and courts, that Ithink nobody can describe or understand, built at different times and inimitation of many styles. The front, toward the Hof Garden, a grasslesssquare of small trees, with open arcades on two sides for shops, andpartially decorated with frescoes of landscapes and historical subjects, is "a building of festive halls, " a facade eight hundred feet long, inthe revived Italian style, and with a fine Ionic porch. The color is theroyal, dirty yellow. 

On the Max Joseph Platz, which has a bronze statue of King Max, a seatedfigure, and some elaborate bas-reliefs, is another front of the palace, the Konigsbau, an imitation, not fully carried out, of the Pitti Palace, at Florence. Between these is the old Residenz, adorned with fountaingroups and statues in bronze. On another side are the church and theaterof the Residenz. The interior of this court chapel is dazzling inappearance: the pillars are, I think, imitation of variegated marble;the sides are imitation of the same; the vaulting is covered with richfrescoes on gold ground. The whole effect is rich, but it is not at allsacred. Indeed, there is no church in Munich, except the old cathedral, the Frauenkirche, with its high Gothic arches, stained windows, anddusty old carvings, that gives one at all the sort of feeling that it issupposed a church should give. The court chapel interior is boastinglysaid to resemble St. Mark's, in Venice. 

You see how far imitation of the classic and Italian is carried herein Munich; so, as I said, the buildings need the southern sunlight. Fortunately, they get the right quality much of the time. TheGlyptothek, a Grecian structure of one story, erected to hold thetreasures of classic sculpture that King Ludwig collected, has abeautiful Ionic porch and pediment. On the outside are niches filledwith statues. In the pure sunshine and under a deep blue sky, its whitemarble glows with an almost ethereal beauty. Opposite stands anothersuccessful imitation of the Grecian style of architecture, --a buildingwith a Corinthian porch, also of white marble. These, with thePropylaeum, before mentioned, come out wonderfully against a blue sky. A few squares distant is the Pinakothek, with its treasures of oldpictures, and beyond it the New Pinakothek, containing works of modernartists. Its exterior is decorated with frescoes, from designs byKaulbach: these certainly appear best in a sparkling light; though I ambound to say that no light can make very much of them. 

Yet Munich is not all imitation. Its finest street, the Maximilian, built by the late king of that name, is of a novel and wholly modernstyle of architecture, not an imitation, though it may remind someof the new portions of Paris. It runs for three quarters of a mile, beginning with the postoffice and its colonnades, with frescoes onone side, and the Hof Theater, with its pediment frescoes, the largestopera-house in Germany, I believe; with stately buildings adorned withstatues, and elegant shops, down to the swift-flowing Isar, which isspanned by a handsome bridge; or rather by two bridges, for the Isaris partly turned from its bed above, and made to turn wheels, and drivemachinery. At the lower end the street expands into a handsome platz, with young shade trees, plats of grass, and gay beds of flowers. I lookout on it as I write; and I see across the Isar the college buildingbegun by Maximilian for the education of government officers; and Isee that it is still unfinished, indeed, a staring mass of brick, withunsightly scaffolding and gaping windows. Money was left to completeit; but the young king, who does not care for architecture, keeps only amason or two on the brick-work, and an artist on the exterior frescoes. At this rate, the Cologne Cathedral will be finished and decay beforethis is built. On either side of it, on the elevated bank of the river, stretch beautiful grounds, with green lawns, fine trees, and well-keptwalks. 

Not to mention the English Garden, in speaking of the outside aspects ofthe city, would be a great oversight. It was laid out originally by themunificent American, Count Rumford, and is called English, I suppose, because it is not in the artificial Continental style. Paris has nothingto compare with it for natural beauty, --Paris, which cannot let a treegrow, but must clip it down to suit French taste. It is a noble parkfour miles in length, and perhaps a quarter of that in width, --a park ofsplendid old trees, grand, sweeping avenues, open glades of free-growinggrass, with delicious, shady walks, charming drives and rivers of water. For the Isar is trained to flow through it in two rapid streams, underbridges and over rapids, and by willow-hung banks. There is not wantingeven a lake; and there is, I am sorry to say, a temple on a mound, quitein the classic style, from which one can see the sun set behind the manyspires of Munich. At the Chinese Tower two military bands play everySaturday evening in the summer; and thither the carriages drive, and thepromenaders assemble there, between five and six o'clock; and whilethe bands play, the Germans drink beer, and smoke cigars, and thefashionably attired young men walk round and round the circle, and thesmart young soldiers exhibit their handsome uniforms, and stride aboutwith clanking swords. 

We felicitated ourselves that we should have no lack of music when wecame to Munich. I think we have not; though the opera has only justbegun, and it is the vacation of the Conservatoire. There are first themilitary bands: there is continually a parade somewhere, and thestreets are full of military music, and finely executed too. Then ofbeer-gardens there is literally no end, and there are nightly concertsin them. There are two brothers Hunn, each with his band, who, like theancient Huns, have taken the city; and its gardens are given over totheir unending waltzes, polkas, and opera medleys. Then there is thechurch music on Sundays and holidays, which is largely of a militarycharacter; at least, has the aid of drums and trumpets, and the wholeband of brass. For the first few days of our stay here we had rooms nearthe Maximilian Platz and the Karl's Thor. I think there was some sort ofa yearly fair in progress, for the great platz was filled with temporarybooths: a circus had set itself up there, and there were innumerableside-shows and lottery-stands; and I believe that each little shantyand puppet-show had its band or fraction of a band, for there was neverheard such a tooting and blowing and scraping, such a pounding anddinning and slang-whanging, since the day of stopping work on the Towerof Babel. The circus band confined itself mostly to one tune; and asit went all day long, and late into the night, we got to know it quitewell; at least, the bass notes of it, for the lighter tones came to usindistinctly. You know that blurt, blurt, thump, thump, dissolute sortof caravan tune. That was it. 

The English Cafe was not far off, and there the Hunns and others alsomade night melodious. The whole air was one throb and thrump. The onlyrefuge from it was to go into one of the gardens, and give yourself overto one band. And so it was possible to have delightful music, and seethe honest Germans drink beer, and gossip in friendly fellowship andwith occasional hilarity. But music we had, early and late. We expectedquiet in our present quarters. The first morning, at six o'clock, wewere startled by the resonant notes of a military band, that setthe echoes flying between the houses, and a regiment of cavalry wentclanking down the street. But that is a not unwelcome morning serenadeand reveille. Not so agreeable is the young man next door, who giveshilarious concerts to his friends, and sings and bangs his piano all daySunday; nor the screaming young woman opposite. Yet it is something tobe in an atmosphere of music. 

THE MILITARY LIFE OF MUNICH

This morning I was awakened early by the strains of a military band. Itwas a clear, sparkling morning, the air full of life, and yet the sunshowing its warm, southern side. As the mounted musicians went by, thesquare was quite filled with the clang of drum and trumpet, which becamefainter and fainter, and at length was lost on the ear beyond the Isar, but preserved the perfection of time and the precision of execution forwhich the military bands of the city are remarkable. After the band camea brave array of officers in bright uniform, upon horses that prancedand curveted in the sunshine; and the regiment of cavalry followed, rankon rank of splendidly mounted men, who ride as if born to the saddle. The clatter of hoofs on the pavement, the jangle of bit and saber, the occasional word of command, the onward sweep of the well-trainedcavalcade, continued for a long time, as if the lovely morning hadbrought all the cavalry in the city out of barracks. But this is analmost daily sight in Munich. One regiment after another goes over theriver to the drill-ground. In the hot mornings I used quite to pitythe troopers who rode away in the glare in scorching brazen helmets andbreastplates. But only a portion of the regiments dress in that absurdmanner. The most wear a simple uniform, and look very soldierly. Thehorses are almost invariably fine animals, and I have not seen suchriders in Europe. Indeed, everybody in Munich who rides at all rideswell. Either most of the horsemen have served in the cavalry, orhorsemanship, that noble art "to witch the world, " is in high reputehere. 

Speaking of soldiers, Munich is full of them. There are huge casernsin every part of the city, crowded with troops. This little kingdom ofBavaria has a hundred and twenty thousand troops of the line. Every manis obliged to serve in the army continuously three years; and every manbetween the ages of twenty-one and forty-five must go with his regimentinto camp or barrack several weeks in each year, no matter if theharvest rots in the field, or the customers desert the uncared-for shop. The service takes three of the best years of a young man's life. Most ofthe soldiers in Munich are young one meets hundreds of mere boys in theuniform of officers. I think every seventh man you meet is a soldier. There must be between fifteen and twenty thousand troops quartered inthe city now. The young officers are everywhere, lounging in thecafes, smoking and sipping coffee, on all the public promenades, in thegardens, the theaters, the churches. And most of them are fine-lookingfellows, good figures in elegantly fitting and tasteful uniforms; butthey do like to show their handsome forms and hear their sword-scabbardsrattle on the pavement as they stride by. The beer-gardens are full ofthe common soldiers, who empty no end of quart mugs in alternate pullsfrom the same earthen jug, with the utmost jollity and good fellowship. On the street, salutes between officers and men are perpetual, punctiliously given and returned, --the hand raised to the temple, andheld there for a second. A young gallant, lounging down the Theatiner orthe Maximilian Strasse, in his shining and snug uniform, white kids, andpolished boots, with jangling spurs and the long sword clanking on thewalk, raising his hand ever and anon in condescending salute to a lowerin rank, or with affable grace to an equal, is a sight worth beholding, and for which one cannot be too grateful. We have not all been createdwith the natural shape for soldiers, but we have eyes given us that wemay behold them. 

Bavaria fought, you know, on the wrong side at Sadowa; but the result ofthe war left her in confederation with Prussia. The company is gettingto be very distasteful, for Austria is at present more liberal thanPrussia. Under Prussia one must either be a soldier or a slave, thedemocrats of Munich say. Bavaria has the most liberal constitution inGermany, except that of Wurtemberg, and the people are jealous of anycurtailment of liberty. It seems odd that anybody should look to thehouse of Hapsburg for liberality. The attitude of Prussia compels allthe little states to keep up armies, which eat up their substance, andburden the people with taxes. This is the more to be regretted now, when Bavaria is undergoing a peaceful revolution, and throwing off thetrammels of galling customs in other respects. 

THE EMANCIPATION OF MUNICH

The 1st of September saw go into complete effect the laws enacted in1867, which have inaugurated the greatest changes in business and sociallife, and mark an era in the progress of the people worthy of fetesand commemorative bronzes. We heard the other night at the opera-house"William Tell" unmutilated. For many years this liberty-breathing operawas not permitted to be given in Bavaria, except with all the life ofit cut out. It was first presented entire by order of young King Ludwig, who, they say, was induced to command its unmutilated reproduction atthe solicitation of Richard Wagner, who used to be, and very likely isnow, a "Red, " and was banished from Saxony in 1848 for fighting on thepeople's side of a barricade in Dresden. It is the fashion to say ofthe young king, that he pays no heed to the business of the kingdom. Youhear that the handsome boy cares only for music and horseback exercise:he plays much on the violin, and rides away into the forest attended byonly one groom, and is gone for days together. He has composed an opera, which has not yet been put on the stage. People, when they speak of him, tap their foreheads with one finger. But I don't believe it. The sameliberality that induced him, years ago, to restore "William Tell" to thestage has characterized the government under him ever since. 

Formerly no one could engage in any trade or business in Bavaria withoutprevious examination before, and permission from, a magistrate. If a boywished to be a baker, for instance, he had first to serve four yearsof apprenticeship. If then he wished to set up business for himself, hemust get permission, after passing an examination. This permission couldrarely be obtained; for the magistrate usually decided that there werealready as many bakers as the town needed. His only other resource wasto buy out an existing business, and this usually costs a good deal. When he petitioned for the privilege of starting a bakery, all thebakers protested. And he could not even buy out a stand, and carry iton, without strict examination as to qualifications. This was the casein every trade. And to make matters worse, a master workman could notemploy a journeyman out of his shop; so that, if a journeyman couldnot get a regular situation, he had no work. Then there were endlessrestrictions upon the manufacture and sale of articles: one personcould make only one article, or one portion of an article; one mightmanufacture shoes for women, but not for men; he might make an articlein the shop and sell it, but could not sell it if any one else made itoutside, or vice versa. 

Nearly all this mass of useless restriction on trades and business, which palsied all effort in Bavaria, is removed. Persons are freeto enter into any business they like. The system of apprenticeshipcontinues, but so modified as not to be oppressive; and all trades areleft to regulate themselves by natural competition. Already Munich hasfelt the benefit of the removal of these restrictions, which for nearlya year has been anticipated, in a growth of population and increasedbusiness. 

But the social change is still more important. The restrictions uponmarriage were a serious injury to the state. If Hans wished to marry, and felt himself adequate to the burdens and responsibilities of thedouble state, and the honest fraulein was quite willing to undertakeits trials and risks with him, it was not at all enough that in themoonlighted beergarden, while the band played, and they peeled thestinging radish, and ate the Switzer cheese, and drank from one mug, she allowed his arm to steal around her stout waist. All this love andfitness went for nothing in the eyes of the magistrate, who referred theapplication for permission to marry to his associate advisers, and theyinquired into the applicant's circumstances; and if, in their opinion, he was not worth enough money to support a wife properly, permission wasrefused for him to try. The consequence was late marriages, and fewerthan there ought to be, and other ill results. Now the matrimonial gatesare lifted high, and the young man has not to ask permission of anysnuffy old magistrate to marry. I do not hear that the consent of themaidens is more difficult to obtain than formerly. 

No city of its size is more prolific of pictures than Munich. I do notknow how all its artists manage to live, but many of them count upon theAmerican public. I hear everywhere that the Americans like this, and donot like that; and I am sorry to say that some artists, who have donebetter things, paint professedly to suit Americans, and not to expresstheir own conceptions of beauty. There is one who is now quite devotedto dashing off rather lamp-blacky moonlights, because, he says, theAmericans fancy that sort of thing. I see one of his smirchy pictureshanging in a shop window, awaiting the advent of the citizen of theUnited States. I trust that no word of mine will injure the sale of themoonlights. There are some excellent figure-painters here, and one canstill buy good modern pictures for reasonable prices. 

FASHION IN THE STREETS

Was there ever elsewhere such a blue, transparent sky as this herein Munich? At noon, looking up to it from the street, above the grayhouses, the color and depth are marvelous. It makes a background for theGrecian art buildings and gateways, that would cheat a risen Athenianwho should see it into the belief that he was restored to his beautifulcity. The color holds, too, toward sundown, and seems to be poured, likesomething solid, into the streets of the city. 

You should see then the Maximilian Strasse, when the light floods theplatz where Maximilian in bronze sits in his chair, illuminates thefrescoes on the pediments of the Hof Theater, brightens the Pompeianred under the colonnade of the post-office, and streams down the gaythoroughfare to the trees and statues in front of the National Museum, and into the gold-dusted atmosphere beyond the Isar. The street isfilled with promenaders: strangers who saunter along with the red bookin one hand, --a man and his wife, the woman dragged reluctantly past thewindows of fancy articles, which are "so cheap, " the man breaking hisneck to look up at the buildings, especially at the comical heads andfigures in stone that stretch out from the little oriel-windows in thehighest story of the Four Seasons Hotel, and look down upon the movingthrong; Munich bucks in coats of velvet, swinging light canes, andsmoking cigars through long and elaborately carved meerschaum holders;Munich ladies in dresses of that inconvenient length that neither sweepsthe pavement nor clears it; peasants from the Tyrol, the men in black, tight breeches, that button from the knee to the ankle, short jacketsand vests set thickly with round silver buttons, and conical hats withfeathers, and the women in short quilted and quilled petticoats, ofbarrel-like roundness from the broad hips down, short waists ornamentedwith chains and barbarous brooches of white metal, with the oddesthead-gear of gold and silver heirlooms; students with little red orgreen embroidered brimless caps, with the ribbon across the breast, afolded shawl thrown over one shoulder, and the inevitable switch-cane;porters in red caps, with a coil of twine about the waist; young fellowsfrom Bohemia, with green coats, or coats trimmed with green, and greenfelt hats with a stiff feather stuck in the side; and soldiers bythe hundreds, of all ranks and organizations; common fellows in blue, staring in at the shop windows, officers in resplendent uniforms, clanking their swords as they swagger past. Now and then, an elegantequipage dashes by, --perhaps the four horses of the handsome youngking, with mounted postilions and outriders, or a liveried carriage ofsomebody born with a von before his name. As the twilight comes on, theshutters of the shop windows are put up. It is time to go to the opera, for the curtain rises at half-past six, or to the beer-gardens, wheredelicious music marks, but does not interrupt, the flow of excellentbeer. 

Or you may if you choose, and I advise you to do it, walk at the samehour in the English Garden, which is but a step from the arcades of theHof Garden, --but a step to the entrance, whence you may wander for milesand miles in the most enchanting scenery. Art has not been allowed hereto spoil nature. The trees, which are of magnificent size, are left togrow naturally;--the Isar, which is turned into it, flows in morethan one stream with its mountain impetuosity; the lake is gracefullyindented and overhung with trees, and presents ever-changing aspects ofloveliness as you walk along its banks; there are open, sunny meadows, in which single giant trees or splendid groups of them stand, and walkswithout end winding under leafy Gothic arches. You know already thatMunich owes this fine park to the foresight and liberality of anAmerican Tory, Benjamin Thompson (Count Rumford), born in Rumford, Vt. , who also relieved Munich of beggars. 

I have spoken of the number of soldiers in Munich. For six weeks theLandwehr, or militia, has been in camp in various parts of Bavaria. There was a grand review of them the other day on the Field of Mars, bythe king, and many of them have now gone home. They strike an unmilitaryman as a very efficient body of troops. So far as I could see, they werearmed with breech-loading rifles. There is a treaty by which Bavariaagreed to assimilate her military organization to that of Prussia. It isthus that Bismarck is continually getting ready. But if the Landwehris gone, there are yet remaining troops enough of the line. Their chiefuse, so far as it concerns me, is to make pageants in the streets, andto send their bands to play at noon in the public squares. Every day, when the sun shines down upon the mounted statue of Ludwig I. , in frontof the Odeon, a band plays in an open Loggia, and there is always acrowd of idlers in the square to hear it. Everybody has leisure for thatsort of thing here in Europe; and one can easily learn how to be idleand let the world wag. They have found out here what is disbelievedin America, --that the world will continue to turn over once in abouttwenty-four hours (they are not accurate as to the time) without theiraid. To return to our soldiers. The cavalry most impresses me; themen are so finely mounted, and they ride royally. In these sparklingmornings, when the regiments clatter past, with swelling music andshining armor, riding away to I know not what adventure and glory, Iconfess that I long to follow them. I have long had this desire; and theother morning, determining to satisfy it, I seized my hat and went afterthe prancing procession. I am sorry I did. For, after trudging afterit through street after street, the fine horsemen all rode through anarched gateway, and disappeared in barracks, to my great disgust; andthe troopers dismounted, and led their steeds into stables. 

And yet one never loses a walk here in Munich. I found myself thatmorning by the Isar Thor, a restored medieval city gate. The gate isdouble, with flanking octagonal towers, inclosing a quadrangle. Upon theinner wall is a fresco of "The Crucifixion. " Over the outer front is arepresentation, in fresco painting, of the triumphal entry into the cityof the Emperor Louis of Bavaria after the battle of Ampfing. On oneside of the gate is a portrait of the Virgin, on gold ground, and onthe other a very passable one of the late Dr. Hawes of Hartford, witha Pope's hat on. Walking on, I came to another arched gateway andclock-tower; near it an old church, with a high wall adjoining, whereonis a fresco of cattle led to slaughter, showing that I am in thevicinity of the Victual Market; and I enter it through a narrow, crookedalley. There is nothing there but an assemblage of shabby booths andfruit-stands, and an ancient stone tower in ruins and overgrown withivy. 

Leaving this, I came out to the Marian Platz, where stands the column, with the statue of the Virgin and Child, set up by Maximilian I. In 1638to celebrate the victory in the battle which established the Catholicsupremacy in Bavaria. It is a favorite praying-place for the lowerclasses. Yesterday was a fete day, and the base of the column and halfits height are lost in a mass of flowers and evergreens. In front iserected an altar with a broad, carpeted platform; and a strip ofthe platz before it is inclosed with a railing, within which arepraying-benches. The sun shines down hot; but there are several poorwomen kneeling there, with their baskets beside them. I happen alongthere at sundown; and there are a score of women kneeling on the hardstones, outside the railing saying their prayers in loud voices. Themass of flowers is still sweet and gay and fresh; a fountain withfantastic figures is flashing near by; the crowd, going home to supperand beer, gives no heed to the praying; the stolid droschke-driversstand listlessly by. At the head of the square is an artillery station, and a row of cannon frowns on it. On one side is a house with a tabletin the wall, recording the fact that Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden oncelived in it. 

When we came to Munich, the great annual fair was in progress; and thelarge Maximilian Platz (not to be confounded with the street of thatname) was filled with booths of cheap merchandise, puppet-shows, lotteryshanties, and all sorts of popular amusements. It was a fine time tostudy peasant costumes. The city was crowded with them on Sunday;and let us not forget that the first visit of the peasants was to thechurches; they invariably attended early mass before they set out uponthe day's pleasure. Most of the churches have services at all hours tillnoon, some of them with fine classical and military music. One could notbut be struck with the devotional manner of the simple women, in theirqueer costumes, who walked into the gaudy edifices, were absorbed intheir prayers for an hour, and then went away. I suppose they didnot know how odd they looked in their high, round fur hats, or theirfantastic old ornaments, nor that there was anything amiss in bringingtheir big baskets into church with them. At least, their simple, unconscious manner was better than that of many of the city people, someof whom stare about a good deal, while going through the service, andstop in the midst of crossings and genuflections to take snuff and passit to their neighbors. But there are always present simple and homelikesort of people, who neither follow the fashions nor look round on them;respectable, neat old ladies, in the faded and carefully preserved silkgowns, such as the New England women wear to "meeting. "

No one can help admiring the simplicity, kindliness, and honesty of theGermans. The universal courtesy and friendliness of manner have a verydifferent seeming from the politeness of the French. At the hotels inthe country, the landlord and his wife and the servant join in hopingyou will sleep well when you go to bed. The little maid at Heidelbergwho served our meals always went to the extent of wishing us a goodappetite when she had brought in the dinner. Here in Munich the peoplewe have occasion to address in the street are uniformly courteous. Theshop-keepers are obliging, and rarely servile, like the English. Youare thanked, and punctiliously wished the good-day, whether you purchaseanything or not. In shops tended by women, gentlemen invariably removetheir hats. If you buy only a kreuzer's worth of fruit of an oldwoman, she says words that would be, literally translated, "I thank youbeautifully. " With all this, one looks kindly on the childish love theGermans have for titles. It is, I believe, difficult for the German mindto comprehend that we can be in good standing at home, unless we havesome title prefixed to our names, or some descriptive phrase added. Ourgood landlord, who waits at the table and answers our bell, one of whosetenants is a living baron, having no title to put on his doorplate underthat of the baron, must needs dub himself "privatier;" and he insistsupon prefixing the name of this unambitious writer with the ennoblingvon; and at the least he insists, in common with the tradespeople, thatI am a "Herr Doctor. " The bills of purchases by madame come made out to"Frau----, well-born. " At a hotel in Heidelberg, where I had registeredmy name with that distinctness of penmanship for which newspaper men arejustly conspicuous, and had added to my own name "& wife, " I was not alittle flattered to appear in the reckoning as "Herr Doctor Mamesweise. "

THE GOTTESACKER AND BAVARIAN FUNERALS

To change the subject from gay to grave. The Gottesacker of Munich iscalled the finest cemetery in Germany; at least, it surpasses them inthe artistic taste of its monuments. Natural beauty it has none: it issimply a long, narrow strip of ground inclosed in walls, with straight, parallel walks running the whole length, and narrow cross-walks; andyet it is a lovely burial-ground. There are but few trees; but the wholeinclosure is a conservatory of beautiful flowers. Every grave is coveredwith them, every monument is surrounded with them. The monuments areunpretending in size, but there are many fine designs, and many finelyexecuted busts and statues and allegorical figures, in both marble andbronze. The place is full of sunlight and color. I noticed that it wasmuch frequented. In front of every place of sepulcher stands a small urnfor water, with a brush hanging by, with which to sprinkle theflowers. I saw, also, many women and children coming and going withwatering-pots, so that the flowers never droop for want of care. At thelower end of the old ground is an open arcade, wherein are some effigiesand busts, and many ancient tablets set into the wall. Beyond this isthe new cemetery, an inclosure surrounded by a high wall of brick, andon the inside by an arcade. The space within is planted with flowers, and laid out for the burial of the people; the arcades are devoted tothe occupation of those who can afford costly tombs. Only a small numberof them are yet occupied; there are some good busts and monuments, andsome frescoes on the panels rather more striking for size and color thanfor beauty. 

Between the two cemeteries is the house for the dead. When I walkeddown the long central alle of the old ground, I saw at the farther end, beyond a fountain, twinkling lights. Coming nearer, I found that theyproceeded from the large windows of a building, which was a part of thearcade. People were looking in at the windows, going and coming to andfrom them continually; and I was prompted by curiosity to look within. A most unexpected sight met my eye. In a long room, upon elevated biers, lay people dead: they were so disposed that the faces could be seen; andthere they rested in a solemn repose. Officers in uniform, citizens inplain dress, matrons and maids in the habits that they wore when living, or in the white robes of the grave. About most of them were lightedcandles. About all of them were flowers: some were almost coveredwith bouquets. There were rows of children, little ones scarce a spanlong, --in the white caps and garments of innocence, as if asleep in bedsof flowers. How naturally they all were lying, as if only waiting to becalled! Upon the thumb of every adult was a ring in which a string wastied that went through a pulley above and communicated with a bell inthe attendant's room. How frightened he would be if the bell should eversound, and he should go into that hall of the dead to see who rang! Andyet it is a most wise and humane provision; and many years ago, thereis a tradition, an entombment alive was prevented by it. There are threerooms in all; and all those who die in Munich must be brought and laidin one of them, to be seen of all who care to look therein. I supposethat wealth and rank have some privileges; but it is the law that theperson having been pronounced dead by the physician shall be the sameday brought to the dead-house, and lie there three whole days beforeinterment. 

There is something peculiar in the obsequies of Munich, especially inthe Catholic portion of the population. Shortly after the death, thereis a short service in the courtyard of the house, which, with theentrance, is hung in costly mourning, if the deceased was rich. The bodyis then carried in the car to the dead-house, attended by the priests, the male members of the family, and a procession of torch-bearers, ifthat can be afforded. Three days after, the burial takes place from thedead-house, only males attending. The women never go to the funeral;but some days after, of which public notice is given by advertisement, a public service is held in church, at which all the family are present, and to which the friends are publicly invited. Funeral obsequies are ascostly here as in America; but everything is here regulated and fixed bycustom. There are as many as five or six classes of funerals recognized. Those of the first class, as to rank and expense, cost about a thousandguldens. The second class is divided into six subclasses. The third isdivided into two. The cost of the first of the third class is about fourhundred guldens. The lowest class of those able to have a funeralcosts twenty-five guldens. A gulden is about two francs. There areno carriages used at the funerals of Catholics, only at those ofProtestants and Jews. 

I spoke of the custom of advertising the deaths. A considerable portionof the daily newspapers is devoted to these announcements, which areprinted in display type, like the advertisements of dry-goods sellerswith you. I will roughly translate one which I happen to see just now. It reads, "Death advertisement. It has pleased God the Almighty, in hisinscrutable providence, to take away our innermost loved, best husband, father, grandfather, uncle, brother-in-law, and cousin, Herr---, dyer ofcloth and silk, yesterday night, at eleven o'clock, after three weeksof severe suffering, having partaken of the holy sacrament, in hissixty-sixth year, out of this earthly abode of calamity into the betterBeyond. Those who knew his good heart, his great honesty, as well as hispatience in suffering, will know how justly to estimate our grief. " Thisis signed by the "deep-grieving survivors, "--the widow, son, daughter, and daughter-in-law, in the name of the absent relatives. After the nameof the son is written, "Dyer in cloth and silk. " The notice closes withan announcement of the funeral at the cemetery, and a service at thechurch the day after. The advertisement I have given is not uncommoneither for quaintness or simplicity. It is common to engrave upon themonument the business as well as the title of the departed. 

THE OCTOBER FEST THE PEASANTS AND THE KING

On the 11th of October the sun came out, after a retirement of nearlytwo weeks. The cause of the appearance was the close of the OctoberFest. This great popular carnival has the same effect upon the weatherin Bavaria that the Yearly Meeting of Friends is known to produce inPhiladelphia, and the Great National Horse Fair in New England. Italways rains during the October Fest. Having found this out, I do notknow why they do not change the time of it; but I presume they are wiseenough to feel that it would be useless. A similar attempt on the partof the Pennsylvania Quakers merely disturbed the operations of nature, but did not save the drab bonnets from the annual wetting. There is asubtle connection between such gatherings and the gathering of whatare called the elements, --a sympathetic connection, which we shall, nodoubt, one day understand, when we have collected facts enough on thesubject to make a comprehensive generalization, after Mr. Buckle'smethod. 

This fair, which is just concluded, is a true Folks-Fest, a seasonespecially for the Bavarian people, an agricultural fair and cattleshow, but a time of general jollity and amusement as well. Indeed, themain object of a German fair seems to be to have a good time and inthis it is in marked contrast with American fairs. The October Fest wasinstituted for the people by the old Ludwig I. On the occasion of hismarriage; and it has ever since retained its position as the greatfestival of the Bavarian people, and particularly of the peasants. Itoffers a rare opportunity to the stranger to study the costumes of thepeasants, and to see how they amuse themselves. One can judge a gooddeal of the progress of a people by the sort of amusements that satisfythem. I am not about to draw any philosophical inferences, --I am a merelooker-on in Munich; but I have never anywhere else seen puppet-showsafford so much delight, nor have I ever seen anybody get moresatisfaction out of a sausage and a mug of beer, with the tum-tum of aband near, by, than a Bavarian peasant. 

The Fest was held on the Theresien Wiese, a vast meadow on the outskirtsof the city. The ground rises on one side of this by an abrupt step, some thirty or forty feet high, like the "bench" of a Western river. This bank is terraced for seats the whole length, or as far down as thestatue of Bavaria; so that there are turf seats, I should judge, forthree quarters of a mile, for a great many thousands of people, who canlook down upon the race-course, the tents, houses, and booths of thefair-ground, and upon the roof and spires of the city beyond. The statueis, as you know, the famous bronze Bavaria of Schwanthaler, a colossalfemale figure fifty feet high, and with its pedestal a hundred feethigh, which stands in front of the Hall of Fame, a Doric edifice, in theopen colonnades of which are displayed the busts of the most celebratedBavarians, together with those of a few poets and scholars who were sounfortunate as not to be born here. The Bavaria stands with theright hand upon the sheathed sword, and the left raised in the act ofbestowing a wreath of victory; and the lion of the kingdom is besideher. This representative being is, of course, hollow. There is room foreight people in her head, which I can testify is a warm place on a sunnyday; and one can peep out through loopholes and get a good view of theAlps of the Tyrol. To say that this statue is graceful or altogethersuccessful would be an error; but it is rather impressive, from itssize, if for no other reason. In the cast of the hand exhibited at thebronze foundry, the forefinger measures over three feet long. 

Although the Fest did not officially begin until Friday, October 12, yet the essential part of it, the amusements, was well under way on theSunday before. The town began to be filled with country people, and theholiday might be said to have commenced; for the city gives itself upto the occasion. The new art galleries are closed for some days; butthe collections and museums of various sorts are daily open, gratis; thetheaters redouble their efforts; the concert-halls are in full blast;there are dances nightly, and masked balls in the Folks' Theater;country relatives are entertained; the peasants go about the streetsin droves, in a simple and happy frame of mind, wholly unconscious thatthey are the oddest-looking guys that have come down from the MiddleAges; there is music in all the gardens, singing in the cafes, beerflowing in rivers, and a mighty smell of cheese, that goes up to heaven. If the eating of cheese were a religious act, and its odor an incense, Icould not say enough of the devoutness of the Bavarians. 

Of the picturesqueness and oddity of the Bavarian peasants' costumes, nothing but a picture can give you any idea. You can imagine the men intight breeches, buttoned below the knee, jackets of the jockey cut, and both jacket and waistcoat covered with big metal buttons, sometimescoins, as thickly as can be sewed on: but the women defy the pen; aBavarian peasant woman, in holiday dress, is the most fearfully andwonderfully made object in the universe. She displays a good length ofstriped stockings, and wears thin slippers, or sandals; her skirts arelike a hogshead in size and shape, and reach so near her shoulders as tomake her appear hump-backed; the sleeves are hugely swelled out atthe shoulder, and taper to the wrist; the bodice is a stiff andmost elaborately ornamented piece of armor; and there is a kind ofbreastplate, or center-piece, of gold, silver, and precious stones, or what passes for them; and the head is adorned with some monstrousheirloom, of finely worked gold or silver, or a tower, gilded andshining with long streamers, or bound in a simple black turban, withflowing ends. Little old girls, dressed like their mothers, have the airof creations of the fancy, who have walked out of a fairy-book. Thereis an endless variety in these old costumes; and one sees, every moment, one more preposterous than the preceding. The girls from the Tyrol, withtheir bright neckerchiefs and pointed black felt hats, with gold cordand tassels, are some of them very pretty: but one looks a long timefor a bright face among the other class; and, when it is discovered, theowner appears like a maiden who was enchanted a hundred years ago, andhas not been released from the spell, but is still doomed to wear thegarments and the ornaments that should long ago have mouldered away withher ancestors. 

The Theresien Wiese was a city of Vanity Fair for two weeks, everyday crowded with a motley throng. Booths, and even structures of somesolidity, rose on it as if by magic. The lottery-houses were set upearly, and, to the last, attracted crowds, who could not resist thetempting display of goods and trinkets, which might be won by investingsix kreuzers in a bit of paper, which might, when unrolled, contain anumber. These lotteries are all authorized: some of them were for thebenefit of the agricultural society; some were for the poor, and otherson individual account: and they always thrive; for the German, aboveall others, loves to try his luck. There were streets of shanties, wherevarious things were offered for sale besides cheese and sausages. Therewas a long line of booths, where images could be shot at with bird-guns;and when the shots were successful, the images went through astonishingrevolutions. There was a circus, in front of which some of the spangledperformers always stood beating drums and posturing, in order to enticein spectators. There were the puppet-booths, before which all day stoodgaping, delighted crowds, who roared with laughter whenever the littlefrau beat her loutish husband about the head, and set him to tend thebaby, who continued to wail, notwithstanding the man knocked its headagainst the doorpost. There were the great beer-restaurants, withtemporary benches and tables' planted about with evergreens, alwaysthronged with a noisy, jolly crowd. There were the fires, over whichfresh fish were broiling on sticks; and, if you lingered, you saw thefish taken alive from tubs of water standing by, dressed and spitted andbroiling before the wiggle was out of their tails. There were the oldwomen, who mixed the flour and fried the brown cakes before your eyes, or cooked the fragrant sausage, and offered it piping hot. 

And every restaurant and show had its band, brass or string, --a fullarray of red-faced fellows tooting through horns, or a sorry quartette, the fat woman with the harp, the lean man blowing himself out throughthe clarinet, the long-haired fellow with the flute, and the robust andthick-necked fiddler. Everywhere there was music; the air was fullof the odor of cheese and cooking sausage; so that there was nothingwanting to the most complete enjoyment. The crowd surged round, jammedtogether, in the best possible humor. Those who could not sit at tablessat on the ground, with a link of an eatable I have already named inone hand, and a mug of beer beside them. Toward evening, the ground wasstrewn with these gray quart mugs, which gave as perfect evidence of thebattle of the day as the cannon-balls on the sand before Fort Fisherdid of the contest there. Besides this, for the amusement of the crowd, there is, every day, a wheelbarrow race, a sack race, a blindfoldcontest, or something of the sort, which turns out to be a very flatperformance. But all the time the eating and the drinking go on, and theclatter and clink of it fill the air; so that the great object of thefair is not lost sight of. 

Meantime, where is the agricultural fair and cattle-show? You must knowthat we do these things differently in Bavaria. On the fair-ground, there is very little to be seen of the fair. There is an inclosure wheresteam-engines are smoking and puffing, and threshing-machines are makinga clamor; where some big church-bells hang, and where there are a fewstalls for horses and cattle. But the competing horses and cattle areled before the judges elsewhere; the horses, for instance, by the royalstables in the city. I saw no such general exhibition of do mesticanimals as you have at your fairs. The horses that took the prizeswere of native stock, a very serviceable breed, excellent forcarriage-horses, and admirable in the cavalry service. The bulls andcows seemed also native and to the manor born, and were worthy of littleremark. The mechanical, vegetable, and fruit exhibition was in thegreat glass palace, in the city, and was very creditable in the fruitdepartment, in the show of grapes and pears especially. The products ofthe dairy were less, though I saw one that I do not recollect ever tohave seen in America, a landscape in butter. Inclosed in a case, itlooked very much like a wood-carving. There was a Swiss cottage, amilkmaid, with cows in the foreground; there were trees, and in the rearrose rocky precipices, with chamois in the act of skipping thereon. Ishould think something might be done in our country in this line of thefine arts; certainly, some of the butter that is always being sold socheap at St. Albans, when it is high everywhere else, must be strongenough to warrant the attempt. As to the other departments of the finearts in the glass palace, I cannot give you a better idea of them thanby saying that they were as well filled as the like ones in the Americancounty fairs. There were machines for threshing, for straw-cutting, forapple-paring, and generally such a display of implements as would giveone a favorable idea of Bavarian agriculture. There was an interestingexhibition of live fish, great and small, of nearly every sort, Ishould think, in Bavarian waters. The show in the fire-department was soantiquated, that I was convinced that the people of Munich never intendto have any fires. 

The great day of the fete was Sunday, October 5 for on that day the kingwent out to the fair-ground, and distributed the prizes to the owners ofthe best horses, and, as they appeared to me, of the most ugly-coloredbulls. The city was literally crowded with peasants and country people;the churches were full all the morning with devout masses, which pouredinto the waiting beer-houses afterward with equal zeal. By twelveo'clock, the city began to empty itself upon the Theresien meadow; andlong before the time for the king to arrive--two o'clock--there wereacres of people waiting for the performance to begin. The terraced bank, of which I have spoken, was taken possession of early, and held by asolid mass of people; while the fair-ground proper was packed with aswaying concourse, densest near the royal pavilion, which was erectedimmediately on the race-course, and opposite the bank. 

At one o'clock the grand stand opposite to the royal one is takenpossession of by a regiment band and by invited guests. All the space, except the race-course, is, by this time, packed with people, whowatch the red and white gate at the head of the course with growingimpatience. It opens to let in a regiment of infantry, which marchesin and takes position. It swings, every now and then, for a solitaryhorseman, who gallops down the line in all the pride of mounted civicdignity, to the disgust of the crowd; or to let in a carriage, with someoverdressed officer or splendid minister, who is entitled to a place inthe royal pavilion. It is a people' fete, and the civic officers enjoyone day of conspicuous glory. Now a majestic person in gold lace is setdown; and now one in a scarlet coat, as beautiful as a flamingo. Thesedriblets of splendor only feed the popular impatience. Music is heard inthe distance, and a procession with colored banners is seen approachingfrom the city. That, like everything else that is to come, stops beyondthe closed gate; and there it halts, ready to stream down before oureyes in a variegated pageant. The time goes on; the crowd gets denser, for there have been steady rivers of people pouring into the grounds formore than an hour. 

The military bands play in the long interval; the peasants jabber inunintelligible dialects; the high functionaries on the royal stand aregood enough to move around, and let us see how brave and majestic theyare. 

At last the firing of cannon announces the coming of royalty. There isa commotion in the vast crowd yonder, the eagerly watched gates swingwide, and a well-mounted company of cavalry dashes down the turf, inuniforms of light blue and gold. It is a citizens' company of butchersand bakers and candlestick-makers, which would do no discredit to theregular army. Driving close after is a four-horse carriage with two ofthe king's ministers; and then, at a rapid pace, six coal-black horsesin silver harness, with mounted postilions, drawing a long, slender, open carriage with one seat, in which ride the king and his brother, Prince Otto, come down the way, and are pulled up in front of thepavilion; while the cannon roars, the big bells ring, all the flagsof Bavaria, Prussia, and Austria, on innumerable poles, are blowingstraight out, the band plays "God save the King, " the people break intoenthusiastic shouting, and the young king, throwing off his cloak, risesand stands in his carriage for a moment, bowing right and left beforehe descends. He wears to-day the simple uniform of the citizens' companywhich has escorted him, and is consequently more plainly and neatlydressed than any one else on the platform, --a tall (say six feet), slender, gallant-looking young fellow of three and twenty, with an openface and a graceful manner. 

But, when he has arrived, things again come to a stand; and we wait foran hour, and watch the thickening of the clouds, while the king goesfrom this to that delighted dignitary on the stand and converses. Atthe end of this time, there is a movement. A white dog has got intothe course, and runs up and down between the walls of people in terror, headed off by soldiers at either side of the grand stand, and finally, becoming desperate, he makes a dive for the royal pavilion. Theconsternation is extreme. The people cheer the dog and laugh: awhite-handed official, in gold lace, and without his hat, rushes out to"shoo" the dog away, but is unsuccessful; for the animal dashes betweenhis legs, and approaches the royal and carpeted steps. More men ofrank run at him, and he is finally captured and borne away; and we allbreathe freer that the danger to royalty is averted. At one o'clock sixyouths in white jackets, with clubs and coils of rope, had stationedthemselves by the pavilion, but they did not go into action at thisjuncture; and I thought they rather enjoyed the activity of the greatmen who kept off the dog. 

At length there was another stir; and the king descended from the rearof his pavilion, attended by his ministers, and moved about among thepeople, who made way for him, and uncovered at his approach. He spokewith one and another, and strolled about as his fancy took him. Isuppose this is called mingling with the common people. After he hadmingled about fifteen minutes, he returned, and took his place on thesteps in front of the pavilion; and the distribution of prizes began. First the horses were led out; and their owners, approaching the king, received from his hands the diplomas, and a flag from an attendant. Most of them were peasants; and they exhibited no servility in receivingtheir marks of distinction, but bowed to the king as they would to anyother man, and his majesty touched his cocked hat in return. Then camethe prize-cattle, many of them led by women, who are as interested astheir husbands in all farm matters. Everything goes off smoothly, exceptthere is a momentary panic over a fractious bull, who plunges intothe crowd; but the six white jackets are about him in an instant, andentangle him with their ropes. 

This over, the gates again open, and the gay cavalcade that has been solong in sight approaches. First a band of musicians in costumes of theMiddle Ages; and then a band of pages in the gayest apparel, bearingpictured banners and flags of all colors, whose silken luster would havebeen gorgeous in sunshine; these were followed by mounted heralds withtrumpets, and after them were led the running horses entered forthe race. The banners go up on the royal stand, and group themselvespicturesquely; the heralds disappear at the other end of the list;and almost immediately the horses, ridden by young jockeys in stunningcolors, come flying past in a general scramble. There are a dozen ormore horses; but, after the first round, the race lies between two. The course is considerably over an English mile, and they make fourcircuits; so that the race is fully six-miles, --a very hard one. It wasa run in a rain, however, which began when it did, and soon forced upthe umbrellas. The vast crowd disappeared under a shed of umbrellas, ofall colors, --black, green, red, blue; and the effect was very singular, especially when it moved from the field: there was then a Niagara ofumbrellas. The race was soon over: it is only a peasants' race, afterall; the aristocratic races of the best horses take place in May. It wasover. The king's carriage was brought round, the people again shouted, the cannon roared, the six black horses reared and plunged, and away hewent. 

After all, says the artist, "the King of Bavaria has not much power. "

"You can see, " returns a gentleman who speaks English, "just how much hehas: it is a six-horse power. "

On other days there was horse-trotting, music production, and forseveral days prize-shooting. The latter was admirably conducted: thetargets were placed at the foot of the bank; and opposite, I shouldthink not more than two hundred yards off, were shooting-houses, eachwith a room for the register of the shots, and on each side of himclosets where the shooters stand. Signal-wires run from these housesto the targets, where there are attendants who telegraph the effectof every shot. Each competitor has a little book; and he shoots at anybooth he pleases, or at all, and has his shots registered. There wasa continual fusillade for a couple of days; but what it all came to, I cannot tell. I can only say, that, if they shoot as steadily as theydrink beer, there is no other corps of shooters that can stand beforethem. 

INDIAN SUMMER

We are all quiet along the Isar since the October Fest; since the youngking has come back from his summer castle on the Starnberg See to livein his dingy palace; since the opera has got into good working order, and the regular indoor concerts at the cafes have begun. There is nolack of amusements, with balls, theaters, and the cheap concerts, vocaland instrumental. I stepped into the West Ende Halle the other night, having first surrendered twelve kreuzers to the money-changer at theentrance, --double the usual fee, by the way. It was large and welllighted, with a gallery all round it and an orchestral platform atone end. The floor and gallery were filled with people of the mostrespectable class, who sat about little round tables, and drank beer. Every man was smoking a cigar; and the atmosphere was of that degree ofhaziness that we associate with Indian summer at home; so that throughit the people in the gallery appeared like glorified objects in aheathen Pantheon, and the orchestra like men playing in a dream. Yetnobody seemed to mind it; and there was, indeed, a general air of socialenjoyment and good feeling. Whether this good feeling was in process ofbeing produced by the twelve or twenty glasses of beer which it is notunusual for a German to drink of an evening, I do not know. "I do notdrink much beer now, " said a German acquaintance, --"not more than fouror five glasses in an evening. " This is indeed moderation, when weremember that sixteen glasses of beer is only two gallons. The orchestraplaying that night was Gungl's; and it performed, among other things, the whole of the celebrated Third (or Scotch) Symphony of Mendelssohnin a manner that would be greatly to the credit of orchestras thatplay without the aid of either smoke or beer. Concerts of this sort, generally with more popular music and a considerable dash of Wagner, in whom the Munichers believe, take place every night in several cafes;while comic singing, some of it exceedingly well done, can be heardin others. Such amusements--and nothing can be more harmless--are verycheap. 

Speaking of Indian summer, the only approach to it I have seen was inthe hazy atmosphere at the West Ende Halle. October outdoors has been analmost totally disagreeable month, with the exception of some days, orrather parts of days, when we have seen the sun, and experienced a mildatmosphere. At such times, I have liked to sit down on one of the emptybenches in the Hof Garden, where the leaves already half cover theground, and the dropping horse-chestnuts keep up a pattering on them. Soon the fat woman who has a fruit-stand at the gate is sure to comewaddling along, her beaming face making a sort of illumination in theautumn scenery, and sit down near me. As soon as she comes, the littlebrown birds and the doves all fly that way, and look up expectant ather. They all know her, and expect the usual supply of bread-crumbs. Indeed, I have seen her on a still Sunday morning, when I have beensitting there waiting for the English ceremony of praying for QueenVictoria and Albert Edward to begin in the Odeon, sit for an hour, andcut up bread for her little brown flock. She sits now knitting a redstocking, the picture of content; one after another her old gossipspass that way, and stop a moment to exchange the chat of the day; orthe policeman has his joke with her, and when there is nobody else toconverse with, she talks to the birds. A benevolent old soul, I am sure, who in a New England village would be universally called "Aunty, "and would lay all the rising generation under obligation to her fordoughnuts and sweet-cake. As she rises to go away, she scrapes togethera half-dozen shining chestnuts with her feet; and as she cannot possiblystoop to pick them up, she motions to a boy playing near, and smiles sohappily as the urchin gathers them and runs away without even a "thankye. "

A TASTE OF ULTRAMONTANISM

If that of which every German dreams, and so few are ready to take anypractical steps to attain, --German unity, --ever comes, it must rideroughshod over the Romish clergy, for one thing. Of course there areother obstacles. So long as beer is cheap, and songs of the Fatherlandare set to lilting strains, will these excellent people "Ho, ho, mybrothers, " and "Hi, hi, my brothers, " and wait for fate, in the shapeof some compelling Bismarck, to drive them into anything more than thebrotherhood of brown mugs of beer and Wagner's mysterious music of thefuture. I am not sure, by the way, that the music of Richard Wagneris not highly typical of the present (1868) state of German unity, --anundefined longing which nobody exactly understands. There are thosewho think they can discern in his music the same revolutionary tendencywhich placed the composer on the right side of a Dresden barricade in1848, and who go so far as to believe that the liberalism of the youngKing of Bavaria is not a little due to his passion for the disorganizingoperas of this transcendental writer. Indeed, I am not sure that anyother people than Germans would not find in the repetition of the fivehours of the "Meister-Singer von Nurnberg, " which was given the othernight at the Hof Theater, sufficient reason for revolution. 

Well, what I set out to say was, that most Germans would like unity ifthey could be the unit. Each State would like to be the center of theconsolidated system, and thus it happens that every practical steptoward political unity meets a host of opponents at once. When Austria, or rather the house of Hapsburg, had a preponderance in the Diet, and itseemed, under it, possible to revive the past reality, or to realize thedream of a great German empire, it was clearly seen that Austria was atyranny that would crush out all liberties. And now that Prussia, withits vital Protestantism and free schools, proposes to undertake thereconstruction of Germany, and make a nation where there are now onlythe fragmentary possibilities of a great power, why, Prussia is amilitary despot, whose subjects must be either soldiers or slaves, andthe young emperor at Vienna is indeed another Joseph, filled with themost tender solicitude for the welfare of the chosen German people. 

But to return to the clergy. While the monasteries and nunneries aregoing to the ground in superstition-saturated Spain; while eager workmenare demolishing the last hiding-places of monkery, and letting thedaylight into places that have well kept the frightful secrets of threehundred years, and turning the ancient cloister demesne into publicparks and pleasure-grounds, --the Romish priesthood here, in freeBavaria, seem to imagine that they cannot only resist the progress ofevents, but that they can actually bring back the owlish twilight ofthe Middle Ages. The reactionary party in Bavaria has, in some of theprovinces, a strong majority; and its supporters and newspapers arebelligerent and aggressive. A few words about the politics of Bavariawill give you a clew to the general politics of the country. 

The reader of the little newspapers here in Munich finds evidence of atleast three parties. There is first the radical. Its members sincerelydesire a united Germany, and, of course, are friendly to Prussia, hateNapoleon, have little confidence in the Hapsburgs, like to read ofuneasiness in Paris, and hail any movement that overthrows tradition andthe prescriptive right of classes. If its members are Catholic, they arevery mildly so; if they are Protestant, they are not enough so to harmthem; and, in short, if their religious opinions are not as deep as awell, they are certainly broader than a church door. They are the partyof free inquiry, liberal thought, and progress. Akin to them are whatmay be called the conservative liberals, the majority of whom may beCatholics in profession, but are most likely rationalists in fact; andwith this party the king naturally affiliates, taking his music devoutlyevery Sunday morning in the Allerheiligenkirche, attached to theResidenz, and getting his religion out of Wagner; for, progressive asthe youthful king is, he cannot be supposed to long for a unity whichwould wheel his throne off into the limbo of phantoms. The conservativeliberals, therefore, while laboring for thorough internal reforms, look with little delight on the increasing strength of Prussia, andsympathize with the present liberal tendencies of Austria. Opposed toboth these parties is the ultramontane, the head of which is theRomish hierarchy, and the body of which is the inert mass of ignorantpeasantry, over whom the influence of the clergy seems little shakenby any of the modern moral earthquakes. Indeed I doubt if any new ideaswill ever penetrate a class of peasants who still adhere to styles ofcostume that must have been ancient when the Turks threatened Vienna, which would be highly picturesque if they were not painfully ugly, andarrayed in which their possessors walk about in the broad light of theselatter days, with entire unconsciousness that they do not belong to thisage, and that their appearance is as much of an anachronism as if thefigures should step out of Holbein's pictures (which Heaven forbid), orthe stone images come down from the portals of the cathedral and walkabout. The ultramontane party, which, so far as it is an intelligentforce in modern affairs, is the Romish clergy, and nothing more, hearswith aversion any hint of German unity, listens with dread to theneedle-guns at Sadowa, hates Prussia in proportion as it fears her, and just now does not draw either with the Austrian Government, whoseliberal tendencies are exceedingly distasteful. It relies upon thatgreat unenlightened mass of Catholic people in Southern Germany andin Austria proper, one of whose sins is certainly not skepticism. Thepractical fight now in Bavaria is on the question of education; thepriests being resolved to keep the schools of the people in their owncontrol, and the liberal parties seeking to widen educational facilitiesand admit laymen to a share in the management of institutions oflearning. Now the school visitors must all be ecclesiastics; andalthough their power is not to be dreaded in the cities, where teachers, like other citizens, are apt to be liberal, it gives them immense powerin the rural districts. The election of the Lower House of the Bavarianparliament, whose members have a six years' tenure of office, whichtakes place next spring, excites uncommon interest; for the leadingissue will be that of education. The little local newspapers--and everycity has a small swarm of them, which are remarkable for the absence ofnews and an abundance of advertisements--have broken out into a styleof personal controversy, which, to put it mildly, makes me, an American, feel quite at home. Both parties are very much in earnest, and bothspeak with a freedom that is, in itself, a very hopeful sign. 

The pretensions of the ultramontane clergy are, indeed, remarkableenough to attract the attention of others besides the liberalsof Bavaria. They assume an influence and an importance in theecclesiastical profession, or rather an authority, equal to that everasserted by the Church in its strongest days. Perhaps you will get anidea of the height of this pretension if I translate a passage which theliberal journal here takes from a sermon preached in the parish churchof Ebersburg, in Ober-Dorfen, by a priest, Herr Kooperator AntonHiring, no longer ago than August 16, 1868. It reads: "With the powerof absolution, Christ has endued the priesthood with a might which isterrible to hell, and against which Lucifer himself cannot stand, -amight which, indeed, reaches over into eternity, where all other earthlypowers find their limit and end, --a might, I say, which is able to breakthe fetters which, for an eternity, were forged through the commissionof heavy sin. Yes, further, this Power of the forgiveness of sins makesthe priest, in a certain measure, a second God; for God alone naturallycan forgive sins. And yet this is not the highest reach of the priestlymight: his power reaches still higher; he compels God himself to servehim. How so? When the priest approaches the altar, in order to bringthere the holy mass-offering, there, at that moment, lifts himself upJesus Christ, who sits at the right hand of the Father, upon histhrone, in order to be ready for the beck of his priests upon earth. And scarcely does the priest begin the words of consecration, than thereChrist already hovers, surrounded by the heavenly host, come down fromheaven to earth, and to the altar of sacrifice, and changes, upon thewords of the priest, the bread and wine into his holy flesh and blood, and permits himself then to be taken up and to lie in the hands of thepriest, even though the priest is the most sinful and the most unworthy. Further, his power surpasses that of the highest archangels, and of theQueen of Heaven. Right did the holy Franciscus say, 'If I should meet apriest and an angel at the same time, I should salute the priest first, and then the angel; because the priest is possessed of far higher mightand holiness than the angel. '"

The radical journal calls this "ultramontane blasphemy, " and, the dayafter quoting it, adds a charge that must be still more annoying tothe Herr Kooperator Hiring than that of blasphemy: it accuses him ofplagiarism; and, to substantiate the charge, quotes almost the very samelanguage from a sermon preached in 1785--In this it is boldly claimedthat "in heaven, on earth, or under the earth, there is nothing mightierthan a priest, except God; and, to be exact, God himself must obeythe priest in the mass. " And then, in words which I do not care totranslate, the priest is made greater than the Virgin Mary, becauseChrist was only born of the Virgin once, while the priest "with fivewords, as often and wherever he will, " can "bring forth the Saviour ofthe world. " So to-day keeps firm hold of the traditions of a hundredyears ago, and ultramontanism wisely defends the last citadel where theMiddle Age superstition makes a stand, --the popular veneration for theclergy. 

And the clergy take good care to keep up the pomps and shows evenhere in skeptical Munich. It was my inestimable privilege the othermorning--it was All-Saints' Day--to see the archbishop in the oldFrauenkirche, the ancient cathedral, where hang tattered banners thatwere captured from the Turks three centuries ago, --to see him seatedin the choir, overlooked by saints and apostles carved in wood by someforgotten artist of the fifteenth century. I supposed he was at least anarchbishop, from the retinue of priests who attended and served him, andalso from his great size. When he sat down, it required a dignitary ofconsiderable rank to put on his hat; and when he arose to speak a fewprecious words, the effect was visible a good many yards from wherehe stood. At the close of the service he went in great state down thecenter aisle, preceded by the gorgeous beadle--a character that isalways awe-inspiring to me in these churches, being a cross betweena magnificent drum-major and a verger and two persons in livery, andfollowed by a train of splendidly attired priests, six of whom boreup his long train of purple silk. The whole cortege was resplendent inembroidery and ermine; and as the great man swept out of my sight, andwas carried on a priestly wave into his shining carriage, and the noblefootman jumped up behind, and he rolled away to his dinner, I stoodleaning against a pillar, and reflected if it could be possible thatthat religion could be anything but genuine which had so much genuineermine. And the organ-notes, rolling down the arches, seemed to me tohave a very ultramontane sound. 

CHANGING QUARTERS

Perhaps it may not interest you to know how we moved, that is, changedour apartments. I did not see it mentioned in the cable dispatches, andit may not be generally known, even in Germany; but then, the cable isso occupied with relating how his Serenity this, and his Highness that, and her Loftiness the other one, went outdoors and came in again, owingto a slight superfluity of the liquid element in the atmosphere, that ithas no time to notice the real movements of the people. And yet, sodry are some of these little German newspapers of news, that it isrefreshing to read, now and then, that the king, on Sunday, walked outwith the Duke of Hesse after dinner (one would like to know if they alsohad sauerkraut and sausage), and that his prospective mother-in-law, the Empress of Russia, who was here the other day, on her way home fromComo, where she was nearly drowned out by the inundation, sat for anhour on Sunday night, after the opera, in the winter garden of thepalace, enjoying the most easy family intercourse. 

But about moving. Let me tell you that to change quarters in the faceof a Munich winter, which arrives here the 1st of November, is likechanging front to the enemy just before a battle; and if we had perishedin the attempt, it might have been put upon our monuments, as it is uponthe out-of-cannon-cast obelisk in the Karolina Platz, erected tothe memory of the thirty thousand Bavarian soldiers who fell in thedisastrous Russian winter campaign of Napoleon, fighting against all theinterests of Germany, --"they, too, died for their Fatherland. " Bavariahappened also to fight on the wrong side at Sadowa and I suppose thatthose who fell there also died for Fatherland: it is a way the Germanshave of doing, and they mean nothing serious by it. But, as I wassaying, to change quarters here as late as November is a littledifficult, for the wise ones seek to get housed for the winter byOctober: they select the sunny apartments, get on the double windows, and store up wood. The plants are tied up in the gardens, the fountainsare covered over, and the inhabitants go about in furs and the heaviestwinter clothing long before we should think of doing so at home. Andthey are wise: the snow comes early, and, besides, a cruel fog, cold asthe grave and penetrating as remorse, comes down out of the near Tyrol. One morning early in November, I looked out of the window to find snowfalling, and the ground covered with it. There was dampness and frostenough in the air to make it cling to all the tree-twigs, and to takefantastic shapes on all the queer roofs and the slenderest pinnaclesand most delicate architectural ornamentations. The city spires had amysterious appearance in the gray haze; and above all, the round-toppedtowers of the old Frauenkirche, frosted with a little snow, loomed upmore grandly than ever. When I went around to the Hof Garden, where Ilate had sat in the sun, and heard the brown horse-chestnuts drop onthe leaves, the benches were now full of snow, and the fat and friendlyfruit-woman at the gate had retired behind glass windows into a littleshop, which she might well warm by her own person, if she radiated heatas readily as she used to absorb it on the warm autumn days, when I havemarked her knitting in the sunshine. 

But we are not moving. The first step we took was to advertise our wantsin the "Neueste Nachrichten" ("Latest News ") newspaper. We desired, ifpossible, admission into some respectable German family, where we shouldbe forced to speak German, and in which our society, if I may so expressit, would be some compensation for our bad grammar. We wished alsoto live in the central part of the city, --in short, in the immediateneighborhood of all the objects of interest (which are here very muchscattered), and to have pleasant rooms. In Dresden, where the peopleare not so rich as in Munich, and where different customs prevail, itis customary for the best people, I mean the families of universityprofessors, for instance, to take in foreigners, and give them tolerablefood and a liberal education. Here it is otherwise. Nearly all familiesoccupy one floor of a building, renting just rooms enough for thefamily, so that their apartments are not elastic enough to take instrangers, even if they desire to do so. And generally they do not. Munich society is perhaps chargeable with being a little stiff andexclusive. Well, we advertised in the "Neueste Nachrichten. " This isthe liberal paper of Munich. It is a poorly printed, black-looking dailysheet, folded in octavo size, and containing anywhere from sixteen tothirty-four pages, more or less, as it happens to have advertisements. It sometimes will not have more than two or three pages of readingmatter. There will be a scrap or two of local news, the brief telegramstaken from the official paper of the day before, a bit or two of othernews, and perhaps a short and slashing editorial on the ultramontaneparty. The advantage of printing and folding it in such small leaves is, that the size can be varied according to the demands of advertisementsor news (if the German papers ever find out what that is); so that thepublisher is always giving, every day, just what it pays to give thatday; and the reader has his regular quantity of reading matter, and doesnot have to pay for advertising space, which in journals of unchangeableform cannot always be used profitably. This little journal was startedsomething like twenty years ago. It probably spends little for news, hasonly one or, at most, two editors, is crowded with advertisements, whichare inserted cheap, and costs, delivered, a little over six francs ayear. It circulates in the city some thirty-five thousand. There isanother little paper here of the same size, but not so many leaves, called "The Daily Advertiser, " with nothing but advertisements, principally of theaters, concerts, and the daily sights, and one pagedevoted to some prodigious yarn, generally concerning America, ofwhich country its readers must get the most extraordinary and frightfulimpression. The "Nachrichten" made the fortune of its first owner, whobuilt himself a fine house out of it, and retired to enjoy his wealth. It was recently sold for one hundred thousand guldens; and I can seethat it is piling up another fortune for its present owner. The Germans, who herein show their good sense and the high state of civilizationto which they have reached, are very free advertisers, going to thenewspapers with all their wants, and finding in them that aid which allinterests and all sorts of people, from kaiser to kerl, are compelled, in these days, to seek in the daily journal. Every German town of anysize has three or four of these little journals of flying leaves, whichare excellent papers in every respect, except that they look like badlyprinted handbills, and have very little news and no editorials worthspeaking of. An exception to these in Bavaria is the "AllgerneineZeitung" of Augsburg, which is old and immensely respectable, and isperhaps, for extent of correspondence and splendidly written editorialson a great variety of topics, excelled by no journal in Europe exceptthe London "Times. " It gives out two editions daily, the evening oneabout the size of the New York "Nation;" and it has all the telegraphicnews. It is absurdly old-grannyish, and is malevolent in its pretendedconservatism and impartiality. Yet it circulates over forty thousandcopies, and goes all over Germany. 

But were we not saying something about moving? The truth is, that thebest German families did not respond to our appeal with that alacritywhich we had no right to expect, and did not exhibit that anxiety forour society which would have been such a pleasant evidence of theirappreciation of the honor done to the royal city of Munich by theselection of it as a residence during the most disagreeable months ofthe year by the advertising undersigned. Even the young king, whoseapproaching marriage to the Russian princess, one would think, mightsoften his heart, did nothing to win our regard, or to show that heappreciated our residence "near" his court, and, so far as I know, neverread with any sort of attention our advertisement, which was composedwith as much care as Goethe's "Faust, " and probably with the use of moredictionaries. And this, when he has an extraordinary large Residenz, tosay nothing about other outlying palaces and comfortable places to livein, in which I know there are scores of elegantly furnished apartments, which stand idle almost the year round, and might as well be let toappreciative strangers, who would accustom the rather washy and fiercefrescoes on the walls to be stared at. I might have selected rooms, sayon the court which looks on the exquisite bronze fountain, Perseus withthe head of Medusa, a copy of the one in Florence by Benvenuto Cellini, where we could have a southern exposure. Or we might, so it would seem, have had rooms by the winter garden, where tropical plants rejoice inperennial summer, and blossom and bear fruit, while a northern winterrages without. Yet the king did not see it "by those lamps;" and Ilooked in vain on the gates of the Residenz for the notice so frequentlyseen on other houses, of apartments to let. And yet we had responses. The day after the announcement appeared, our bell ran perpetually; andwe had as many letters as if we had advertised for wives innumerable. The German notes poured in upon us in a flood; each one of themcontaining an offer tempting enough to beguile an angel out of paradise, at least, according to our translation: they proffered us chambers thatwere positively overheated by the flaming sun (which, I can take myoath, only ventures a few feet above the horizon at this season), whichwere friendly in appearance, splendidly furnished and near to everydesirable thing, and in which, usually, some American family had longresided, and experienced a content and happiness not to be felt out ofGermany. 

I spent some days in calling upon the worthy frauen who made thesealluring offers. The visits were full of profit to the student of humannature, but profitless otherwise. I was ushered into low, dark chambers, small and dreary, looking towards the sunless north, which I was assuredwere delightful and even elegant. I was taken up to the top of tallhouses, through a smell of cabbage that was appalling, to find empty anddreary rooms, from which I fled in fright. We were visited by so manypeople who had chambers to rent, that we were impressed with the ideathat all Munich was to let; and yet, when we visited the places offered, we found they were only to be let alone. One of the frauen who did usthe honor to call, also wrote a note, and inclosed a letter that she hadjust received from an American gentleman (I make no secret of it thathe came from Hartford), in which were many kindly expressions for herwelfare, and thanks for the aid he had received in his study of German;and yet I think her chambers are the most uninviting in the entire city. There were people who were willing to teach us German, without rooms orboard; or to lodge us without giving us German or food; or to feed us, and let us starve intellectually, and lodge where we could. 

But all things have an end, and so did our hunt for lodgings. I chancedone day in my walk to find, with no help from the advertisement, verynearly what we desired, --cheerful rooms in a pleasant neighborhood, where the sun comes when it comes out at all, and opposite the GlassPalace, through which the sun streams in the afternoon with a certainsplendor, and almost next door to the residence and laboratory of thefamous chemist, Professor Liebig; so that we can have our feelingsanalyzed whenever it is desirable. When we had set up our householdgods, and a fire was kindled in the tall white porcelain familymonument, which is called here a stove, --and which, by the way, ismuch more agreeable than your hideous black and air-scorching cast-ironstoves, --and seen that the feather-beds under which we were expected tolie were thick enough to roast the half of the body, and short enough tolet the other half freeze, we determined to try for a season the regularGerman cookery, our table heretofore having been served with food cookedin the English style with only a slight German flavor. A week of theexperiment was quite enough. I do not mean to say that the viands servedus were not good, only that we could not make up our minds to eat them. The Germans eat a great deal of meat; and we were obliged to take meatwhen we preferred vegetables. Now, when a deep dish is set before youwherein are chunks of pork reposing on stewed potatoes, and anotherwherein a fathomless depth of sauerkraut supports coils of boiledsausage, which, considering that you are a mortal and responsible being, and have a stomach, will you choose? Herein Munich, nearly all the breadis filled with anise or caraway seed; it is possible to get, however, the best wheat bread we have eaten in Europe, and we usually have it;but one must maintain a constant vigilance against the inroads of thefragrant seeds. Imagine, then, our despair, when one day the potato, the one vegetable we had always eaten with perfect confidence, appearedstewed with caraway seeds. This was too much for American human nature, constituted as it is. Yet the dish that finally sent us back to ourordinary and excellent way of living is one for which I have no name. It may have been compounded at different times, have been the result ofmany tastes or distastes: but there was, after all, a unity in itthat marked it as the composition of one master artist; there wasan unspeakable harmony in all its flavors and apparently ununitablesubstances. It looked like a terrapin soup, but it was not. Every diveof the spoon into its dark liquid brought up a different object, --a junkof unmistakable pork, meat of the color of roast hare, what seemed to bethe neck of a goose, something in strings that resembled the rags of asilk dress, shreds of cabbage, and what I am quite willing to take myoath was a bit of Astrachan fur. If Professor Liebig wishes to add tohis reputation, he could do so by analyzing this dish, and publishingthe result to the world. 

And, while we are speaking of eating, it may be inferred that theGermans are good eaters; and although they do not begin early, seldomtaking much more than a cup of coffee before noon, they make it upby very substantial dinners and suppers. To say nothing of theextraordinary dishes of meats which the restaurants serve at night, theblack bread and odorous cheese and beer which the men take on boardin the course of an evening would soon wear out a cast-iron stomach inAmerica; and yet I ought to remember the deadly pie and the corrodingwhisky of my native land. The restaurant life of the people is, of course, different from their home life, and perhaps an eveningentertainment here is no more formidable than one in America, but itis different. Let me give you the outlines of a supper to which we wereinvited the other night: it certainly cannot hurt you to read about it. We sat down at eight. There were first courses of three sorts of coldmeat, accompanied with two sorts of salad; the one, a composite, witha potato basis, of all imaginable things that are eaten. Beer and breadwere unlimited. There was then roast hare, with some supporting dish, followed by jellies of various sorts, and ornamented plates of somethingthat seemed unable to decide whether it would be jelly or cream; andthen came assorted cake and the white wine of the Rhine and the red ofHungary. We were then surprised with a dish of fried eels, with a sauce. Then came cheese; and, to crown all, enormous, triumphal-looking loavesof cake, works of art in appearance, and delicious to the taste. Wesat at the table till twelve o'clock; but you must not imagine thateverybody sat still all the time, or that, appearances to the contrarynotwithstanding, the principal object of the entertainment was eating. The songs that were sung in Hungarian as well as German, the poems thatwere recited, the burlesques of actors and acting, the imitationsthat were inimitable, the take-off of table-tipping and of prominentmusicians, the wit and constant flow of fun, as constant as thegood-humor and free hospitality, the unconstrained ease of the wholeevening, these things made the real supper which one remembers when thegrosser meal has vanished, as all substantial things do vanish. 

CHRISTMAS TIME-MUSIC

For a month Munich has been preparing for Christmas. The shop windowshave had a holiday look all December. I see one every day in which aredisplayed all the varieties of fruits, vegetables, and confectionerypossible to be desired for a feast, done in wax, --a most dismalexhibition, and calculated to make the adjoining window, which has alittle fountain and some green plants waving amidst enormous pendentsausages and pigs' heads and various disagreeable hashes of pressedmeat, positively enticing. And yet there are some vegetables here that Ishould prefer to have in wax, --for instance, sauerkraut. The toy windowsare worthy of study, and next to them the bakers'. A favorite toy of theseason is a little crib, with the Holy Child, in sugar or wax, lyingin it in the most uncomfortable attitude. Babies here are strappedupon pillows, or between pillows, and so tied up and wound up that theycannot move a muscle, except, perhaps, the tongue; and so, exactly likelittle mummies, they are carried about the street by the nurses, --poorlittle things, packed away so, even in the heat of summer, their littlefaces looking out of the down in a most pitiful fashion. The popular toyis a representation, in sugar or wax, of this period of life. Generallythe toy represents twins, so swathed and bound; and, not infrequently, the bold conception of the artist carries the point of the humor sofar as to introduce triplets, thus sporting with the most dreadfulpossibilities of life. 

The German bakers are very ingenious; and if they could be convinced ofthis great error, that because things are good separately, they mustbe good in combination, the produce of their ovens would be much moreeatable. As it is, they make delicious cake, and of endless variety; butthey also offer us conglomerate formations that may have a scientificvalue, but are utterly useless to a stomach not trained in Germany. Of this sort, for the most part, is the famous Lebkuchen, a sort ofgingerbread manufactured in Nurnberg, and sent all over Germany: "agedoes not [seem to] impair, nor custom stale its infinite variety. " It isvery different from our simple cake of that name, although it is usuallybaked in flat cards. It may contain nuts or fruit, and is spoiled bya flavor of conflicting spices. I should think it might be sold by thecord, it is piled up in such quantities; and as it grows old and is muchhandled, it acquires that brown, not to say dirty, familiar look, whichmay, for aught I know, be one of its chief recommendations. The cake, however, which prevails at this season of the year comes from theTyrol; and as the holidays approach, it is literally piled up on thefruit-stands. It is called Klatzenbrod, and is not a bread at all, butand amalgamation of fruits and spices. It is made up into small round oroblong forms; and the top is ornamented in various patterns, with splitalmond meats. The color is a faded black, as if it had been left forsome time in a country store; and the weight is just about that ofpig-iron. I had formed a strong desire, mingled with dread, to tasteit, which I was not likely to gratify, --one gets so tired of suchexperiments after a time--when a friend sent us a ball of it. There wasno occasion to call in Professor Liebig to analyze the substance: itis a plain case. The black mass contains, cut up and pressed together, figs, citron, oranges, raisins, dates, various kinds of nuts, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and I know not what other spices, together withthe inevitable anise and caraway seeds. It would make an excellentcannon-ball, and would be specially fatal if it hit an enemy in thestomach. These seeds invade all dishes. The cooks seem possessed ofone of the rules of whist, --in case of doubt, play a trump: in case ofdoubt, they always put in anise seed. It is sprinkled profusely in theblackest rye bread, it gets into all the vegetables, and even into theholiday cakes. 

The extensive Maximilian Platz has suddenly grown up into booths andshanties, and looks very much like a temporary Western village. There are shops for the sale of Christmas articles, toys, cakes, andgimcracks; and there are, besides, places of amusement, if one of thesorry menageries of sick beasts with their hair half worn off can be soclassed. One portion of the platz is now a lively and picturesque forestof evergreens, an extensive thicket of large and small trees, many ofthem trimmed with colored and gilt strips of paper. I meet in everystreet persons lugging home their little trees; for it must be a verypoor household that cannot have its Christmas tree, on which are hungthe scanty store of candy, nuts, and fruit, and the simple toys that theneedy people will pinch themselves otherwise to obtain. 

At this season, usually, the churches get up some representations forthe children, the stable at Bethlehem, with the figures of the Virginand Child, the wise men, and the oxen standing by. At least, thechurches must be put in spick-and-span order. I confess that I like tostray into these edifices, some of them gaudy enough when they are, soto speak, off duty, when the choir is deserted, and there is only hereand there a solitary worshiper at his prayers; unless, indeed, as itsometimes happens, when I fancy myself quite alone, I come by chanceupon a hundred people, in some remote corner before a side chapel, where mass is going on, but so quietly that the sense of solitude in thechurch is not disturbed. Sometimes, when the place is left entirely tomyself, and the servants who are putting it to rights and, as it were, shifting the scenes, I get a glimpse of the reality of all the pompand parade of the services. At first I may be a little shocked withthe familiar manner in which the images and statues and the gildedparaphernalia are treated, very different from the stately ceremonyof the morning, when the priests are at the altar, the choir is in theorgan-loft, and the people crowd nave and aisles. Then everything issanctified and inviolate. Now, as I loiter here, the old woman sweepsand dusts about as if she were in an ordinary crockery store: the sacredthings are handled without gloves. And, lo! an unclerical servant, in his shirt-sleeves, climbs up to the altar, and, taking down thesilver-gilded cherubs, holds them, head down, by one fat foot, while hewipes them off with a damp cloth. To think of submitting a holy cherubto the indignity of a damp cloth!

One could never say too much about the music here. I do not mean that ofthe regimental bands, or the orchestras in every hall and beer-garden, or that in the churches on Sundays, both orchestral and vocal. Nearlyevery day, at half-past eleven, there is a parade by the Residenz, andanother on the Marian Platz; and at each the bands play for half anhour. In the Loggie by the palace the music-stands can always be setout, and they are used in the platz when it does not storm; and thebands play choice overtures and selections from the operas in finestyle. The bands are always preceded and followed by a great crowd asthey march through the streets, people who seem to live only for thishalf hour in the day, and whom no mud or snow can deter from keeping upwith the music. It is a little gleam of comfort in the day for the mostwearied portion of the community: I mean those who have nothing to do. 

But the music of which I speak is that of the conservatoire and opera. The Hof Theater, opera, and conservatoire are all under one royaldirection. The latter has been recently reorganized with a new director, in accordance with the Wagner notions somewhat. The young king iscracked about Wagner, and appears to care little for other music: hebrings out his operas at great expense, and it is the fashion hereto like Wagner whether he is understood or not. The opera of the"Meister-Singer von Nurnberg, " which was brought out last summer, occupied over five hours in the representation, which is unbearable tothe Germans, who go to the opera at six o'clock or half-past, and expectto be at home before ten. His latest opera, which has not yet beenproduced, is founded on the Niebelungen Lied, and will take threeevenings in the representation, which is almost as bad as a Chineseplay. The present director of the conservatoire and opera, a Prussian, Herr von Bulow, is a friend of Wagner. There are formed here in towntwo parties: the Wagner and the conservative, the new and the old, the modern and classical; only the Wagnerites do not admit that theiradmiration of Beethoven and the older composers is less than that ofthe others, and so for this reason Bulow has given us more music ofBeethoven than of any other composer. One thing is certain, that theroyal orchestra is trained to a high state of perfection: its renditionof the grand operas and its weekly concerts in the Odeon cannot easilybe surpassed. The singers are not equal to the orchestra, for Berlin andVienna offer greater inducements; but there are people here who regardthis orchestra as superlative. They say that the best orchestras inthe world are in Germany; that the best in Germany is in Munich;and, therefore, you can see the inevitable deduction. We have anotherparallel syllogism. The greatest pianist in the world is Liszt; but thenHerr Bulow is actually a better performer than Liszt; therefore you seeagain to what you must come. At any rate, we are quite satisfied in thisprovincial capital; and, if there is anywhere better music, we don'tknow it. Bulow's orchestra is not very large, --there are less thaneighty pieces, but it is so handled and drilled, that when we hear itgive one of the symphonies of Beethoven or Mendelssohn, there is littleleft to be desired. Bulow is a wonderful conductor, a little man, allnerve and fire, and he seems to inspire every instrument. It is worthsomething to see him lead an orchestra: his baton is magical; head, arms, and the whole body are in motion; he knows every note of thecompositions; and the precision with which he evokes a solitary note outof a distant instrument with a jerk of his rod, or brings a wail fromthe concurring violins, like the moaning of a pine forest in winter, with a sweep of his arm, is most masterly. About the platform ofthe Odeon are the marble busts of the great composers; and while theorchestra is giving some of Beethoven's masterpieces, I like to fix myeyes on his serious and genius-full face, which seems cognizant of allthat is passing, and believe that he has a posthumous satisfaction inthe interpretation of his great thoughts. 

The managers of the conservatoire also give vocal concerts, and thereare, besides, quartette soiries; so that there are few evenings withoutsome attraction. The opera alternates with the theater two or threetimes a week. The singers are, perhaps, not known in Paris and London, but some of them are not unworthy to be. There is the baritone, HerrKindermann, who now, at the age of sixty-five, has a superb voice andmanner, and has had few superiors in his time on the German stage. Thereis Frau Dietz, at forty-five, the best of actresses, and with a stillfresh and lovely voice. There is Herr Nachbar, a tenor, who has afuture; Fraulein Stehle, a soprano, young and with an uncommon voice, who enjoys a large salary, and was the favorite until another soprano, the Malinger, came and turned the heads of king and opera habitues. Theresources of the Academy are, however, tolerably large; and the practiceof pensioning for life the singers enables them to keep always atolerable company. This habit of pensioning officials, as well asmusicians and poets, is very agreeable to the Germans. A gentleman theother day, who expressed great surprise at the smallness of the salaryof our President, said, that, of course, Andrew Johnson would receivea pension when he retired from office. I could not explain to him howcomical the idea was to me; but when I think of the American peoplepensioning Andrew Johnson, --well, like the fictitious Yankee in "MugbyJunction, " "I laff, I du. "

There is some fashion, in a fudgy, quaint way, here in Munich; but it isnot exhibited in dress for the opera. People go--and it is presumed themusic is the attraction in ordinary apparel. They save all their dressparade for the concerts; and the hall of the Odeon is as brilliant asprovincial taste can make it in toilet. The ladies also go to operas andconcerts unattended by gentlemen, and are brought, and fetched away, by their servants. There is a freedom and simplicity about this whichI quite like; and, besides, it leaves their husbands and brothers atliberty to spend a congenial evening in the cafes, beer-gardens, andclubs. But there is always a heavy fringe of young officers and gallantsboth at opera and concert, standing in the outside passages. It ischeaper to stand, and one can hear quite as well, and see more. 

LOOKING FOR WARM WEATHER

FROM MUNICH TO NAPLES

At all events, saith the best authority, "pray that your flight be notin winter;" and it might have added, don't go south if you desire warmweather. In January, 1869, I had a little experience of hunting aftergenial skies; and I will give you the benefit of it in some free runningnotes on my journey from Munich to Naples. 

It was the middle of January, at eleven o'clock at night, that we leftMunich, on a mixed railway train, choosing that time, and the slowest ofslow trains, that we might make the famous Brenner Pass by daylight. Itwas no easy matter, at last, to pull up from the dear old city in whichwe had become so firmly planted, and to leave the German friends whomade the place like home to us. One gets to love Germany and theGermans as he does no other country and people in Europe. There has beensomething so simple, honest, genuine, in our Munich life, that we lookback to it with longing eyes from this land of fancy, of hand-organmusic, and squalid splendor. I presume the streets are yet half the dayhid in a mountain fog; but I know the superb military bands are stillplaying at noon in the old Marian Platz and in the Loggie by theResidenz; that at half-past six in the evening our friends are quietlystepping in to hear the opera at the Hof Theater, where everybody goesto hear the music, and nobody for display, and that they will be at homebefore half-past nine, and have dispatched the servant for the mugsof foaming beer; I know that they still hear every week the choiceconservatoire orchestral concerts in the Odeon; and, alas thatexperience should force me to think of it! I have no doubt that theysip, every morning, coffee which is as much superior to that of Parisas that of Paris is to that of London; and that they eat the deliciousrolls, in comparison with which those of Paris are tasteless. I wonder, in this land of wine, --and yet it must be so, --if the beer-gardens arestill filled nightly; and if it could be that I should sit at a littletable there, a comely lass would, before I could ask for what everybodyis presumed to want, place before me a tall glass full of amber liquid, crowned with creamy foam. Are the handsome officers still sipping theircoffee in the Cafe Maximilian; and, on sunny days, is the crowd offashion still streaming down to the Isar, and the high, sightly walksand gardens beyond?

As I said, it was eleven o'clock of a clear and not very severe night;for Munich had had no snow on the ground since November. A deputation ofour friends were at the station to see us off, and the farewells betweenthe gentlemen were in the hearty fashion of the country. I know thereis a prejudice with us against kissing between men; but it is only aquestion of taste: and the experience of anybody will tell him thatthe theory that this sort of salutation must necessarily be desirablebetween opposite sexes is a delusion. But I suppose it cannot be deniedthat kissing between men was invented in Germany before they wore fullbeards. Well, our goodbyes said, we climbed into our bare cars. Thereis no way of heating the German cars, except by tubes filled with hotwater, which are placed under the feet, and are called foot-warmers. Aswe slowly moved out over the plain, we found it was cold; in an hour thefoot-warmers, not hot to start with, were stone cold. You are going tosunny Italy, our friends had said: as soon as you pass the Brenner youwill have sunshine and delightful weather. This thought consoled us, but did not warm our feet. The Germans, when they travel by rail, wrapthemselves in furs and carry foot-sacks. 

We creaked along, with many stoppings. At two o'clock we were atRosenheim. Rosenheim is a windy place, with clear starlight, with amultitude of cars on a multiplicity of tracks, and a large, lightedrefreshment-room, which has a glowing, jolly stove. We stay there anhour, toasting by the fire and drinking excellent coffee. Groups ofGermans are seated at tables playing cards, smoking, and taking coffee. Other trains arrive; and huge men stalk in, from Vienna or Russia, youwould say, enveloped in enormous fur overcoats, reaching to the heels, and with big fur boots coming above the knees, in which they move likeelephants. Another start, and a cold ride with cooling foot-warmers, droning on to Kurfstein. It is five o'clock when we reach Kurfstein, which is also a restaurant, with a hot stove, and more Germans going onas if it were daytime; but by this time in the morning the coffee hadgot to be wretched. 

After an hour's waiting, we dream on again, and, before we know it, comeout of our cold doze into the cold dawn. Through the thick frost onthe windows we see the faint outlines of mountains. Scraping away theincrustation, we find that we are in the Tyrol, high hills on all sides, no snow in the valley, a bright morning, and the snow-peaks are soonrosy in the sunrise. It is just as we expected, --little villages underthe hills, and slender church spires with brick-red tops. At nineo'clock we are in Innsbruck, at the foot of the Brenner. No snow yet. Itmust be charming here in the summer. 

During the night we have got out of Bavaria. The waiter at therestaurant wants us to pay him ninety kreuzers for our coffee, which isonly six kreuzers a cup in Munich. Remembering that it takes one hundredkreuzers to make a gulden in Austria, I launch out a Bavarian gulden, and expect ten kreuzers in change. I have heard that sixty Bavariankreuzers are equal to one hundred Austrian; but this waiter explainsto me that my gulden is only good for ninety kreuzers. I, in my turn, explain to the waiter that it is better than the coffee; but we come tono understanding, and I give up, before I begin, trying to understandthe Austrian currency. During the day I get my pockets full of coppers, which are very convenient to take in change, but appear to have a veryslight purchasing, power in Austria even, and none at all elsewhere, andthe only use for which I have found is to give to Italian beggars. Oneof these pieces satisfies a beggar when it drops into his hat; andthen it detains him long enough in the examination of it, so that yourcarriage has time to get so far away that his renewed pursuit is usuallyunavailing. 

The Brenner Pass repaid us for the pains we had taken to see it, especially as the sun shone and took the frost from our windows, and weencountered no snow on the track; and, indeed, the fall was not deep, except on the high peaks about us. Even if the engineering of the roadwere not so interesting, it was something to be again amidst mountainsthat can boast a height of ten thousand feet. After we passed thesummit, and began the zigzag descent, we were on a sharp lookout forsunny Italy. I expected to lay aside my heavy overcoat, and sun myselfat the first station among the vineyards. Instead of that, we badegood-by to bright sky, and plunged into a snowstorm, and, so greeted, drove down into the narrow gorges, whose steep slopes we could see wereterraced to the top, and planted with vines. We could distinguish enoughto know that, with the old Roman ruins, the churches and convent towersperched on the crags, and all, the scenery in summer must be finerthan that of the Rhine, especially as the vineyards here arepicturesque, --the vines being trained so as to hide and clothe theground with verdure. 

It was four o'clock when we reached Trent, and colder than on top of theBrenner. As the Council, owing to the dead state of its members for nowthree centuries, was not in session, we made no long tarry. We went intothe magnificent large refreshment-room to get warm; but it was as coldas a New England barn. I asked the proprietor if we could not get at afire; but he insisted that the room was warm, that it was heated with afurnace, and that he burned good stove-coal, and pointed to a registerhigh up in the wall. Seeing that I looked incredulous, he insisted thatI should test it. Accordingly, I climbed upon a table, and reached up myhand. A faint warmth came out; and I gave it up, and congratulated thelandlord on his furnace. But the register had no effect on the greathall. You might as well try to heat the dome of St. Peter's with alucifer-match. At dark, Allah be praised! we reached Ala, where we wentthrough the humbug of an Italian custom-house, and had our first glimpseof Italy in the picturesque-looking idlers in red-tasseled caps, andthe jabber of a strange tongue. The snow turned into a cold rain: thefoot-warmers, we having reached the sunny lands, could no longer beafforded; and we shivered along till nine o'clock, dark and rainy, brought us to Verona. We emerged from the station to find a crowd ofomnibuses, carriages, drivers, runners, and people anxious to help us, all vociferating in the highest key. Amidst the usual Italian clamorabout nothing, we gained our hotel omnibus, and sat there for tenminutes watching the dispute over our luggage, and serenely listeningto the angry vituperations of policemen and drivers. It sounded like arevolution, but it was only the ordinary Italian way of doing things;and we were at last rattling away over the broad pavements. 

Of course, we stopped at a palace turned hotel, drove into a court withdouble flights of high stone and marble stairways, and were hurried upto the marble-mosaic landing by an active boy, and, almost before wecould ask for rooms, were shown into a suite of magnificent apartments. I had a glimpse of a garden in the rear, --flowers and plants, anda balcony up which I suppose Romeo climbed to hold that immortallove-prattle with the lovesick Juliet. Boy began to light the candles. Asked in English the price of such fine rooms. Reply in Italian. Askedin German. Reply in Italian. Asked in French, with the same result. Other servants appeared, each with a piece of baggage. Other candleswere lighted. Everybody talked in chorus. The landlady--a woman ofelegant manners and great command of her native tongue--appeared witha candle, and joined in the melodious confusion. What is the priceof these rooms? More jabber, more servants bearing lights. We seemedsuddenly to have come into an illumination and a private lunatic asylum. The landlady and her troop grew more and more voluble and excited. Ah, then, if these rooms do not suit the signor and signoras, there areothers; and we were whisked off to apartments yet grander, great suiteswith high, canopied beds, mirrors, and furniture that was luxuriousa hundred years ago. The price? Again a torrent of Italian; servantspouring in, lights flashing, our baggage arriving, until, in the tumult, hopeless of any response to our inquiry for a servant who could speakanything but Italian, and when we had decided, in despair, to hire theentire establishment, a waiter appeared who was accomplished in alllanguages, the row subsided, and we were left alone in our glory, andsoon in welcome sleep forgot our desperate search for a warm climate. 

The next day it was rainy and not warm; but the sun came outoccasionally, and we drove about to see some of the sights. The firstItalian town which the stranger sees he is sure to remember, the outdoorlife of the people is so different from that at the North. It is thefiction in Italy that it is always summer; and the people sit in theopen market-place, shiver in the open doorways, crowd into cornerswhere the sun comes, and try to keep up the beautiful pretense. Thepicturesque groups of idlers and traffickers were more interesting to usthan the palaces with sculptured fronts and old Roman busts, or tombsof the Scaligers, and old gates. Perhaps I ought to except the wonderfuland perfect Roman amphitheater, over every foot of which a handsomeboy in rags followed us, looking over every wall that we looked over, peering into every hole that we peered into, thus showing his fellowshipwith us, and at every pause planting himself before us, and throwing asomerset, and then extending his greasy cap for coppers, as if heknew that the modern mind ought not to dwell too exclusively on hoaryantiquity without some relief. 

Anxious, as I have said, to find the sunny South, we left Verona thatafternoon for Florence, by way of Padua and Bologna. The ride to Paduawas through a plain, at this season dreary enough, were it not, here andthere, for the abrupt little hills and the snowy Alps, which were alwaysin sight, and towards sundown and between showers transcendently lovelyin a purple and rosy light. But nothing now could be more desolate thanthe rows of unending mulberry-trees, pruned down to the stumps, throughwhich we rode all the afternoon. I suppose they look better when thebranches grow out with the tender leaves for the silk-worms, and whenthey are clothed with grapevines. Padua was only to us a name. There weturned south, lost mountains and the near hills, and had nothing but themulberry flats and ditches of water, and chilly rain and mist. It grewunpleasant as we went south. At dark we were riding slowly, very slowly, for miles through a country overflowed with water, out of which treesand houses loomed up in a ghastly show. At all the stations soldierswere getting on board, shouting and singing discordantly choruses fromthe operas; for there was a rising at Padua, and one feared at Bolognathe populace getting up insurrections against the enforcement of thegrist-tax, --a tax which has made the government very unpopular, as itfalls principally upon the poor. 

Creeping along at such a slow rate, we reached Bologna too late for theFlorence train, It was eight o'clock, and still raining. The next trainwent at two o'clock in the morning, and was the best one for us to take. We had supper in an inn near by, and a fair attempt at a fire in ourparlor. I sat before it, and kept it as lively as possible, as thehours wore away, and tried to make believe that I was ruminating on theancient greatness of Bologna and its famous university, some of whosechairs had been occupied by women, and upon the fact that it was on alittle island in the Reno, just below here, that Octavius and Lepidusand Mark Antony formed the second Triumvirate, which put an end towhat little liberty Rome had left; but in reality I was thinking of thedraught on my back, and the comforts of a sunny clime. But the time cameat length for starting; and in luxurious cars we finished the night verycomfortably, and rode into Florence at eight in the morning to find, aswe had hoped, on the other side of the Apennines, a sunny sky and balmyair. 

As this is strictly a chapter of travel and weather, I may not stop tosay how impressive and beautiful Florence seemed to us; how bewilderingin art treasures, which one sees at a glance in the streets; or scarcelyto hint how lovely were the Boboli Gardens behind the Pitti Palace, theroses, geraniums etc, in bloom, the birds singing, and all in a soft, dreamy air. The next day was not so genial; and we sped on, followingour original intention of seeking the summer in winter. In order toavoid trouble with baggage and passports in Rome, we determined to bookthrough for Naples, making the trip in about twenty hours. We startedat nine o'clock in the evening, and I do not recall a more thoroughlyuncomfortable journey. It grew colder as the night wore on, and we wentfarther south. Late in the morning we were landed at the station outsideof Rome. There was a general appearance of ruin and desolation. The windblew fiercely from the hills, and the snowflakes from the flying cloudsadded to the general chilliness. There was no chance to get even a cupof coffee, and we waited an hour in the cold car. If I had not been sohalf frozen, the consciousness that I was actually on the outskirts ofthe Eternal City, that I saw the Campagna and the aqueducts, that yonderwere the Alban Hills, and that every foot of soil on which I looked wassaturated with history, would have excited me. The sun came out here andthere as we went south, and we caught some exquisite lights on the nearand snowy hills; and there was something almost homelike in the milesand miles of olive orchards, that recalled the apple-trees, but fortheir shining silvered leaves. And yet nothing could be more desolatethan the brown marshy ground, the brown hillocks, with now and then ashabby stone hut or a bit of ruin, and the flocks of sheep shiveringnear their corrals, and their shepherd, clad in sheepskin, as hisancestor was in the time of Romulus, leaning on his staff, with his backto the wind. Now and then a white town perched on a hillside, its housespiled above each other, relieved the eye; and I could imagine that itmight be all the poets have sung of it, in the spring, though the Latinpoets, I am convinced, have wonderfully imposed upon us. 

To make my long story short, it happened to be colder next morning atNaples than it was in Germany. The sun shone; but the northeast wind, which the natives poetically call the Tramontane, was blowing, and thewhite smoke of Vesuvius rolled towards the sea. It would only last threedays, it was very unusual, and all that. The next day it was colder, andthe next colder yet. Snow fell, and blew about unmelted: I saw it in thestreets of Pompeii. 

The fountains were frozen, icicles hung from the locks of the marblestatues in the Chiaia. And yet the oranges glowed like gold among theirgreen leaves; the roses, the heliotrope, the geraniums, bloomed in allthe gardens. It is the most contradictory climate. We lunched one day, sitting in our open carriage in a lemon grove, and near at hand theLucrine Lake was half frozen over. We feasted our eyes on the brilliantlight and color on the sea, and the lovely outlined mountains round theshore, and waited for a change of wind. The Neapolitans declare thatthey have not had such weather in twenty years. It is scarcely one'sideal of balmy Italy. 

Before the weather changed, I began to feel in this great Naples, withits roaring population of over half a million, very much like the sailorI saw at the American consul's, who applied for help to be sent home, claiming to be an American. He was an oratorical bummer, and told hisstory with all the dignity and elevated language of an old Roman. Hehad been cast away in London. How cast away? Oh! it was all along of aboarding-house. And then he found himself shipped on an English vessel, and he had lost his discharge-papers; and "Listen, your honor, " said he, calmly extending his right hand, "here I am cast away on this desolateisland with nothing before me but wind and weather. "

RAVENNA

A DEAD CITY

Ravenna is so remote from the route of general travel in Italy, thatI am certain you can have no late news from there, nor can I bring youanything much later than the sixth century. Yet, if you were to seeRavenna, you would say that that is late enough. I am surprised that acity which contains the most interesting early Christian churches andmosaics, is the richest in undisturbed specimens of early Christianart, and contains the only monuments of Roman emperors still in theiroriginal positions, should be so seldom visited. Ravenna has been deadfor some centuries; and because nobody has cared to bury it, its ancientmonuments are yet above ground. Grass grows in its wide streets, and itshouses stand in a sleepy, vacant contemplation of each other: the windmust like to mourn about its silent squares. The waves of the Adriaticonce brought the commerce of the East to its wharves; but the depositsof the Po and the tides have, in process of time, made it an inlandtown, and the sea is four miles away. 

In the time of Augustus, Ravenna was a favorite Roman port and harborfor fleets of war and merchandise. There Theodoric, the great king ofthe Goths, set up his palace, and there is his enormous mausoleum. Asearly as A. D. 44 it became an episcopal see, with St. Apollinaris, adisciple of St. Peter, for its bishop. There some of the later Romanemperors fixed their residences, and there they repose. In and about itrevolved the adventurous life of Galla Placidia, a woman of considerabletalent and no principle, the daughter of Theodosius (the greatTheodosius, who subdued the Arian heresy, the first emperor baptized inthe true faith of the Trinity, the last who had a spark of genius), thesister of one emperor, and the mother of another, --twice a slave, oncea queen, and once an empress; and she, too, rests there in the greatmausoleum builded for her. There, also, lies Dante, in his tomb "by theupbraiding shore;" rejected once of ungrateful Florence, and foreverafter passionately longed for. There, in one of the earliest Christianchurches in existence, are the fine mosaics of the Emperor Justinianand Theodora, the handsome courtesan whom he raised to the dignityand luxury of an empress on his throne in Constantinople. There is thefamous forest of pines, stretching--unbroken twenty miles down the coastto Rimini, in whose cool and breezy glades Dante and Boccaccio walkedand meditated, which Dryden has commemorated, and Byron has investedwith the fascination of his genius; and under the whispering boughsof which moved the glittering cavalcade which fetched the bride toRimini, --the fair Francesca, whose sinful confession Dante heard inhell. 

We went down to Ravenna from Bologna one afternoon, through a countrylevel and rich, riding along toward hazy evening, the land gettingflatter as we proceeded (you know, there is a difference between leveland flat), through interminable mulberry-trees and vines, and fieldswith the tender green of spring, with church spires in the rosy horizon;on till the meadows became marshes, in which millions of frogs sang theoverture of the opening year. Our arrival, I have reason to believe, wasan event in the old town. We had a crowd of moldy loafers to witness itat the station, not one of whom had ambition enough to work to earn asou by lifting our traveling-bags. We had our hotel to ourselves, andwished that anybody else had it. The rival house was quite aware ofour advent, and watched us with jealous eyes; and we, in turn, lookedwistfully at it, for our own food was so scarce that, as an old travelersays, we feared that we shouldn't have enough, until we saw it on thetable, when its quality made it appear too much. The next morning, whenI sallied out to hire a conveyance, I was an object of interest to theentire population, who seemed to think it very odd that any one shouldwalk about and explore the quiet streets. If I were to describe Ravenna, I should say that it is as flat as Holland and as lively as New London. There are broad streets, with high houses, that once were handsome, palaces that were once the abode of luxury, gardens that still bloom, and churches by the score. It is an open gate through which one walksunchallenged into the past, with little to break the association withthe early Christian ages, their monuments undimmed by time, untouched byrestoration and innovation, the whole struck with ecclesiastical death. With all that we saw that day, --churches, basilicas, mosaics, statues, mausoleums, --I will not burden these pages; but I will set down isenough to give you the local color, and to recall some of the mostinteresting passages in Christian history in this out-of-the-way city onthe Adriatic. 

Our first pilgrimage was to the Church of St. Apollinare Nuova; butwhy it is called new I do not know, as Theodoric built it for anArian cathedral in about the year 500. It is a noble interior, having twenty-four marble columns of gray Cippolino, brought fromConstantinople, with composite capitals, on each of which is an impostwith Latin crosses sculptured on it. These columns support round arches, which divide the nave from the aisles, and on the whole length of thewall of the nave so supported are superb mosaics, full-length figures, in colors as fresh as if done yesterday, though they were executedthirteen hundred years ago. The mosaic on the left side--which is, perhaps, the finest one of the period in existence--is interesting onanother account. It represents the city of Classis, with sea and ships, and a long procession of twenty-two virgins presenting offerings tothe Virgin and Child, seated on a throne. The Virgin is surrounded byangels, and has a glory round her head, which shows that homage is beingpaid to her. It has been supposed, from the early monuments of Christianart, that the worship of the Virgin is of comparatively recent origin;but this mosaic would go to show that Mariolatry was established beforethe end of the sixth century. Near this church is part of the frontof the palace of Theodoric, in which the Exarchs and Lombard kingssubsequently resided. Its treasures and marbles Charlemagne carried offto Germany. 

DOWN TO THE PINETA

We drove three miles beyond the city, to the Church of St. Apollinarein Classe, a lonely edifice in a waste of marsh, a grand old basilica, apurer specimen of Christian art than Rome or any other Italian town canboast. Just outside the city gate stands a Greek cross on a small flutedcolumn, which marks the site of the once magnificent Basilica of St. Laurentius, which was demolished in the sixteenth century, its stonebuilt into a new church in town, and its rich marbles carried toall-absorbing Rome. It was the last relic of the old port of Caesarea, famous since the time of Augustus. A marble column on a green meadowis all that remains of a once prosperous city. Our road lay through themarshy plain, across an elevated bridge over the sluggish united streamof the Ronco and Montone, from which there is a wide view, including thePineta (or Pine Forest), the Church of St. Apollinare in the midst ofrice-fields and marshes, and on a clear day the Alps and Apennines. 

I can imagine nothing more desolate than this solitary church, or theapproach to it. Laborers were busy spading up the heavy, wet ground, or digging trenches, which instantly filled with water, for the wholecountry was afloat. The frogs greeted us with clamorous chorus out oftheir slimy pools, and the mosquitoes attacked us as we rode along. I noticed about on the bogs, wherever they could find standing-room, half-naked wretches, with long spears, having several prongs liketridents, which they thrust into the grass and shallow water. Callingone of them to us, we found that his business was fishing, and that heforked out very fat and edible-looking fish with his trident. Shaggy, undersized horses were wading in the water, nipping off the thin spearsof grass. Close to the church is a rickety farmhouse. If I lived there, I would as lief be a fish as a horse. 

The interior of this primitive old basilica is lofty and imposing, with twenty-four handsome columns of the gray Cippolino marble, and anelevated high altar and tribune, decorated with splendid mosaics of thesixth century, --biblical subjects, in all the stiff faithfulness of theholy old times. The marble floor is green and damp and slippery. Underthe tribune is the crypt, where the body of St. Apollinaris used to lie(it is now under the high altar above); and as I desired to see where heused to rest, I walked in. I also walked into about six inches of water, in the dim, irreligious light; and so made a cold-water Baptist devoteeof myself. In the side aisles are wonderful old sarcophagi, containingthe ashes of archbishops of Ravenna, so old that the owners' names areforgotten of two of them, which shows that a man may build a tombmore enduring than his memory. The sculptured bas-reliefs are veryinteresting, being early Christian emblems and curious devices, --symbolsof sheep, palms, peacocks, crosses, and the four rivers of Paradiseflowing down in stony streams from stony sources, and monograms, andpious rebuses. At the entrance of the crypt is an open stone book, called the Breviary of Gregory the Great. Detached from the church isthe Bell Tower, a circular campanile of a sort peculiar to Ravenna, which adds to the picturesqueness of the pile, and suggests thenotion that it is a mast unshipped from its vessel, the church, whichconsequently stands there water-logged, with no power to catch any wind, of doctrine or other, and move. I forgot to say that the basilica waslaunched in the year 534. 

A little weary with the good but damp old Christians, we ordered ourdriver to continue across the marsh to the Pineta, whose dark fringebounded all our horizon toward the Adriatic. It is the largest unbrokenforest in Italy, and by all odds the most poetic in itself and itsassociations. It is twenty-five miles long, and from one to three inbreadth, a free growth of stately pines, whose boughs are full of musicand sweet odors, --a succession of lovely glades and avenues, with milesand miles of drives over the springy turf. At the point where we enteredis a farmhouse. Laborers had been gathering the cones, which were heapedup in immense windrows, hundreds of feet in length. Boys and men werebusy pounding out the seeds from the cones. The latter are used forfuel, and the former are pressed for their oil. They are also eaten:we have often had them served at hotel tables, and found them rathertasteless, but not unpleasant. The turf, as we drove into the recessesof the forest, was thickly covered with wild flowers, of many colors anddelicate forms; but we liked best the violets, for they reminded usof home, though the driver seemed to think them less valuable than theseeds of the pine-cones. A lovely day and history and romance unitedto fascinate us with the place. We were driving over the spot where, eighteen centuries ago, the Roman fleet used to ride at anchor. Here, it is certain, the gloomy spirit of Dante found congenial place formeditation, and the gay Boccaccio material for fiction. Here for hours, day after day, Byron used to gallop his horse, giving vent to thatrestless impatience which could not all escape from his fiery pen, hearing those voices of a past and dead Italy which he, more truthfullyand pathetically than any other poet, has put into living verse. Thedriver pointed out what is called Byron's Path, where he was wont toride. Everybody here, indeed, knows of Byron; and I think his memoryis more secure than any saint of them all in their stone boxes, partlybecause his poetry has celebrated the region, perhaps rather fromthe perpetuated tradition of his generosity. No foreigner was ever sopopular as he while he lived at Ravenna. At least, the people say sonow, since they find it so profitable to keep his memory alive and topoint out his haunts. The Italians, to be sure, know how to makecapital out of poets and heroes, and are quick to learn the curiosity offoreigners, and to gratify it for a compensation. But the evidentesteem in which Byron's memory is held in the Armenian monastery of St. Lazzaro, at Venice, must be otherwise accounted for. The monks keep hislibrary-room and table as they were when he wrote there, and liketo show his portrait, and tell of his quick mastery of the difficultArmenian tongue. We have a notable example of a Person who became a monkwhen he was sick; but Byron accomplished too much work during the fewmonths he was on the Island of St. Lazzaro, both in original compositionand in translating English into Armenian, for one physically ruined andbroken. 

DANTE AND BYRON

The pilgrim to Ravenna, who has any idea of what is due to the genius ofDante, will be disappointed when he approaches his tomb. Its situationis in a not very conspicuous corner, at the foot of a narrow street, bearing the poet's name, and beside the Church of San Francisco, whichis interesting as containing the tombs of the Polenta family, whosehospitality to the wandering exile has rescued their names fromoblivion. Opposite the tomb is the shabby old brick house of thePolentas, where Dante passed many years of his life. It is tenanted nowby all sorts of people, and a dirty carriage-shop in the courtyard killsthe poetry of it. Dante died in 1321, and was at first buried in theneighboring church; but this tomb, since twice renewed, was erected, and his body removed here, in 1482. It is a square stuccoed structure, stained light green, and covered by a dome, --a tasteless monument, embellished with stucco medallions, inside, of the poet, of Virgil, ofBrunetto Latini, the poet's master, and of his patron, Guido da Polenta. On the sarcophagus is the epitaph, composed in Latin by Dante himself, who seems to have thought, with Shakespeare, that for a poet to makehis own epitaph was the safest thing to do. Notwithstanding the meanappearance of this sepulcher, there is none in all the soil of Italythat the traveler from America will visit with deeper interest. Near byis the house where Byron first resided in Ravenna, as a tablet records. 

The people here preserve all the memorials of Byron; and, I shouldjudge, hold his memory in something like affection. The PalaceGuiccioli, in which he subsequently resided, is in another part of thetown. He spent over two years in Ravenna, and said he preferred it toany place in Italy. Why I cannot see, unless it was remote fromthe route of travel, and the desolation of it was congenial to him. Doubtless he loved these wide, marshy expanses on the Adriatic, andespecially the great forest of pines on its shore; but Byron was apt tobe governed in his choice of a residence by the woman with whom he wasintimate. The palace was certainly pleasanter than his gloomy house inthe Strada di Porta Sisi, and the society of the Countess Guiccioliwas rather a stimulus than otherwise to his literary activity. At hersuggestion he wrote the "Prophecy of Dante;" and the translation of"Francesca da Rimini" was "executed at Ravenna, where, five centuriesbefore, and in the very house in which the unfortunate lady was born, Dante's poem had been composed. " Some of his finest poems were alsoproduced here, poems for which Venice is as grateful as Ravenna. Herehe wrote "Marino Faliero, " "The Two Foscari, " "Morganti Maggiore, ""Sardanapalus, " "The Blues, " "The fifth canto of Don Juan, " "Cain, ""Heaven and Earth, " and "The Vision of Judgment. " I looked in at thecourt of the palace, --a pleasant, quiet place, --where he used to work, and tried to guess which were the windows of his apartments. The sun wasshining brightly, and a bird was singing in the court; but there was noother sign of life, nor anything to remind one of the profligate geniuswho was so long a guest here. 

RESTING-PLACE OF CAESARS--PICTURE OF A BEAUTIFUL HERETIC

Very different from the tomb of Dante, and different in the associationsit awakes, is the Rotunda or Mausoleum of Theodoric the Goth, outsidethe Porta Serrata, whose daughter, Amalasuntha, as it is supposed, aboutthe year 530, erected this imposing structure as a certain place "tokeep his memory whole and mummy hid" for ever. But the Goth had not lainin it long before Arianism went out of fashion quite, and the zealousRoman Catholics despoiled his costly sleeping-place, and scattered hisashes abroad. I do not know that any dead person has lived in it since. The tomb is still a very solid affair, --a rotunda built of solid blocksof limestone, and resting on a ten-sided base, each side having a recesssurmounted by an arch. The upper story is also decagonal, and is reachedby a flight of modern stone steps. The roof is composed of a singleblock of Istrian limestone, scooped out like a shallow bowl inside; and, being the biggest roof-stone I ever saw, I will give you the dimensions. It is thirty-six feet in diameter, hollowed out to the depth of tenfeet, four feet thick at the center, and two feet nine inches at theedges, and is estimated to weigh two hundred tons. Amalasuntha must havehad help in getting it up there. The lower story is partly under water. The green grass of the inclosure in which it stands is damp enough forfrogs. An old woman opened the iron gate to let us in. Whether she wasany relation of the ancient proprietor, I did not inquire; but she hadso much trouble in, turning the key in the rusty lock, and lettingus in, that I presume we were the only visitors she has had for somecenturies. 

Old women abound in Ravenna; at least, she was not young who showedus the mausoleum of Galla Placidia. Placidia was also prudent andforeseeing, and built this once magnificent sepulcher for her ownoccupation. It is in the form of a Latin cross, forty-six feet in lengthby about forty in width. The floor is paved with rich marbles; thecupola is covered with mosaics of the time of the empress; and in thearch over the door is a fine representation of the Good Shepherd. Behindthe altar is the massive sarcophagus of marble (its cover of silverplates was long ago torn off) in which are literally the ashes ofthe empress. She was immured in it as a mummy, in a sitting position, clothed in imperial robes; and there the ghastly corpse sat in acypress-wood chair, to be looked at by anybody who chose to peep throughthe aperture, for more than eleven hundred years, till one day, in 1577, some children introduced a lighted candle, perhaps out of compassion forher who sat so long in darkness, when her clothes caught fire, and shewas burned up, --a warning to all children not to play with a dead anddry empress. In this resting-place are also the tombs of Honorius II. , her brother, of Constantius III. , her second husband, and of Honoria, her daughter. 

There are no other undisturbed tombs of the Caesars in existence. Hersis almost the last, and the very small last, of a great succession. Whatthoughts of a great empire in ruins do not force themselves on one inthe confined walls of this little chamber! What a woman was she whoseashes lie there! She saw and aided the ruin of the empire; but it may besaid of her, that her vices were greater than her misfortunes. Andwhat a story is her life! Born to the purple, educated in the palace atConstantinople, accomplished but not handsome, at the age of twenty shewas in Rome when Alaric besieged it. Carried off captive by the Goths, she became the not unwilling object of the passion of King Adolphus, whoat length married her at Narbonne. At the nuptials the king, in aRoman habit, occupied a seat lower than hers, while she sat on a thronehabited as a Roman empress, and received homage. Fifty handsome youthsbore to her in each hand a dish of gold, one filled with coin, and theother with precious stones, --a small part only, these hundred vesselsof treasure, of the spoils the Goths brought from her country. WhenAdolphus, who never abated his fondness for his Roman bride, wasassassinated at Barcelona, she was treated like a slave by hisassassins, and driven twelve miles on foot before the horse of hismurderer. Ransomed at length for six hundred thousand measures of wheatby her brother Honorius, who handed her over struggling to Constantius, one of his generals. But, once married, her reluctance ceased; and sheset herself to advance the interests of herself and husband, ruling himas she had done the first one. Her purpose was accomplished when hewas declared joint emperor with Honorius. He died shortly after; andscandalous stories of her intimacy with her brother caused her removalto Constantinople; but she came back again, and reigned long as theregent of her son, Valentinian III. , --a feeble youth, who never grewto have either passions or talents, and was very likely, as was said, enervated by his mother in dissolute indulgence, so that she might besupreme. But she died at Rome in 450, much praised for her orthodoxy andher devotion to the Trinity. And there was her daughter, Honoria, whoran off with a chamberlain, and afterward offered to throw herselfinto the arms of Attila who wouldn't take her as a gift at first, but afterward demanded her, and fought to win her and her supposedinheritance. But they were a bad lot altogether; and it is no credit toa Christian of the nineteenth century to stay in this tomb so long. 

Near this mausoleum is the magnificent Basilica of St. Vitale, built inthe reign of Justinian, and consecrated in 547, I was interested tosee it because it was erected in confessed imitation of St. Sophia atConstantinople, is in the octagonal form, and has all the accessories ofEastern splendor, according to the architectural authorities. Its effectis really rich and splendid; and it rather dazzled us with its mazeof pillars, its upper and lower columns, its galleries, complicatedcapitals, arches on arches, and Byzantine intricacies. To the student ofthe very early ecclesiastical art, it must be an object of more interestthan even of wonder. But what I cared most to see were the mosaics inthe choir, executed in the time of Justinian, and as fresh and beautifulas on the day they were made. The mosaics and the exquisite arabesqueson the roof of the choir, taken together, are certainly unequaled by anyother early church decoration I have seen; and they are as interestingas they are beautiful. Any description of them is impossible; butmention may be made of two characteristic groups, remarkable forexecution, and having yet a deeper interest. 

In one compartment of the tribune is the figure of the EmperorJustinian, holding a vase with consecrated offerings, and surrounded bycourtiers and soldiers. Opposite is the figure of the Empress Theodora, holding a similar vase, and attended by ladies of her court. There is arefinement and an elegance about the empress, a grace and sweet dignity, that is fascinating. This is royalty, --stately and cold perhaps: eventhe mouth may be a little cruel, I begin to perceive, as I think of her;but she wears the purple by divine right. I have not seen on any wallsany figure walking out of history so captivating as this lady, who wouldseem to have been worthy of apotheosis in a Christian edifice. Canthere be any doubt that this lovely woman was orthodox? She, also, has astory, which you doubtless have been recalling as you read. Is it worthwhile to repeat even its outlines? This charming regal woman was thedaughter of the keeper of the bears in the circus at Constantinople;and she early went upon the stage as a pantomimist and buffoon. She wasbeautiful, with regular features, a little pale, but with a tinge ofnatural color, vivacious eyes, and an easy motion that displayed toadvantage the graces of her small but elegant figure. I can see all thatin the mosaic. But she sold her charms to whoever cared to buy them inConstantinople; she led a life of dissipation that cannot be even hintedat in these days; she went off to Egypt as the concubine of a general;was deserted, and destitute even to misery in Cairo; wandered about avagabond in many Eastern cities, and won the reputation everywhere ofthe most beautiful courtesan of her time; reappeared in Constantinople;and, having, it is said, a vision of her future, suddenly took to apretension of virtue and plain sewing; contrived to gain the notice ofJustinian, to inflame his passions as she did those of all the worldbesides, to captivate him into first an alliance, and at length amarriage. The emperor raised her to an equal seat with himself on histhrone; and she was worshiped as empress in that city where she had beenadmired as harlot. And on the throne she was a wise woman, courageousand chaste; and had her palaces on the Bosphorus; and took good care ofher beauty, and indulged in the pleasures of a good table; had ministerswho kissed her feet; a crowd of women and eunuchs in her secretchambers, whose passions she indulged; was avaricious and sometimescruel; and founded a convent for the irreclaimably bad of her own sex, some of whom liked it, and some of whom threw themselves into the seain despair; and when she died was an irreparable loss to her emperor. Sothat it seems to me it is a pity that the historian should say that shewas devout, but a little heretic. 

A HIGH DAY IN ROME

PALM SUNDAY IN ST. PETER'S

The splendid and tiresome ceremonies of Holy Week set in; also the rain, which held up for two days. Rome without the sun, and with rain and thebone-penetrating damp cold of the season, is a wretched place. Squalorand ruins and cheap splendor need the sun; the galleries need it; theblack old masters in the dark corners of the gaudy churches need it; Ithink scarcely anything of a cardinal's big, blazing footman, unlessthe sun shines on him, and radiates from his broad back and his splendidcalves; the models, who get up in theatrical costumes, and get put intopictures, and pass the world over for Roman peasants (and beautiful manyof them are), can't sit on the Spanish Stairs in indolent pose when itrains; the streets are slimy and horrible; the carriages try to runover you, and stand a very good chance of succeeding, where there areno sidewalks, and you are limping along on the slippery roundcobble-stones; you can't get into the country, which is the best partof Rome: but when the sun shines all this is changed; the dear old dirtytown exercises, its fascinations on you then, and you speedily forgetyour recent misery. 

Holy Week is a vexation to most people. All the world crowds here to seeits exhibitions and theatrical shows, and works hard to catch a glimpseof them, and is tired out, if not disgusted, at the end. The things tosee and hear are Palm Sunday in St. Peter's; singing of the Miserereby the pope's choir on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday in the SistineChapel; washing of the pilgrims' feet in a chapel of St. Peter's, andserving the apostles at table by the pope on Thursday, with a papalbenediction from the balcony afterwards; Easter Sunday, with theillumination of St. Peter's in the evening; and fireworks (this year infront of St. Peter's in Montorio) Monday evening. Raised seats arebuilt up about the high altar under the dome in St. Peter's, which willaccommodate a thousand, and perhaps more, ladies; and for these ticketsare issued without numbers, and for twice as many as they will seat. Gentlemen who are in evening dress are admitted to stand in the reservedplaces inside the lines of soldiers. For the Miserere in the SistineChapel tickets are also issued. As there is only room for about fourhundred ladies, and a thousand and more tickets are given out, you mayimagine the scramble. Ladies go for hours before the singing begins, andmake a grand rush when the doors are open. I do not know any sight sounseemly and cruel as a crowd of women intent on getting in to such aceremony: they are perfectly rude and unmerciful to each other. Theypush and trample one another under foot; veils and dresses are torn;ladies faint away in the scrimmage, and only the strongest and mostunscrupulous get in. I have heard some say, who have been in thepellmell, that, not content with elbowing and pushing and pounding, somewomen even stick pins into those who are in the way. I hope this latteris not true; but it is certain that the conduct of most of the women isbrutal. A weak or modest or timid woman stands no more chance thanshe would in a herd of infuriated Campagna cattle. The same scenesare enacted in the efforts to see the pope wash feet, and serve at thetable. For the possession of the seats under the dome on Palm Sundayand Easter there is a like crush. The ceremonies do not begin untilhalf-past nine; but ladies go between five and six o'clock in themorning, and when the passages are open they make a grand rush. Theseats, except those saved for the nobility, are soon all taken, and theladies who come after seven are lucky if they can get within the charmedcircle, and find a spot to sit down on a campstool. They can then seeonly a part of the proceedings, and have a weary, exhausting time of itfor hours. This year Rome is more crowded than ever before. There areAmerican ladies enough to fill all the reserved places; and I fear theyare energetic enough to get their share of them. 

It rained Sunday; but there was a steady stream of people and carriagesall the morning pouring over the Bridge of St. Angelo, and discharginginto the piazza of St. Peter's. It was after nine when I arrived on theground. There was a crowd of carriages under the colonnades, and a heavyfringe in front of them; but the hundreds of people moving over thepiazza, and up the steps to the entrances, made only the impression ofdozens in the vast space. I do not know if there are people enough inRome to fill St. Peter's; certainly there was no appearance of a crowdas we entered, although they had been pouring in all the morning, andstill thronged the doors. I heard a traveler say that he followed tenthousand soldiers into the church, and then lost them from sight: theydisappeared in the side chapels. He did not make his affidavit as tothe number of soldiers. The interior area of the building is not muchgreater than the square of St. Mark in Venice. To go into the greatedifice is almost like going outdoors. Lines of soldiers kept a widepassage clear from the front door away down to the high altar; andthere was a good mass of spectators on the outside. The tribunes for theladies, built up under the dome, were of course, filled with masses ofladies in solemn black; and there was more or less of a press of peoplesurging about in that vicinity. Thousands of people were also roamingabout in the great spaces of the edifice; but there was nowhere elseanything like a crowd. It had very much the appearance of a largefair-ground, with little crowds about favorite booths. Gentlemen indress-coats were admitted to the circle under the dome. The pope's choirwas stationed in a gallery there opposite the high altar. Back of thealtar was a wide space for the dignitaries; seats were there, also, forambassadors and those born to the purple; and the pope's seat was ona raised dais at the end. Outsiders could see nothing of what went onwithin there; and the ladies under the dome could only partially see, inthe seats they had fought so gallantly to obtain. 

St. Peter's is a good place for grand processions and ceremonies; but itis a poor one for viewing them. A procession which moves down the naveis hidden by the soldiers who stand on either side, or is visible onlyby sections as it passes: there is no good place to get the grand effectof the masses of color, and the total of the gorgeous pageantry. Ishould like to see the display upon a grand stage, and enjoy it in acoup d'oeil. It is a fine study of color and effect, and the groupingsare admirable; but the whole affair is nearly lost to the mass ofspectators. It must be a sublime feeling to one in the procession towalk about in such monstrous fine clothes; but what would his emotionsbe if more people could see him! The grand altar stuck up under the domenot only breaks the effect of what would be the fine sweep of the naveback to the apse, but it cuts off all view of the celebration of themass behind it, and, in effect, reduces what should be the great pointof display in the church to a mere chapel. And when you add to that thetemporary tribunes erected under the dome for seating the ladies, theentire nave is shut off from a view of the gorgeous ceremony of highmass. The effect would be incomparable if one could stand in the door, or anywhere in the nave, and, as in other churches, look down to the endupon a great platform, with the high altar and all the sublime spectaclein full view, with the blaze of candles and the clouds of incense risingin the distance. 

At half-past nine the great doors opened, and the procession began, in slow and stately moving fashion, to enter. One saw a throng ofecclesiastics in robes and ermine; the white plumes of the Guard Noble;the pages and chamberlains in scarlet; other pages, or what not, inblack short-clothes, short swords, gold chains, cloak hanging from theshoulder, and stiff white ruffs; thirty-six cardinals in violet robes, with high miter-shaped white silk hats, that looked not unlike thepasteboard "trainer-caps" that boys wear when they play soldier;crucifixes, and a blazoned banner here and there; and, at last, thepope, in his red chair, borne on the shoulders of red lackeys, heavingalong in a sea-sicky motion, clad in scarlet and gold, with a silvermiter on his head, feebly making the papal benediction with two upraisedfingers, and moving his lips in blessing. As the pope came in, asupplementary choir of men and soprano hybrids, stationed near the door, set up a high, welcoming song, or chant, which echoed rather finelythrough the building. All the music of the day is vocal. 

The procession having reached its destination, and disappeared behindthe altar of the dome, the pope dismounted, and took his seat onhis throne. The blessing of the palms began, the cardinals firstapproaching, and afterwards the members of the diplomatic corps, thearchbishops and bishops, the heads of the religious orders, and suchprivate persons as have had permission to do so. I had previously seenthe palms carried in by servants in great baskets. It is, perhaps, notnecessary to say that they are not the poetical green waving palms, but stiff sort of wands, woven out of dry, yellow, split palm-leaves, sometimes four or five feet in length, braided into the semblance ofa crown on top, --a kind of rough basket-work. The palms having beenblessed, a procession was again formed down the nave and out the door, all in it "carrying palms in their hands, " the yellow color of whichadded a new element of picturesqueness to the splendid pageant. The popewas carried as before, and bore in his hand a short braided palm, withgold woven in, flowers added, and the monogram "I. H. S. " worked inthe top. It is the pope's custom to give this away when the ceremonyis over. Last year he presented it to an American lady, whose devotionattracted him; this year I saw it go away in a gilded coach in the handsof an ecclesiastic. The procession disappeared through the great portalinto the vestibule, and the door closed. In a moment somebody knockedthree times on the door: it opened, and the procession returned, andmoved again to the rear of the altar, the singers marching with it andchanting. The cardinals then changed their violet for scarlet robes; andhigh mass, for an hour, was celebrated by a cardinal priest: and I wastold that it was the pope's voice that we heard, high and clear, singingthe passion. The choir made the responses, and performed at intervals. The singing was not without a certain power; indeed, it was marveloushow some of the voices really filled the vast spaces of the edifice, and the choruses rolled in solemn waves of sound through the arches. Thesinging, with the male sopranos, is not to my taste; but it cannot bedenied that it had a wild and strange effect. 

While this was going on behind the altar, the people outside werewandering about, looking at each other, and on the watch not to miss anyof the shows of the day. People were talking, chattering, and greetingeach other as they might do in the street. Here and there somebody waskneeling on the pavement, unheeding the passing throng. At severalof the chapels, services were being conducted; and there was a largecongregation, an ordinary church full, about each of them. But themost of those present seemed to regard it as a spectacle only; and as adisplay of dress, costumes, and nationalities it was almost unsurpassed. There are few more wonderful sights in this world than an Englishwomanin what she considers full dress. An English dandy is also a pleasingobject. For my part, as I have hinted, I like almost as well as anythingthe big footmen, --those in scarlet breeches and blue gold-embroideredcoats. I stood in front of one of the fine creations for some time, andcontemplated him as one does the Farnese Hercules. One likes to see towhat a splendor his species can come, even if the brains have allrun down into the calves of the legs. There were also the pages, theofficers of the pope's household, in costumes of the Middle Ages; thepope's Swiss guard in the showy harlequin uniform designed by MichaelAngelo; the foot-soldiers in white short-clothes, which threatenedto burst, and let them fly into pieces; there were fine ladies andgentlemen, loafers and loungers, from every civilized country, jabberingin all the languages; there were beggars in rags, and boors in coatsso patched that there was probably none of the original material left;there were groups of peasants from the Campagna, the men in shortjackets and sheepskin breeches with the wool side out, the women withgay-colored folded cloths on their heads, and coarse woolen gowns; asquad of wild-looking Spanish gypsies, burning-eyed, olive-skinned, hair long, black, crinkled, and greasy, as wild in raiment as in face;priests and friars, Zouaves in jaunty light gray and scarlet; rags andvelvets, silks and serge cloths, --a cosmopolitan gathering poured intothe world's great place of meeting, --a fine religious Vanity Fair onSunday. 

There came an impressive moment in all this confusion, a point of augustsolemnity. Up to that instant, what with chanting and singing the manyservices, and the noise of talking and walking, there was a wild babel. But at the stroke of the bell and the elevation of the Host, down wentthe muskets of the guard with one clang on the marble; the soldierskneeled; the multitude in the nave, in the aisles, at all the chapels, kneeled; and for a minute in that vast edifice there was perfectstillness: if the whole great concourse had been swept from the earth, the spot where it lately was could not have been more silent. And thenthe military order went down the line, the soldiers rose, the crowdrose, and the mass and the hum went on. 

It was all over before one; and the pope was borne out again, and thevast crowd began to discharge itself. But it was a long time beforethe carriages were all filled and rolled off. I stood for a half hourwatching the stream go by, --the pompous soldiers, the peasants andcitizens, the dazzling equipages, and jaded, exhausted women in black, who had sat or stood half a day under the dome, and could get nocarriage; and the great state coaches of the cardinals, swinging high inthe air, painted and gilded, with three noble footmen hanging on behindeach, and a cardinal's broad face in the window. 

VESUVIUS

CLIMBING A VOLCANO

Everybody who comes to Naples, --that is, everybody except the lady whofell from her horse the other day at Resina and injured her shoulder, as she was mounting for the ascent, --everybody, I say, goes up Vesuvius, and nearly every one writes impressions and descriptions of theperformance. If you believe the tales of travelers, it is an undertakingof great hazard, an experience of frightful emotions. How unsafe it is, especially for ladies, I heard twenty times in Naples before I had beenthere a day. Why, there was a lady thrown from her horse and nearlykilled, only a week ago; and she still lay ill at the next hotel, a witness of the truth of the story. I imagined her plunged down aprecipice of lava, or pitched over the lip of the crater, and onlyrescued by the devotion of a gallant guide, who threatened to let goof her if she didn't pay him twenty francs instantly. This story, whichwill live and grow for years in this region, a waxing and never-waningperil of the volcano, I found, subsequently, had the foundation I havementioned above. The lady did go to Resina in order to make theascent of Vesuvius, mounted a horse there, fell off, being utterlyunhorsewomanly, and hurt herself; but her injury had no more to do withVesuvius than it had with the entrance of Victor Emanuel into Naples, which took place a couple of weeks after. Well, as I was saying, it isthe fashion to write descriptions of Vesuvius; and you might as wellhave mine, which I shall give to you in rough outline. 

There came a day when the Tramontane ceased to blow down on us the coldair of the snowy Apennines, and the white cap of Vesuvius, which is, bythe way, worn generally like the caps of the Neapolitans, drifted inlandinstead of toward the sea. Warmer weather had come to make the brightsunshine no longer a mockery. For some days I had been getting the gaugeof the mountain. With its white plume it is a constant quantity inthe landscape: one sees it from every point of view; and we had beenscarcely anywhere that volcanic remains, or signs of such action, --athin crust shaking under our feet, as at Solfatara, where blasts ofsulphurous steam drove in our faces, --did not remind us that the wholeground is uncertain, and undermined by the subterranean fires that haveVesuvius for a chimney. All the coast of the bay, within recent historicperiods, in different spots at different times, has risen and sunk andrisen again, in simple obedience to the pulsations of the greatfiery monster below. It puffs up or sinks, like the crust of a bakingapple-pie. This region is evidently not done; and I think it notunlikely it may have to be turned over again before it is. We had seenwhere Herculaneum lies under the lava and under the town of Resina;we had walked those clean and narrow streets of Pompeii, and seen theworkmen picking away at the imbedded gravel, sand, and ashes which stillcover nearly two thirds of the nice little, tight little Roman city;we had looked at the black gashes on the mountain-sides, where the lavastreams had gushed and rolled and twisted over vineyards and villas andvillages; and we decided to take a nearer look at the immediate cause ofall this abnormal state of things. 

In the morning when I awoke the sun was just rising behind Vesuvius; andthere was a mighty display of gold and crimson in that quarter, as ifthe curtain was about to be lifted on a grand performance, say a balletat San Carlo, which is the only thing the Neapolitans think worthlooking at. Straight up in the air, out of the mountain, rose a whitepillar, spreading out at the top like a palm-tree, or, to compare it tosomething I have seen, to the Italian pines, that come so picturesquelyinto all these Naples pictures. If you will believe me, that pillar ofsteam was like a column of fire, from the sun shining on and through it, and perhaps from the reflection of the background of crimson cloudsand blue and gold sky, spread out there and hung there in royal andextravagant profusion, to make a highway and a regal gateway, throughwhich I could just then see coming the horses and the chariot of asouthern perfect day. They said that the tree-shaped cloud was the signof an eruption; but the hotel-keepers here are always predicting that. The eruption is usually about two or three weeks distant; and the hotelproprietors get this information from experienced guides, who observethe action of the water in the wells; so that there can be no mistakeabout it. 

We took carriages at nine o'clock to Resina, a drive of four miles, andone of exceeding interest, if you wish to see Naples life. The way isround the curving bay by the sea; but so continuously built up is it, and so inclosed with high walls of villas, through the open gates ofwhich the golden oranges gleam, that you seem never to leave thecity. The streets and quays swarm with the most vociferous, dirty, multitudinous life. It is a drive through Rag Fair. The tall, whitey-yellow houses fronting the water, six, seven, eight stories high, are full as beehives; people are at all the open windows; garments hangfrom the balconies and from poles thrust out; up every narrow, gloomy, ascending street are crowds of struggling human shapes; and you seehow like herrings in a box are packed the over half a million people ofNaples. In front of the houses are the markets in the open air, --fish, vegetables, carts of oranges; in the sun sit women spinning fromdistaffs or weaving fishing-nets; and rows of children who were neverwashed and never clothed but once, and whose garments have nearlywasted away; beggars, fishermen in red caps, sailors, priests, donkeys, fruit-venders, street-musicians, carriages, carts, two-wheeledbreak-down vehicles, --the whole tangled in one wild roar and rush andbabel, --a shifting, varied panorama of color, rags, --a pandemonium suchas the world cannot show elsewhere, that is what one sees on the roadto Resina. The drivers all drive in the streets here as if they helda commission from the devil, cracking their whips, shouting to theirhorses, and dashing into the thickest tangle with entire recklessness. They have one cry, used alike for getting more speed out of their horsesor for checking them, or in warning to the endangered crowds on foot. Itis an exclamatory grunt, which may be partially expressed by theletters "a-e-ugh. " Everybody shouts it, mule-driver, "coachee, " orcattle-driver; and even I, a passenger, fancied I could do it todisagreeable perfection after a time. Out of this throng in the streetsI like to select the meek, patient, diminutive little donkeys, withenormous panniers that almost hide them. One would have a woman seatedon top, with a child in one pannier and cabbages in the other; another, with an immense stock of market-greens on his back, or big baskets oforanges, or with a row of wine-casks and a man seated behind, adhering, by some unknown law of adhesion, to the sloping tail. Then there wasthe cart drawn by one diminutive donkey, or by an ox, or by an ox anda donkey, or by a donkey and horse abreast, never by any possibility amatched team. And, funniest of all, was the high, two-wheeled caleche, with one seat, and top thrown back, with long thills and poor horse. Upon this vehicle were piled, Heaven knows how, behind, before, on thethills, and underneath the high seat, sometimes ten, and not seldom asmany as eighteen people, men, women, and children, --all in flauntingrags, with a colored scarf here and there, or a gay petticoat, ora scarlet cap, --perhaps a priest, with broad black hat, in thecenter, --driving along like a comet, the poor horse in a gallop, thebells on his ornamented saddle merrily jingling, and the whole load in aroar of merriment. 

But we shall never get to Vesuvius at this rate. I will not even stopto examine the macaroni manufactories on the road. The long strips ofit were hung out on poles to dry in the streets, and to get a rich colorfrom the dirt and dust, to say nothing of its contact with the filthypeople who were making it. I am very fond of macaroni. At Resina we takehorses for the ascent. We had sent ahead for a guide and horses for ourparty of ten; but we found besides, I should think, pretty nearlythe entire population of the locality awaiting us, not to count theimportunate beggars, the hags, male and female, and the ordinary loafersof the place. We were besieged to take this and that horse or mule, tobuy walking-sticks for the climb, to purchase lava cut into charms, andveritable ancient coins, and dug-up cameos, all manufactured for thedemand. One wanted to hold the horse, or to lead it, to carry a shawl, or to show the way. In the midst of infinite clamor and noise, we atlast got mounted, and, turning into a narrow lane between high walls, began the ascent, our cavalcade attended by a procession of rags andwretchedness up through the village. Some of them fell off as we roseamong the vineyards, and they found us proof against begging; butseveral accompanied us all day, hoping that, in some unguarded moment, they could do us some slight service, and so establish a claim on us. Among these I noticed some stout fellows with short ropes, with whichthey intended to assist us up the steeps. If I looked away an instant, some urchin would seize my horse's bridle; and when I carelessly let mystick fall on his hand, in token for him to let go, he would fall backwith an injured look, and grasp the tail, from which I could only loosenhim by swinging my staff and preparing to break his head. 

The ascent is easy at first between walls and the vineyards whichproduce the celebrated Lachryma Christi. After a half hour we reachedand began to cross the lava of 1858, and the wild desolation and gloomof the mountain began to strike us. One is here conscious of the titanicforces at work. Sometimes it is as if a giant had ploughed the ground, and left the furrows without harrowing them to harden into black andbrown stone. We could see again how the broad stream, flowing down, squeezed and squashed like mud, had taken all fantastic shapes, --nowlike gnarled tree roots; now like serpents in a coil; here the humanform, or a part of it, --a torso or a limb, --in agony; now in othernameless convolutions and contortions, as if heaved up and twisted infiery pain and suffering, --for there was almost a human feeling in it;and again not unlike stone billows. We could see how the cooling crusthad been lifted and split and turned over by the hot stream underneath, which, continually oozing from the rent of the eruption, bore it downand pressed it upward. Even so low as the point where we crossed thelava of 1858 were fissures whence came hot air. 

An hour brought us to the resting-place called the Hermitage, an osteriaand observatory established by the government. Standing upon the end ofa spur, it seems to be safe from the lava, whose course has always beenon either side; but it must be an uncomfortable place in a shower ofstones and ashes. We rode half an hour longer on horseback, on a nearlylevel path, to the foot of the steep ascent, the base of the greatcrater. This ride gave us completely the wide and ghastly desolation ofthe mountain, the ruin that the lava has wrought upon slopes that wereonce green with vine and olive, and busy with the hum of life. Thisblack, contorted desert waste is more sterile and hopeless than anymountain of stone, because the idea of relentless destruction isinvolved here. This great hummocked, sloping plain, ridged and seamed, was all about us, without cheer or relaxation of grim solitude. Beforeus rose, as black and bare, what the guides call the mountain, and whichused to be the crater. Up one side is worked in the lava a zigzag path, steep, but not very fatiguing, if you take it slowly. Two thirds ofthe way up, I saw specks of people climbing. Beyond it rose the cone ofashes, out of which the great cloud of sulphurous smoke rises and rollsnight and day now. On the very edge of that, on the lip of it, where thesmoke rose, I also saw human shapes; and it seemed as if they stood onthe brink of Tartarus and in momently imminent peril. 

We left our horses in a wild spot, where scorched boulders hadfallen upon the lava bed; and guides and boys gathered about us likecormorants: but, declining their offers to pull us up, we began theascent, which took about three quarters of an hour. We were then on thesummit, which is, after all, not a summit at all, but an uneven waste, sloping away from the Cone in the center. This sloping lava waste wasfull of little cracks, --not fissures with hot lava in them, or anythingof the sort, --out of which white steam issued, not unlike the smoke froma great patch of burned timber; and the wind blew it along the groundtowards us. It was cool, for the sun was hidden by light clouds, but notcold. The ground under foot was slightly warm. I had expected to feelsome dread, or shrinking, or at least some sense of insecurity, but Idid not the slightest, then or afterwards; and I think mine is the usualexperience. I had no more sense of danger on the edge of the crater thanI had in the streets of Naples. 

We next addressed ourselves to the Cone, which is a loose hill of ashesand sand, --a natural slope, I should say, of about one and a half toone, offering no foothold. The climb is very fatiguing, because you sinkin to the ankles, and slide back at every step; but it is short, --wewere up in six to eight minutes, --though the ladies, who had been helpeda little by the guides, were nearly exhausted, and sank down on the veryedge of the crater, with their backs to the smoke. What did we see? Whatwould you see if you looked into a steam boiler? We stood on the ashyedge of the crater, the sharp edge sloping one way down the mountain, and the other into the bowels, whence the thick, stifling smoke rose. We rolled stones down, and heard them rumbling for half a minute. Thediameter of the crater on the brink of which we stood was said to be aneighth of a mile; but the whole was completely filled with vapor. Theedge where we stood was quite warm. 

We ate some rolls we had brought in our pockets, and some of the partytried a bottle of the wine that one of the cormorants had brought up, but found it anything but the Lachryma Christi it was named. We lookedwith longing eyes down into the vapor-boiling caldron; we looked atthe wide and lovely view of land and sea; we tried to realize our awfulsituation, munched our dry bread, and laughed at the monstrous demandsof the vagabonds about us for money, and then turned and went downquicker than we came up. 

We had chosen to ascend to the old crater rather than to the new one ofthe recent eruption on the side of the mountain, where there is nothingto be seen. When we reached the bottom of the Cone, our guide led us tothe north side, and into a region that did begin to look like business. The wind drove all the smoke round there, and we were half stifled withsulphur fumes to begin with. Then the whole ground was discolored redand yellow, and with many more gay and sulphur-suggesting colors. And itactually had deep fissures in it, over which we stepped and among whichwe went, out of which came blasts of hot, horrid vapor, with a roaringas if we were in the midst of furnaces. And if we came near the cracksthe heat was powerful in our faces, and if we thrust our sticks downthem they were instantly burned; and the guides cooked eggs; and thecrust was thin, and very hot to our boots; and half the time we couldn'tsee anything; and we would rush away where the vapor was not so thick, and, with handkerchiefs to our mouths, rush in again to get the fulleffect. After we came out again into better air, it was as if we hadbeen through the burning, fiery furnace, and had the smell of it on ourgarments. And, indeed, the sulphur had changed to red certain of ourclothes, and noticeably my pantaloons and the black velvet cap of one ofthe ladies; and it was some days before they recovered their color. But, as I say, there was no sense of danger in the adventure. 

We descended by a different route, on the south side of the mountain, to our horses, and made a lark of it. We went down an ash slope, verysteep, where we sank in a foot or little less at every step, and therewas nothing to do for it, but to run and jump. We took steps as long asif we had worn seven-league boots. When the whole party got in motion, the entire slope seemed to slide a little with us, and there appearedsome danger of an avalanche. But we did n't stop for it. It was exactlylike plunging down a steep hillside that is covered thickly with light, soft snow. There was a gray-haired gentleman with us, with a good dealof the boy in him, who thought it great fun. 

I have said little about the view; but I might have written aboutnothing else, both in the ascent and descent. Naples, and all thevillages which rim the bay with white, the gracefully curving arms thatgo out to sea, and do not quite clasp rocky Capri, which lies at theentrance, made the outline of a picture of surpassing loveliness. But aswe came down, there was a sight that I am sure was unique. As one in aballoon sees the earth concave beneath, so now, from where we stood, itseemed to rise, not fall, to the sea, and all the white villages wereraised to the clouds; and by the peculiar light, the sea looked exactlylike sky, and the little boats on it seemed to float, like balloons inthe air. The illusion was perfect. As the day waned, a heavy cloud hidthe sun, and so let down the light that the waters were a dark purple. Then the sun went behind Posilipo in a perfect blaze of scarlet, and allthe sea was violet. Only it still was not the sea at all; but the littlechopping waves looked like flecked clouds; and it was exactly as ifone of the violet, cloud-beautified skies that we see at home over somesunsets had fallen to the ground. And the slant white sails and theblack specks of boats on it hung in the sky, and were as unsubstantialas the whole pageant. Capri alone was dark and solid. And as wedescended and a high wall hid it, a little handsome rascal, who hadattended me for an hour, now at the head and now at the tail of my pony, recalled me to the realities by the request that I should give him afranc. For what? For carrying signor's coat up the mountain. I rewardedthe little liar with a German copper. I had carried my own overcoat allday. 

SORRENTO DAYS

OUTLINES

The day came when we tired of the brilliancy and din of Naples, mostnoisy of cities. Neapolis, or Parthenope, as is well known, was foundedby Parthenope, a siren who was cast ashore there. Her descendants stilllive here; and we have become a little weary of their inherited musicalability: they have learned to play upon many new instruments, with whichthey keep us awake late at night, and arouse us early in the morning. One of them is always there under the window, where the moonlightwill strike him, or the early dawn will light up his love-worn visage, strumming the guitar with his horny thumb, and wailing through hisnose as if his throat was full of seaweed. He is as inexhaustible asVesuvius. We shall have to flee, or stop our ears with wax, like thesailors of Ulysses. 

The day came when we had checked off the Posilipo, and the Grotto, Pozzuoli, Baiae, Cape Misenum, the Museum, Vesuvius, Pompeii, Herculaneum, the moderns buried at the Campo Santo; and we said, Letus go and lie in the sun at Sorrento. But first let us settle ourgeography. 

The Bay of Naples, painted and sung forever, but never adequately, mustconsent to be here described as essentially a parallelogram, with anopening towards the southwest. The northeast side of this, with Naplesin the right-hand corner, looking seaward and Castellamare in theleft-hand corner, at a distance of some fourteen miles, is a vast richplain, fringed on the shore with towns, and covered with white housesand gardens. Out of this rises the isolated bulk of Vesuvius. Thisgrowing mountain is manufactured exactly like an ant-hill. 

The northwest side of the bay, keeping a general westerly direction, is very uneven, with headlands, deep bays, and outlying islands. Firstcomes the promontory of Posilipo, pierced by two tunnels, partly naturaland partly Greek and Roman work, above the entrance of one of which isthe tomb of Virgil, let us believe; then a beautiful bay, the shore ofwhich is incrusted with classic ruins. On this bay stands Pozzuoli, theancient Puteoli where St. Paul landed one May day, and doubtless walkedup this paved road, which leads direct to Rome. At the entrance, nearthe head of Posilipo, is the volcanic island of "shining Nisida, " towhich Brutus retired after the assassination of Caesar, and where hebade Portia good-by before he departed for Greece and Philippi: thefavorite villa of Cicero, where he wrote many of his letters to Atticus, looked on it. Baiae, epitome of the luxury and profligacy, of thesplendor and crime of the most sensual years of the Roman empire, spreadthere its temples, palaces, and pleasure-gardens, which crowded the lowslopes, and extended over the water; and yonder is Cape Misenum, whichsheltered the great fleets of Rome. 

This region, which is still shaky from fires bubbling under the thincrust, through which here and there the sulphurous vapor breaks out, isone of the most sacred in the ancient world. Here are the Lucrine Lake, the Elysian Fields, the cave of the Cumean Sibyl, and the Lake Avernus. This entrance to the infernal regions was frozen over the day I saw it;so that the profane prophecy of skating on the bottomless pit might havebeen realized. The islands of Procida and Ischia continue and completethis side of the bay, which is about twenty miles long as the boatsails. 

At Castellamare the shore makes a sharp bend, and runs southwest alongthe side of the Sorrentine promontory. This promontory is a high, rocky, diversified ridge, which extends out between the bays of Naples andSalerno, with its short and precipitous slope towards the latter. BelowCastellamare, the mountain range of the Great St. Angelo (an offshoot ofthe Apennines) runs across the peninsula, and cuts off that portion ofit which we have to consider. The most conspicuous of the three parts ofthis short range is over four thousand seven hundred feet above theBay of Naples, and the highest land on it. From Great St. Angelo to thepoint, the Punta di Campanella, it is, perhaps, twelve miles by balloon, but twenty by any other conveyance. Three miles off this point liesCapri. 

This promontory has a backbone of rocky ledges and hills; but it hasat intervals transverse ledges and ridges, and deep valleys and chainscutting in from either side; so that it is not very passable in anydirection. These little valleys and bays are warm nooks for the oliveand the orange; and all the precipices and sunny slopes are terracednearly to the top. This promontory of rocks is far from being barren. 

From Castellamare, driving along a winding, rockcut road by thebay, --one of the most charming in southern Italy, --a distance of sevenmiles, we reach the Punta di Scutolo. This point, and the oppositeheadland, the Capo di Sorrento, inclose the Piano di Sorrento, anirregular plain, three miles long, encircled by limestone hills, whichprotect it from the east and south winds. In this amphitheater itlies, a mass of green foliage and white villages, fronting Naples andVesuvius. 

If nature first scooped out this nook level with the sea, and thenfilled it up to a depth of two hundred to three hundred feet withvolcanic tufa, forming a precipice of that height along the shore, I canunderstand how the present state of things came about. 

This plain is not all level, however. Decided spurs push down into itfrom the hills; and great chasms, deep, ragged, impassable, split in thetufa, extend up into it from the sea. At intervals, at the openings ofthese ravines, are little marinas, where the fishermen have their huts'and where their boats land. Little villages, separate from the world, abound on these marinas. The warm volcanic soil of the sheltered plainmakes it a paradise of fruits and flowers. 

Sorrento, ancient and romantic city, lies at the southwest end of thisplain, built along the sheer sea precipice, and running back to thehills, --a city of such narrow streets, high walls, and luxuriant grovesthat it can be seen only from the heights adjacent. The ancient boundaryof the city proper was the famous ravine on the east side, a similarravine on the south, which met it at right angles, and was supplementedby a high Roman wall, and the same wall continued on the west to thesea. The growing town has pushed away the wall on the west side; butthat on the south yet stands as good as when the Romans made it. Thereis a little attempt at a mall, with double rows of trees, under thatwall, where lovers walk, and ragged, handsome urchins play the excitinggame of fives, or sit in the dirt, gambling with cards for the Sorrentocurrency. I do not know what sin it may be to gamble for a bit ofprinted paper which has the value of one sou. 

The great ravine, three quarters of a mile long, the ancient boundarywhich now cuts the town in two, is bridged where the main street, the Corso, crosses, the bridge resting on old Roman substructions, as everything else about here does. This ravine, always invested withmystery, is the theme of no end of poetry and legend. Demons inhabitit. Here and there, in its perpendicular sides, steps have been cutfor descent. Vines and lichens grow on the walls: in one place, at thebottom, an orange grove has taken root. There is even a mill down there, where there is breadth enough for a building; and altogether, the ravineis not so delivered over to the power of darkness as it used to be. It is still damp and slimy, it is true; but from above, it is alwaysbeautiful, with its luxuriant growth of vines, and at twilightmysterious. I like as well, however, to look into its entrance from thelittle marina, where the old fishwives are weaving nets. 

These little settlements under the cliff, called marinas, are worlds inthemselves, picturesque at a distance, but squalid seen close at hand. They are not very different from the little fishing-stations on the Isleof Wight; but they are more sheltered, and their inhabitants sing attheir work, wear bright colors, and bask in the sun a good deal, feelingno sense of responsibility for the world they did not create. To weavenets, to fish in the bay, to sell their fish at the wharves, to eatunexciting vegetables and fish, to drink moderately, to go to the chapelof St. Antonino on Sunday, not to work on fast and feast days, nor morethan compelled to any day, this is life at the marinas. Their world iswhat they can see, and Naples is distant and almost foreign. Generationafter generation is content with the same simple life. They have no moreidea of the bad way the world is in than bees in their cells. 

THE VILLA NARDI

The Villa Nardi hangs over the sea. It is built on a rock, and I knownot what Roman and Greek foundations, and the remains of yet earlierpeoples, traders, and traffickers, whose galleys used to rock thereat the base of the cliff, where the gentle waves beat even in thiswinter-time with a summer swing and sound of peace. 

It was at the close of a day in January that I first knew the VillaNardi, --a warm, lovely day, at the hour when the sun was just goingbehind the Capo di Sorrento, in order to disrobe a little, I fancy, before plunging into the Mediterranean off the end of Capri, as is hiswont about this time of year. When we turned out of the little piazza, our driver was obliged to take off one of our team of three horsesdriven abreast, so that we could pass through the narrow and crookedstreets, or rather lanes of blank walls. With cracking whip, rattlingwheels, and shouting to clear the way, we drove into the Strada di SanFrancisca, and to an arched gateway. This led down a straight path, between olives and orange and lemon-trees, gleaming with shining leavesand fruit of gold, with hedges of rose-trees in full bloom, to anotherleafy arch, through which I saw tropical trees, and a terrace with a lowwall and battered busts guarding it, and beyond, the blue sea, a whitesail or two slanting across the opening, and the whiteness of Naplessome twenty miles away on the shore. 

The noble family of the Villa did not descend into the garden to welcomeus, as we should have liked; in fact, they have been absent now fora long time, so long that even their ghosts, if they ever pace theterrace-walk towards the convent, would appear strange to one who shouldmeet them; and yet our hostess, the Tramontano, did what the ancientoccupants scarcely could have done, gave us the choice of rooms in theentire house. The stranger who finds himself in this secluded paradise, at this season, is always at a loss whether to take a room on the sea, with all its changeable loveliness, but no sun, or one overlooking thegarden, where the sun all day pours itself into the orange boughs, andwhere the birds are just beginning to get up a spring twitteration. Myfriend, whose capacity for taking in the luxurious repose of this regionis something extraordinary, has tried, I believe, nearly every roomin the house, and has at length gone up to a solitary room on the top, where, like a bird on a tree he looks all ways, and, so to say, swingsin the entrancing air. But, wherever you are, you will grow into contentwith your situation. 

At the Villa Nardi we have no sound of wheels, no noise of work ortraffic, no suggestion of conflict. I am under the impression thateverything that was to have been done has been done. I am, it is true, alittle afraid that the Saracens will come here again, and carry off moreof the nut-brown girls, who lean over the walls, and look down on usfrom under the boughs. I am not quite sure that a French Admiral of theRepublic will not some morning anchor his three-decker in front, andopen fire on us; but nothing else can happen. Naples is a thousand milesaway. The boom of the saluting guns of Castel Nuovo is to us scarcelyan echo of modern life. Rome does not exist. And as for London and NewYork, they send their people and their newspapers here, but no pulse ofunrest from them disturbs our tranquillity. Hemmed in on the land sideby high walls, groves, and gardens, perched upon a rock two hundred feetabove the water, how much more secure from invasion is this than anyfabled island of the southern sea, or any remote stream where the boatsof the lotus-eaters float!

There is a little terrace and flower-plat, where we sometimes sit, andover the wall of which we like to lean, and look down the cliff to thesea. This terrace is the common ground of many exotics as well asnative trees and shrubs. Here are the magnolia, the laurel, the Japanesemedlar, the oleander, the pepper, the bay, the date-palm, a tree calledthe plumbago, another from the Cape of Good Hope, the pomegranate, the elder in full leaf, the olive, salvia, heliotrope; close by is abanana-tree. 

I find a good deal of companionship in the rows of plaster busts thatstand on the wall, in all attitudes of listlessness, and all stages ofdecay. I thought at first they were penates of the premises; but betteracquaintance has convinced me that they never were gods, but the clayeyrepresentations of great men and noble dames. The stains of time are onthem; some have lost a nose or an ear; and one has parted with a stillmore important member--his head, --an accident that might profitably havebefallen his neighbor, whose curly locks and villainously low foreheadproclaim him a Roman emperor. Cut in the face of the rock is a walledand winding way down to the water. I see below the archway where itissues from the underground recesses of our establishment; and therestands a bust, in serious expectation that some one will walk out andsaunter down among the rocks; but no one ever does. Just at the rightis a little beach, with a few old houses, and a mimic stir of life, alittle curve in the cliff, the mouth of the gorge, where the waves comein with a lazy swash. Some fishing-boats ride there; and the shallowwater, as I look down this sunny morning, is thickly strewn withfloating peels of oranges and lemons, as if some one was brewing agigantic bowl of punch. And there is an uncommon stir of life; for aschooner is shipping a cargo of oranges, and the entire population is ina clamor. Donkeys are coming down the winding way, with a heavy basketon either flank; stout girls are stepping lightly down with loads ontheir heads; the drivers shout, the donkeys bray, the people jabberand order each other about; and the oranges, in a continual stream, arepoured into the long, narrow vessel, rolling in with a thud, until thereis a yellow mass of them. Shouting, scolding, singing, and braying, allcome up to me a little mellowed. The disorder is not so great as onthe opera stage of San Carlo in Naples; and the effect is much morepleasing. 

This settlement, the marina, under the cliff, used to extend along theshore; and a good road ran down there close by the water. The rock hassplit off, and covered it; and perhaps the shore has sunk. They tellme that those who dig down in the edge of the shallow water find sunkenwalls, and the remains of old foundations of Roman workmanship. People who wander there pick up bits of marble, serpentine, andmalachite, --remains of the palaces that long ago fell into the sea, andhave not left even the names of their owners and builders, -the ancientloafers who idled away their days as everybody must in this seductivespot. Not far from here, they point out the veritable caves of theSirens, who have now shut up house, and gone away, like the rest of thenobility. If I had been a mariner in their day, I should have made noeffort to sail by and away from their soothing shore. 

I went, one day, through a long, sloping arch, near the sailors' Chapelof St. Antonino, past a pretty shrine of the Virgin, down the zigzagpath to this little marina; but it is better to be content with lookingat it from above, and imagining how delightful it would be to push offin one of the little tubs of boats. Sometimes, at night, I hear thefishermen coming home, singing in their lusty fashion; and I think it isa good haven to arrive at. I never go down to search for stones on thebeach: I like to believe that there are great treasures there, which Imight find; and I know that the green and brown and spotty appearance ofthe water is caused by the showing through of the pavements of courts, and marble floors of palaces, which might vanish if I went nearer, sucha place of illusion is this. 

The Villa Nardi stands in pleasant relations to Vesuvius, which is justacross the bay, and is not so useless as it has been represented; itis our weather-sign and prophet. When the white plume on his top floatsinland, that is one sort of weather; when it streams out to sea, that isanother. But I can never tell which is which: nor in my experience doesit much matter; for it seems impossible for Sorrento to do anything butwoo us with gentle weather. But the use of Vesuvius, after all, isto furnish us a background for the violet light at sundown, when thevillages at its foot gleam like a silver fringe. I have become convincedof one thing: it is always best when you build a house to have it fronttoward a volcano, if you can. There is just that lazy activity about avolcano, ordinarily, that satisfies your demand for something that isnot exactly dead, and yet does not disturb you. 

Sometimes when I wake in the night, --though I don't know why one everwakes in the night, or the daytime either here, --I hear the bell of theconvent, which is in our demesne, --a convent which is suppressed, andwhere I hear, when I pass in the morning, the humming of a school. Atfirst I tried to count the hour; but when the bell went on to strikeseventeen, and even twenty-one o'clock, the absurdity of the thing cameover me, and I wondered whether it was some frequent call to prayer fora feeble band of sisters remaining, some reminder of midnight penanceand vigil, or whether it was not something more ghostly than that, andwas not responded to by shades of nuns, who were wont to look out fromtheir narrow latticed windows upon these same gardens, as long ago aswhen the beautiful Queen Joanna used to come down here to repent--if sheever did repent--of her wanton ways in Naples. 

On one side of the garden is a suppressed monastery. The narrow fronttowards the sea has a secluded little balcony, where I like to fancythe poor orphaned souls used to steal out at night for a breath of freshair, and perhaps to see, as I did one dark evening, Naples with itslights like a conflagration on the horizon. Upon the tiles of theparapet are cheerful devices, the crossbones tied with a cord, and thelike. How many heavy-hearted recluses have stood in that secluded nook, and been tempted by the sweet, lulling sound of the waves below; howmany have paced along this narrow terrace, and felt like prisoners whowore paths in the stone floor where they trod; and how many stupid loutshave walked there, insensible to all the charm of it!

If I pass into the Tramontano garden, it is not to escape the presenceof history, or to get into the modern world, where travelers arearriving, and where there is the bustle and proverbial discontent ofthose who travel to enjoy themselves. In the pretty garden, which is aconstant surprise of odd nooks and sunny hiding-places, with ruins, andmost luxuriant ivy, is a little cottage where, I am told in confidence, the young king of Bavaria slept three nights not very long ago. I hopehe slept well. But more important than the sleep, or even death, of aking, is the birth of a poet, I take it; and within this inclosure, onthe eleventh day of March, 1541, Torquato Tasso, most melancholy of men, first saw the light; and here was born his noble sister Cornelia, thedescendants of whose union with the cavalier Spasiano still live here, and in a manner keep the memory of the poet green with the presentgeneration. I am indebted to a gentleman who is of this lineage for manyfavors, and for precise information as to the position in the house thatstood here of the very room in which Tasso was born. It is also minutelygiven in a memoir of Tasso and his family, by Bartolommeo Capasso, whose careful researches have disproved the slipshod statements of theguidebooks, that the poet was born in a house which is still standing, farther to the west, and that the room has fallen into the sea. Thedescendant of the sister pointed out to me the spot on the terrace ofthe Tramontano where the room itself was, when the house still stood;and, of course, seeing is believing. The sun shone full upon it, as westood there; and the air was full of the scent of tropical fruit andjust-coming blossoms. One could not desire a more tranquil scene ofadvent into life; and the wandering, broken-hearted author of "JerusalemDelivered" never found at court or palace any retreat so soothing asthat offered him here by his steadfast sister. 

If I were an antiquarian, I think I should have had Tasso born at theVilla Nardi, where I like best to stay, and where I find traces of manypilgrims from other countries. Here, in a little corner room on theterrace, Mrs. Stowe dreamed and wrote; and I expect, every morning, asI take my morning sun here by the gate, Agnes of Sorrento will come downthe sweet-scented path with a basket of oranges on her head. 

SEA AND SHORE

It is not always easy, when one stands upon the highlands which encirclethe Piano di Sorrento, in some conditions of the atmosphere, to tellwhere the sea ends and the sky begins. It seems practicable, at suchtimes, for one to take ship and sail up into heaven. I have often, indeed, seen white sails climbing up there, and fishing-boats, at secureanchor I suppose, riding apparently like balloons in the hazy air. Sea and air and land here are all kin, I suspect, and have certainimmaterial qualities in common. The contours of the shores and theoutlines of the hills are as graceful as the mobile waves; and if thereis anywhere ruggedness and sharpness, the atmosphere throws a friendlyveil over it, and tones all that is inharmonious into the repose ofbeauty. 

The atmosphere is really something more than a medium: it is a drapery, woven, one could affirm, with colors, or dipped in oriental dyes. Onemight account thus for the prismatic colors I have often seen on thehorizon at noon, when the sun was pouring down floods of clear goldenlight. The simple light here, if one could ever represent it by pen, pencil, or brush, would draw the world hither to bathe in it. It is notthin sunshine, but a royal profusion, a golden substance, a transformingquality, a vesture of splendor for all these Mediterranean shores. 

The most comprehensive idea of Sorrento and the great plain on whichit stands, imbedded almost out of sight in foliage, we obtained one dayfrom our boat, as we put out round the Capo di Sorrento, and stood awayfor Capri. There was not wind enough for sails, but there were choppingwaves, and swell enough to toss us about, and to produce bright flashesof light far out at sea. The red-shirted rowers silently bent totheir long sweeps; and I lay in the tossing bow, and studied the high, receding shore. The picture is simple, a precipice of rock or earth, faced with masonry in spots, almost of uniform height from point topoint of the little bay, except where a deep gorge has split the rock, and comes to the sea, forming a cove, where a cluster of rude buildingsis likely to gather. Along the precipice, which now juts and now recedesa little, are villas, hotels, old convents, gardens, and groves. I cansee steps and galleries cut in the face of the cliff, and caves andcaverns, natural and artificial: for one can cut this tufa with a knife;and it would hardly seem preposterous to attempt to dig out a cool, roomy mansion in this rocky front with a spade. 

As we pull away, I begin to see the depth of the plain of Sorrento, withits villages, walled roads, its groves of oranges, olives, lemons, its figs, pomegranates, almonds, mulberries, and acacias; and soon theterraces above, where the vineyards are planted, and the olives also. These terraces must be a brave sight in the spring, when the masses ofolives are white as snow with blossoms, which fill all the plain withtheir sweet perfume. Above the terraces, the eye reaches the fineoutline of the hill; and, to the east, the bare precipice of rock, softened by the purple light; and turning still to the left, as the boatlazily swings, I have Vesuvius, the graceful dip into the plain, and therise to the heights of Naples, Nisida, the shining houses of Pozzuoli, Cape Misenum, Procida, and rough Ischia. Rounding the headland, Capriis before us, so sharp and clear that we seem close to it; but it is aweary pull before we get under its rocky side. 

Returning from Capri late in the afternoon, we had one of those effectswhich are the despair of artists. I had been told that twilights areshort here, and that, when the sun disappeared, color vanished from thesky. There was a wonderful light on all the inner bay, as we put offfrom shore. Ischia was one mass of violet color, As we got from underthe island, there was the sun, a red ball of fire, just dipping into thesea. At once the whole horizon line of water became a bright crimson, which deepened as evening advanced, glowing with more intense fire, and holding a broad band of what seemed solid color for more than threequarters of an hour. The colors, meantime, on the level water, never were on painter's palette, and never were counterfeited by thechangeable silks of eastern looms; and this gorgeous spectacle continuedtill the stars came out, crowding the sky with silver points. 

Our boatmen, who had been reinforced at Capri, and were inspired eitherby the wine of the island or the beauty of the night, pulled with newvigor, and broke out again and again into the wild songs of this coast. A favorite was the Garibaldi song, which invariably ended in a cheer anda tiger, and threw the singers into such a spurt of excitement thatthe oars forgot to keep time, and there was more splash than speed. Thesingers all sang one part in minor: there was no harmony, the voiceswere not rich, and the melody was not remarkable; but there was, afterall, a wild pathos in it. Music is very much here what it is in Naples. I have to keep saying to myself that Italy is a land of song; else Ishould think that people mistake noise for music. 

The boatmen are an honest set of fellows, as Italians go; and, let ushope, not unworthy followers of their patron, St. Antonino, whose chapelis on the edge of the gorge near the Villa Nardi. A silver image of thesaint, half life-size, stands upon the rich marble altar. This valuablestatue has been, if tradition is correct, five times captured andcarried away by marauders, who have at different times sacked Sorrentoof its marbles, bronzes, and precious things, and each time, by somemysterious providence, has found its way back again, --an instance ofconstancy in a solid silver image which is worthy of commendation. Thelittle chapel is hung all about with votive offerings in wax of arms, legs, heads, hands, effigies, and with coarse lithographs, in frames, of storms at sea and perils of ships, hung up by sailors who, havingescaped the dangers of the deep, offer these tributes to their dearsaint. The skirts of the image are worn quite smooth with kissing. Underneath it, at the back of the altar, an oil light is always burning;and below repose the bones of the holy man. 

The whole shore is fascinating to one in an idle mood, and is goodmousing-ground for the antiquarian. For myself, I am content with onegeneralization, which I find saves a world of bother and perplexity: itis quite safe to style every excavation, cavern, circular wall, or archby the sea, a Roman bath. It is the final resort of the antiquarians. This theory has kept me from entering the discussion, whether thesubstructions in the cliff under the Poggio Syracuse, a royal villa, aretemples of the Sirens, or caves of Ulysses. I only know that I descendto the sea there by broad interior flights of steps, which lead throughgalleries and corridors, and high, vaulted passages, whence extendapartments and caves far reaching into the solid rock. At intervals arelandings, where arched windows are cut out to the sea, with stone seatsand protecting walls. At the base of the cliff I find a hewn passage, asif there had once been here a way of embarkation; and enormous fragmentsof rocks, with steps cut in them, which have fallen from above. 

Were these anything more than royal pleasure galleries, where onecould sit in coolness in the heat of summer and look on the bay and itsshipping, in the days when the great Roman fleet used to lie opposite, above the point of Misenum? How many brave and gay retinues have sweptdown these broad interior stairways, let us say in the picturesqueMiddle Ages, to embark on voyages of pleasure or warlike forays! Thesteps are well worn, and must have been trodden for ages, by nobles androbbers, peasants and sailors, priests of more than one religion, andtraders of many seas, who have gone, and left no record. The sun wasslanting his last rays into the corridors as I musingly looked down fromone of the arched openings, quite spellbound by the strangeness and deadsilence of the place, broken only by the plash of waves on the sandybeach below. I had found my way down through a wooden door half ajar;and I thought of the possibility of some one's shutting it for thenight, and leaving me a prisoner to await the spectres which I have nodoubt throng here when it grows dark. Hastening up out of these chambersof the past, I escaped into the upper air, and walked rapidly homethrough the narrow orange lanes. 

ON TOP OF THE HOUSE

The tiptop of the Villa Nardi is a flat roof, with a wall about it threefeet high, and some little turreted affairs, that look very much likechimneys. Joseph, the gray-haired servitor, has brought my chair andtable up here to-day, and here I am, established to write. 

I am here above most earthly annoyances, and on a level with theheavenly influences. It has always seemed to me that the higher onegets, the easier it must be to write; and that, especially at a greatelevation, one could strike into lofty themes, and launch out, withoutfear of shipwreck on any of the earthly headlands, in his aerialvoyages. Yet, after all, he would be likely to arrive nowhere, Isuspect; or, to change the figure, to find that, in parting with thetaste of the earth, he had produced a flavorless composition. If it werenot for the haze in the horizon to-day, I could distinguish the veryhouse in Naples--that of Manso, Marquis of Villa, --where Tasso founda home, and where John Milton was entertained at a later day by thathospitable nobleman. I wonder, if he had come to the Villa Nardi andwritten on the roof, if the theological features of his epic would havebeen softened, and if he would not have received new suggestions forthe adornment of the garden. Of course, it is well that his immortalproduction was not composed on this roof, and in sight of theseseductive shores, or it would have been more strongly flavored withclassic mythology than it is. But, letting Milton go, it may benecessary to say that my writing to-day has nothing to do with my theoryof composition in an elevated position; for this is the laziest placethat I have yet found. 

I am above the highest olive-trees, and, if I turned that way, shouldlook over the tops of what seems a vast grove of them, out of which awhite roof, and an old time-eaten tower here and there, appears; andthe sun is flooding them with waves of light, which I think a persondelicately enough organized could hear beat. Beyond the brown roofsof the town, the terraced hills arise, in semicircular embrace of theplain; and the fine veil over them is partly the natural shimmer of theheat, and partly the silver duskiness of the olive-leaves. I sit with myback to all this, taking the entire force of this winter sun, which isfull of life and genial heat, and does not scorch one, as I remembersuch a full flood of it would at home. It is putting sweetness, too, into the oranges, which, I observe, are getting redder and softer dayby day. We have here, by the way, such a habit of taking up an orange, weighing it in the hand, and guessing if it is ripe, that the test isextending to other things. I saw a gentleman this morning, at breakfast, weighing an egg in the same manner; and some one asked him if it wasripe. 

It seems to me that the Mediterranean was never bluer than it is to-day. It has a shade or two the advantage of the sky: though I like thesky best, after all; for it is less opaque, and offers an illimitableopportunity of exploration. Perhaps this is because I am nearer to it. There are some little ruffles of air on the sea, which I do not feelhere, making broad spots of shadow, and here and there flecks andsparkles. But the schooners sail idly, and the fishing-boats that haveput out from the marina float in the most dreamy manner. I fear thatthe fishermen who have made a show of industry, and got away fromtheir wives, who are busily weaving nets on shore, are yielding to theseductions of the occasion, and making a day of it. And, as I look atthem, I find myself debating which I would rather be, a fisherman therein the boat, rocked by the swell, and warmed by the sun, or a friar, on the terrace of the garden on the summit of Deserto, lying perfectlytranquil, and also soaked in the sun. There is one other person, nowthat I think of it, who may be having a good time to-day, though I donot know that I envy him. His business is a new one to me, and is anoccupation that one would not care to recommend to a friend until he hadtried it: it is being carried about in a basket. As I went up the newMassa road the other day, I met a ragged, stout, and rather dirty woman, with a large shallow basket on her head. In it lay her husband, a largeman, though I think a little abbreviated as to his legs. The woman askedalms. Talk of Diogenes in his tub! How must the world look to a man ina basket, riding about on his wife's head? When I returned, she had puthim down beside the road in the sun, and almost in danger of the passingvehicles. I suppose that the affectionate creature thought that, if hegot a new injury in this way, his value in the beggar market would beincreased. I do not mean to do this exemplary wife any injustice; and Ionly suggest the idea in this land, where every beggar who is bornwith a deformity has something to thank the Virgin for. This customof carrying your husband on your head in a basket has something torecommend it, and is an exhibition of faith on the one hand, and ofdevotion on the other, that is seldom met with. Its consideration iscommended to my countrywomen at home. It is, at least, a new commentaryon the apostolic remark, that the man is the head of the woman. It is, in some respects, a happy division of labor in the walk of life: shefurnishes the locomotive power, and he the directing brains, as he liesin the sun and looks abroad; which reminds me that the sun is gettinghot on my back. The little bunch of bells in the convent tower isjangling out a suggestion of worship, or of the departure of the hours. It is time to eat an orange. 

Vesuvius appears to be about on a level with my eyes and I never knewhim to do himself more credit than to-day. The whole coast of the bayis in a sort of obscuration, thicker than an Indian summer haze; andthe veil extends almost to the top of Vesuvius. But his summit is stilldistinct, and out of it rises a gigantic billowy column of white smoke, greater in quantity than on any previous day of our sojourn; and the sunturns it to silver. Above a long line of ordinary looking clouds, floatgreat white masses, formed of the sulphurous vapor. This manufactureof clouds in a clear, sunny day has an odd appearance; but it is easyenough, if one has such a laboratory as Vesuvius. How it tumbles up thewhite smoke! It is piled up now, I should say, a thousand feet above thecrater, straight into the blue sky, --a pillar of cloud by day. Onemight sit here all day watching it, listening the while to the melodiousspring singing of the hundreds of birds which have come to takepossession of the garden, receiving southern reinforcements from Sicilyand Tunis every morning, and think he was happy. But the morning hasgone; and I have written nothing. 

THE PRICE OF ORANGES

If ever a northern wanderer could be suddenly transported to look downupon the Piano di Sorrento, he would not doubt that he saw the Garden ofthe Hesperides. The orange-trees cannot well be fuller: their branchesbend with the weight of fruit. With the almond-trees in full flower, and with the silver sheen of the olive leaves, the oranges are apples ofgold in pictures of silver. As I walk in these sunken roads, and betweenthese high walls, the orange boughs everywhere hang over; and throughthe open gates of villas I look down alleys of golden glimmer, rosesand geraniums by the walk, and the fruit above, --gardens of enchantment, with never a dragon, that I can see, to guard them. 

All the highways and the byways, the streets and lanes, wherever I go, from the sea to the tops of the hills, are strewn with orange-peel; sothat one, looking above and below, comes back from a walk with a goldendazzle in his eyes, --a sense that yellow is the prevailing color. Perhaps the kerchiefs of the dark-skinned girls and women, which takethat tone, help the impression. The inhabitants are all orange-eaters. The high walls show that the gardens are protected with great care; yetthe fruit seems to be as free as apples are in a remote New England townabout cider-time. 

I have been trying, ever since I have been here, to ascertain the priceof oranges; not for purposes of exportation, nor yet for the personalimportation that I daily practice, but in order to give an Americanbasis of fact to these idle chapters. In all the paths I meet, daily, girls and boys bearing on their heads large baskets of the fruit, andlittle children with bags and bundles of the same, as large as they canstagger under; and I understand they are carrying them to the packers, who ship them to New York, or to the depots, where I see them lying inyellow heaps, and where men and women are cutting them up, and removingthe peel, which goes to England for preserves. I am told that theseoranges are sold for a couple of francs a hundred. That seems to me sodear that I am not tempted into any speculation, but stroll back to theTramontano, in the gardens of which I find better terms. 

The only trouble is to find a sweet tree; for the Sorrento oranges areusually sour in February; and one needs to be a good judge of the fruit, and know the male orange from the female, though which it is that is thesweeter I can never remember (and should not dare to say, if I did, inthe present state of feeling on the woman question), --or he might aswell eat a lemon. The mercenary aspect of my query does not enter inhere. I climb into a tree, and reach out to the end of the branch foran orange that has got reddish in the sun, that comes off easily and isheavy; or I tickle a large one on the top bough with a cane pole; andif it drops readily, and has a fine grain, I call it a cheap one. I canusually tell whether they are good by splitting them open and eatinga quarter. The Italians pare their oranges as we do apples; but I likebest to open them first, and see the yellow meat in the white casket. After you have eaten a few from one tree, you can usually tell whetherit is a good tree; but there is nothing certain about it, --one boughthat gets the sun will be better than another that does not, and onehalf of an orange will fill your mouth with more delicious juices thanthe other half. 

The oranges that you knock off with your stick, as you walk along thelanes, don't cost anything; but they are always sour, as I think thegirls know who lean over the wall, and look on with a smile: and, inthat, they are more sensible than the lively dogs which bark at youfrom the top, and wake all the neighborhood with their clamor. I have nodoubt the oranges have a market price; but I have been seeking the valuethe gardeners set on them themselves. As I walked towards the heights, the other morning, and passed an orchard, the gardener, who saw myineffectual efforts, with a very long cane, to reach the boughs ofa tree, came down to me with a basketful he had been picking. As anexperiment on the price, I offered him a two-centime piece, which is asort of satire on the very name of money, --when he desired me to helpmyself to as many oranges as I liked. He was a fine-looking fellow, with a spick-span new red Phrygian cap; and I had n't the heart to takeadvantage of his generosity, especially as his oranges were not of thesweetest. One ought never to abuse generosity. 

Another experience was of a different sort, and illustrates the Italianlove of bargaining, and their notion of a sliding scale of prices. Oneof our expeditions to the hills was one day making its long, stragglingway through the narrow street of a little village of the Piano, whenI lingered behind my companions, attracted by a handcart with severallarge baskets of oranges. The cart stood untended in the street;and selecting a large orange, which would measure twelve inches incircumference, I turned to look for the owner. After some time a fellowgot from the open front of the neighboring cobbler's shop, where he satwith his lazy cronies, listening to the honest gossip of the follower ofSt. Crispin, and sauntered towards me. 

"How much for this?" I ask. 

"One franc, signor, " says the proprietor, with a polite bow, holding upone finger. 

I shake my head, and intimate that that is altogether too much, in fact, preposterous. 

The proprietor is very indifferent, and shrugs his shoulders in anamiable manner. He picks up a fair, handsome orange, weighs it in hishand, and holds it up temptingly. That also is one, franc. 

I suggest one sou as a fair price, a suggestion which he only receiveswith a smile of slight pity, and, I fancy, a little disdain. A womanjoins him, and also holds up this and that gold-skinned one for myadmiration. 

As I stand, sorting over the fruit, trying to please myself with size, color, and texture, a little crowd has gathered round; and I see, bya glance, that all the occupations in that neighborhood, includingloafing, are temporarily suspended to witness the trade. The interestof the circle visibly increases; and others take such a part in thetransaction that I begin to doubt if the first man is, after all, theproprietor. 

At length I select two oranges, and again demand the price. There is alittle consultation and jabber, when I am told that I can have both fora franc. I, in turn, sigh, shrug my shoulders, and put down the oranges, amid a chorus of exclamations over my graspingness. My offer of two sousis met with ridicule, but not with indifference. I can see that it hasmade a sensation. These simple, idle children of the sun begin to show alittle excitement. I at length determine upon a bold stroke, and resolveto show myself the Napoleon of oranges, or to meet my Waterloo. I pickout four of the largest oranges in the basket, while all eyes are fixedon me intently, and, for the first time, pull out a piece of money. Itis a two-sous piece. I offer it for the four oranges. 

"No, no, no, no, signor! Ah, signor! ah, signor!" in a chorus from thewhole crowd. 

I have struck bottom at last, and perhaps got somewhere near the value;and all calmness is gone. Such protestations, such indignation, suchsorrow, I have never seen before from so small a cause. It cannot bethought of; it is mere ruin! I am, in turn, as firm, and nearly asexcited in seeming. I hold up the fruit, and tender the money. 

"No, never, never! The signor cannot be in earnest. "

Looking round me for a moment, and assuming a theatrical manner, befitting the gestures of those about me, I fling the fruit down, and, with a sublime renunciation, stalk away. 

There is instantly a buzz and a hum that rises almost to a clamor. Ihave not proceeded far, when a skinny old woman runs after me, and begsme to return. I go back, and the crowd parts to receive me. 

The proprietor has a new proposition, the effect of which upon me isintently watched. He proposes to give me five big oranges for four sous. I receive it with utter scorn, and a laugh of derision. I will give twosous for the original four, and not a centesimo more. That I solemnlysay, and am ready to depart. Hesitation and renewed conference; but atlast the proprietor relents; and, with the look of one who is ruinedfor life, and who yet is willing to sacrifice himself, he hands me theoranges. Instantly the excitement is dead, the crowd disperses, andthe street is as quiet as ever; when I walk away, bearing my hard-wontreasures. 

A little while after, as I sat upon the outer wall of the terrace of theCamaldoli, with my feet hanging over, these same oranges were taken frommy pockets by Americans; so that I am prevented from making any moralreflections upon the honesty of the Italians. 

There is an immense garden of oranges and lemons at the village ofMassa, through which travelers are shown by a surly fellow, who keepswatch of his trees, and has a bulldog lurking about for the unwary. I hate to see a bulldog in a fruit orchard. I have eaten a good manyoranges there, and been astonished at the boughs of immense lemons whichbend the trees to the ground. I took occasion to measure one of thelemons, called a citron-lemon, and found its circumference to betwenty-one inches one way by fifteen inches the other, --about as bigas a railway conductor's lantern. These lemons are not so sour as thefellow who shows them: he is a mercenary dog, and his prices afford meno clew to the just value of oranges. 

I like better to go to a little garden in the village of Meta, under asunny precipice of rocks overhung by the ruined convent of Camaldoli. Iturn up a narrow lane, and push open the wooden door in the garden ofa little villa. It is a pretty garden; and, besides the orange andlemon-trees on the terrace, it has other fruit-trees, and a scent ofmany flowers. My friend, the gardener, is sorting oranges from onebasket to another, on a green bank, and evidently selling the fruit tosome women, who are putting it into bags to carry away. 

When he sees me approach, there is always the same pantomime. I proposeto take some of the fruit he is sorting. With a knowing air, and anappearance of great mystery, he raises his left hand, the palm towardme, as one says hush. Having dispatched his business, he takes an emptybasket, and with another mysterious flourish, desiring me to remainquiet, he goes to a storehouse in one corner of the garden, and returnswith a load of immense oranges, all soaked with the sun, ripe andfragrant, and more tempting than lumps of gold. I take one, and ask himif it is sweet. He shrugs his shoulders, raises his hands, and, witha sidewise shake of the head, and a look which says, How can you be sofaithless? makes me ashamed of my doubts. 

I cut the thick skin, which easily falls apart and discloses theluscious quarters, plump, juicy, and waiting to melt in the mouth. Ilook for a moment at the rich pulp in its soft incasement, and then trya delicious morsel. I nod. My gardener again shrugs his shoulders, witha slight smile, as much as to say, It could not be otherwise, and isevidently delighted to have me enjoy his fruit. I fill capacious pocketswith the choicest; and, if I have friends with me, they do the same. I give our silent but most expressive entertainer half a franc, nevermore; and he always seems surprised at the size of the largesse. Weexhaust his basket, and he proposes to get more. 

When I am alone, I stroll about under the heavily-laden trees, and pickup the largest, where they lie thickly on the ground, liking to holdthem in my hand and feel the agreeable weight, even when I can carryaway no more. The gardener neither follows nor watches me; and I thinkperhaps knows, and is not stingy about it, that more valuable to me thanthe oranges I eat or take away are those on the trees among the shiningleaves. And perhaps he opines that I am from a country of snow and ice, where the year has six hostile months, and that I have not money enoughto pay for the rich possession of the eye, the picture of beauty, whichI take with me. 

FASCINATION

There are three places where I should like to live; naming them in theinverse order of preference, --the Isle of Wight, Sorrento, and Heaven. The first two have something in common, the almost mystic union ofsky and sea and shore, a soft atmospheric suffusion that works anenchantment, and puts one into a dreamy mood. And yet there are decidedcontrasts. The superabundant, soaking sunshine of Sorrento is of verydifferent quality from that of the Isle of Wight. On the island there isa sense of home, which one misses on this promontory, the fascinationof which, no less strong, is that of a southern beauty, whose charmsconquer rather than win. I remember with what feeling I one dayunexpectedly read on a white slab, in the little inclosure of Bonchurch, where the sea whispered as gently as the rustle of the ivy-leaves, thename of John Sterling. Could there be any fitter resting-place for thatmost, weary, and gentle spirit? There I seemed to know he had the restthat he could not have anywhere on these brilliant historic shores. Yetso impressible was his sensitive nature, that I doubt not, if he hadgiven himself up to the enchantment of these coasts in his lifetime, itwould have led him by a spell he could not break. 

I am sometimes in doubt what is the spell of Sorrento, and half believethat it is independent of anything visible. There is said to be afatal enchantment about Capri. The influences of Sorrento are not sodangerous, but are almost as marked. I do not wonder that the Greekspeopled every cove and sea-cave with divinities, and built temples onevery headland and rocky islet here; that the Romans built upon theGrecian ruins; that the ecclesiastics in succeeding centuries gainedpossession of all the heights, and built convents and monasteries, andset out vineyards, and orchards of olives and oranges, and took root asthe creeping plants do, spreading themselves abroad in the sunshineand charming air. The Italian of to-day does not willingly emigrate, istempted by no seduction of better fortune in any foreign clime. And soin all ages the swarming populations have clung to these shores, fillingall the coasts and every nook in these almost inaccessible hillswith life. Perhaps the delicious climate, which avoids all extremes, sufficiently accounts for this; and yet I have sometimes thought thereis a more subtle reason why travelers from far lands are spellboundhere, often against will and judgment, week after week, month aftermonth. 

However this may be, it is certain that strangers who come here, andremain long enough to get entangled in the meshes which some influence, I know not what, throws around them, are in danger of never departing. I know there are scores of travelers, who whisk down from Naples, guidebook in hand, goaded by the fell purpose of seeing every place inEurope, ascend some height, buy a load of the beautiful inlaid woodwork, perhaps row over to Capri and stay five minutes in the azure grotto, and then whisk away again, untouched by the glamour of the place. Enoughthat they write "delightful spot" in their diaries, and hurry off to newscenes, and more noisy life. But the visitor who yields himself to theplace will soon find his power of will departing. Some satirical peoplesay, that, as one grows strong in body here, he becomes weak in mind. The theory I do not accept: one simply folds his sails, unships hisrudder, and waits the will of Providence, or the arrival of somecompelling fate. The longer one remains, the more difficult it is to go. We have a fashion--indeed, I may call it a habit--of deciding to go, andof never going. It is a subject of infinite jest among the habituesof the villa, who meet at table, and who are always bidding each othergood-by. We often go so far as to write to Naples at night, and bespeakrooms in the hotels; but we always countermand the order before we sitdown to breakfast. The good-natured mistress of affairs, the head ofthe bureau of domestic relations, is at her wits' end, with guests whoalways promise to go and never depart. There are here a gentleman andhis wife, English people of decision enough, I presume, in Cornwall, whopacked their luggage before Christmas to depart, but who have not gonetowards the end of February, --who daily talk of going, and little bylittle unpack their wardrobe, as their determination oozes out. It iseasy enough to decide at night to go next day; but in the morning, whenthe soft sunshine comes in at the window, and when we descend and walkin the garden, all our good intentions vanish. It is not simply that wedo not go away, but we have lost the motive for those long excursionswhich we made at first, and which more adventurous travelers indulgein. There are those here who have intended for weeks to spend a day onCapri. Perfect day for the expedition succeeds perfect day, boatloadafter boatload sails away from the little marina at the base of thecliff, which we follow with eves of desire, but--to-morrow will do aswell. We are powerless to break the enchantment. 

I confess to the fancy that there is some subtle influence working thissea-change in us, which the guidebooks, in their enumeration of thedelights of the region, do not touch, and which maybe reaches backbeyond the Christian era. I have always supposed that the story ofUlysses and the Sirens was only a fiction of the poets, intended toillustrate the allurements of a soul given over to pleasure, and deaf tothe call of duty and the excitement of a grapple with the world. But alady here, herself one of the entranced, tells me that whoever climbsthe hills behind Sorrento, and looks upon the Isle of the Sirens, isstruck with an inability to form a desire to depart from these coasts. Ihave gazed at those islands more than once, as they lie there in theBay of Salerno; and it has always happened that they have been in ahalf-misty and not uncolored sunlight, but not so draped that I couldnot see they were only three irregular rocks, not far from shore, one ofthem with some ruins on it. There are neither sirens there now, nor anyother creatures; but I should be sorry to think I should never see themagain. When I look down on them, I can also turn and behold on theother side, across the Bay of Naples, the Posilipo, where one of theenchanters who threw magic over them is said to lie in his high tombat the opening of the grotto. Whether he does sleep in his urn in thatexact spot is of no moment. Modern life has disillusioned this regionto a great extent; but the romance that the old poets have woven aboutthese bays and rocky promontories comes very easily back upon one whosubmits himself long to the eternal influences of sky and sea which madethem sing. It is all one, --to be a Roman poet in his villa, a lazyfriar of the Middle Ages toasting in the sun, or a modern idler, who hasdrifted here out of the active currents of life, and cannot make up hismind to depart. 

MONKISH PERCHES

On heights at either end of the Piano di Sorrento, and commandingit, stood two religious houses: the Convent of the Carnaldoli to thenortheast, on the crest of the hill above Meta; the Carthusian Monasteryof the Deserto, to the southwest, three miles above Sorrento. The longerI stay here, the more respect I have for the taste of the monks of theMiddle Ages. They invariably secured the best places for themselves. They seized all the strategic points; they appropriated all thecommanding heights; they knew where the sun would best strike thegrapevines; they perched themselves wherever there was a royal view. When I see how unerringly they did select and occupy the eligibleplaces, I think they were moved by a sort of inspiration. In those days, when the Church took the first choice in everything, the temptation to aChristian life must have been strong. 

The monastery at the Deserto was suppressed by the French of the firstrepublic, and has long been in a ruinous condition. Its buildings crownthe apex of the highest elevation in this part of the promontory:from its roof the fathers paternally looked down upon the churches andchapels and nunneries which thickly studded all this region; so that Ifancy the air must have been full of the sound of bells, and of incenseperpetually ascending. They looked also upon St. Agata under the hill, with a church bigger than itself; upon more distinct Massa, with itschapels and cathedral and overlooking feudal tower; upon Torca, theGreek Theorica, with its Temple of Apollo, the scene yet of an annualreligious festival, to which the peasants of Sorrento go as theirancestors did to the shrine of the heathen god; upon olive and orangeorchards, and winding paths and wayside shrines innumerable. A sweet andpeaceful scene in the foreground, it must have been, and a whole horizonof enchantment beyond the sunny peninsula over which it lorded: theMediterranean, with poetic Capri, and Ischia, and all the classicshore from Cape Misenum, Baiae, and Naples, round to Vesuvius; allthe sparkling Bay of Naples; and on the other side the Bay of Salerno, covered with the fleets of the commerce of Amalfi, then a republicancity of fifty thousand people; and Grecian Paestum on the marshy shore, even then a ruin, its deserted porches and columns monuments of anarchitecture never equaled elsewhere in Italy. Upon this charming perch, the old Carthusian monks took the summer breezes and the winter sun, pruned their olives, and trimmed their grapevines, and said prayers forthe poor sinners toiling in the valleys below. 

The monastery is a desolate old shed now. We left our donkeys to eatthistles in front, while we climbed up some dilapidated steps, andentered the crumbling hall. The present occupants are half a dozenmonks, and fine fellows too, who have an orphan school of some twentylads. We were invited to witness their noonday prayers. The flat-roofedrear buildings extend round an oblong, quadrangular space, which isa rich garden, watered from capacious tanks, and coaxed into easyfertility by the impregnating sun. Upon these roofs the brothers werewont to walk, and here they sat at peaceful evening. Here, too, westrolled; and here I could not resist the temptation to lie an unheededhour or two, soaking in the benignant February sun, above every humanconcern and care, looking upon a land and sea steeped in romance. Thesky was blue above; but in the south horizon, in the direction of Tunis, were the prismatic colors. Why not be a monk, and lie in the sun?

One of the handsome brothers invited us into the refectory, a placeas bare and cheerless as the feeding-room of a reform school, and setbefore us bread and cheese, and red wine, made by the monks. I noticethat the monks do not water their wine so much as the osteria keepersdo; which speaks equally well for their religion and their taste. Thefloor of the room was brick, the table plain boards, and the seats werebenches; not much luxury. The monk who served us was an accomplishedman, traveled, and master of several languages. He spoke English alittle. He had been several years in America, and was much interestedwhen we told him our nationality. 

"Does the signor live near Mexico?"

"Not in dangerous proximity, " we replied; but we did not forfeit hisgood opinion by saying that we visited it but seldom. 

Well, he had seen all quarters of the globe: he had been for years atraveler, but he had come back here with a stronger love for it thanever; it was to him the most delightful spot on earth, he said. And wecould not tell him where its equal is. If I had nothing else to do, Ithink I should cast in my lot with him, --at least for a week. 

But the monks never got into a cozier nook than the Convent of theCamaldoli. That also is suppressed: its gardens, avenues, colonnadedwalks, terraces, buildings, half in ruins. It is the level surface ofa hill, sheltered on the east by higher peaks, and on the north by themore distant range of Great St. Angelo, across the valley, and is oneof the most extraordinarily fertile plots of ground I ever saw. The richground responds generously to the sun. I should like to have seen theabbot who grew on this fat spot. The workmen were busy in the garden, spading and pruning. 

A group of wild, half-naked children came about us begging, as we satupon the walls of the terrace, --the terrace which overhangs the busyplain below, and which commands the entire, varied, nooky promontory, and the two bays. And these children, insensible to beauty, wantcentesimi!

In the rear of the church are some splendid specimens of theumbrella-like Italian pine. Here we found, also, a pretty littleruin, --it might be Greek and--it might be Druid for anything thatappeared, ivy-clad, and suggesting a religion older than that of theconvent. To the east we look into a fertile, terraced ravine; and beyondto a precipitous brown mountain, which shows a sharp outline against thesky; halfway up are nests of towns, white houses, churches, and above, creeping along the slope, the thread of an ancient road, with stonearches at intervals, as old as Caesar. 

We descend, skirting for some distance the monastery walls, over whichpatches of ivy hang like green shawls. There are flowers in profusion, scented violets, daisies, dandelions, and crocuses, large and of therichest variety, with orange pistils, and stamens purple and violet, theback of every alternate leaf exquisitely penciled. 

We descend into a continuous settlement, past shrines, past brown, sturdy men and handsome girls working in the vineyards; we descend--butwords express nothing--into a wonderful ravine, a sort of refined Swissscene, --high, bare steps of rock butting over a chasm, ruins, oldwalls, vines, flowers. The very spirit of peace is here, and it is notdisturbed by the sweet sound of bells echoed in the passes. On narrowledges of precipices, aloft in the air where it would seem that a birdcould scarcely light, we distinguish the forms of men and women; andtheir voices come down to us. They are peasants cutting grass, everyspire of which is too precious to waste. 

We descend, and pass by a house on a knoll, and a terrace of olivesextending along the road in front. Half a dozen children come to theroad to look at us as we approach, and then scamper back to the house infear, tumbling over each other and shouting, the eldest girl makinggood her escape with the baby. My companion swings his hat, and cries, "Hullo, baby!" And when we have passed the gate, and are under the wall, the whole ragged, brown-skinned troop scurry out upon the terrace, andrun along, calling after us, in perfect English, as long as we keep insight, "Hullo, baby!" "Hullo, baby!" The next traveler who goes thatway will no doubt be hailed by the quick-witted natives with thissalutation; and, if he is of a philological turn, he will probablybenefit his mind by running the phrase back to its ultimate Greek roots. 

A DRY TIME

For three years, once upon a time, it did not rain in Sorrento. Not adrop out of the clouds for three years, an Italian lady here, born inIreland, assures me. If there was an occasional shower on the Pianoduring all that drought, I have the confidence in her to think that shewould not spoil the story by noticing it. 

The conformation of the hills encircling the plain would be likely tolead any shower astray, and discharge it into the sea, with whatevergood intentions it may have started down the promontory for Sorrento. Ican see how these sharp hills would tear the clouds asunder, and let outall their water, while the people in the plain below watched them withlonging eyes. But it can rain in Sorrento. Occasionally the northeastwind comes down with whirling, howling fury, as if it would scoopvillages and orchards out of the little nook; and the rain, riding onthe whirlwind, pours in drenching floods. At such times I hear the beatof the waves at the foot of the rock, and feel like a prisoner on anisland. Eden would not be Eden in a rainstorm. 

The drought occurred just after the expulsion of the Bourbons fromNaples, and many think on account of it. There is this to be said infavor of the Bourbons: that a dry time never had occurred while theyreigned, --a statement in which all good Catholics in Sorrento willconcur. As the drought went on, almost all the wells in the place driedup, except that of the Tramontano and the one in the suppressed conventof the Sacred Heart, --I think that is its name. 

It is a rambling pile of old buildings, in the center of the town, witha courtyard in the middle, and in it a deep well, boring down I knownot how far into the rock, and always full of cold sweet water. Thenuns have all gone now; and I look in vain up at the narrow slits in themasonry, which served them for windows, for the glance of a worldly ora pious eye. The poor people of Sorrento, when the public wells andfountains had gone dry, used to come and draw at the Tramontano; butthey were not allowed to go to the well of the convent, the gates wereclosed. Why the government shut them I cannot see: perhaps it knewnothing of it, and some stupid official took the pompous responsibility. The people grumbled, and cursed the government; and, in theirsimplicity, probably never took any steps to revoke the prohibitorylaw. No doubt, as the government had caused the drought, it was all of apiece, the good rustics thought. 

For the government did indirectly occasion the dry spell. I have theinformation from the Italian lady of whom I have spoken. Among the firststeps of the new government of Italy was the suppression of the uselessconvents and nunneries. This one at Sorrento early came under the ban. It always seemed to me almost a pity to rout out this asylum of prayingand charitable women, whose occupation was the encouragement of beggaryand idleness in others, but whose prayers were constant, and whosecharities to the sick of the little city were many. If they never wereof much good to the community, it was a pleasure to have such a sweetlittle hive in the center of it; and I doubt not that the simple peoplefelt a genuine satisfaction, as they walked around the high walls, inbelieving that pure prayers within were put up for them night and day;and especially when they waked at night, and heard the bell of theconvent, and knew that at that moment some faithful soul kept hervigils, and chanted prayers for them and all the world besides; and theyslept the sounder for it thereafter. I confess that, if one is helpedby vicarious prayer, I would rather trust a convent of devoted women(though many of them are ignorant, and some of them are worldly, andnone are fair to see) to pray for me, than some of the houses of coarsemonks which I have seen. 

But the order came down from Naples to pack off all the nuns of theSacred Heart on a day named, to close up the gates of the nunnery, and hang a flaming sword outside. The nuns were to be pulled up by theroots, so to say, on the day specified, and without postponement, and tobe transferred to a house prepared for them at Massa, a few miles downthe promontory, and several hundred feet nearer heaven. Sorrento wasreally in mourning: it went about in grief. It seemed as if somethingsacrilegious were about to be done. It was the intention of the wholetown to show its sense of it in some way. 

The day of removal came, and it rained! It poured: the water camedown in sheets, in torrents, in deluges; it came down with the wildesttempest of many a year. I think, from accurate reports of those whowitnessed it, that the beginning of the great Deluge was only a moisturecompared to this. To turn the poor women out of doors such a day as thiswas unchristian, barbarous, impossible. Everybody who had a shelter wasshivering indoors. But the officials were inexorable. In the order forremoval, nothing was said about postponement on account of weather; andgo the nuns must. 

And go they did; the whole town shuddering at the impiety of it, butkept from any demonstration by the tempest. Carriages went round to theconvent; and the women were loaded into them, packed into them, carriedand put in, if they were too infirm to go themselves. They were drivenaway, cross and wet and bedraggled. They found their dwelling on thehill not half prepared for them, leaking and cold and cheerless. Theyexperienced very rough treatment, if I can credit my informant, who saysshe hates the government, and would not even look out of her latticethat day to see the carriages drive past. 

And when the Lady Superior was driven away from the gate, she said tothe officials, and the few faithful attendants, prophesying in the midstof the rain that poured about her, "The day will come shortly, when youwill want rain, and shall not have it; and you will pray for my return. "

And it did not rain, from that day for three years. 

And the simple people thought of the good Superior, whose departure hadbeen in such a deluge, and who had taken away with her all the moistureof the land; and they did pray for her return, and believed thatthe gates of heaven would be again opened if only the nunnery wererepeopled. But the government could not see the connection betweenconvents and the theory of storms, and the remnant of pious women waspermitted to remain in their lodgings at Massa. Perhaps the governmentthought they could, if they bore no malice, pray as effectually for rainthere as anywhere. 

I do not know, said my informant, that the curse of the Lady Superiorhad anything to do with the drought, but many think it had; and thoseare the facts. 

CHILDREN OF THE SUN

The common people of this region are nothing but children; andragged, dirty, and poor as they are, apparently as happy, to speakidiomatically, as the day is long. It takes very little to please them;and their easily-excited mirth is contagious. It is very rare thatone gets a surly return to a salutation; and, if one shows the leastgood-nature, his greeting is met with the most jolly return. The boatmanhauling in his net sings; the brown girl, whom we meet descending asteep path in the hills, with an enormous bag or basket of orangeson her head, or a building-stone under which she stands as erect as apillar, sings; and, if she asks for something, there is a merry twinklein her eye, that says she hardly expects money, but only puts in a"beg" at a venture because it is the fashion; the workmen clipping theolive-trees sing; the urchins, who dance about the foreigner in thestreet, vocalize their petitions for un po' di moneta in a tunefulmanner, and beg more in a spirit of deviltry than with any expectationof gain. When I see how hard the peasants labor, what scraps andvegetable odds and ends they eat, and in what wretched, dark, andsmoke-dried apartments they live, I wonder they are happy; but Isuppose it is the all-nourishing sun and the equable climate that dothe business for them. They have few artificial wants, and no uneasyexpectation--bred by the reading of books and newspapers--that anythingis going to happen in the world, or that any change is possible. Theirfruit-trees yield abundantly year after year; their little patches ofrich earth, on the built-up terraces and in the crevices of the rocks, produce fourfold. The sun does it all. 

Every walk that we take here with open mind and cheerful heart is sureto be an adventure. Only yesterday, we were coming down a branch of thegreat gorge which splits the plain in two. On one side the path is ahigh wall, with garden trees overhanging. On the other, a stone parapet;and below, in the bed of the ravine, an orange orchard. Beyond rises aprecipice; and, at its foot, men and boys were quarrying stone, whichworkmen raised a couple of hundred feet to the platform above with awindlass. As we came along, a handsome girl on the height had just takenon her head a large block of stone, which I should not care to lift, tocarry to a pile in the rear; and she stopped to look at us. We stopped, and looked at her. This attracted the attention of the men and boys inthe quarry below, who stopped work, and set up a cry for a little money. We laughed, and responded in English. The windlass ceased to turn. The workmen on the height joined in the conversation. A grizzly beggarhobbled up, and held out his greasy cap. We nonplussed him by extendingour hats, and beseeching him for just a little something. Some passerson the road paused, and looked on, amused at the transaction. A boyappeared on the high wall, and began to beg. I threatened to shoot himwith my walkingstick, whereat he ran nimbly along the wall in terror Theworkmen shouted; and this started up a couple of yellow dogs, which cameto the edge of the wall and barked violently. The girl, alone calm inthe confusion, stood stock still under her enormous load looking at us. We swung out hats, and hurrahed. The crowd replied from above, below, and around us, shouting, laughing, singing, until the whole littlevalley was vocal with a gale of merriment, and all about nothing. The beggar whined; the spectators around us laughed; and the wholepopulation was aroused into a jolly mood. Fancy such a merry hullaballooin America. For ten minutes, while the funny row was going on, the girlnever moved, having forgotten to go a few steps and deposit her load;and when we disappeared round a bend of the path, she was still watchingus, smiling and statuesque. 

As we descend, we come upon a group of little children seated about adoorstep, black-eyed, chubby little urchins, who are cutting orangesinto little bits, and playing "party, " as children do on the other sideof the Atlantic. The instant we stop to speak to them, the skinny handof an old woman is stretched out of a window just above our heads, thewrinkled palm itching for money. The mother comes forward out of thehouse, evidently pleased with our notice of the children, and showsus the baby in her arms. At once we are on good terms with the wholefamily. The woman sees that there is nothing impertinent in our cursoryinquiry into her domestic concerns, but, I fancy, knows that we aregenial travelers, with human sympathies. So the people universally arenot quick to suspect any imposition, and meet frankness with frankness, and good-nature with good-nature, in a simple-hearted, primeval manner. If they stare at us from doorway and balcony, or come and stand nearus when we sit reading or writing by the shore, it is only a childlikecuriosity, and they are quite unconscious of any breach of good manners. In fact, I think travelers have not much to say in the matter ofstaring. I only pray that we Americans abroad may remember that we arein the presence of older races, and conduct ourselves with becomingmodesty, remembering always that we were not born in Britain. 

Very likely I am in error; but it has seemed to me that even thefunerals here are not so gloomy as in other places. I have looked in atthe churches when they are in progress, now and then, and been struckwith the general good feeling of the occasion. The real mourners I couldnot always distinguish; but the seats would be filled with a motleygathering of the idle and the ragged, who seemed to enjoy the show andthe ceremony. On one occasion, it was the obsequies of an officer inthe army. Guarding the gilded casket, which stood upon a raised platformbefore the altar, were four soldiers in uniform. Mass was being saidand sung; and a priest was playing the organ. The church was light andcheerful, and pervaded by a pleasant bustle. Ragged boys and beggars, and dirty children and dogs, went and came wherever they chose--aboutthe unoccupied spaces of the church. The hired mourners, who arenumerous in proportion to the rank of the deceased, were clad in whitecotton, --a sort of nightgown put on over the ordinary clothes, with ahood of the same drawn tightly over the face, in which slits were cutfor the eyes and mouth. Some of them were seated on benches near thefront; others were wandering about among the pillars, disappearingin the sacristy, and reappearing with an aimless aspect, altogetherconducting themselves as if it were a holiday, and if there was anythingthey did enjoy, it was mourning at other people's expense. They laughedand talked with each other in excellent spirits; and one varlet near thecoffin, who had slipped off his mask, winked at me repeatedly, as if toinform me that it was not his funeral. A masquerade might have been moregloomy and depressing. 

SAINT ANTONINO

The most serviceable saint whom I know is St. Antonino. He is the patronsaint of the good town of Sorrento; he is the good genius of all sailorsand fishermen; and he has a humbler office, --that of protector of thepigs. On his day the pigs are brought into the public square to beblessed; and this is one reason why the pork of Sorrento is reputed sosweet and wholesome. The saint is the friend, and, so to say, companionof the common people. They seem to be all fond of him, and there islittle of fear in their confiding relation. His humble origin andplebeian appearance have something to do with his popularity, no doubt. There is nothing awe-inspiring in the brown stone figure, battered andcracked, that stands at one corner of the bridge, over the chasm at theentrance of the city. He holds a crosier in one hand, and raises theother, with fingers uplifted, in act of benediction. If his face isan indication of his character, he had in him a mixture of robustgood-nature with a touch of vulgarity, and could rough it in a jollymanner with fishermen and peasants. He may have appeared to betteradvantage when he stood on top of the massive old city gate, which thepresent government, with the impulse of a vandal, took down a few yearsago. The demolition had to be accomplished in the night, under a guardof soldiers, so indignant were the populace. At that time the homelysaint was deposed; and he wears now, I think, a snubbed and cast-asideaspect. Perhaps he is dearer to the people than ever; and I confess thatI like him much better than many grander saints, in stone, I haveseen in more conspicuous places. If ever I am in rough water and foulweather, I hope he will not take amiss anything I have here writtenabout him. 

Sunday, and it happened to be St. Valentine's also, was the greatfete-day of St. Antonino. Early in the morning there was a greatclanging of bells; and the ceremony of the blessing of the pigs tookplace, --I heard, but I was not abroad early enough to see it, --alaziness for which I fancy I need not apologize, as the Catholic isknown to be an earlier religion than the Protestant. When I did go out, the streets were thronged with people, the countryfolk having come infor miles around. The church of the patron saint was the great centerof attraction. The blank walls of the little square in front, and of thenarrow streets near, were hung with cheap and highly-colored lithographsof sacred subjects, for sale; tables and booths were set up in everyavailable space for the traffic in pre-Raphaelite gingerbread, molassescandy, strings of dried nuts, pinecone and pumpkin seeds, scarfs, bootsand shoes, and all sorts of trumpery. One dealer had preempted a largespace on the pavement, where he had spread out an assortment of bitsof old iron, nails, pieces of steel traps, and various fragments whichmight be useful to the peasants. The press was so great, that it wasdifficult to get through it; but the crowd was a picturesque one, and inthe highest good humor. The occasion was a sort of Fourth of July, butwithout its worry and powder and flowing bars. 

The spectacle of the day was the procession bearing the silver imageof the saint through the streets. I think there could never be anythingfiner or more impressive; at least, I like these little fussy provincialdisplays, --these tag-rags and ends of grandeur, in which all thepopulace devoutly believe, and at which they are lost in wonder, --betterthan those imposing ceremonies at the capital, in which nobody believes. There was first a band of musicians, walking in more or less disorder, but blowing away with great zeal, so that they could be heard amid theclangor of bells the peals of which reverberate so deafeningly betweenthe high houses of these narrow streets. Then follow boys in white, and citizens in black and white robes, carrying huge silken banners, triangular like sea-pennants, and splendid silver crucifixes which flashin the sun. Then come ecclesiastics, walking with stately step, andchanting in loud and pleasant unison. These are followed by nobles, among whom I recognize, with a certain satisfaction, two descendants ofTasso, whose glowing and bigoted soul may rejoice in the devotion of hisposterity, who help to bear today the gilded platform upon which is thesolid silver image of the saint. The good old bishop walks humbly inthe rear, in full canonical rig, with crosier and miter, his rich robesupborne by priestly attendants, his splendid footman at a respectfuldistance, and his roomy carriage not far behind. 

The procession is well spread out and long; all its members carrylighted tapers, a good many of which are not lighted, having gone out inthe wind. As I squeeze into a shallow doorway to let the cortege pass, Iam sorry to say that several of the young fellows in white gowns tipme the wink, and even smile in a knowing fashion, as if it were a merelark, after all, and that the saint must know it. But not so thinks thepaternal bishop, who waves a blessing, which I catch in the flash ofthe enormous emerald on his right hand. The procession ends, where itstarted, in the patron's church; and there his image is set up under agorgeous canopy of crimson and gold, to hear high mass, and some of thechoicest solos, choruses, and bravuras from the operas. 

In the public square I find a gaping and wondering crowd of rusticscollected about one of the mountebanks whose trade is not peculiar toany country. This one might be a clock-peddler from Connecticut. Heis mounted in a one-seat vettura, and his horse is quietly eating hisdinner out of a bag tied to his nose. There is nothing unusual in thefellow's dress; he wears a shiny silk hat, and has one of those gravefaces which would be merry if their owner were not conscious of seriousbusiness on hand. On the driver's perch before him are arranged hisattractions, --a box of notions, a grinning skull, with full teeth andjaws that work on hinges, some vials of red liquid, and a closed jarcontaining a most disagreeable anatomical preparation. This latter heholds up and displays, turning it about occasionally in an admiringmanner. He is discoursing, all the time, in the most voluble Italian. Hehas an ointment, wonderfully efficacious for rheumatism and every sortof bruise: he pulls up his sleeve, and anoints his arm with it, binding it up with a strip of paper; for the simplest operation must beexplained to these grown children. He also pulls teeth, with an ease andexpedition hitherto unknown, and is in no want of patients among thisopen-mouthed crowd. One sufferer after another climbs up into thewagon, and goes through the operation in the public gaze. A stolid, good-natured hind mounts the seat. The dentist examines his mouth, andfinds the offending tooth. He then turns to the crowd and explains thecase. He takes a little instrument that is neither forceps nor turnkey, stands upon the seat, seizes the man's nose, and jerks his head roundbetween his knees, pulling his mouth open (there is nothing that opensthe mouth quicker than a sharp upward jerk of the nose) with a rudejollity that sets the spectators in a roar. Down he goes into thecavern, and digs away for a quarter of a minute, the man the whileas immovable as a stone image, when he holds up the bloody tooth. Thepatient still persists in sitting with his mouth stretched open to itswidest limit, waiting for the operation to begin, and will only closethe orifice when he is well shaken and shown the tooth. The dentistgives him some yellow liquid to hold in his mouth, which the man insistson swallowing, wets a handkerchief and washes his face, roughly rubbinghis nose the wrong way, and lets him go. Every step of the process iseagerly watched by the delighted spectators. 

He is succeeded by a woman, who is put through the same heroictreatment, and exhibits like fortitude. And so they come; and thedentist after every operation waves the extracted trophy high in air, and jubilates as if he had won another victory, pointing to the stonestatue yonder, and reminding them that this is the glorious day of St. Antonino. But this is not all that this man of science does. He has thegenuine elixir d'amour, love-philters and powders which never fail intheir effects. I see the bashful girls and the sheepish swains comeslyly up to the side of the wagon, and exchange their hard-earned francsfor the hopeful preparation. O my brown beauty, with those soft eyes andcheeks of smothered fire, you have no need of that red philter! What asimple, childlike folk! The shrewd fellow in the wagon is one of a raceas old as Thebes and as new as Porkopolis; his brazen face is olderthan the invention of bronze, but I think he never had to do with a morecredulous crowd than this. The very cunning in the face of the peasantsis that of the fox; it is a sort of instinct, and not an intelligentsuspicion. 

This is Sunday in Sorrento, under the blue sky. These peasants, whoare fooled by the mountebank and attracted by the piles of adamantinegingerbread, do not forget to crowd the church of the saint at vespers, and kneel there in humble faith, while the choir sings the Agnus Dei, and the priests drone the service. Are they so different, then, fromother people? They have an idea on Capri that England is such anotherisland, only not so pleasant; that all Englishmen are rich andconstantly travel to escape the dreariness at home; and that, if theyare not absolutely mad, they are all a little queer. It was a fancyprevalent in Hamlet's day. We had the English service in the Villa Nardiin the evening. There are some Englishmen staying here, of the class onefinds in all the sunny spots of Europe, ennuye and growling, in searchof some elixir that shall bring back youth and enjoyment. They seemdivided in mind between the attractions of the equable climate of thisregion and the fear of the gout which lurks in the unfermented wine. One cannot be too grateful to the sturdy islanders for carrying theirprayers, like their drumbeat, all round the globe; and I was muchedified that night, as the reading went on, by a row of rather batteredmen of the world, who stood in line on one side of the room, andtook their prayers with a certain British fortitude, as if they wereconscious of performing a constitutional duty, and helping by the act touphold the majesty of English institutions. 

PUNTA DELLA CAMPANELLA

There is always a mild excitement about mounting donkeys in the morninghere for an excursion among the hills. The warm sun pouring into thegarden, the smell of oranges, the stimulating air, the general opennessand freshness, promise a day of enjoyment. There is always a doubt asto who will go; generally a donkey wanting; somebody wishes to join theparty at the last moment; there is no end of running up and downstairs, calling from balconies and terraces; some never ready, and some waitingbelow in the sun; the whole house in a tumult, drivers in a worry, andthe sleepy animals now and then joining in the clatter with a vocalperformance that is neither a trumpet-call nor a steam-whistle, but anindescribable noise, that begins in agony and abruptly breaks downin despair. It is difficult to get the train in motion. The lady whoordered Succarina has got a strange donkey, and Macaroni has on thewrong saddle. Succarina is a favorite, the kindest, easiest, andsurest-footed of beasts, --a diminutive animal, not bigger than aFriesland sheep; old, in fact grizzly with years, and not unlike theaged, wizened little women who are so common here: for beauty in thisregion dries up; and these handsome Sorrento girls, if they live, andalmost everybody does live, have the prospect, in their old age, ofbecoming mummies, with parchment skins. I have heard of climates thatpreserve female beauty; this embalms it, only the beauty escapes in theprocess. As I was saying, Succarina is little, old, and grizzly; but herhead is large, and one might be contented to be as wise as she looks. 

The party is at length mounted, and clatters away through the narrowstreets. Donkey-riding is very good for people who think they cannotwalk. It looks very much like riding, to a spectator; and it deceivesthe person undertaking it into an amount of exercise equal to walking. I have a great admiration for the donkey character. There never wassuch patience under wrong treatment, such return of devotion for injury. Their obstinacy, which is so much talked about, is only an exercise ofthe right of private judgment, and an intelligent exercise of it, nodoubt, if we could take the donkey point of view, as so many of us areaccused of doing in other things. I am certain of one thing: in anylarge excursion party there will be more obstinate people than obstinatedonkeys; and yet the poor brutes get all the thwacks and thumps. We arebound to-day for the Punta della Campanella, the extreme point of thepromontory, and ten miles away. The path lies up the steps from the newMassa carriage-road, now on the backbone of the ridge, and now inthe recesses of the broken country. What an animated picture is thedonkeycade, as it mounts the steeps, winding along the zigzags! Hearthe little bridlebells jingling, the drivers groaning their "a-e-ugh, a-e-ugh, " the riders making a merry din of laughter, and firing off afusillade of ejaculations of delight and wonder. 

The road is between high walls; round the sweep of curved terraces whichrise above and below us, bearing the glistening olive; through glens andgullies; over and under arches, vine-grown, --how little we make use ofthe arch at home!--round sunny dells where orange orchards gleam; pastshrines, little chapels perched on rocks, rude villas commanding mostextensive sweeps of sea and shore. The almond trees are in full bloom, every twig a thickly-set spike of the pink and white blossoms; daisiesand dandelions are out; the purple crocuses sprinkle the ground, thepetals exquisitely varied on the reverse side, and the stamens of brightsalmon color; the large double anemones have come forth, certain that itis spring; on the higher crags by the wayside the Mediterranean heatherhas shaken out its delicate flowers, which fill the air with a mildfragrance; while blue violets, sweet of scent like the English, make ourpath a perfumed one. And this is winter. 

We have made a late start, owing to the fact that everybody is captainof the expedition, and to the Sorrento infirmity that no one is able tomake up his mind about anything. It is one o'clock when we reach a hightransverse ridge, and find the headlands of the peninsula rising beforeus, grim hills of limestone, one of them with the ruins of a convent ontop, and no road apparent thither, and Capri ahead of us in the sea, theonly bit of land that catches any light; for as we have journeyed thesky has thickened, the clouds of the sirocco have come up from thesouth; there has been first a mist, and then a fine rain; the ruinson the peak of Santa Costanza are now hid in mist. We halt forconsultation. Shall we go on and brave a wetting, or ignominiouslyretreat? There are many opinions, but few decided ones. The driversdeclare that it will be a bad time. One gentleman, with an air ofdecision, suggests that it is best to go on, or go back, if we do notstand here and wait. The deaf lady, from near Dublin, being appealed to, says that, perhaps, if it is more prudent, we had better go back ifit is going to rain. It does rain. Waterproofs are put on, umbrellasspread, backs turned to the wind; and we look like a group of explorersunder adverse circumstances, "silent on a peak in Darien, " the donkeysespecially downcast and dejected. Finally, as is usual in life, acompromise prevails. We decide to continue for half an hour longer andsee what the weather is. No sooner have we set forward over the brow ofa hill than it grows lighter on the sea horizon in the southwest, theruins on the peak become visible, Capri is in full sunlight. The cloudslift more and more, and still hanging overhead, but with no more rain, are like curtains gradually drawn up, opening to us a glorious vista ofsunshine and promise, an illumined, sparkling, illimitable sea, and abright foreground of slopes and picturesque rocks. Before the half houris up, there is not one of the party who does not claim to have been theperson who insisted upon going forward. 

We halt for a moment to look at Capri, that enormous, irregular rock, raising its huge back out of the sea, its back broken in the middle, with the little village for a saddle. On the farther summit, aboveAnacapri, a precipice of two thousand feet sheer down to the water onthe other side, hangs a light cloud. The east elevation, whencethe playful Tiberius used to amuse his green old age by casting hisprisoners eight hundred feet down into the sea, has the strong sunlighton it; and below, the row of tooth-like rocks, which are the extremeeastern point, shine in a warm glow. We descend through a village, twisting about in its crooked streets. The inhabitants, who do not seestrangers every day, make free to stare at and comment on us, and evenlaugh at something that seems very comical in our appearance; whichshows how ridiculous are the costumes of Paris and New York in someplaces. Stalwart girls, with only an apology for clothes, with barelegs, brown faces, and beautiful eyes, stop in their spinning, holdingthe distaff suspended, while they examine us at leisure. At our left, as we turn from the church and its sunny piazza, where old women sitand gabble, down the ravine, is a snug village under the mountain bythe shore, with a great square medieval tower. On the right, upon rockypoints, are remains of round towers, and temples perhaps. 

We sweep away to the left round the base of the hill, over a difficultand stony path. Soon the last dilapidated villa is passed, the lastterrace and olive-tree are left behind; and we emerge upon a wild, rockyslope, barren of vegetation, except little tufts of grass and a sort oflentil; a wide sweep of limestone strata set on edge, and crumbling inthe beat of centuries, rising to a considerable height on the left. Our path descends toward the sea, still creeping round the end of thepromontory. Scattered here and there over the rocks, like conies, are peasants, tending a few lean cattle, and digging grasses from thecrevices. The women and children are wild in attire and manner, and setup a clamor of begging as we pass. A group of old hags begin beatinga poor child as we approach, to excite our compassion for the abusedlittle object, and draw out centimes. 

Walking ahead of the procession, which gets slowly down the rugged path, I lose sight of my companions, and have the solitude, the sun on therocks, the glistening sea, all to myself. Soon I espy a man below mesauntering down among the rocks. He sees me and moves away, a solitaryfigure. I say solitary; and so it is in effect, although he is leadinga little boy, and calling to his dog, which runs back to bark at me. Isthis the brigand of whom I have read, and is he luring me to his haunt?Probably. I follow. He throws his cloak about his shoulders, exactly asbrigands do in the opera, and loiters on. At last there is the pointin sight, a gray wall with blind arches. The man disappears througha narrow archway, and I follow. Within is an enormous square tower. Ithink it was built in Spanish days, as an outlook for Barbary pirates. A bell hung in it, which was set clanging when the white sails of therobbers appeared to the southward; and the alarm was repeated up thecoast, the towers were manned, and the brown-cheeked girls flew awayto the hills, I doubt not, for the touch of the sirocco was not half somuch to be dreaded as the rough importunity of a Saracen lover. The bellis gone now, and no Moslem rovers are in sight. The maidens we had justpassed would be safe if there were. My brigand disappears round thetower; and I follow down steps, by a white wall, and lo! a house, --a redstucco, Egyptian-looking building, --on the very edge of the rocks. The man unlocks a door and goes in. I consider this an invitation, and enter. On one side of the passage a sleeping-room, on the othera kitchen, --not sumptuous quarters; and we come then upon a prettycircular terrace; and there, in its glass case, is the lantern of thepoint. My brigand is a lighthouse-keeper, and welcomes me in a quietway, glad, evidently, to see the face of a civilized being. It is verysolitary, he says. I should think so. It is the end of everything. TheMediterranean waves beat with a dull thud on the worn crags below. Therocks rise up to the sky behind. There is nothing there but the sun, anoccasional sail, and quiet, petrified Capri, three miles distant acrossthe strait. It is an excellent place for a misanthrope to spend a week, and get cured. There must be a very dispiriting influence prevailinghere; the keeper refused to take any money, the solitary Italian we haveseen so affected. 

We returned late. The young moon, lying in the lap of the old one, wassuperintending the brilliant sunset over Capri, as we passed the lastpoint commanding it; and the light, fading away, left us stumbling overthe rough path among the hills, darkened by the high walls. We were notsorry to emerge upon the crest above the Massa road. For there lay thesea, and the plain of Sorrento, with its darkening groves and hundredsof twinkling lights. As we went down the last descent, the bells of thetown were all ringing, for it was the eve of the fete of St. Antonino. 

CAPRI

"CAP, signor? Good day for Grott. " Thus spoke a mariner, touching hisPhrygian cap. The people here abbreviate all names. With them Massais Mas, Meta is Met, Capri becomes Cap, the Grotta Azzurra is reducedfamiliarly to Grott, and they even curtail musical Sorrento into Serent. 

Shall we go to Capri? Should we dare return to the great Republic, andown that we had not been into the Blue Grotto? We like to climb thesteeps here, especially towards Massa, and look at Capri. I have read insome book that it used to be always visible from Sorrento. But now thepromontory has risen, the Capo di Sorrento has thrust out its rocky spurwith its ancient Roman masonry, and the island itself has moved so farround to the south that Sorrento, which fronts north, has lost sight ofit. 

We never tire of watching it, thinking that it could not be spared fromthe landscape. It lies only three miles from the curving end of thepromontory, and is about twenty miles due south of Naples. In thisatmosphere distances dwindle. The nearest land, to the northwest, is thelarger island of Ischia, distant nearly as far as Naples; yet Capri hasthe effect of being anchored off the bay to guard the entrance. It isreally a rock, three miles and a half long, rising straight out of thewater, eight hundred feet high at one end, and eighteen hundred feet atthe other, with a depression between. If it had been chiseled by handand set there, it could not be more sharply defined. So precipitous areits sides of rock, that there are only two fit boat-landings, themarina on the north side, and a smaller place opposite. One of thoselight-haired and freckled Englishmen, whose pluck exceeds theirdiscretion, rowed round the island alone in rough water, last summer, against the advice of the boatman, and unable to make a landing, andweary with the strife of the waves, was in considerable peril. 

Sharp and clear as Capri is in outline, its contour is still mostgraceful and poetic. This wonderful atmosphere softens even itsruggedness, and drapes it with hues of enchanting beauty. Sometimes thehaze plays fantastic tricks with it, --a cloud-cap hangs on Monte Solaro, or a mist obscures the base, and the massive summits of rock seem tofloat in the air, baseless fabrics of a vision that the rising wind willcarry away perhaps. I know now what Homer means by "wandering islands. "Shall we take a boat and sail over there, and so destroy forever anotherisland of the imagination? The bane of travel is the destruction ofillusions. 

We like to talk about Capri, and to talk of going there. The Sorrentopeople have no end of gossip about the wild island; and, simple andprimitive as they are, Capri is still more out of the world. I do notknow what enchantment there is on the island; but--whoever sets footthere, they say, goes insane or dies a drunkard. I fancy the reason ofthis is found in the fact that the Capri girls are raving beauties. Iam not sure but the monotony of being anchored off there in the bay, the monotony of rocks and precipices that goats alone can climb, themonotony of a temperature that scarcely ever, winter and summer, isbelow 55 or above 75 Fahrenheit indoors, might drive one into lunacy. But I incline to think it is due to the handsome Capri girls. 

There are beautiful girls in Sorrento, with a beauty more than skindeep, a glowing, hidden fire, a ripeness like that of the grape and thepeach which grows in the soft air and the sun. And they wither, likegrapes that hang upon the stem. I have never seen a handsome, scarcelya decent-looking, old woman here. They are lank and dry, and theirbones are covered with parchment. One of these brown-cheeked girls, withlarge, longing eyes, gives the stranger a start, now and then, when hemeets her in a narrow way with a basket of oranges on her head. I hopehe has the grace to go right by. Let him meditate what this vision ofbeauty will be like in twenty ears. 

The Capri girls are famed as magnificent beauties, but they fade liketheir mainland sisters. The Saracens used to descend on their island, and carry them off to their harems. The English, a very adventurouspeople, who have no harems, have followed the Saracens. The young lordsand gentlemen have a great fondness for Capri. I hear gossipenough about elopements, and not seldom marriages, with the islandgirls, --bright girls, with the Greek mother-wit, and surpassinglyhandsome; but they do not bear transportation to civilized life (anymore than some of the native wines do): they accept no intellectualculture; and they lose their beauty as they grow old. What then? Theyoung English blade, who was intoxicated by beauty into an injudiciousmatch and might, as the proverb says, have gone insane if he could nothave made it, takes to drink now, and so fulfills the other alternative. Alas! the fatal gift of beauty. 

But I do not think Capri is so dangerous as it is represented. For(of course we went to Capri) neither at the marina, where a crowd ofbare-legged, vociferous maidens with donkeys assailed us, nor in thevillage above, did I see many girls for whom and one little isle aperson would forswear the world. But I can believe that they grow here. One of our donkey girls was a handsome, dark-skinned, black-eyedgirl; but her little sister, a mite of a being of six years, who couldscarcely step over the small stones in the road, and was forced to leadthe donkey by her sister in order to establish another lien on us forbuona mano, was a dirty little angel in rags, and her great soft blackeyes will look somebody into the asylum or the drunkard's grave in time, I have no doubt. There was a stout, manly, handsome little fellow offive years, who established himself as the guide and friend of thetallest of our party. His hat was nearly gone; he was sadly out ofrepair in the rear; his short legs made the act of walking absurd; buthe trudged up the hill with a certain dignity. And there was nothingmercenary about his attachment: he and his friend got upon very cordialterms: they exchanged gifts of shells and copper coin, but nothing wassaid about pay. 

Nearly all the inhabitants, young and old, joined us in livelyprocession, up the winding road of three quarters of a mile, to thetown. At the deep gate, entering between thick walls, we stopped to lookat the sea. The crowd and clamor at our landing had been so great thatwe enjoyed the sight of the quiet old woman sitting here in the sun, andthe few beggars almost too lazy to stretch out their hands. Withinthe gate is a large paved square, with the government offices and thetobacco-shop on one side, and the church opposite; between them, up aflight of broad stone steps, is the Hotel Tiberio. Our donkeys walk upthem and into the hotel. The church and hotel are six hundred years old;the hotel was a villa belonging to Joanna II. Of Naples. We climb to theroof of the quaint old building, and sit there to drink in the strangeoriental scene. The landlord says it is like Jaffa or Jerusalem. Thelandlady, an Irish woman from Devonshire, says it is six francs a day. In what friendly intercourse the neighbors can sit on these flat roofs!How sightly this is, and yet how sheltered! To the east is the heightwhere Augustus, and after him Tiberius, built palaces. To the west, upthat vertical wall, by means of five hundred steps cut in the faceof the rock, we go to reach the tableland of Anacapri, the primitivevillage of that name, hidden from view here; the medieval castle ofBarbarossa, which hangs over a frightful precipice; and the height ofMonte Solaro. The island is everywhere strewn with Roman ruins, and withfaint traces of the Greeks. 

Capri turns out not to be a barren rock. Broken and picturesque as itis, it is yet covered with vegetation. There is not a foot, one mightsay a point, of soil that does not bear something; and there is not aniche in the rock, where a scrap of dirt will stay, that is not madeuseful. The whole island is terraced. The most wonderful thing aboutit, after all, is its masonry. You come to think, after a time, that theisland is not natural rock, but a mass of masonry. If the labor that hasbeen expended here, only to erect platforms for the soil to rest on, had been given to our country, it would have built half a dozen Pacificrailways, and cut a canal through the Isthmus. 

But the Blue Grotto? Oh, yes! Is it so blue? That depends upon the timeof day, the sun, the clouds, and something upon the person who entersit. It is frightfully blue to some. We bend down in our rowboat, slideinto the narrow opening which is three feet high, and passing into thespacious cavern, remain there for half an hour. It is, to be sure, forty feet high, and a hundred by a hundred and fifty in extent, withan arched roof, and clear water for a floor. The water appears to be asdeep as the roof is high, and is of a light, beautiful blue, in contrastwith the deep blue of the bay. At the entrance the water is illuminated, and there is a pleasant, mild light within: one has there a novelsubterranean sensation; but it did not remind me of anything I haveseen in the "Arabian Nights. " I have seen pictures of it that were muchfiner. 

As we rowed close to the precipice in returning, I saw many similaropenings, not so deep, and perhaps only sham openings; and thewater-line was fretted to honeycomb by the eating waves. Beneath thewater-line, and revealed here and there when the waves receded, was aline of bright red coral. 

THE STORY OF FIAMMETTA

At vespers on the fete of St. Antonino, and in his church, I saw theSignorina Fiammetta. I stood leaning against a marble pillar near thealtar-steps, during the service, when I saw the young girl kneeling onthe pavement in act of prayer. Her black lace veil had fallen a littleback from her head; and there was something in her modest attitudeand graceful figure that made her conspicuous among all her kneelingcompanions, with their gay kerchiefs and bright gowns. When she rose andsat down, with folded hands and eyes downcast, there was something sopensive in her subdued mien that I could not take my eyes from her. Tosay that she had the rich olive complexion, with the gold strugglingthrough, large, lustrous black eyes, and harmonious features, is onlyto make a weak photograph, when I should paint a picture in colors andinfuse it with the sweet loveliness of a maiden on the way to sainthood. I was sure that I had seen her before, looking down from the balcony ofa villa just beyond the Roman wall, for the face was not one that eventhe most unimpressible idler would forget. I was sure that, young as shewas, she had already a history; had lived her life, and now walked amidthese groves and old streets in a dream. The story which I heard is notlong. 

In the drawing-room of the Villa Nardi was shown, and offered for sale, an enormous counterpane, crocheted in white cotton. Loop by loop, itmust have been an immense labor to knit it; for it was fashioned inpretty devices, and when spread out was rich and showy enough for theroyal bed of a princess. It had been crocheted by Fiammetta for hermarriage, the only portion the poor child could bring to that sacrament. Alas! the wedding was never to be; and the rich work, into which herdelicate fingers had knit so many maiden dreams and hopes and fears, wasoffered for sale in the resort of strangers. It could not have been wantonly that induced her to put this piece of work in the market, but thefeeling, also, that the time never again could return when she wouldhave need of it. I had no desire to purchase such a melancholy coverlet, but I could well enough fancy why she would wish to part with what mustbe rather a pall than a decoration in her little chamber. 

Fiammetta lived with her mother in a little villa, the roof of which isin sight from my sunny terrace in the Villa Nardi, just to the leftof the square old convent tower, rising there out of the silverolive-boughs, --a tumble-down sort of villa, with a flat roof and oddangles and parapets, in the midst of a thrifty but small grove of lemonsand oranges. They were poor enough, or would be in any country wherephysical wants are greater than here, and yet did not belong to thatlowest class, the young girls of which are little more than beasts ofburden, accustomed to act as porters, bearing about on their heads greatloads of stone, wood, water, and baskets of oranges in the shippingseason. She could not have been forced to such labor, or she never wouldhave had the time to work that wonderful coverlet. 

Giuseppe was an honest and rather handsome young fellow of Sorrento, industrious and good-natured, who did not bother his head much aboutlearning. He was, however, a skillful workman in the celebrated inlaidand mosaic woodwork of the place, and, it is said, had even inventedsome new figures for the inlaid pictures in colored woods. He had alittle fancy for the sea as well, and liked to pull an oar over to Caprion occasion, by which he could earn a few francs easier than he couldsaw them out of the orangewood. For the stupid fellow, who could notread a word in his prayer-book, had an idea of thrift in his head, andalready, I suspect, was laying up liras with an object. There are oneor two dandies in Sorrento who attempt to dress as they do in Naples. Giuseppe was not one of these; but there was not a gayer or handsomergallant than he on Sunday, or one more looked at by the Sorrento girls, when he had on his clean suit and his fresh red Phrygian cap. At leastthe good Fiammetta thought so, when she met him at church, though I feelsure she did not allow even his handsome figure to come between her andthe Virgin. At any rate, there can be no doubt of her sentiments afterchurch, when she and her mother used to walk with him along the windingMassa road above the sea, and stroll down to the shore to sit on thegreensward over the Temple of Hercules, or the Roman Baths, or theremains of the villa of C. Fulvius Cunctatus Cocles, or whatever thoseruins subterranean are, there on the Capo di Sorrento. Of course, thisis mere conjecture of mine. They may have gone on the hills behind thetown instead, or they may have stood leaning over the garden-wall ofher mother's little villa, looking at the passers-by in the deep lane, thinking about nothing in the world, and talking about it all the sunnyafternoon, until Ischia was purple with the last light, and the oliveterraces behind them began to lose their gray bloom. All I do know is, that they were in love, blossoming out in it as the almond-trees do herein February; and that all the town knew it, and saw a wedding in thefuture, just as plain as you can see Capri from the heights above thetown. 

It was at this time that the wonderful counterpane began to grow, to thecontinual astonishment of Giuseppe, to whom it seemed a marvel ofskill and patience, and who saw what love and sweet hope Fiammetta wasknitting into it with her deft fingers. I declare, as I think of it, thewhite cotton spread out on her knees, in such contrast to the rich oliveof her complexion and her black shiny hair, while she knits away somerrily, glancing up occasionally with those liquid, laughing eyes toGiuseppe, who is watching her as if she were an angel right out of theblue sky, I am tempted not to tell this story further, but to leavethe happy two there at the open gate of life, and to believe that theyentered in. 

This was about the time of the change of government, after thisregion had come to be a part of the Kingdom of Italy. After the firstexcitement was over, and the simple people found they were not all maderich, nor raised to a condition in which they could live without work, there began to be some dissatisfaction. Why the convents need have beensuppressed, and especially the poor nuns packed off, they couldn'tsee; and then the taxes were heavier than ever before; instead of beingsupported by the government, they had to support it; and, worst ofall, the able young fellows must still go for soldiers. Just as one waslearning his trade, or perhaps had acquired it, and was ready to earnhis living and begin to make a home for his wife, he must pass the threebest years of his life in the army. The conscription was relentless. 

The time came to Giuseppe, as it did to the others. I never heard but hewas brave enough; there was no storm on the Mediterranean that hedare not face in his little boat; and he would not have objected to acampaign with the red shirts of Garibaldi. But to be torn away from hisoccupations by which he was daily laying aside a little for himself andFiammetta, and to leave her for three years, --that seemed dreadful tohim. Three years is a longtime; and though he had no doubt of the prettyFiammetta, yet women are women, said the shrewd fellow to himself, andwho knows what might happen, if a gallant came along who could read andwrite, as Fiammetta could, and, besides, could play the guitar?

The result was, that Giuseppe did not appear at the mustering-office onthe day set; and, when the file of soldiers came for him, he was nowhereto be found. He had fled to the mountains. I scarcely know what hisplan was, but he probably trusted to some good luck to escape theconscription altogether, if he could shun it now; and, at least, Iknow that he had many comrades who did the same, so that at times themountains were full of young fellows who were lurking in them to escapethe soldiers. And they fared very roughly usually, and sometimes nearlyperished from hunger; for though the sympathies of the peasants wereundoubtedly with the quasi-outlaws rather than with the carbineers, yetthe latter were at every hamlet in the hills, and liable to visit everyhut, so that any relief extended to the fugitives was attended withgreat danger; and, besides, the hunted men did not dare to venture fromtheir retreats. Thus outlawed and driven to desperation by hunger, thesefugitives, whom nobody can defend for running away from their duties ascitizens, became brigands. A cynical German, who was taken by them someyears ago on the road to Castellamare, a few miles above here, and heldfor ransom, declared that they were the most honest fellows he hadseen in Italy; but I never could see that he intended the remark asany compliment to them. It is certain that the inhabitants of all thesetowns held very loose ideas on the subject of brigandage: the poorfellows, they used to say, only robbed because they were hungry, andthey must live somehow. 

What Fiammetta thought, down in her heart, is not told: but I presumeshe shared the feelings of those about her concerning the brigands, and, when she heard that Giuseppe had joined them, was more anxious for thesafety of his body than of his soul; though I warrant she did not forgeteither, in her prayers to the Virgin and St. Antonino. And yet thosemust have been days, weeks, months, of terrible anxiety to the poorchild; and if she worked away at the counterpane, netting in thatelaborate border, as I have no doubt she did, it must have been with asad heart and doubtful fingers. I think that one of the psychologicalsensitives could distinguish the parts of the bedspread that wereknit in the sunny days from those knit in the long hours of care anddeepening anxiety. 

It was rarely that she received any message from him and it was thenonly verbal and of the briefest; he was in the mountains above Amalfi;one day he had come so far round as the top of the Great St. Angelo, from which he could look down upon the piano of Sorrento, where thelittle Fiammetta was; or he had been on the hills near Salerno, huntedand hungry; or his company had descended upon some travelers going toPaestum, made a successful haul, and escaped into the steep mountainsbeyond. He didn't intend to become a regular bandit, not at all. Hehoped that something might happen so that he could steal back intoSorrento, unmarked by the government; or, at least, that he could escapeaway to some other country or island, where Fiammetta could join him. Did she love him yet, as in the old happy days? As for him, she was noweverything to him; and he would willingly serve three or thirty yearsin the army, if the government could forget he had been a brigand, and permit him to have a little home with Fiammetta at the end of theprobation. There was not much comfort in all this, but the simple fellowcould not send anything more cheerful; and I think it used to feed thelittle maiden's heart to hear from him, even in this downcast mood, forhis love for her was a dear certainty, and his absence and wild life didnot dim it. 

My informant does not know how long this painful life went on, nor doesit matter much. There came a day when the government was shamed intonew vigor against the brigands. Some English people of consequence (theGerman of whom I have spoken was with them) had been captured, andit had cost them a heavy ransom. The number of the carbineers wasquadrupled in the infested districts, soldiers penetrated the fastnessesof the hills, there were daily fights with the banditti; and, to showthat this was no sham, some of them were actually shot, and others weretaken and thrown into prison. Among those who were not afraid to standand fight, and who would not be captured, was our Giuseppe. One day theItalia newspaper of Naples had an account of a fight with brigands; andin the list of those who fell was the name of Giuseppe---, of Sorrento, shot through the head, as he ought to have been, and buried withoutfuneral among the rocks. 

This was all. But when the news was read in the little post office inSorrento, it seemed a great deal more than it does as I write it; for, if Giuseppe had an enemy in the village, it was not among the people;and not one who heard the news did not think at once of the poor girlto whom it would be more than a bullet through the heart. And so it was. The slender hope of her life then went out. I am told that there waslittle change outwardly, and that she was as lovely as before; but agreat cloud of sadness came over her, in which she was always enveloped, whether she sat at home, or walked abroad in the places where she andGiuseppe used to wander. The simple people respected her grief, andalways made a tender-hearted stillness when the bereft little maidenwent through the streets, --a stillness which she never noticed, for shenever noticed anything apparently. The bishop himself when he walkedabroad could not be treated with more respect. 

This was all the story of the sweet Fiammetta that was confided tome. And afterwards, as I recalled her pensive face that evening asshe kneeled at vespers, I could not say whether, after all, she wasaltogether to be pitied, in the holy isolation of her grief, which I amsure sanctified her, and, in some sort, made her life complete. For Itake it that life, even in this sunny Sorrento, is not alone a matter oftime. 

ST. MARIA A CASTELLO

The Great St. Angelo and that region are supposed to be the haunts ofbrigands. From those heights they spy out the land, and from thencehave, more than once, descended upon the sea-road between Castellamareand Sorrento, and caught up English and German travelers. This elevationcommands, also, the Paestum way. We have no faith in brigands in thesedays; for in all our remote and lonely explorations of this promontorywe have never met any but the most simple-hearted and good-naturedpeople, who were quite as much afraid of us as we were of them. Butthere are not wanting stories, every day, to keep alive the imaginationof tourists. 

We are waiting in the garden this sunny, enticing morning-just the dayfor a tramp among the purple hills--for our friend, the long Englishman, who promised, over night, to go with us. This excellent, good-naturedgiant, whose head rubs the ceiling of any room in the house, has a wifewho is fond of him, and in great dread of the brigands. He comes downwith a sheepish air, at length, and informs us that his wife won't lethim go. 

"Of course I can go, if I like, " he adds. "But the fact is, I have n'tslept much all night: she kept asking me if I was going!" On the whole, the giant don't care to go. There are things more to be feared thanbrigands. 

The expedition is, therefore, reduced to two unarmed persons. In thepiazza we pick up a donkey and his driver for use in case of accident;and, mounting the driver on the donkey, --an arrangement that seemsentirely satisfactory to him, --we set forward. If anything can bringback youth, it is a day of certain sunshine and a bit of unexploredcountry ahead, with a whole day in which to wander in it without a careor a responsibility. We walk briskly up the walled road of the piano, striking at the overhanging golden fruit with our staves; greeting theorange-girls who come down the side lanes; chaffing with the drivers, the beggars, the old women who sit in the sun; looking into the opendoors of houses and shops upon women weaving, boys and girls slicing upheaps of oranges, upon the makers of macaroni, the sellers of sour wine, the merry shoemakers, whose little dens are centers of gossip here, asin all the East: the whole life of these people is open and social; tobe on the street is to be at home. 

We wind up the steep hill behind Meta, every foot of which is terracedfor olive-trees, getting, at length, views over the wayside wall of theplain and bay and rising into the purer air and the scent of flowers andother signs of coming spring, to the little village of Arola, with itschurch and bell, its beggars and idlers, --just a little street of housesjammed in between the hills of Camaldoli and Pergola, both of which weknow well. 

Upon the cliff by Pergola is a stone house, in front of which I liketo lie, looking straight down a thousand or two feet upon the roofs ofMeta, the map of the plain, and the always fascinating bay. I went downthe backbone of the limestone ridge towards the sea the other afternoon, before sunset, and unexpectedly came upon a group of little stonecottages on a ledge, which are quite hidden from below. The inhabitantswere as much surprised to see a foreigner break through their seclusionas I was to come upon them. However, they soon recovered presence ofmind to ask for a little money. Half a dozen old hags with the parchmentalso sat upon the rocks in the sun, spinning from distaffs, exactly astheir ancestors did in Greece two thousand years ago, I doubt not. Ido not know that it is true, as Tasso wrote, that this climate is sotemperate and serene that one almost becomes immortal in it. Since twothousand years all these coasts have changed more or less, risen andsunk, and the temples and palaces of two civilizations have tumbledinto the sea. Yet I do not know but these tranquil old women have beensitting here on the rocks all the while, high above change and worry anddecay, gossiping and spinning, like Fates. Their yarn must be uncanny. 

But we wander. It is difficult to go to any particular place here;impossible to write of it in a direct manner. Our mulepath continuesmost delightful, by slopes of green orchards nestled in shelteredplaces, winding round gorges, deep and ragged with loose stones, andgroups of rocks standing on the edge of precipices, like medievaltowers, and through village after village tucked away in the hills. The abundance of population is a constant surprise. As we proceed, thepeople are wilder and much more curious about us, having, it is evident, seen few strangers lately. Women and children, half-dressed in dirtyrags which do not hide the form, come out from their low stone hutsupon the windy terraces, and stand, arms akimbo, staring at us, and notseldom hailing us in harsh voices. Their sole dress is often a singlesplit and torn gown, not reaching to the bare knees, evidently theoriginal of those in the Naples ballet (it will, no doubt, be differentwhen those creatures exchange the ballet for the ballot); and, withtheir tangled locks and dirty faces, they seem rather beasts thanwomen. Are their husbands brigands, and are they in wait for us in thechestnut-grove yonder?

The grove is charming; and the men we meet there gathering sticks arenot so surly as the women. They point the way; and when we emerge fromthe wood, St. Maria a Castello is before us on a height, its white andred church shining in the sun. We climb up to it. In front is a broad, flagged terrace; and on the edge are deep wells in the rock, from whichwe draw cool water. Plentifully victualed, one could stand a siege here, and perhaps did in the gamey Middle Ages. Monk or soldier need not wisha pleasanter place to lounge. Adjoining the church, but lower, is along, low building with three rooms, at once house and stable, thestable in the center, though all of them have hay in the lofts. Therooms do not communicate. That is the whole of the town of St. Maria aCastello. 

In one of the apartments some rough-looking peasants are eating dinner, a frugal meal: a dish of unclean polenta, a plate of grated cheese, abasket of wormy figs, and some sour red wine; no bread, no meat. Theylooked at us askance, and with no sign of hospitality. We made friends, however, with the ragged children, one of whom took great delight inexhibiting his litter of puppies; and we at length so far worked intothe good graces of the family that the mother was prevailed upon to getus some milk and eggs. I followed the woman into one of the apartmentsto superintend the cooking of the eggs. It was a mere den, with anearth floor. A fire of twigs was kindled against the farther wall, anda little girl, half-naked, carrying a baby still more economically clad, was stooping down to blow the smudge into a flame. The smoke, some ofit, went over our heads out at the door. We boiled the eggs. We desiredsalt; and the woman brought us pepper in the berry. We insisted on salt, and at length got the rock variety, which we pounded on the rocks. Weate our eggs and drank our milk on the terrace, with the entire familyinterested spectators. The men were the hardest-looking ruffians we hadmet yet: they were making a bit of road near by, but they seemed capableof turning their hands to easier money-getting; and there couldn't be amore convenient place than this. 

When our repast was over, and I had drunk a glass of wine with theproprietor, I offered to pay him, tendering what I knew was a fairprice in this region. With some indignation of gesture, he refused it, intimating that it was too little. He seemed to be seeking an excuse fora quarrel with us; so I pocketed the affront, money and all, and turnedaway. He appeared to be surprised, and going indoors presently came outwith a bottle of wine and glasses, and followed us down upon the rocks, pressing us to drink. Most singular conduct; no doubt drugged wine;travelers put into deep sleep; robbed; thrown over precipice; diplomaticcorrespondence, flattering, but no compensation to them. Either this, ora case of hospitality. We declined to drink, and the brigand went away. 

We sat down upon the jutting ledge of a precipice, the like of whichis not in the world: on our left, the rocky, bare side of St. Angelo, against which the sunshine dashes in waves; below us, sheer down twothousand feet, the city of Positano, a nest of brown houses, thicklyclustered on a conical spur, and lying along the shore, the home ofthree thousand people, --with a running jump I think I could land in themidst of it, --a pygmy city, inhabited by mites, as we look down upon it;a little beach of white sand, a sailboat lying on it, and some fishermenjust embarking; a long hotel on the beach; beyond, by the green shore, a country seat charmingly situated amid trees and vines; higher up, theravine-seamed hill, little stone huts, bits of ruin, towers, arches. Howstill it is! All the stiller that I can, now and then, catch the soundof an axe, and hear the shouts of some children in a garden below. Howstill the sea is! How many ages has it been so? Does the purple mistalways hang there upon the waters of Salerno Bay, forever hiding fromthe gaze Paestum and its temples, and all that shore which is so muchmore Grecian than Roman?

After all, it is a satisfaction to turn to the towering rock ofSt. Angelo; not a tree, not a shrub, not a spire of grass, on itsperpendicular side. We try to analyze the satisfaction there is in sucha bald, treeless, verdureless mass. We can grasp it intellectually, inits sharp solidity, which is undisturbed by any ornament: it is, to themind, like some complete intellectual performance; the mind rests on it, like a demonstration in Euclid. And yet what a color of beauty it takeson in the distance!

When we return, the bandits have all gone to their road-making: thesuspicious landlord is nowhere to be seen. We call the woman from thefield, and give her money, which she seemed not to expect, and for whichshe shows no gratitude. Life appears to be indifferent to these people. But, if these be brigands, we prefer them to those of Naples, andeven to the innkeepers of England. As we saunter home in the pleasantafternoon, the vesper-bells are calling to each other, making thesweetest echoes of peace everywhere in the hills, and all the piano isjubilant with them, as we come down the steeps at sunset. 

"You see there was no danger, " said the giant to his wife that eveningat the supper-table. 

"You would have found there was danger, if you had gone, " returned thewife of the giant significantly. 

THE MYTH OF THE SIRENS

I like to walk upon the encircling ridge behind Sorrento, which commandsboth bays. From there I can look down upon the Isles of the Sirens. Thetop is a broad, windy strip of pasture, which falls off abruptly to theBay of Salerno on the south: a regular embankment of earth runs alongthe side of the precipitous steeps, towards Sorrento. It appears to bea line of defence for musketry, such as our armies used to throw up:whether the French, who conducted siege operations from this promontoryon Capri, under Murat, had anything to do with it, does not appear. 

Walking there yesterday, we met a woman shepherdess, cowherd, orsiren--standing guard over three steers while they fed; a scantily-clad, brown woman, who had a distaff in her hand, and spun the flax as shewatched the straying cattle, an example of double industry which themen who tend herds never imitate. Very likely her ancestors so spunand tended cattle on the plains of Thessaly. We gave the rigid womangood-morning, but she did not heed or reply; we made some inquiries asto paths, but she ignored us; we bade her good-day, and she scowledat us: she only spun. She was so out of tune with the people, and thegentle influences of this region, that we could only regard her as ananomaly, --the representative of some perversity and evil genius, which, no doubt, lurks here as it does elsewhere in the world. She could nothave descended from either of the groups of the Sirens; for she was notfascinating enough to be fatal. 

I like to look upon these islets or rocks of the Sirens, barrenand desolate, with a few ruins of the Roman time and remains ofthe Middle-Age prisons of the doges of Amalfi; but I do not care todissipate any illusions by going to them. I remember how the Sirens saton flowery meads by the shore and sang, and are vulgarly supposed tohave allured passing mariners to a life of ignoble pleasure, and thenlet them perish, hungry with all unsatisfied longings. The bones ofthese unfortunates, whitening on the rocks, of which Virgil speaks, Icould not see. Indeed, I think any one who lingers long in this regionwill doubt if they were ever there, and will come to believe that thecharacters of the Sirens are popularly misconceived. Allowing Ulyssesto be only another name for the sun-god, who appears in myths as Indra, Apollo, William Tell, the sure-hitter, the great archer, whose arrowsare sunbeams, it is a degrading conception of him that he was obliged tolash himself to the mast when he went into action with the Sirens, likeFarragut at Mobile, though for a very different reason. We should beforced to believe that Ulysses was not free from the basest mortallongings, and that he had not strength of mind to resist them, but mustput himself in durance; as our moderns who cannot control their desiresgo into inebriate asylums. 

Mr. Ruskin says that "the Sirens are the great constant desires, theinfinite sicknesses of heart, which, rightly placed, give life, and, wrongly placed, waste it away; so that there are two groups of Sirens, one noble and saving, as the other is fatal. " Unfortunately we areall, as were the Greeks, ministered unto by both these groups, but canfortunately, on the other hand, choose which group we will listen to thesinging of, though the strains are somewhat mingled; as, for instance, in the modern opera, where the music quite as often wastes life away, as gives to it the energy of pure desire. Yet, if I were to locate theSirens geographically, I should place the beneficent desires on thiscoast, and the dangerous ones on that of wicked Baiae; to which groupthe founder of Naples no doubt belonged. 

Nowhere, perhaps, can one come nearer to the beautiful myths of Greece, the springlike freshness of the idyllic and heroic age, than on thisSorrentine promontory. It was no chance that made these coasts the homeof the kind old monarch Eolus, inventor of sails and storm-signals. On the Telegrafo di Mare Cuccola is a rude signal-apparatus forcommunication with Capri, --to ascertain if wind and wave are propitiousfor entrance to the Blue Grotto, --which probably was not erected byEolus, although he doubtless used this sightly spot as one of hisstations. That he dwelt here, in great content, with his six sons andsix daughters, the Months, is nearly certain; and I feel as sure thatthe Sirens, whose islands were close at hand, were elevators and notdestroyers of the primitive races living here. 

It seems to me this must be so; because the pilgrim who surrendershimself to the influences of these peaceful and sun-inundated coasts, under this sky which the bright Athena loved and loves, loses, by andby, those longings and heart-sicknesses which waste away his life, andcomes under the dominion, more and more, of those constant desiresafter that which is peaceful and enduring and has the saving quality ofpurity. I know, indeed, that it is not always so; and that, as Boreas isa better nurse of rugged virtue than Zephyr, so the soft influencesof this clime only minister to the fatal desires of some: and such arelikely to sail speedily back to Naples. 

The Sirens, indeed, are everywhere; and I do not know that we can goanywhere that we shall escape the infinite longings, or satisfy them. Here, in the purple twilight of history, they offered men the choiceof good and evil. I have a fancy, that, in stepping out of the whirl ofmodern life upon a quiet headland, so blessed of two powers, the air andthe sea, we are able to come to a truer perception of the drift ofthe eternal desires within us. But I cannot say whether it is a subtlefascination, linked with these mythic and moral influences, or only thephysical loveliness of this promontory, that lures travelers hither, anddetains them on flowery meads.