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The Flag of Russia. 
 
LITTLE JOURNEYS 
 
 TO 
 
 RUSSIA 
 
 AND 
 
 AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 AUSTRIA-HUNGARY' 
 By FELIX J. KOCH, A. B., A. G. S. 
 
 Edited by 
 MARIAN M. GEORGE 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 A. FLANAGAN COMPANY 
 
LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
 Two CoDies Received 
 APR 2 '906 
 r> Cooyrifirht Entry 
 
 UAasZ, fQc(> 
 
 CLASS Qj he No. 
 
 Copyright, 1906 
 By 
 FLANAGAN COMPANY 
 
A Little Journey to 
 Russia 
 
 Russia is a country where the Ice King reigns 
 half the year; where in winter the rivers freeze so deeply 
 that railroads can be built on them and sledge roads 
 are made the full length of their shining surface; where 
 the lakes are ploughed by huge steamers which in- 
 stead of cutting the waves bore their way through the 
 ice; where sleighs fly over the slippery streets for so 
 many months of the year that when summer really 
 comes the horses seem unable to slacken their speed, 
 but tear along the road at the same mad pace, dragging 
 the carriages after them. 
 
 The thermometer shows so many degrees of cold 
 in this country that one's nose may become frosted 
 before he knows it and have to be rubbed with snow 
 to save it from freezing. The rich bundle up in furs 
 until the city streets look like an animal exhibit, while 
 the poor do not take off their clothing even at bed- 
 time, but lie down to sleep, on top of their immense 
 brick stoves, with their sheepskin coats still on. 
 
 For about eight months every year the Russians 
 shiver in the darkness, for the sun rises very late in 
 the morning — long after we Americans have gone to 
 school — and it sets in mid-afternoon. Then summer 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 comes with scorching heat, and the sun takes to shin- 
 ing all day and nearly all night. Snow and ice quickly 
 disappear. A wealth of brilliant-hued flowers gives 
 
 color to parks 
 and moors, and 
 tourists arriving 
 at this season 
 find it hard to 
 believe all the 
 tales they have 
 heard of Arctic 
 cold in the 
 czar's land. 
 
 Of course we 
 all know that 
 the czar is the 
 Emperor of Rus- 
 sia. He rules 
 over a giant 
 countrv. It oc- 
 cupies one-sixth 
 of the land sur- 
 face of the en- 
 tire globe, and 
 is second in size 
 to the British Empire only. It is even more impos- 
 ing than King Edward's realm, for the British Empire 
 is composed of many lands scattered here and there 
 and widely separated by oceans and continents. 
 
 Russia sweeps straight across Northern Europe and 
 Asia. It is continuous. Beginning in the west with 
 Finland, it goes on with European Russia, Poland, 
 
 NICHOLAS II., CZAR OF RUSSIA 
 
Scale of Statute Miles 
 
 25 50 100 200 :S00 40 
 
 Oopjrig'ht, 1904 , by Hanil, MuXaiiy & C o 
 
 30" Longitude East 35"f rom Greenwich. 40 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 5 
 
 the Caucasus, a great slice of central Asia, Siberia, 
 and stops only at the Pacific coast. Its area is 8,644,- 
 100 square miles. As an American traveler has said, 
 "All the United States with Alaska would hardly 
 make a patch for the healing of a rent on Russia's 
 vast garment." And by the time you read this, the 
 area may have increased several thousand square 
 miles, for Russia adds new territory to her possessions 
 with as much ease as she adds ships to her navy. 
 
 Nicholas II., the czar, is the richest and most power- 
 ful monarch of the world to-day, though only thirty- 
 five years of age. He is what we call a despot — a 
 sovereign whose will is law. He may deal with his 
 subjects as he wishes; he rules absolutely over 113,- 
 000,000 people ! And yet he is a very modest young 
 man. Nicholas II. is the nephew of the gracious 
 Queen Alexandra of England, and his sweet-faced 
 wife was Queen Victoria's favorite granddaughter. 
 This royal couple have four daughters and a son. 
 They are taught English as well as Russian, and play 
 with dolls and eat oatmeal for breakfast quite as 
 naturally as though their papa were not a despot, the 
 Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias, Czar of 
 Poland, and Grand-Prince of Finland. 
 
 CHARACTER OF THE COUNTRY 
 
 What shall we see in czarland? Not fine scenery 
 certainly — just a vast flat farm, just plains and steppes, 
 swamps and moors, desert wastes and bleak forests. 
 There is little seaboard, and most of that little is on 
 the ice-bound Arctic coast, or on the inland seas, the 
 Black and the Caspian. The mountains are far away 
 
6 
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 on the boundary line of European Russia. To those 
 who have seen the Alps, or the Rockies, the Ural 
 Mountains do not seem worth a visit, though they are 
 rich in precious stones, in gold, silver, lead and iron. 
 The Caucasus Moun- 
 tains, between the 
 Black and Caspian 
 seas, are famed for 
 their fine scenery, 
 but they lie out of 
 the track of our 
 little journey. We 
 shall be able to visit 
 only a few places in 
 European Russia. 
 
 The czar has over 
 a hundred different 
 peoples and tribes 
 in his empire. In 
 order to be able to 
 talk with them all 
 in their native tongue 
 he would have to 
 learn about forty 
 different languages 
 and dialects. There 
 are the Finns, the 
 
 Poles, the Germans, the Jews, the Armenians, the 
 Georgians, the Tartars, and all manner of strange 
 Asiatic tribes. We shall not be able to visit all of 
 these in their home- villages, but in our short journey 
 we shall see the Russian people in every walk of life: 
 
 ♦'THE POLICE WATCH EVERY MAN, 
 WOMAN AND CHILD" 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 7 
 
 princes, pilgrims, Siberian exiles, soldiers, beggars, 
 pedlers, tramps — and the police! 
 
 We may not even travel in Russia without the per- 
 mission of the police. We must have passports tell- 
 ing who we are, whence we are come, where we are 
 going, and much else about our private affairs. The 
 police take charge of our passports during our stay in 
 each place. We must have their permission to go 
 even from one village to another. They are always 
 at hand, in every corner of the empire, to demand 
 one's passport and ask one questions. 
 
 The police watch every man, woman, and child in 
 Russia just as closely as they watch foreigners. They 
 know the whereabouts of every one, down to the poor 
 servant lass who goes on a short visit. They can tell 
 what route she takes, the shops she enters, and with 
 whom she talks. What the regular police do not 
 know, the secret police find out. Nothing is easier 
 in Russia than to be arrested "on suspicion" by the 
 secret police and exiled to Siberia. If the suspected 
 person is not a subject of the czar, he is escorted out 
 of the country and forbidden to return. 
 
 In Russia it is not safe to talk carelessly about the 
 czar, his officials, the form of government, the Greek 
 Church, or the police. For there is no telling to what 
 the most innocent remark may lead. One may not 
 even read such books and papers as he chooses. The 
 Censor is a powerful official who decides what may 
 or may not be printed and read in the empire, and a 
 strict judge he is. A journey to Russia may prove 
 exciting indeed. We mean to avoid suspicious con- 
 duct, but if we should be arrested and thrown into a 
 
8 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 dungeon for a week or two, it would certainly be an 
 experience worth describing in our letters home. 
 
 With the feeling that we do not know what a day 
 may bring forth, we plan our trip to this strange land. 
 We shall visit, first, St. Petersburg, the capital of the 
 empire, the story of whose building by Peter the Great 
 reads like a tale of the days of giants. We must go 
 to Moscow, once the only capital of Russia, and now 
 the Holy City to all devout Russians. We shall make 
 our way northward almost to reindeer land, to the 
 Holy Isles in the White Sea, and steam down the 
 Volga River to the southern limits of the empire. We 
 must have a glimpse of Warsaw, the ancient capital 
 of Poland, and cross the Gulf of Finland to the land 
 of the Finns. And so let us be off! 
 
 ST. PETERSBURG 
 
 An ocean steamer carries us across the Baltic Sea 
 and eastward through the Gulf of Finland. Kronstadt, 
 a strong fortress on an island, here guards the entrance 
 to the czar's country. While we are gazing from the 
 steamer's deck upon the wharves, dockyards, and 
 batteries of Kronstadt, some uniformed officials come 
 on board. One of them prepares to examine our pass- 
 ports. To our surprise, he signs ours without objection. 
 
 Not all the passengers have such luck. One party 
 of English people have to land at Kronstadt and wait, 
 under the care of the police, until their passports are 
 made right. Nobody knows what is wrong with the 
 papers — nobody but the official, who looks as impor- 
 tant as though the czar's life were intrusted to his 
 sole care. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 9 
 
 And now our 
 boat steams up 
 the broad River 
 Neva toward the 
 city of Peter the 
 Great, the cap- 
 ital of the Rus- 
 sian Empire. 
 The Neva flows 
 from Lake La- 
 doga, the largest 
 lake in Europe, 
 into the Gulf of 
 Finland. On 
 the banks of 
 the stream and 
 on the numerous 
 islands formed 
 by the different 
 river mouths, 
 stands St. Petersburg. We see its cluster of roofs, 
 domes, spires, and pinnacles ahead of us. One immense 
 golden dome shines like a ball of fire. That is the 
 dome of St. Isaac's Cathedral. And there, rising 
 against the sky, is a high, glittering spire as fine as a 
 needle to our sight — the spire of the fortress church 
 beneath which lie buried Peter the Great and all the 
 czars since his time. 
 
 More bearded officials in uniform meet us as we land 
 at the city docks. Here is the customhouse, where 
 we pay the examiner a silver ruble (worth about fifty- 
 eight cents), to keep him from turning the contents 
 
 RUSSIAN CAB DRIVER 
 
10 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 of our trunks upside down. And here are the droshky 
 or cab drivers disputing with one another for the 
 privilege of taking us to a hotel. 
 
 The Neva, glistening, and broad as a lake, its water 
 of the clearest blue, is covered with sea-going craft, 
 pleasure boats, river barges, and fishing smacks. The 
 river banks are faced with massive red granite quays; 
 buildings of solid masonry overlook the water. Islands 
 far out in the river are covered with buildings. 
 
 People all about us are speaking in the strange Rus- 
 sian tongue. More than half the men seem to be in 
 uniform. Their badges often show a silver double- 
 headed eagle. This double-headed eagle is a symbol 
 of the united Eastern and Western empires. 
 
 Racing through the broad, broad streets in a drosh- 
 ky, we get a general idea of St. Petersburg. It is 
 just a fine modern city with wide streets, huge palaces, 
 excellent shops, some green squares, parks, and pleasure 
 grounds, a monument here and there, and a busy 
 populace. It might be a German city, or a French 
 one, or even an American one, except for the appear- 
 ance of the people. 
 
 We see a priest of the Greek Church. He has long 
 hair and flowing robes, and even wears a beard. He 
 looks like no priest we have ever seen before. And 
 there go some peasants in red cotton blouses, queer 
 caps, and baggy trousers tucked inside huge boots. 
 A Russian peasant is called a mujik. Now we pass 
 a street shrine where a Russian peasant woman in 
 short skirts and richly embroidered apron is kneeling 
 before the picture of a saint. Now we see a church 
 with a cluster of big domes painted blue and dotted 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 11 
 
 with gold stars. Another church has green domes. 
 Many of the houses are covered with stucco and painted 
 terra cotta, pale pink, or yellow. The roofs are of 
 sheet iron colored red or green. 
 
 Our droshky is a humble little vehicle, very uncom- 
 fortable, in which there is barely room for two passen- 
 gers. It is drawn by a single horse wearing so little 
 harness that we wonder what holds him to the carriage. 
 Over his head is a high arched yoke gaily painted. 
 The droshky driver sits on a high seat in front. He 
 is a great big fellow, with a baggy coat belted in at 
 the waist, high boots, and a cloth cap which he lifts 
 politely in answering our questions. He speaks broken 
 English, learned during a year's stay in the United 
 States. 
 
 Many of this driver's friends have emigrated to 
 America, he says. While his old mother lives he must 
 stay in Russia. But when she is gone, back he will 
 go to the land where passports and secret police, and 
 censors, and low wages cease from troubling an honest 
 workman. 
 
 Our cabman drives furiously, making us rejoice that 
 the droshky is swung close to the ground so that an 
 upset would not injure us greatly. Though the sturdy 
 little horse goes at a frightful pace, he never runs into 
 anything, being easily controlled. Cab-drivers here 
 are arrested if they injure a pedestrian. A droshky 
 driver is called an isvoshchik, which word serves as a 
 sample of the Russian language. 
 
 Our hotel looks like any large modern hotel, but it 
 proves to be second-rate, as are the hotels of all Russian 
 cities. The rooms are untidy, the servants lazy and 
 
12 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 talkative, and there are fleas in the carpets, and else- 
 where. But the beds are clean, so we unpack our 
 baggage, hang up our United States flag and our pic- 
 ture of the President, and order tea served in our 
 room. Each floor of the hotel has its own servants 
 and a little kitchen, from which one may quickly 
 obtain a " short order" meal of tea, toast, eggs, and 
 other simply prepared dishes. 
 
 The waitress brings us a Russian tea urn, called a 
 samovar. This is a tall copper urn with a cylinder 
 in the center where charcoal burns. This keeps the 
 water in the urn at boiling heat, so that tea may be 
 freshly made for each cup. The samovar belongs 
 particularly to Russia, which is a nation of tea-drink- 
 ers. The Russians import vast quantities of tea from 
 China, some of it of very fine quality. While here, 
 we shall drink our tea in Russian style, from a glass, 
 with a slice of lemon in it, no milk, and the lump of 
 sugar held in our fingers, to be sucked between sips. 
 
 At seven o'clock in the evening we have a Russian 
 dinner; and if the hotels are second-rate in other re- 
 spects, they are " tip-top" when it comes to meals. 
 Russians are hearty eaters. The meal begins with an 
 "appetizer." On the sideboard are numerous dishes, 
 containing cheese, dried fruits, pickles, potted fish, 
 smoked sturgeon, smoked ham, pickled herring, chicken 
 and game; and there, too, are wines, and wonderful 
 Russian brews, spicy and delicious. 
 
 The appetizer seems to us a full meal in itself, and 
 after it come soups, fish pie, roasts, vegetables, pud- 
 dings and confectionery, with glass after glass of scald- 
 ing hot tea. « 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 13 
 
 We are delighted with the cakes, pastry, and sweets. 
 Russians have famous appetites for such goodies. 
 Nowhere else in Europe do pastry-cooks and candy- 
 makers receive wages so high as those paid them in 
 St. Petersburg, Moscow, Odessa, and other Russian 
 cities. Some one has said that a Russian may be 
 without towels and soap, combs and brushes, brooms 
 and matches, but nowhere is he far from a candy shop. 
 
 We taste none of the peculiar Russian dishes of which 
 we have heard, leaving them till chance takes us to a 
 restaurant later on. We give our waiter some kopecks 
 (copper coins worth 
 one hundredth part 
 of a silver ruble), 
 and, summoning a 
 droshkv, start for an 
 after-dinner drive 
 through the beauti- 
 ful summer gardens 
 on the islands of the 
 Neva. 
 
 These islands are 
 connected by numer- 
 ous fine bridges, and 
 are occupied by 
 public buildings, the 
 summer villas of the 
 nobles, pleasure gar- 
 dens, driveways, 
 open-air theaters, 
 and pavilions where 
 bands play. On the 
 
 A PIE SELLER 
 
14 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 island of Vassili Ostroff are the customhouse, the 
 Academy of Sciences, the Academy of Fine Arts, the 
 barracks, the buildings of the mining corps, the Ex- 
 change, and other stately structures. 
 
 We go to Strelka Point and have a splendid view 
 of this mighty city. We look out toward the Gulf of 
 Finland and still may see the sunset glow across its 
 waters. One could see the summer sun all night 
 long from the top of a high building. We drive 
 from island to island, often in a fairyland of lights, 
 fountains, flower gardens, pavilions, terraces, swaying 
 vines and shadowy trees. Boats with festoons of 
 electric lights ply the river in every direction. Music 
 sounds from cafe and garden. 
 
 It is a fascinating place, and the very next morning 
 we return to the summer gardens and loiter about 
 amid the trees, looking at the flowers, fountains, and 
 statuary. 
 
 We see a monument to Kriloff, the Russian writer 
 of fables, who was the special delight of Russian 
 children. They still like to read his queer stories 
 about horses, cows, sheep, donkeys, foxes, wolves, hens, 
 and other fur and feather folk. Kriloff died at St. 
 Petersburg in 1844. Around the pedestal of his monu- 
 ment figures of his animal friends are carved in relief. 
 Kriloff himself is represented in his dressing-gown, 
 seated in his arm chair, apparently gazing down upon 
 this procession of animals. 
 
 Looking upon the Neva, its banks and islands, we 
 see how low is the site of the city. It was built on 
 marshes and -has several times been flooded by the 
 waters of the Gulf of Finland, which, driven by terrible 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 15 
 
 winds, backed up into the river, causing an overflow. 
 St. Petersburg is an unhealthful place. Fevers rage 
 among the poor, who live in crowded underground 
 rooms along the river banks. When the Neva rises 
 high these wretched cellar homes are flooded, and the 
 tenants are driven out upon the street. Then as soon 
 
 ALEXANDER COLUMN AND THE GENERALTY 
 
 as the waters subside, the poor return to their un- 
 wholesome homes, where disease sweeps them off by 
 hundreds. 
 
 How did the Russian capital happen to be built in 
 such a spot? Let us visit the tomb of its founder, 
 Peter the Great — the truly greatest czar in Russian 
 history, and one of the most remarkable men in all 
 
16 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 history — and there speak of the founding of this city. 
 East of the island of Vassili Ostroff is the fortress 
 island with its Cathedral of St. Peter and St. Paul. 
 This cathedral is the burial place of Peter the Great 
 and of all the czars but one since his time. We pass 
 within the dark fortress walls (for the cathedral is 
 inside the fortress) and before entering the church 
 pause to look up at its beautiful spire, which we saw 
 on approaching the city. Richly gilded, the spire 
 rises over three hundred feet above the ground. On 
 its peak stands the figure of an angel bearing aloft a 
 cross. 
 
 In the gloomy interior of the church are the marble 
 tombs of Russian royalty whose bodies lie beneath 
 the floor. Here rests Czar Peter; and but a few steps 
 from this church is the little hut where he lived while 
 superintending the building of his capital city. He 
 laid the foundations of this fortress in 1703, as the 
 very beginning of St. Petersburg. 
 
 Although Russia is over a thousand years old, she 
 is still called a young nation. This is because for 
 many centuries she was not half civilized, was even a 
 barbarous nation, and so was of small importance 
 among the civilized peoples of Europe. For over two 
 centuries (from 1237 to 1481) Russia was overrun by 
 the Tartars, an Asiatic horde, cruel and barbarous, 
 and was subject to them. 
 
 When New York city had been settled nearly a 
 hundred years, and Boston over seventy, the place 
 where St. Petersburg now stands was a desolate swamp 
 half under water, surrounded by forests, its wastes 
 visited by only a few poor fishermen. Russia was 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 17 
 
 still a country of which the rest of Europe knew little 
 and for which it cared less. 
 
 Russians then lived as do the half-civilized peoples 
 of the Far East to-day. The men wore robes and 
 flowing beards, and kept their wives and daughters 
 hidden in a kind of harem. When the women appeared 
 in the streets they were veiled, or rode in carriages 
 with curtains drawn. Wife-beating was a common 
 custom; only priests advised the husbands not to use 
 too thick a club. 
 
 When the czar's subjects appeared before their ruler 
 they prostrated themselves to the ground, with heads 
 bent in the dust. Schools, libraries, museums, hos- 
 pitals were wholly lacking. There was no navy; no 
 disciplined Russian army. In remoter parts of the 
 land bands of armed men pillaged and plundered as 
 they chose. The czar murdered his subjects, and the 
 people now and then murdered a czar. Moscow was 
 the capital. 
 
 Peter the Great began to reign when he was seven- 
 teen years old. His elder sister Sophia had tried to 
 keep the government in her own hands and to make 
 him unfit to rule by purposely giving him no education 
 and placing every evil temptation in his way. He 
 had a hot temper, was coarse in manner and ignorant 
 of books. But he had "a keen thirst for knowledge, 
 high ambitions for his empire, and a will of iron. 
 
 His empire was then inland, except on the northern 
 boundary, where the Polar sea broke on icebergs. 
 Archangel, his only seaport, was ice-bound almost 
 the year around. The Swedes were between Peter's 
 land and the Baltic; the Turks kept him from the 
 
18 
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 Black Sea; and the Persians were in possession of 
 the region along the Caspian. Peter knew that no 
 country could prosper without communication by 
 sea with other lands. He wanted a seaport, " a window 
 toward Europe." 
 
 "It is not land I need, but water!" he cried. So 
 he fought the Swedes until he wrested from them 
 the Baltic provinces. This gave him a seaboard. 
 
 The only place for his sea- 
 port was thus the low land 
 where the River Neva flows 
 into the Gulf of Finland. 
 It was a most unpromising 
 site for a city. The sea 
 often flooded these swamps. 
 It was so far north that the 
 harbor would be ice-bound 
 six months in the year, 
 while for two months every 
 year there is no night at 
 all, dawn beginning where 
 twilight ends; and for two winter months the 
 daylight lasts less than five hours in every twenty- 
 four. 
 
 There was not only no dry land upon which to build 
 a city, but also no material with which to construct 
 it — no stones, clay, or wood. To cap all these diffi- 
 culties, there were no workmen, and no tools; and 
 lying in wait for Peter, just across the Baltic Sea, 
 was his chief enemy, King Charles XII. of Sweden. 
 Peter cared nothing for difficulties. He enjoyed 
 hard tasks. When he decided to do a thing, he did 
 
 ssSsSrN!* ™ 
 
 PETER THE GREAT 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 19 
 
 it. He built his log hut here on this island of the 
 Neva, and with his own hands laid the first stones 
 of the fortress. 
 
 Thousands of laborers were brought to the task 
 from all parts of his empire : Finns, Russians, Tartars, 
 Cossacks, even criminals from Siberia. They had 
 no tools; so Peter ordered them to dig with their 
 hands and carry earth in their caps or in bags made 
 of their clothing. Stone was needed; so Peter pro- 
 hibited the use of stone in any other city of his em- 
 pire and had every boat in Russia bringing stone 
 to his new capital. 
 
 Cold, hunger, and fevers killed his workmen. More 
 were brought to take their places. Over a hundred 
 thousand men perished during the first year of building 
 St. Petersburg. Meantime Charles XII. of Sweden 
 sent word that when he had time he would come 
 and burn down Peter's wooden town. 
 
 In less than nine years the new capital was ready 
 for inhabitants. It was protected by the fortress 
 on this island, and had a harbor. Peter now ordered 
 people to come and live in his city. Three hundred 
 and fifty noble families were moved from Moscow 
 to St. Petersburg, where they were forced to build 
 palaces for themselves in the places pointed out 
 to them by Peter. He commanded merchants, arti- 
 sans, and mechanics to move hither from every part 
 of his empire. He brought artists and engineers 
 from all over Europe to his city, selecting the inhabi- 
 tants for his new capital just as a housekeeper would 
 choose furniture for her house. 
 
 Splendid buildings rose in St. Petersburg on all 
 
20 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 sides. Much care had to be taken in laying all foun- 
 dations, because the soil was wet and yielding. It 
 is said that the foundations of St. Petersburg have 
 cost almost as mu'ch as the city. Piles must be 
 driven into the marshy land, one upon another, 
 extending downward row on row until a building 
 reaches as far into the earth as it does into the air. 
 
 Thus six hundred acres have been reclaimed from 
 waste land and made into the city of Peter the Great. 
 Charles XII. did not burn down Peter's wooden town. 
 He was defeated by Peter once and for all at Poltava. 
 
 Peter's little hut on the fortress island has been 
 carefully preserved by enclosing it within an outer 
 shell. One little room has been fitted up as a chapel, 
 to which many devout Russians come often for prayer. 
 
 Leaving the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul, 
 we cross the Neva to the main part of the city. Let 
 us drive down the chief boulevard, called the Nevski 
 Prospect. It runs parallel with the Neva, giving 
 a view of the river, as its name indicates. At one 
 end of this fine boulevard is the building of the Ad- 
 miralty, with a tall gilt spire bearing on its peak a 
 golden ship for a weathervane. 
 
 From the Admiralty square, the Nevski Prospect 
 extends three miles in a straight, level course. It 
 is as broad as a Paris boulevard and is bordered 
 by handsome buildings, churches, shops, the Winter 
 Palace, St. Isaac's Cathedral, the Imperial Library, 
 the home of Nicholas II. and his family, and other 
 places of interest. 
 
 Pedestrians and vehicles throng the Nevski at all 
 hours, yet so broad are these St. Petersburg streets 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 21 
 
 and so vast the squares, that one almost feels lonely. 
 The crowds of people do not seem like crowds. How- 
 ever, St. Petersburg has a population of 1,003,315. 
 It is the fourth city in size in Europe. 
 
 Among the handsome coaches and smart traps 
 on the Nevski, we 
 see many troikas. A 
 troika is a vehicle 
 drawn by three 
 horses abreast, only 
 the middle horse be- 
 ing harnessed in the 
 shafts, with the 
 high arched yoke 
 over his neck. The 
 two outer horses, 
 harnessed by a rein, 
 have their heads 
 bent outward. They 
 must be kept at a 
 gallop, the middle 
 horse at a desperate 
 trot. At its best, 
 the troika is a very 
 dashing turnout, 
 peculiarly Russian. 
 
 In winter the 
 sleighs, drawn by three horses thus harnessed, must 
 be a gallant sight. On country roads bells jingle on 
 the high yokes of the horses, but in the cities no bells 
 are permitted. Instead the drivers shout a warning 
 to one another as they meet. Add to this the snap- 
 
 A HOUSE PORTER CARRYING WATER 
 
22 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 ping of whips, the clucking noise that the drivers 
 make as they urge forward their swift horses, and 
 the cries of " Faster! faster!" from gay merrymakers 
 in the sleighs, and the scene must be exciting. 
 
 Almost as swiftly as a sleigh our carriage flies up 
 and down the Nevski, finally leaving us at Admiralty 
 Place, the square where are situated the chief public 
 buildings. Here we see the splendid equestrian statue 
 of Peter the Great. It is of bronze, mounted upon a 
 block of Finland granite which weighs fifteen hundred 
 tons — said to be the very stone on which Peter stood 
 watching while his navy gained a victory over the 
 Swedes. 
 
 The monument represents Peter astride his steed, 
 which he is reining in at full gallop on the brink of 
 a precipice. His face is turned toward the Neva, 
 while his right hand points to the city which he caused 
 to rise from the frozen swamps. Under the horse's 
 feet is a serpent, the symbol of those obstacles which 
 Peter overcame in building his capital. Falconet, 
 a French sculptor, designed this monument for the 
 Empress Catherine II. The inscription upon it reads. 
 
 TO PETER I. 
 
 FROM CATHERINE II. 
 
 1782 
 
 Peter's monument peers out through the trees 
 of a little park, upon the great church opposite it. 
 
 RUSSIAN CHURCHES 
 
 St. Isaac's Cathedral is one of the grandest modern 
 churches of Europe. Its golden dome rising brightly 
 above the city roofs is always the first object to catch 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 23 
 
 the eyes of the traveler approaching St. Petersburg. 
 This mighty central dome is surrounded by a cluster 
 of smaller ones, each surmounted by a gilded cross. 
 Mounting to the central dome, we have a broad 
 view of the city, which, as some one has said, looks 
 from here like a barge so overladen, in the midst of 
 
 ST. ISAAC'S CATHEDRAL 
 
 the waters, that if one put a few more tons upon it 
 it would sink. Some people even prophesy that 
 St. Petersburg will be destroyed by flood one of these 
 days. 
 
 From this dome we look directly down upon St. 
 Isaac's roof. The church is of marble and Finland 
 granite, built in the form of a Greek cross. All the 
 treasures of Russian quarries and Russian mines 
 
24 
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 have been brought together in adorning it. Descending 
 to the street, we enter the church by one of the four 
 magnificent entrances. Each is approached by three 
 flights of stone steps, and each flight is cut from a 
 single block of rose granite. 
 
 We pass through a portico supported by granite 
 pillars polished like 
 mirrors. Each pillar 
 is a monolith (a col- 
 umn cut from a sin- 
 gle block of stone) 60 
 feet high and 7 feet 
 in diameter, with a 
 weight of 128 tons. 
 These monoliths are 
 the largest ever quar- 
 ried. No wonder it 
 took twenty-five years 
 merely to lay the 
 foundations of this 
 massive building. 
 Forty years were con- 
 sumed in building the 
 cathedral, and $14,- 
 000,000. In all $65,- 
 000,000 has been ex- 
 pended upon it since 
 it was begun. 
 
 In this great church a priest is conducting service. 
 A burst of glorious music greets us as we enter. The 
 congregation is standing. Many persons hold tapers 
 in their hands. Lights blaze here and there before 
 
 A BISHOP OF THE GREEK CHURCH 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 25 
 
 holy pictures adorned with countless jewels. The 
 priest is in the richest robes and chants his part of 
 the service with a splendid bass voice. All about 
 we look upon gems, carvings, and jewel-decked paint- 
 ings. The pavement is of variegated marble; the 
 altars blaze with precious stones; the walls are inlaid 
 with verd-antique. 
 
 There is no organ. The Russian Church has no 
 music but that of male voices; but the services are 
 almost all music, and the voices are such as we may 
 hear nowhere else in the world. Nowhere outside 
 of Russia are there such basses, while the soprano 
 sung by boys is wonderfully sweet and clear. The 
 choir is concealed from view behind a screen. 
 
 There are no pews. The congregation stands or 
 kneels. Even the czar must stand. As the service 
 often lasts two hours, this is a test of one's piety 
 and strength. But the Russian churches are crowded 
 always. There never was a more religious people 
 than the Russians. Besides, they must obey their 
 priests. Usually there are even more men at church 
 than women. Women are never allowed to sing 
 in a Russian church; nor may they enter the holy 
 place, a sacred room behind the altar. 
 
 We see no images in this cathedral such as are 
 everywhere in a Roman Catholic Church. The Greek 
 Church (or Russian, as we have been calling it) does 
 not permit the use of images. Instead there are 
 sacred pictures of the Saviour, the Virgin and the 
 saints, called icons. Every icon in the church is 
 framed with rich jewels, the gift of worshipers whose 
 prayers to the saint have been answered. 
 
26 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 On entering a church the pious Russian buys a 
 candle to place before the icon of his guardian angel. 
 Kneeling before the picture, he kisses it, and bows 
 his forehead to the pavement in prayer. Often during 
 the service the members of the congregation fall 
 upon their knees, bowing their foreheads to the floor. 
 
 Prayer is to the Russians an hourly exercise. They 
 are forever prostrating themselves in prayer, mak- 
 ing the sign of the cross, and burning candles 
 before icons. Saints' days are constantly being cele- 
 brated. Feasts and fasts occupy so many days that 
 a devout Russian has left but one hundred and thirty 
 working days in a year. The Greek Church has 
 endless rites and ceremonies. Baptisms, marriages, 
 deaths, harvests — all are honored by the Church with 
 long religious ceremonies. All new buildings must 
 be blessed by the priest before they are used, even 
 hotels, railway stations, jails, and factories. 
 
 After the people have left St. Isaac's Cathedral, 
 we spend an hour or more examining the ornaments 
 and treasures of this vast church. The columns of 
 malachite are the largest columns of this costly mineral 
 found anywhere in the world. There are beautiful 
 pillars of lapis-lazuli, and exquisite mosaics. 
 
 The chief wealth of treasure consists in the jeweled 
 icons. An icon is like no other painting, for only 
 the face and hands of the figure are painted, the 
 rest of the picture is raised work in silver or gold. 
 The frames of many are closely set with rubies, dia- 
 monds, amethysts, sapphires, and pearls. Stored 
 away in caskets are the richest of priestly vest- 
 ments and other relics. The Greek Church is not 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 27 
 
 only the most ancient Christian church, but also the 
 richest by far. 
 
 We pass a street shrine, one of many hundred in 
 St. Petersburg. These shrines are tiny chapels which 
 in appearance have been likened to toll-houses. Each 
 has on its walls the picture of the saint to which it is 
 dedicated. Every passer-by crosses himself, doffs 
 his cap, or kneels in prayer at the shrine. 
 
 This shrine near the St. Nicholas Bridge is dedicated 
 to Saint Nicholas. A mujik is kneeling, with his 
 forehead upon the ground, before the sacred picture 
 of Saint Nicholas; he even kisses the pavement. 
 Nicholas is a popular saint, being the patron of children, 
 sailors, pilgrims, nobles, and adventurers. The Book 
 of Saints declares him the most powerful saint in 
 heaven, though he was once just a poor Russian 
 priest. 
 
 All along the splendid Nevski Prospect are churches. 
 Indeed, this boulevard has been called " Toleration 
 Avenue' ' because it is bordered by churches of so 
 many different faiths: Greek, Roman Catholic, Dutch, 
 Lutheran, and Armenian. The Cathedral of our Lady 
 of Kazan is dedicated to the Virgin, and has a 
 wealth of precious stones and jewels lavished upon it. 
 
 Kazan, in eastern Russia, was once a Tartar capital, 
 strongly fortified and defended, and a source of 
 much trouble to the Russians. Under Ivan the 
 Terrible, a fierce, warlike czar, the Russian soldiers 
 took Kazan, carrying at the head of their columns 
 a precious picture of the Virgin. They believed that 
 the Virgin gave them the victory over their Tartar 
 enemies, and they built this cathedral in memory of 
 
28 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 the event. The picture, richly covered with jewels 
 and pearls, is worshiped here. 
 
 We see here on the walls all manner of war trophies, 
 flags taken in battle and keys of captured cities; 
 and here are even tombs of generals killed in the 
 war with France. It seems strange to attend service 
 in this vast church, where the chorus of men's voices 
 rises to the roof in solemn chants; where prayers, 
 and incense, and kneeling figures all speak of peace in 
 the midst of memories of wars on wars. 
 
 We see a church of white marble, the Smolni Cathe- 
 dral; and the splendid Memorial Church, built on the 
 spot where Alexander II. was assassinated by dynamite 
 bombs thrown by Nihilists. 
 
 Around the belfries of all the churches fly flocks 
 of pigeons. Such a fluttering of wings as there always 
 is about the spires and domes! We see many crows 
 and magpies, too, but the pigeon, or dove, is sacred 
 in Russia. The people say that the Holy Spirit 
 descended upon Christ in the form of a dove, and so 
 the dove must be protected and cared for. 
 
 SIGHTS OF THE CITY 
 
 Not far from St. Isaac's Cathedral we see the famous 
 Alexander column. It stands before a crescent-shaped 
 line of buildings called the staff headquarters and 
 rises to a total height of 154 feet. St. Petersburg 
 is proud of this column because the shaft, 84 feet high 
 and 14 feet in diameter, is the largest monolith of 
 modern times. It is of red Finland granite and rises 
 from a pedestal of bronze, being surmounted by a 
 bronze capital. On the capital stands the figure of 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 29 
 
 WINTER PALACE AND ALEXANDER COLUMN 
 
 an angel bearing aloft a cross. The angel is 14 feet 
 high — over twice the height of a tall man. The bronze 
 used for pedestal and capital was melted down from 
 Turkish cannon captured in battle. On the pedestal 
 is a simple inscription: 
 
 GRATEFUL RUSSIA TO ALEXANDER I. 
 
 Alexander I. was czar when Napoleon Bonaparte 
 marched into Russia with a vast army to conquer 
 the empire; but the Russians set fire to Moscow, 
 compelled the French to retreat in winter when snow 
 and sto'rm killed many, and delivered not only 
 Russia but all Europe from the French conqueror. 
 Alexander I. was hailed as the Deliverer. 
 
30 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 Because of its great weight the column was given a 
 foundation about 150 feet deep. Yet it is said to be 
 settling slowly downward and thus may be destroyed 
 in time. The climate is so severe in winter that all 
 the monuments and public buildings are suffering. 
 Every June, in St. Petersburg, an army of painters 
 and decorators is set at work recoloring the stucco 
 houses and repairing the chipped and cracked orna- 
 ments on the buildings. So summer shows the cap- 
 ital beautified anew. 
 
 On the Neva bank facing the square of the Admiralty 
 stands the Winter Palace. It is one of the largest and 
 finest royal palaces in Europe, but is now used only for 
 court receptions, balls, and state ceremonies. The czar 
 Nicholas II. and his family, when in St. Petersburg, 
 live in the Anitchkoff Palace on the Nevski Prospect. 
 Near the Winter Palace we pass a small guard-house, 
 before which stands a palace guard as immovable as 
 a statue. He wears an enormous top-lofty fur cap, 
 his uniform is decorated with straps and medals, 
 and the rifle by his side is highly polished. 
 
 The Winter Palace has always been well guarded, 
 but in spite of care the Nihilists, a party of desperate 
 people who wished to overthrow the Government, 
 gained entrance there about twenty years ago and 
 blew up with dynamite a portion of several rooms. 
 Alexander II. was czar at that time. He was grand- 
 father of the present czar and is called the Emancipa- 
 tor, because in 1861 he freed the serfs of his empire. 
 
 After two hundred and sixty years of serfdom, 
 fifty million Russian peasants became free men at 
 the command of Alexander II. As serfs they were 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 31 
 
 fixed to the soil which they tilled. When an estate 
 was sold the serfs went with it as a part of the fixtures, 
 like the cattle and farm implements. Their condition 
 was one of utter misery. Several czars had deter- 
 mined to abolish serfdom, but until Alexander II. 
 came to the throne no one ever really undertook the 
 task. The peasants greatly loved him; so did all 
 good people in his empire. But the Nihilists hated 
 czars and determined to kill him. Five times they 
 attempted it and twice nearly succeeded. 
 
 After being conducted through one imposing apart- 
 ment after another in the Winter Palace, where 
 polished marble, frescos, paintings, gems, statuary, 
 and costly curios glitter everywhere, we come to a 
 simple little room sacred to the memory of Alexander 
 II. On Sunday morning, March 13, 1881, he left 
 this little room, and went out to inspect a regiment 
 of marines. An hour later he was carried back, fast 
 bleeding to death, one leg shattered to the thigh, 
 the other to the knee, and placed upon the narrow 
 iron bed in the recess, and there he breathed his last. 
 
 As he was driving homeward to the palace a bomb 
 had been thrown beneath his carriage. Stepping 
 unhurt from the carriage to approach the assassin, 
 whom the police had seized, he was struck down by 
 another bomb. Then he was carried home to the 
 little room. 
 
 Thus the Russian czar who freed fifty million slaves 
 suffered death by assassination just as did our own 
 Emancipator, Abraham Lincoln. The- negro slaves 
 were freed in 1863, but two years after Russian serf - 
 dom was abolished. Russia fought no war of libera- 
 
32 
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 tion; the serfs were bought from their owners by the 
 Government, set free, and given enough land to 
 make a home for each family. 
 
 We turn away, to wander through the Throne Room 
 of Peter the Great, and through the vast Hall of St. 
 George, which has been the scene of many grand balls 
 and court receptions. This hall is 140 feet long and 
 60 feet wide; for court festivities it is transformed into 
 a wonderful summer garden with tropical plants, 
 flowers, foliage, music, and fountains, amid which the 
 brilliant uniforms of the nobles and the satins and 
 jewels of the ladies make a beautiful picture. 
 
 We see the crown jewels of Russia in a room guarded 
 day and night. The czar's crown is heavy with dia- 
 monds, being in the form of a dome upon the top of 
 
 THE HERMITAGE 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 33 
 
 which is an immense ruby, bearing a cross of almost 
 priceless diamonds. The czarina's crown is a mass of 
 precious gems. 
 
 Adorning the czar's scepter is the famous Orloff 
 diamond, said to be the most magnificent jewel in the 
 world. Once this diamond formed the eye of an idol 
 in a temple in India. A French soldier stole it and 
 sold it for two thousand guineas. Finally it was 
 bought by Prince Orloff, who paid over half a million 
 dollars for it and presented it to Empress Catherine II. 
 
 We could spend days of sightseeing in the Winter 
 Palace, it is so large. Several thousand people at 
 a time have dwelt beneath its roof. Merely the 
 brooms with which to sweep it cost a small fortune 
 each year. The exterior is not really fine, though the 
 size makes it imposing ; the outer walls are of stucco, 
 painted yellow and brown. 
 
 THE HERMITAGE 
 
 We cross a bridge from the Winter Palace to the 
 Hermitage, now an art museum, but formerly a little 
 palace built for Catherine II. as a refuge from the 
 cares of her empire. Here she gathered about her 
 a group of celebrated artists, musicians, men of letters 
 and philosophers — just as Frederick the Great of 
 Prussia had his group of illustrious men about him at 
 Sans Souci Palace near Berlin. 
 
 The present Hermitage has been rebuilt since Cath- 
 erine's time. It is rich in art treasures: pictures by 
 Dutch, Flemish, German, and Spanish Old Masters; 
 and collections of antique sculptures — especially speci- 
 mens of Greek vases, urns, and the like, excavated 
 
34 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 from ruins on the north coast. of the Black Sea and 
 supposed to have been wrought by Greek colonists 
 six hundred years before the time of Christ. This is 
 one of the most valuable collections. 
 
 There are in every nook of the Hermitage coins, 
 gems, frescos, silken tapestries, porphyry vases, mala- 
 chite tables, candelabra of violet jasper, ivory carvings, 
 and rare books. We walk through long galleries full 
 of books. It seems a pity that so much wealth should 
 be shut up in palace libraries when forty-nine fiftieths 
 of the Russian people receive no education in schools! 
 
 One gallery opening from the Hermitage contains 
 relics of Peter the Great. In the center of the rcom 
 is a life-size wax effigy of Peter, seated in his own chair. 
 In his hand is a sword given him by a deposed ruler of 
 Poland. Here is the chariot in which Peter often 
 drove; and here the horse which he rode at the battle 
 of Pultava, when he defeated Charles XII. of Sweden. 
 The charger is stuffed and is kept in a glass case. 
 His favorite dogs also are preserved here; and we are 
 shown casts of Peter's head taken after his death. On 
 the walls are several portraits of him, one done in 
 mosaic. 
 
 Peter was a man of giant height. We see the wooden 
 rod with which he was measured. It is notched a 
 foot above a tall man's head. His walking stick is 
 a heavy iron staff. We are shown his books, his tools 
 (turning lathes, knives and chisels), specimens of his 
 wood-carving, his telescopes, his drawing and surgical 
 implements. 
 
 Peter early determined to civilize his subjects and 
 make Russia a great power among European nations. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 35 
 
 But first he must educate himself. So he studied 
 foreign languages, science, art, ship-building and 
 military tactics. Every art and handicraft which 
 could help him in his purpose he mastered, working 
 night and day. Besides, he sent fifty young nobles 
 to European courts to study, and in time followed 
 them, going to the Netherlands first, to learn ship- 
 building and seamanship. 
 
 Dressing himself in disguise and calling himself 
 Peter Mikhailof, a Dutch skipper, Peter worked at 
 ship-building in the village of Zaandam, Holland. Then 
 he studied in Amsterdam, learning anatomy, geography, 
 astronomy; nothing escaped him. He learned about 
 everything he saw; rope-making, cutlery, the whaling 
 industry, paper manufacture, how to pull teeth, and 
 how to use a miscroscope. He was entertained at 
 stately receptions at The Hague, where the Dutch 
 nobility thought the Czar of Russia the strangest 
 man ever born. His immense size and rude manners 
 and his eagerness to learn amazed them. 
 
 Peter decided that Russia must have a navy. So 
 he returned home accompanied by a ship-load of 
 naval officers, shipwrights, riggers and sail-makers, 
 to teach his people seamanship. He was accompanied, 
 too, by engineers, artists, surgeons and others dis- 
 tinguished in every art and profession. 
 
 With the aid of these he began to civilize his empire 
 wholesale. He ordered all Russian men to shave 
 their beards and dress in modern garments. At every 
 city gate were stationed barbers and tailors, guarded 
 by soldiers, whose duty it was to shave the long- 
 bearded men and cut off their long coats. Of course 
 
36 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 the Russians were bitterly opposed to all this, but 
 Peter had his way. He decreed that the women should 
 put aside veils, cease to live in harems, wear European 
 clothing, and even attend balls and other social 
 gatherings. 
 
 The nobles had always presented themselves pros- 
 trate before him, their faces laid in the dust. Peter 
 ordered them up, even using a stick on them if they 
 forgot their new manners. Strange as his method seems, 
 it was largely successful. Russia quickly took on 
 the outward appearance of modern civilization, where 
 other barbaric nations have found it a slow growth. 
 Peter established schools, hospitals, museums, a botan- 
 ical garden, printing-houses, a medical college, and 
 libraries. He gave Russia a navy, a disciplined army, 
 and a brand-new seaport and capital city. 
 
 THE IMPERIAL LIBRARY 
 
 Loitering down the Nevski Prospect, we enter the 
 Imperial Public Library. The catalogue tells us of 
 the riches of this library. There are here over a million 
 volumes and thousands of valuable manuscripts and 
 engravings. Catherine II., the most famous empress 
 of Russia, established this library; and her statue 
 stands in front of the building. We are shown here 
 the most valuable book in the world, a manuscript 
 copy of the Old and New Testaments in Greek, written 
 but three hundred and thirt}^ years after the birth of 
 Christ. 
 
 During the persecutions of the Christians by the 
 Roman emperors, in the first centuries after Christ, one 
 wicked emperor undertook to search out all the copies 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 37 
 
 of the sacred books and burn them. It looked as 
 though the Bible would be destroyed, and the world 
 would lose it. But the Christians hid their copies of 
 it — there were but a few copies — guarding the sacred 
 book at the risk of being tortured to death. 
 
 When Constantine, the first Christian emperor, 
 began to reign, the best copies of the Bible were sought 
 out, carefully compared, and revised. Then Constan- 
 tine ordered fifty copies of this revised version to be 
 made on the finest skins, by the best scribes. From 
 these fifty copies all other editions were taken, but 
 at length the fifty were no longer used and gradually 
 disappeared. 
 
 In 1859 a learned gentleman, Tischendorf, dis- 
 covered an ancient manuscript in the convent of St. 
 Catherine on Mount Sinai. It was in excellent condi- 
 tion, not a single leaf had been lost or mutilated, and 
 it proved to be one of those fifty copies made by order 
 of Constantine ! The story of its discovery by Tischen- 
 dorf reads like a romance. The copy was brought 
 to St. Petersburg and placed in the Imperial Library 
 early in the nineteenth century. 
 
 There are over fifteen hundred manuscripts of the 
 Bible in existence at present, but this one is the most 
 valued of three very precious ones. The Alexandrine 
 manuscript in the British Museum, London, and the 
 Vatican manuscript in the Vatican at Rome are the 
 other two. 
 
 THE MARKET 
 
 We spend much time among the shops of the Gos- 
 tinnoi Dvor, the great marketplace on the Nevski 
 
38 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 Prospect. It is like the bazaars of the Far East, with 
 rows of small shops under one vast arcade. The 
 articles for sale cover every need of man, it seems: 
 furs, food, household goods, from the largest article 
 to the least, clothing, carriages, pictures, horses, 
 libraries, uniforms, flowers, tapestry, and curios from 
 every land. We buy a brass samovar, and jewelry 
 of malachite and lapis-lazuli from Siberian mines, and 
 embroidered slippers and sashes from the Tartar 
 provinces of eastern Russia, and a number of articles 
 made in St. Petersburg factories. 
 
 Petersburg, as the Russians call their capital, is a 
 commercial center for the whole empire. Goods 
 come from far inland points to St. Petersburg by way 
 of the canals which connect the different river systems 
 with this harbor. Thousands of people are employed 
 in the St. Petersburg factories. There are glass-works, 
 tanneries, sugar-refineries, cotton-mills, breweries, to- 
 bacco-works, a porcelain manufactory, and a carpet 
 manufactory modeled after that of the Gobelins at 
 Paris. 
 
 As we loiter among the shops we see people from 
 every province of the czar's empire. Here are beauti- 
 ful women from Georgia, south of the Caucasus. 
 Georgia is famous for its beautiful women. And here 
 are Finns — short, sturdy, and always neat, though 
 they are seldom handsome. The Poles look like their 
 Russian kinsmen. They are dark-haired, fine-looking, 
 and often distinguished in appearance and bearing. 
 The Russian peasants, or mujiks, are a sad-faced 
 people — weary, no doubt, with labor for many hours 
 each day. There are sisters of charity from the con- 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 39 
 
 vents, coarsely-robed monks, barefooted pilgrims on 
 their way to some shrine, policemen everywhere, 
 students from the university, wealthy aristocrats in 
 
 elegant coaches with 
 servants in livery, 
 and shopkeepers eag- 
 erly showing them 
 their choicest wares. 
 
 Many people are in 
 uniform, for in Rus- 
 sia every professional 
 man, every civil 
 officer, every railroad 
 employe, and every 
 student, even to the 
 school boys and girls, 
 must wear a uniform. 
 Doctors, teachers, 
 artists, dentists, civil 
 engineers, all are in 
 uniforms prescribed 
 by law. 
 
 Among the soldiers 
 we are most inter- 
 ested in the Cossacks, 
 with their long dark blue coats, their trousers 
 stuffed into, heavy cavalry boots, their sabers and guns, 
 and their warrior air. The Cossacks inhabit south- 
 eastern Russia. The men are born soldiers, tall, 
 strong and fearless. The Cossack women are renowned 
 for their beauty. As horsemen the Cossacks are not 
 surpassed by any people Their children learn to ride 
 
 THERE ARE POLICEMEN EVERYWHERE 
 
40 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 almost before they learn to walk; their babies' cradle 
 songs are war songs. All their training is for a soldier's 
 life. 
 
 So no part of the Russian army is more important 
 than the Cossack cavalry. All difficult scouting, 
 sending of secret messages, sentinel duty, and the like 
 is entrusted to the Cossacks in war time. Like Indians, 
 they are quick to note signs of the enemy's presence, 
 and are able to slip, undetected, across hostile territory, 
 where no one else would venture. 
 
 The Cossack's horse is almost a part of him. 
 These men can ride in any posture, standing up, leaning 
 low at the horse's side, lying upon his back, or as they 
 will. The rider checks his horse with a motion when 
 going at a frightful pace, reins him in at the point of 
 a precipice, or silently guides him almost through 
 the very camp of the enemy. 
 
 Horse and rider have wonderful powers of endurance, 
 never seeming to tire. They move so quickly and 
 silently that the suddenness of their attack is terrible 
 to the enemy. Sometimes in making an attack the 
 Cossack flings himself to the ground, orders his horse 
 to lie down in front of him, and resting his gun on the 
 animal, fires from behind him as a breastwork. 
 
 WINTER IN THE CITY 
 
 We should like to visit St. Petersburg in winter. 
 The czar returns from his summer palace; the nobility 
 open their luxurious homes for the court season ; in the 
 theaters and opera houses are nightly performances 
 by the finest actors and singers in the world ; the shops 
 are brilliant with lights, rich wares, and elegantly 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 41 
 
 clad shoppers ; sleighs throng the streets and fly up and 
 down the frozen Neva in bewildering confusion; and 
 fun, frolic, and good cheer are in the very air. 
 
 The Neva ice is the center of winter sports. Part 
 of it is a broad ice road, covered by sleighs and sledges 
 and chairs on runners. On part a railway is laid 
 each winter from St. Petersburg to Kronstadt. And 
 on still another part skaters in furs make merry by the 
 hour. Rich folk are given to buying skates made of 
 gold or silver. One may even see skates set with 
 pearls and precious stones. Diamonds are sometimes 
 used for adornment. Russians naturally skate well, 
 but care less for such sport than for sleighing. Ice- 
 hilling, an amusement akin to our tobogganing, is 
 popular. The ice-hills are built of wood in the form 
 of a long slide. An icy path is made by letting water 
 freeze on the slide, and down this inclined plane sleds 
 dash at a terrific speed. 
 
 In January occurs the ceremony on the Neva 
 called " blessing the waters." The czar, all the court 
 officials, and the priests of the Greek Church gather 
 at the Winter Palace and form a procession, which 
 moves solemnly toward the middle of the river, on a 
 carpeted board platform. In mid-stream a hole has 
 been cut in the ice and a wooden temple built over 
 it. The procession bearing lighted tapers arrives at 
 the temple, where crowds have gathered to witness the 
 ceremony. 
 
 The priest immerses the cross in the icy river, blesses 
 the stream, prays that it may enrich the soil and bring 
 prosperity to the people, and sprinkles the people 
 with the consecrated water. Many carry away bottles 
 
o 
 
 I— I 
 
 CO 
 CO 
 
 K 
 O 
 
 o 
 
 Cu 
 CO 
 
 D 
 
 O 
 
 HH 
 
 CD 
 
 H 
 
 H 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 43 
 
 of the blessed water, believing it to have great power 
 after, the ceremony. 
 
 In country districts this " blessing of the waters" 
 is believed by the superstitious peasants to rid them 
 of evil spirits, water nixies, demons and the like. 
 
 In the spring, when the Neva ice breaks up, there 
 is another ceremony at the Winter Palace. The 
 fortress cannon boom a salute from the island, and the 
 commander of the fortress crosses the Neva in a boat, to 
 carry to the czar at the Winter Place a goblet of Neva 
 water. With much pomp he announces to the czar 
 that the river is open to commerce. The czar drinks 
 the water and fills the goblet with silver coin. 
 
 Winter is a season of extravagant living in St. 
 Petersburg. The capital is an expensive city in which 
 to dwell, and the Russian aristocracy are reckless 
 money-spenders. They entertain lavishly and expend 
 fortunes on dress and in card-playing. Heavy eating 
 and drinking, constant cigarette-smoking and drinking 
 of tea, dances, theaters, operas, gambling — these are 
 the diversions of wealthy Russians. Cards keep them 
 occupied day and night, often run them into debt 
 (for gambling is a part of card-playing), and are thrown 
 aside only when the church services demand attention. 
 Playing and praying are the chief occupations of a 
 Russian, it has been said. 
 
 Debt hangs over many a family of seeming wealth. 
 Most of the great estates of the Russian nobility are 
 heavily mortgaged, the money obtained being used 
 for pleasures. 
 
 The magnificent homes of these gay aristocrats 
 have rooms crowded with costly furniture, paintings, 
 
44 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 and bric-a-brac; yet we learn with astonishment, from 
 those who know, that the elegance is all for show; 
 that private rooms are untidy; that beds go unmade, 
 floors unswept, clothing unbrushed; and that slovenly 
 habits are not unknown in the most aristocratic 
 families. 
 
 Hospitality is a Russian virtue. The samovar is 
 always steaming in the drawing-room, that a chance 
 guest may have a glass of delicious tea. The dining- 
 table is loaded with good things. The host and hostess 
 are ever ready with a cordial welcome. Educated 
 Russians are brilliant talkers. They travel widely, 
 speak several foreign languages (for Russians have a 
 gift for languages), and are well read, in spite of the 
 fact that they may not buy what books they wish, nor 
 read all foreign papers. 
 
 The Censor bars from sale in Russia so many books 
 that were a Russian gentleman to buy for his library 
 the works which men in our own country think most 
 necessary for their libraries, he would be exiled to 
 Siberia for life. Siberia has always been a land for 
 exiles — criminals and political offenders. It has been 
 called the " Russian Prison. " 
 
 The Censor has all foreign periodicals examined 
 and everything not to his taste is " blacked out/ 5 A 
 foreign paper frequently appears in Russia with 
 numerous blackened spaces. Of course everybody 
 is then curious to find out what was printed under 
 those black squares. Often people write to friends 
 abroad to send them clippings of the paragraphs 
 blacked out. This is dangerous, however, for if it 
 should be found out, they would be arrested. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 45 
 
 When one wishes to give a ball or party, in Russia, 
 he must first ask permission of the police. The guests 
 must always be guarded in their conversation, too, for 
 members of the secret police are present, watching 
 everyone. 
 
 All public meetings for the discussion of any public 
 subject whatever are forbidden in Russia. Sometimes 
 the university students hold such a meeting in secret. 
 But almost always the police discover the gathering, 
 a riot follows, students are arrested wholesale, and a 
 number of them may be sent to Siberia for several 
 years of exile. 
 
 PLEASURE TRIPS IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD 
 
 The summer resorts, villas, and royal palaces along 
 the Neva and the Gulf of Finland are the objective 
 points of pleasant excursions for us. We visit the 
 royal estate of Tsars-Koe-Selo, fifteen miles from the 
 city. The first railroad in Russia extended from St. 
 Petersburg to Tsars-Koe-Selo, and was built by 
 Americans. Catherine II. beautified this royal palace 
 and has her name written in amber all over the walls 
 of the famous Amber Room. There are amber walls, 
 chairs and tables, even amber chess-boards and chess- 
 men in the Amber Room. Another room at Tsars-Koe- 
 Selo is the Hall of Lapis-Lazuli. Siberian mines 
 furnished lapis-lazuli walls for this room, while the 
 floor is of ebony, set with a mother-of-pearl mosaic 
 in a flower design. The park surrounding the palace 
 is beautiful, but we are chiefly interested in the black 
 swans on the lake. 
 
 Peterhof is a summer residence which was built for 
 
46 
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 Peter the Great on the south bank of the Neva. The 
 palace stands on an eminence overlooking the Gulf of 
 Finland, and has as its most interesting room an 
 apartment decorated for Catherine II. by an Italian 
 artist. The walls are paneled with portraits of beauti- 
 ful young women — 
 eight hundred and 
 sixty-three pictures 
 — each lovely maid 
 being represented in 
 a different pose. 
 Peterhof is celebrat- 
 ed for its splendid 
 fountains and water- 
 works, which are 
 almost equal in won- 
 der to those at Ver- 
 sailles in France. 
 
 Returning in a 
 troika from Peter- 
 hof, we order our 
 " cabby " to take us 
 to a Russian restaur- 
 ant. The restaurant 
 has a picture sign 
 showing different 
 articles of food. So 
 
 few of the Russian people can read that shops often 
 have picture signs. A sign showing coats and trousers 
 is at the tailor's; one showing books we see at the 
 book-shop; pictures of cabbages and turnips are 
 displayed at the grocer's, and pictures of knives 
 
 A FLOOR RUBBER 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 47 
 
 and cutlery at the hardware dealer's. Entering the 
 restaurant, we find ourselves in a large room rilled 
 with people drinking tea from glasses. Each table has 
 a samovar steaming in the center, and each tea-drinker 
 has his glass filled and refilled while he munches a 
 lump of sugar between sips of tea. 
 
 The waiter serves us with stchie, the regular soup of 
 the people. It is made of half -fermented cabbage, 
 chopped with cold boiled mutton and flavored with 
 butter, salt, barley and various herbs. The poorest 
 peasants use linseed oil instead of butter. Another 
 national dish served us is borsch. This is cabbage 
 soup colored with beets and having other vegetables 
 swimming in it. It is thickened with sour cream and 
 eaten with a side dish of roasted buckwheat. A 
 common beverage is kvas, made of fermented barley 
 meal and honey. 
 
 We taste a soup of cold beer in which float bits of 
 meat and cucumber. Delicious white bread is set 
 before us, and there is black ryebread also. The fish 
 pies make our mouths water, but we do not enjoy all 
 of these Russian dishes at the first trial. 
 
 A RAILWAY JOURNEY 
 
 All Russian railway stations are large, well-built 
 structures, surrounded by grassy lawns, adorned with 
 flowers. Every station building was blessed by the 
 priest before it was open for use. And in every one 
 is an icon with a lamp burning before it. Russians 
 always kneel before the icon and cross themselves 
 before buying their railroad tickets. 
 
 We are shown to our places in the train by an official 
 

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A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 49 
 
 wearing a black uniform, high boots, astrakhan cap, 
 and a silver badge on his breast showing the Russian 
 double eagle. The Government owns most of the 
 railroads. Our train has first, second and third class 
 coaches, as good as the best in Europe, while the 
 first-class sleepers are better than those one finds in 
 France. In the dining-car meals are served at any 
 time, always with the same queer collection of dishes. 
 One could not tell from the food served whether he 
 was eating breakfast, luncheon, dinner, or late supper. 
 
 Travel is very, very slow. The stops are long and 
 tedious. Often the passengers are none too clean, and it 
 is disagreeable to have to be near them. Even people 
 of the better classes may have soiled hands, carelessly 
 kept clothing, and a look of having economized on 
 soap and towels. Yet there are no pleasanter, better- 
 natured people than the Russians; and we enjoy 
 making their acquaintance. All seem friendly to 
 Americans, for American capital and American brains 
 have been freely used in developing Russian industries. 
 The first railways were built by Americans, and the 
 Russian engines are still built like those in our own 
 country. 
 
 We grow weary of the scenes from our car windows. 
 Mile after mile we travel, seeing only monotonous 
 plains, or long stretches of dreary forest, or great 
 grain-fields; then more plains, more forest, more lonely 
 fields. In southern Russia one could travel a week by 
 railroad and see only wheat-fields. 
 
 We pass through no cities, but see now and then 
 a shabby hamlet or a village. The poor little huts 
 built of logs and thatched with straw stand in a 
 
50 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 forlorn row on either side of a wagon road. The road 
 is often a mere trail across the flat country, along 
 which a peasant's cart travels with difficulty, sinking 
 deep in mire or sand. The villagers about the railway 
 station have coarse black hair, narrow, bead-like eyes, 
 and low, furrowed brows. They wear rough clothing of 
 homespun (or sheep-skin, in winter). For stockings, 
 rags are tied about their legs; and sandals do duty 
 for shoes. Even among the village children one 
 seldom sees a bright, happy face. 
 
 Better villages have larger izbas. (A peasant's 
 house is called an izba.) There is a white church, too 
 with green roof, gilded dome and glittering cross. 
 Sometimes a monastery, with clustered domes and 
 many crosses, is seen in the distance, its bells sounding 
 clear and sweet when the train pauses. Russia is the 
 land of sweet-toned bells. 
 
 One of our fellow passengers/ has been the full length 
 of Russia's longest railroad, the Trans-Siberian, which 
 extends from Moscow to Vladivostok on the Pacific 
 Ocean. A branch leads from a point near Vladivostok 
 down through Manchuria to the Russian seaport of 
 Dalny. It took thirteen days of constant traveling 
 to make the trip by rail from Dalny to Moscow. 
 
 Our friend tells us much of this wonderful trip 
 across Siberia, of the monotonous level lands where the 
 railroad points straight ahead like an arrow, while the 
 lonely open steppes spread out on either side like the 
 ocean; of the magnificent trains built for these long 
 Trans-Siberian journeys, made up of sleeping, parlor 
 and dining cars, with libraries, writing-tables, pianos, 
 bathrooms with hot and cold water, and even a little 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 51 
 
 gymnasium for people who wish to stretch themselves 
 on the long runs between stops. He says that soon 
 it is hoped to increase the speed of the trains so that 
 the journey from Vladivostok to Moscow will take but 
 eight days. 
 
 Another important Russian railroad is the line from 
 the southern shore of the Caspian Sea to Samarkand 
 in central Asia, called the Trans-Caspian Railway. 
 
 We leave the train at one of the stops, to take 
 luncheon in the station restaurant. The station 
 is a handsome brick building, and the restaurant is a 
 delight to hungry travelers. Every dish is properly 
 cooked, piping hot, and well served, while the price 
 for this excellent meal is but a ruble. Such good 
 things one always finds in Russian railway restaurants ! 
 
 From here we take a carriage for a seventy-mile 
 drive across the country to the estate of a Russian 
 gentleman. We wish to see the farm lands. 
 
 RUSSIA A GREAT FARM 
 
 The Russian Empire has been called the biggest 
 farm on earth. While large sections of the country 
 are barren wastes and vast morasses, and millions of 
 acres are left uncultivated, there are enough farm 
 lands left to keep eighty million people busy tilling 
 the soil. The most productive grain lands lie between 
 the Baltic Ocean and the Black Sea, extending east- 
 ward from Prussia and Austria to the Volga. Rye, 
 wheat, barley, oats, hemp, flax, tobacco and sugar- 
 beets are raised in such quantities that Russia is 
 called the granary of Europe. 
 
 The czar owns about one-third of all the land. The 
 
52 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 peasants own almost as much as the czar — in land 
 granted them by the Government when they were 
 freed from serfdom. And the nobles own a little less 
 than the peasants. 
 
 When the serfs were freed, each peasant family 
 received enough land for its support, on condition 
 that the Government should be paid for this land 
 in yearly installments. The peasants were granted 
 many years in which to pay for their little farms 
 (about thirty acres for each family), and some have 
 now finished these payments. But most of them are 
 still struggling with their debt. No longer does each 
 family own thirty acres. As the sons married, the 
 farm was divided for each new family. Thus a 
 peasant's farm is now but a tiny strip. 
 
 Meantime, as the Government had paid a big price 
 bo the nobles for these peasant lands, it was hoped the 
 nobles would use their new-gotten wealth in improving 
 their great estates. Many Russian nobles own estates 
 of from fifteen to twenty thousand acres. If these 
 immense farms were rightly cultivated, think how 
 rich and prosperous Russia would be ! But the nobles, 
 in most cases, have spent their money in foreign 
 travel and luxurious living in Moscow and St. Peters- 
 burg. So their lands still need enriching, and no 
 money is left with which to do it. 
 
 We learn all these facts about farms as we drive 
 across the country behind a team of strong Russian 
 horses, with jingling bells on their yoke. Long country 
 drives in Russia are not a pleasure. This road is a 
 sandy tract, into the loose soil of which our carriage 
 sinks to the axle. It is like traveling through soft 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 53 
 
 snow. Where forests border our way, we find small 
 branches of trees strewn over the road to make a 
 more solid foothold for the horses. 
 
 Now and then we come to a lazy stream (Russia 
 is so nearly level that all its streams are lazy), and 
 the bridge upon which we cross makes us fear an 
 upset. The bridge is formed of untrimmed pine poles 
 laid cross-wise upon two heavy pieces of timber. The 
 poles project on either side far beyond the beams 
 on which they are laid, and as no parapet guards 
 the sides, a heavy carriage which failed to cross exactly 
 in the middle of the bridge would tip into the stream 
 below. 
 
 Many times we cross these rude bridges, and often 
 we get out and walk, when the road, with its covering 
 of branches, becomes too rough. Sometimes it is 
 necessary to drive over moorland or meadow, quitting 
 the sandy road entirely. 
 
 For miles on miles we toil through forests, past fields, 
 across moors, and beside streams. We stay over 
 night in a village inn, a poor little cabin with mud 
 floors, bad odors, a group of noisy peasants drinking 
 about a table, and with beds which are but hard 
 bunks in a shed opening into the stable. In the night 
 a pig strays into our room, while a rooster, perched 
 on the foot of our bunk, wakes us with his midnight 
 crowing. 
 
 We drive all the next day. One must carry sup- 
 plies with him on these wearisome rides. We have 
 cushions, rugs, a basket of edibles, plates, knives, forks, 
 and a teapot. A camp fire by the roadside boils 
 our tea-kettle. 
 
54 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 At last we reach the country house of our friend. 
 Although it is almost nine o'clock at night, the field 
 hands are just returning from work; and it is light 
 enough out of doors to read a newspaper. 
 
 The country house is a large wooden dwelling of one 
 story, with walls vastly thick, ceilings so high that 
 we feel lonely, rooms large and rather barely furnished, 
 windows double to keep out the bitter winter cold 
 (though now they are wide open), and stoves of 
 porcelain, huge enough to warm the whole estate, 
 we should imagine. 
 
 The stoves are built into the rooms and reach 
 almost to the ceiling. Our host says that they keep 
 the house at an even, warm temperature during the 
 coldest days in winter. Little ventilation is possible 
 during cold weather because of the tight double 
 windows, though one pane of glass may be opened 
 a short time to purify the air. 
 
 Every room has its icon, before which candles burn. 
 On entering the room each member of the family 
 bows before the icon and makes the sign of the cross. 
 
 Russian nobles dislike country life and make no 
 effort to beautify their country homes as do the 
 English people. Why, they ask, should they fill 
 their houses with rare furnishings, pictures and books, 
 when the buildings are of wood and may soon perish 
 by decay or fire? Forest fires are frequent in Russia, 
 and dwellings may easily be destroyed. 
 
 The English, who love country life, build large 
 houses of stone which last for centuries. Here they 
 gather treasures and live their happiest days. Rus- 
 sians spend only the busy summer upon their estates. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 55 
 
 For the winter they 
 rush away to the cap- 
 ital, to lose in feasting, 
 gambling, and other 
 foolish pleasures all 
 the money their har- 
 vests have brought 
 them. 
 
 An army of ser- 
 vants and laborers 
 dwell in villages on 
 this estate. There is 
 much to do : plowing, 
 sowing, and reaping 
 for the field laborers ; 
 cheese and butter 
 making in the great 
 clean dairy; the pre- 
 serving and drying of 
 fruits both for winter 
 use and for sale (for 
 Russian dried and candied fruits, packed in pretty 
 baskets, are largely exported to other countries); 
 the making of great barrels of fermented cabbage 
 for the winter's supply of cabbage soup, and the 
 preparation of barrels of kvas (the fermented barley 
 drink), which are stored in the large cellar beneath 
 the house. 
 
 Fuel must be cut and cloth must be spun and made 
 into garments for the servants. A crowd of people 
 must be fed daily in the family's dining-hall and 
 that of the servants. The big brick-paved kitchen 
 
 A RUSSIAN NURSE 
 
56 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 is as busy a place as a factory, for the family is large, 
 there are often guests, and the house-servants fill 
 long tables in their own quarters. 
 
 We are shown a colony of out-buildings where the 
 cattle and horses are housed, and the farm machinery 
 is kept. On these large estates the best modern 
 agricultural machinery is beginning to be used. Not 
 all Russian estate owners are thriftless. Many now 
 buy German or English steam thrashers, besides 
 cultivators, drills, sulky plows, harrows and the like. 
 American-made machinery is also used. We see that 
 the mowers, reapers, rakes, and all small tools on 
 this estate are of the best modern make. 
 
 But our host says that for the most part the farm 
 tools and methods of work used in Russia are as rude 
 as those described in the Bible. Grain is sowed 
 broadcast by hand and is thrashed in any one of 
 several old-fashioned ways: either by flails, by hulling 
 it by hand or foot, or by the tread of horses and cattle. 
 Millions of bushels are thrashed by driving carts 
 over the grain as it comes from the fields. 
 
 The plow may be a heavy two-wheeled wooden 
 plow, or a poor affair with two iron shares but no 
 point, or even but a wooden stick. Of course such 
 a plow merely scratches the earth, making the soil 
 yield but little. 
 
 Our host explains the cause of the frequent famines 
 in certain parts of Russia. He says that the farmers 
 overwork the soil. They neglect to change their 
 crops from year to year, which is just as hard on the 
 soil as the use of but one set of muscles year after 
 year would be on the human body. In this way 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 57 
 
 the soil is worn out. But even when the soil is good, 
 the summers may often be all too short to harvest 
 the crops. Too soon winter sweeps down upon the 
 
 fields, destroy- 
 ing all that the 
 summer toil has 
 won. 
 
 The hardest 
 field work is 
 turned over to 
 the peasant wo- 
 men. They hoe, 
 dig, spade th.e 
 earth, and cut 
 grain and hay 
 with sickles and 
 scythes. We see 
 them bending 
 low over their 
 tasks, their 
 faces sad and 
 deeply furrowed 
 with care, while 
 not far away under a tree or a little covering of leafy 
 boughs their babies sleep on the ground. Such ex- 
 posure of tiny babies — some perhaps but a few 
 days old — often results in their death. In rural 
 Russia, we learn, eight out of ten children die be- 
 fore they reach ten years of age. Only the strong 
 babies live, it seems. 
 
 We see women riding astride horses, often without 
 saddles. They pitch hay like men; and even girls 
 
 TOLSTOI, THE PEASANTS' FRIEND 
 
58 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 do all manner of rough labor. All the women and 
 gills wear short skirts. Here are some girls who 
 appear very contented with their tasks. They wear 
 bright red cotton skirts, some have on white chemisettes, 
 and all wear aprons heavily embroidered. On their 
 feet are sandals, while rags are tied on for stockings. 
 Their hats are clumsy looking turbans, or perhaps 
 shawls or kerchiefs knotted over the hair. 
 
 Farm hands often work fourteen hours a day. 
 Summer daylight is so long that the peasants set out 
 for the fields at four o'clock in the morning, not re- 
 turning until eight or nine at night. Slowly they 
 plod homeward, singing some harvest chorus, perhaps. 
 How much have they earned that day? If men, 
 perhaps twenty-five cents. If girls, maybe but ten 
 cents. 
 
 In spite of poor tools, poor farming, low wages, and 
 short summers, Russia in Europe produces 2,000,000,- 
 000 bushels of grain a year. Rye, which furnishes 
 the bread of the people, is the chief crop, about 
 735,000,000 bushels being raised yearly. 
 
 This estate has across it a zig-zag trail of small 
 potato and cabbage gardens and tiny fields of flax 
 and rye. These are the peasant lands. The Govern- 
 ment granted to the freed serfs the very lands they 
 dwelt upon, together with their villages, at the time 
 they were freed. Often this took a zig-zag strip 
 out of the best part of a noble's estate. Each peasant 
 raises on his bit of land enough grain and flax to feed 
 and clothe his family. 
 
 All Russians live in villages, towns, or cities. Rus- 
 sian peasants not only cling together in villages, 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 59 
 
 but they hire out in gangs, work in groups, travel 
 in groups, and if they migrate, even migrate by whole 
 villages. We shall visit their villages by and by. 
 
 Our host seems to have no neighbors. Large land- 
 owners cannot have neighbors. The estates are so vast 
 on account of forests, waste lands, bogs, lakes, moors, 
 and immense tracts of peasant lands that a country 
 noble must ride days to reach his nearest neighbor. 
 
 Then the roads are wretched; and in winter the 
 cold is so intense that a sledge ride across country 
 is as much of a hardship as an arctic expedition. One 
 must put on several suits of heavy clothing, bundle 
 in furs, have a foot warmer, provide food and cover- 
 ings against a night in the snow-drifts, and run the 
 risk of being eaten by wolves. 
 
 European Russia is said to be infested by about 
 175,000 wolves. They are fierce little beasts when 
 hungry, and to a sledge party making its lonely way 
 across the great wastes of snow their cry brings terror. 
 One hundred and fifty human beings perish annually 
 from wolves. Cattle, sheep, and dogs are devoured 
 by the hundred thousand on the cold plains and 
 steppes. In the forests there are still some bears, 
 but these are not dangerous to human life. No 
 wonder, in view of all these drawbacks, that most 
 Russian nobles leave their estates through the winter 
 for life in the cities. 
 
 Some old-time customs of the peasants on our 
 host's estate interest us. We remember that the 
 Russians are Slavs, the Slavs being a family of tribes 
 which in the early centuries settled northeastern 
 Europe. Slav traits often appear in these people. 
 
60 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 Once we discover our hostess rebuking a maid 
 servant. The mistress speaks sharply, while the 
 maid sinks to the ground, clinging to her mistress' skirts 
 and kissing her feet. We think this a very serious 
 trouble, but find that such outbursts are frequent and 
 are quickly over. The foot-kissing is only a relic of 
 serfdom; and the mistress' hasty temper forbodes 
 no cruelty. The Russians are quick-tempered, but 
 quick to forgive also. 
 
 To one custom belonging to days of serfdom, the older 
 peasant men and women still cling. When they have 
 a request to make of their master and mistress, they 
 come at evening to the lawn before the piazza and 
 there stand humbly waiting the appearance of our 
 host. He steps out upon the piazza, and the peasant, 
 removing his cap and bowing low, tells his story, 
 making his request. It all seems very quaint to us, 
 quite as though our host were a king. 
 
 A RUSSIAN BATH 
 
 The Russian creed requires bathing every Saturday, 
 and so the peasant is sure to be clean once a week, 
 but does not devote much time to scrubbing himself 
 between times. He sleeps at night in the clothes he 
 wears by day, and often contents himself with a dry rub. 
 
 And no wonder. A Russian bath is a heroic way 
 to become clean. The little Russian is first steamed 
 until he is almost cooked, in a hole under the stove, 
 or in one of the vapor baths to be found in all the 
 villages. Then pailfuls of hot water are poured over 
 him, followed by pails of ice-cold water; or else he is 
 tumbled out into the snow. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 61 
 
 Near the dwelling of our host is a bath-house. 
 Russian steam baths are famous; so we decide to 
 try one. The bather slips off his clothing in the 
 dressing-room and enters the large bathroom, where 
 an attendant dashes buckets of hot water upon him, 
 one after the other, as long as he can stand it. Then 
 the attendant flagellates (whips) the bather all over 
 with little pine branches until the skin is blood-red. 
 Next he spreads fresh pine leaves on the brick floor, 
 which is really the brick roof of a furnace, and bids 
 the bather stand on this, while more buckets of hot 
 water are dashed upon him, the steam rising in clouds 
 about him until he can hardly gasp. He is then 
 taken aside and scrubbed with soap-suds and a pine 
 brush, while he wonders that he has any skin left to 
 be scrubbed. 
 
 But the attendant now begins all over again, bathing, 
 scrubbing and steaming him a second time, and 
 finishing off by dashing buckets of cold water (not 
 quite ice-cold) upon him. The cold water comes 
 upon him with such force, however, that he cannot 
 tell whether it is very hot or very cold. We are 
 told that in winter bathers run home through snow- 
 drifts, carrying most of their clothing under their 
 arms. Such a bath is said to be very stimulating; 
 but we are willing to do without this remarkable 
 tonic for the rest of our lives. 
 
 VILLAGE LIFE 
 
 Because Russians will not dwell apart in solitary 
 homes, but must always live near their fellow men, 
 Russia is an empire of villages. We are told that 
 
62 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 there are 500,000 villages in European Russia alone. 
 To us they all look alike, but in different parts of the 
 country the huts are built of different materials. 
 In the northern forest region, the houses are of logs. 
 In the South they are of sun-dried brick. 
 
 On a distant corner of our host's estate we find a 
 tiny hamlet of about fifty log cabins, set among dreary 
 fields. The villagers' only view is of bogs and scrubby 
 pine forests. The cabins stand at irregular intervals 
 along either side of the road, which here is like a 
 wide, dirty street. Some cabins have a lean-to at 
 the back, and one has two stories, but the rest are 
 but square huts, about eight feet high from ground 
 to roof, made of rough pine logs mortised at the 
 corners, with the spaces between filled with moss 
 and mud. The roofs are thatched with straw or 
 moss. In the spring these moss-thatched roofs often 
 show a thick sprinkling of wild flowers which have 
 bloomed from chance seeds in the moss. 
 
 We see no beauty of flowers now. The little garden 
 patches with their cabbages and potatoes are but 
 ugly little plots. The unpainted cabins are grimy 
 with smoke and rain. Horses, cows, pigs, and chickens 
 live under the family roof, and in winter must make 
 these huts wretchedly filthy. Where the road or 
 doo^ards have miry puddles, pigs wallow freely, 
 while nearly every cabin has a savage dog which 
 snarls at our heels. 
 
 Not far from this hamlet is the church, a white- 
 painted building with green-painted plank roof, and 
 a spire surmounted by a cross. Of course there are 
 no pews or seats in this little wooden church. We enter, 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 63 
 
 first pausing to look at the rude icon which is over 
 the doorway. 
 
 The priest is within, an old man with long, flowing 
 hair, tall felt hat of queer shape, and full sweeping 
 robe. His life is a hard one. He must hold endless 
 services, baptize babies, marry the young folk, bury 
 the dead, bless the houses, the harvests, the waters, 
 the coming and going, the sorrowing and rejoicing 
 of every member of his flock. He is not often loved 
 or respected, as we should suppose. His life is a 
 lonely one. He must be married, but if his wife 
 dies, he must retire to a monastery and never marry 
 again. If anything goes wrong in the village, he 
 is likely to be blamed, for should he not have pre- 
 vented mishaps by prayers and fasts? The villagers 
 trust absolutely in his religious rites and ceremonies, 
 for they are superstitious, but it is often the case that 
 they care little for the priest. 
 
 We enter a poor little hut. The floor is of mud, 
 the windows are small and tightly closed, and a clutter 
 of old farming tools and harness is the only furniture. 
 But this is the storeroom, we find. Behind it is 
 the one real room of the house. Here the family 
 cooks, eats, sleeps and works. 
 
 The chief piece of furniture is a brick stove which 
 rises almost to the ceiling and fills about one-fourth 
 of the room. On the top of this stove the various 
 members of the family sleep in winter, lying down 
 in the clothing which they wear in the daytime and 
 huddling close together to keep warm. When they 
 do not sleep on the stove, they sleep on the floor, or 
 in bunks around the wall. 
 
64 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 In winter these peasants' clothing is of sheepskin 
 with the wool turned inside, and as these garments 
 are not changed or washed, the average peasant is 
 filthy in the extreme. 
 
 Aside from the brick stove in this hut we are visiting, 
 there is scanty furniture. A table, a bench, some 
 stools and a few boxes are all one sees. In one corner 
 hangs an icon. This one is a picture of the Virgin. 
 Beneath it a lamp burns. To keep that lamp burning, 
 the peasant will save his olive oil, using for his own 
 food common linseed oil. People who live in cold 
 climates must have oily food of some kind.' But 
 the icon lamp must first be fed, in Russia. 
 
 Now this icon is the family altar, and when one 
 steps into the room he bares his head, crosses himself, 
 and says a prayer before it. Every room in a Russian 
 home is sanctified. About once a month the priest 
 with two assistants enters every house in his parish, 
 sprinkles the rooms with holy water, cleanses them 
 with prayer, and signs them with the cross. 
 
 If we stayed for a meal at this home we should 
 sit on a bench with the family, before the rude table. 
 A big bowl of cabbage soup set in the middle of the 
 table is always the chief dish. Into it each of us 
 would dip with a wooden spoon, carrying the soup 
 to his mouth. A tray of ryebread ("black bread") and 
 a jug of kvas are the remaining items on the peasant's 
 usual bill of fare. Smoked fish, dried herring, sour 
 cabbage, and cucumbers are very much enjoyed also. 
 
 Vodka, a strong liquor distilled from corn, is the 
 drink which has always been a curse to Russian 
 peasants. Every village has its drink-shop where 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 65 
 
 this fiery liquor is sold. But lately the Government 
 has undertaken to do away with intemperance by 
 manufacturing a diluted vodka, which is sold now in 
 certain amounts 1 only. 
 
 Other villages which we visit are larger, having 
 from a few hundred to a thousand inhabitants. The 
 homes are better, with several rooms, perhaps, and 
 a comfortable living-room where before the big stone 
 chimney a samovar steams, while the men-folk sit 
 about it drinking glasses of hot tea, with a bottle 
 of vodka to add to the cheer. 
 
 In larger villages there is a better church, a school, 
 and an inn, and at one end of the place we see a long 
 building, a much larger one than the rest, which 
 forms the village work-shop, or factory. The best 
 dwelling in the village is sure to be the home of the 
 starosta, an officer elected by his fellow villagers to 
 act as chief man — a kind of mayor. The starosta 
 has much power. With his council of village peasants 
 about him, he lays down the law for the village. He 
 can, by vote of the council, order any villager flogged, 
 put out of town, or exiled to Siberia. 
 
 But what is made in the village factory? we ask. 
 A Russian friend tells us about the thriving cottage 
 and village industries of Russia. 
 
 COTTAGE INDUSTRIES 
 
 So small has the allowance of land for each peasant 
 family now become that it will not support even a 
 small family. So the peasants spend their winter 
 months making articles for sale. 
 
 Millions of Russian farm laborers spend their winters 
 
66 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 making shoes, shawls, lace, wooden spoons, knives, 
 locks, razors, metal icons, paper-mache articles, and 
 cheap toys. Every little cottage has its loom, or 
 turning lathe, or work-bench. Father, mother, and 
 children all work, often from five o'clock in the morning 
 until nine at night. And although these Russian 
 peasants are as skillful as any laboring people in the 
 world, they work for the lowest pay. Goods are 
 sold at so low a price in this country that if each 
 of the family makes a few cents a day, he is quite 
 satisfied. 
 
 Large city firms and foreign dealers order goods 
 from these cottage toilers early in the season, for 
 so well are the articles made that there is a ready 
 demand for them not only in Russia but also in other 
 European countries and even in Asia. 
 
 These cottage industries, as they are called, have 
 trained the people in useful handicraft, have made 
 them independent bread-winners, and have been the 
 beginning of many little village factories, called 
 cooperative associations. For these factories the 
 peasants of a village club together and build a large 
 shop, which they fit up with tools, machinery, looms, 
 or whatever is needful for their work. Then they 
 appoint a leader to get orders for them from large 
 firms, and to direct their work. All winter" long 
 they keep at their tasks, as busy as bees in a hive. 
 The leader pays all expenses and receives all the 
 money. At the close of the season the profits are 
 divided among the workers. 
 
 We enter the village factory, where the villagers 
 are making icons for sale, turning them out by the 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 67 
 
 thousand. These are not the richly jeweled, gold 
 and silver icons such as we saw in St. Petersburg. 
 The face and hands of the saint, Virgin, or Saviour 
 are crudely painted. The rest of the picture is in 
 raised work of paper-mache. Sometimes the raised 
 work is of brass. These pictures sell for from a few 
 cents to many dollars, according to their size and 
 workmanship. And they sell wherever there is a 
 Greek Church, whether in Russia or in foreign lands. 
 
 Every village in Russia is busy during the winter, 
 making articles to sell at home and abroad. We see 
 
 village factories 
 where they are mak- 
 ing cheap wall clocks, 
 and looking-glasses, 
 and where they are 
 weaving silk or linen. 
 Calf-skin boots are 
 made by the million 
 pairs. They are good 
 boots, too. Leather 
 is made by the vil- 
 lagers, both in their 
 homes and in their 
 little factories. More 
 than a million dol- 
 lars' worth of leather 
 is made in a year. 
 The leather known 
 as russia-leather was 
 originally a specialty 
 
 RUSSIAN BASKET SELLER °f Russia, bllt the 
 
68 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 best russia-leather is now made in Austria. Lace 
 is made by the hundred million yards. Russian 
 peasants wear a great deal of coarse lace. The 
 men have it on their best shirts, and the women deck 
 their dresses and aprons with it. In one group of 
 provinces of European Russia there are said to be 
 thirty thousand people engaged in making lace. 
 Every year they make over 500,000,000 yards; and 
 not all of it is coarse lace. Some of the patterns are 
 fine and delicate. 
 
 With so many good workmen in these Russian 
 villages, it is not strange that great factories have 
 been established all over the country. Wherever 
 labor is skillful and cheap, big factories are certain to 
 be opened. A boy or girl who has worked in the 
 home cottage from early childhood and has spent a 
 few years, in a village factory, is easily taught to do 
 the work of a great manufacturing establishment. 
 
 Children usually get about eight cents a day in these 
 large factories. Like their elders, they must work 
 long hours for this poor pay. But they have many 
 holidays, for the factories must close for every fast 
 and saint's day in the Greek Church. And there are 
 about a dozen of these holidays for every month in 
 the year. Recent laws have ordered that all large 
 factories outside of towns must provide schools for 
 the children, besides free hospitals, baths, and libraries 
 for all their laborers. 
 
 Russia has' great natural resources. Her coal fields 
 are the largest in the world. Her oil wells in the 
 Baku district of the Caucasus out-yield those of the 
 LTnited States. Iron lies buried in rich deposits in 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 69 
 
 the Ural Mountains and Siberia. With forests, grain 
 fields, waters abounding in fish, the steppes of Eastern 
 Russia overrun by immense herds of cattle — what 
 more does Russia need to make it leap to the head as 
 the chief industrial country? It has only begun to 
 live as a modern, civilized, prosperous nation. Time 
 to develop its resources is all that the czar's land 
 needs, with more freedom for the people, more good 
 schools, and better laws. 
 
 RUSSIAN CHILD LIFE 
 
 Our young friend Ivan (Ivan is the Russian for 
 John) has a little sister named Anna. They know a 
 wee bit of English, and we know a few Russian phrases. 
 So we get on famously as friends. The first thing 
 we notice about these Russian children is their religion. 
 Each has a guardian angel, or patron saint; and to 
 these saints they pray many times a day. 
 
 Over their beds hang excellent icons of their saints. 
 They believe their "Angels," as they call these saints, 
 are always watching them,. Ivan tells us all about his 
 religious duties, and it seems to us that these must 
 take up a greater part of his time. He must keep 
 a light burning day and night before the icon over his 
 bed. A priest has consecrated the picture by reciting 
 prayers before it, and Ivan himself always kneels 
 before it and makes the sign of the cross on entering 
 his room. The boy was baptized when he was but 
 eight days old and was confirmed in the Greek Church 
 immediately after baptism. 
 
 Baptism in the Greek Church is a long, long cere- 
 mony. Sometimes it lasts several days. The baby 
 
70 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 is anointed with oil, signed with the cross, immersed 
 three times in water, and blessed by the priest. Often 
 Russian children are named in honor of their patron 
 saint. 
 
 Ivan celebrates the day dedicated to his "Angel," 
 and invites us to his house for the occasion. What 
 Ivan does is what every man, woman and child in 
 the Greek Church is expected to do in honor of his 
 own guardian angel. 
 
 On his Angel's day Ivan does not work, but, dressed 
 in his best clothes, goes to church, where he kneels 
 before his Angel's shrine, touches his little head to 
 the ground, says long prayers, and kisses the floor 
 beneath the icon. Then he buys from the priest 
 some consecrated loaves of bread to give to the poor. 
 On returning home, he finds a feast spread, and all 
 his friends and relatives there to help him celebrate 
 the day. Everybody kisses him, and does reverence 
 to the Angel's picture, and dines at the generously 
 loaded table. After dinner, and a little gossip, the 
 people all go home to their various tasks, only to come 
 back for another hearty meal in the evening. It 
 is a great day for Ivan. Anna celebrates her Angel's 
 day in the same way. 
 
 The children fast many days every year, just as do 
 their parents. During Lent no butter, eggs, fish or 
 meat may be eaten, and only young children may 
 drink milk. There are other long fasts, before Christ- 
 mas, in August, and on saints' days. Every Wednes- 
 day and Friday of the whole year one must fast. Men 
 folk make up for all this fasting by drinking much 
 vodka, but it is hard on the children. Indeed, when 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 71 
 
 the fasts are over, everybody eats such a quantity of 
 food that often many are made sick. 
 
 Ivan and Anna have prayers to repeat at school, 
 and many of them. There are certain prayers when 
 the term begins, others when the holidays come, still 
 other prayers, when a new teacher is engaged, and 
 others for use on the playground, in the workshop, 
 the factory, and on the farm. Religion goes with 
 every act of their lives. 
 
 As in every country, the education of a Russian 
 child depends upon his parents' position in life. The 
 peasant girls rarely go to school. The boys go only 
 in the winter when they are unable to be of help to 
 their parents. 
 
 The school buildings of the poor villages are miser- 
 able huts, without ventilation. Each pupil is bound 
 to bring some wood to school, to heat the building. 
 When it is very cold the pupils do not go to school. 
 Each family in turn boards the schoolmaster. 
 
 In many of the villages the teachers are paid less 
 than the shepherds, and are not respected or well cared 
 for. They are often very ignorant themselves, and a 
 great part of the time are drunk, even while in the 
 schoolroom. Much of the actual teaching is done by 
 the older pupils. 
 
 School-children always wear uniforms; so do school- 
 teachers. The cloth, the color, the cut, of the gar- 
 ments, even the size and number of buttons on them, 
 are fixed, and whether the dress is becoming or not 
 to Ivan, or his sister Anna, they must wear it. 
 
 In the poorest villages very often nobody cares 
 whether the children attend school or not. Boys and 
 
72 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 girls idle about, or earn their own living with only a 
 day now and then at school. Their uniforms get rag- 
 ged, books are mislaid, school is all but closed. 
 
 Then word reaches the village that the School In- 
 spector is coming, and what a sensation there is! All 
 the brightest boys and girls are hustled off to school, 
 good uniforms are borrowed from a neighboring town, 
 the children are drilled in a good lesson all around, 
 everything is rubbed up and made to look its best. 
 The School Inspector is really delighted with his visit. 
 If he suspects that all this splendor will fade as soon 
 as he rides away, he gives no sign. 
 
 But good village schools are now being opened. The 
 czar is making an effort to improve the common 
 schools. Besides the regular studies, children are 
 learning useful occupations. Some village primary 
 schools, have school-gardens or fields where boys and 
 girls learn modern methods of gardening and farming. 
 Bee-keeping, silk-worm culture, trades and various 
 handicrafts are being taught. These schools are for 
 the peasants. 
 
 Children of the aristocracy are either taught at home 
 by well-trained governesses and tutors, or they attend 
 the convent schools established by the government in 
 the leading cities. They are taught " accomplish- 
 ments" — to have fine manners, to dance, to speak 
 modern languages, and to sing, play, and be fashion- 
 able ladies and gentlemen. They are permitted to go 
 to the theater and the opera, to take part in the carnival 
 sports before Lent, and are even allowed, perhaps, to 
 attend a breakfast at the palace, given by the czarina. 
 The older boys who stand highest in their class are 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 73 
 
 A RUSSIAN FAMILY OF ARCHANGEL 
 
 taken to court receptions, to act as pages to the ladies. 
 Russian children have few games and care little for 
 out-door sports. They think ice-hilling great fun; 
 and they are good skaters by nature. They sing well, 
 and on holidays one sees them parading the village 
 streets with their elders — men and bo} r s in one line, 
 women and girls in another — singing choruses. Some- 
 times on holidays all the villagers sit on benches out- 
 
74 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 side their cabins, singing together in a great chorus. 
 When several Russians are together they fill the air 
 with music. The people sing at their tasks, while 
 tramping to the fields, while gathering fuel in the forest, 
 or while pushing their boats across lake or stream. 
 
 The children look forward with delight to their fairs 
 and festivals, of which there are many. The first of 
 these is in Easter week. This is followed by the 
 festival of the river nymphs. Then comes a festival 
 in honor of John the Baptist; then a harvest feast, 
 and George's Day, which is celebrated twice a year, 
 on the 23d of April and the 26th of November. 
 
 Later come the Christmas and New Year's festivals 
 and the great Russian Carnival or Butter week, which 
 ends the winter's festivals. At these fairs and festivals 
 the Russians amuse themselves much as do the people 
 in other parts of the world at festivals. The main 
 square of the city is given up to booths where candy 
 and sweetmeats are sold. There are fortune-tellers, 
 and merry-go-rounds, and swings, and shows, and 
 theaters, and (in winter) sleigh-drives. Clowns go 
 about disguised in wigs and peasant dress, and with 
 their jokes and antics add to the fun. 
 
 The Russians are very kind-hearted and polite and 
 they are fond of their children. One seldom hears a 
 cross word or any quarreling among them, even in 
 the great crowds at the fairs. The brothers and sisters 
 of a family are devoted to one another and to their 
 parents. 
 
 The courtesy Russian children show toward their 
 parents, and their consideration for older people, are 
 always noticed by travelers. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 75 
 
 CHRISTMAS IN RUSSIA 
 
 Christmas holidays in Russia begin at sunset on 
 Christmas Eve and last twelve days, until the festival 
 of Epiphany. At sunset of Christmas Eve children, 
 and older people, too, go about the town singing carols 
 under the windows of the nobles and other great folk. 
 At the head of their procession is carried a pole, on 
 top of which is a bright "Star' of Bethlehem." 
 Showers of coins are thrown the singers from the win- 
 dows, in return for their carols. Often after singing 
 their songs before a house, the boys and girls enter, to 
 congratulate . the family on the arrival of Christmas 
 and to wish them a happy New Year. This is a village 
 custom. 
 
 After the carols everyone dresses in the guise of 
 sheep, oxen, and cattle, in memory of the scenes a- 
 round the Christ Child's manger, and as the evening 
 star appears supper is served on tables covered with 
 straw. "Mumming" is a favorite frolic in country 
 places. "Mummers" are mischievous young folks 
 disguised as bears, goats, clowns, blind beggars, and 
 thieves. They wear masks and go about to various 
 homes where parties of young people are gathered, 
 bursting into the room and performing all kinds of 
 antics. The bears and goats dance together, the clowns 
 iell stories and recite nonsense verses about those 
 present, while the blind beggars (called Lazaruses) 
 sing their "dismal dumps so dull and heavy," and the 
 thieves pretend to have broken into the house to steal 
 valuables. 
 
 There is an uproar of merriment at such times; nor 
 is "mumming" a frolic of the common people only. 
 
76 
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 CATHEDRAL AT OSTANKLNO, NEAR MOSCOW 
 (Russian Drosbky in Foreground) 
 
 Even among the upper classes young people dress in 
 disguise and go from house to house. 
 
 At Christmas time the people greet one another 
 with, "A happy feast to you!" And a happy feast 
 it usually is. At dinner on Christmas Day is served 
 a huge pyramid of rice, with raisins, blessed at the 
 church. Every servant receives a useful gift, and the 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 77 
 
 peasants on the estates generally offer gifts of em- 
 broidery to the lady of the castle, and receive presents 
 in return. The poor are always fed on Christmas Day. 
 
 Santa Claus does not go to Russia. An old woman 
 known as Baboushka takes his place and carries the 
 children their gifts. 
 
 Christmas trees , with their lighted candles, presents, 
 and good wishes, are a part of the Christmas Eve 
 celebration. On Christmas Day the churches, bril- 
 liantly lighted and crowded with worshipers, hold long 
 services, when the priests appear in their most gorgeous 
 robes and the choirs chant their most splendid music. 
 
 Huge bonfires are set going both on Christmas and 
 New Year. Village folk in some parts of Russia save 
 the sweepings from their cottages from Christmas to 
 New Year, and burn them on New Year's Day at sun- 
 rise in the garden. 
 
 Large parties are held in the country houses during 
 these gay holidays. The guests come in sledges from 
 long distances — parents and children, and servants. 
 The merrymakers wear old-time costumes, and eat old- 
 time Christmas goodies, and play games handed down 
 from their far-off ancestors. They play one game 
 thus: 
 
 A bowl containing water is set on the table, while 
 the players, gathering in a circle about it, throw into 
 the bowl many different tokens, such as rings, earrings, 
 bracelets, and brooches. The bowl is covered with a 
 cloth and its contents are stirred by the eldest nurse 
 in the family, while the players sing the "song of the 
 salt and the bread. " Salt, bread, and charcoal have 
 meantime been placed near the table, perhaps as an 
 
78 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 aid to the enchantment of the bowl. The "song of 
 the salt and the bread" has been translated for us 
 thus: 
 
 May the bread and the salt live a hundred years — slava! 
 
 May our emperor live still longer — slava! 
 
 May our emperor never grow old — slava! 
 
 May his good courser never be tired — slava! 
 
 May his shining garments ever be new — slava! 
 
 May his good servants always be faithful — slava! 
 
 (Slava means "glory.") 
 
 Each player at length draws a token from the bowl. 
 From these tokens are discovered omens of the future — 
 riches, a speedy marriage, a wish fulfilled, success, 
 fame and the like. 
 
 In the villages there is still much visiting from house 
 to house ; while sledges are flying through the village 
 streets, masked men are cutting capers, bells are tolling 
 in the church towers, and sledge bells are jingling 
 everywhere. The noise and bustle of it all are dis- 
 tracting. 
 
 HOW THE PEOPLE GET ABOUT 
 
 We might not enjoy the long journeys one must 
 make by sledge or carriage in Russia to get anywhere, 
 but these people do not seem to mind them at all. 
 In winter when the snow is deep, with a firm top crust, 
 they bundle in furs and go sixty, seventy, or a hundred 
 versts* through forests, across meadows and frozen 
 lakes, and over the ice of a broad river. Think of 
 dashing in a sledge down a frozen river where sleighs 
 are coming and going at tremendous speed, with sleigh 
 bells ringing, whips snapping, and the drivers all alert 
 to keep from running into the sail boats which stand 
 frozen stock-still in the middle of this queer road! 
 
 *Verst: About two-thirds of a mile. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 79 
 
 If there is no snow, people often travel in a tarantass. 
 This is a covered cart into which one mounts by steps. 
 There are no springs, for in a country of wide, wide 
 steppes and forests, where a break-down may occur 
 forty miles from the nearest village, the fewer springs 
 there are to give way the better. Instead of being on 
 springs, the tarantass rests on a raft of poles — just 
 rude saplings cut and trimmed with an ax and lashed 
 in a row on the axles of the two pairs of wheels. The 
 body of the tarantass is roomy; so hay and straw for 
 a bed are piled in; a bag of clothing, some cooking 
 utensils, provisions, and an ax, hammer, or whatever 
 tools are likely to be needed in case of accident. If 
 a pole breaks while the vehicle is jolting over the 
 rough roads, the isvoschik, or driver, cuts down a pine 
 sapling, smooths off the twigs, pushes it into position 
 where the broken one came from, and there you are! 
 
 And after all, a party jolting along in a tarantass 
 can have a pretty good time. There are stories to 
 tell — stories of evil spirits, fairies, demons, and other 
 queer folk; for in spite of his religion, a Russian still 
 loves to believe in the wonder-world, and the common 
 people are very superstitious. Then there are the 
 camp fires and out-door meals on this tarantass trip; 
 and there is the fun of sleeping on the hay in the bot- 
 tom of the rude coach. 
 
 Sometimes there is a village to be seen — a pretty 
 village, with a gleaming river flowing past it, and a 
 white church with gilt spires, and some really pictur- 
 esque houses painted pink, white, or terra cotta. 
 There are men and boys fishing, and women washing 
 clothes along the water's edge, while sail boats raise 
 
80 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 their white canvas against a background of birch trees. 
 Russian landscapes are not always desolate. To the 
 boy or girl used to traveling over these country roads 
 there is no other land so dear as Russia. These 
 children would not live elsewhere if they could. 
 
 PILGRIMAGES 
 
 Thousands of Russians every year go on pilgrimages 
 to some religious shrine. Rich and poor, high and low 
 tramp over the country, through heat or cold, clad 
 in coarse garb, staff in hand, begging their bread, it 
 may be, as they go, glad to suffer hardship for Christ's 
 sake. Most pilgrims are very poor, but to the peasants 
 a pilgrim is a holy being; and they are always 
 ready to give him food, shelter, and perhaps some coins 
 to carry to the shrine. 
 
 Often we meet bands of these pilgrims. They are 
 tramping to Novgorod (south of St. Petersburg), or 
 to Kief (in Poland), or to Palestine, or to the mon- 
 astery of Solovetsk. To visit Palestine is the chiefest 
 joy of a Russian pilgrim. Next in honor is a trip to 
 Solovetsk. 
 
 Solovetsk is the largest of a group of little islands 
 in the White Sea — the Frozen Sea, as sailors call this 
 icy body of water. Monks dwell on all these little 
 islets, which are known as the Holy Isles. The mon- 
 astery itself is on Solovetsk, a famous old shrine to 
 which Russian pilgrims go by thousands every summer, 
 often tramping one or two thousand miles to reach the 
 holy place. 
 
 We go to Archangel and from there cross to Solovetsk 
 in a boat manned by monks. What a queer voyage! 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 81 
 
 The captain is a monk, in monk's hood and gown; the 
 pilot is a monk; all the officers and crew are monks. 
 The passengers are all pilgrims bound for the Holy 
 
 THE SHRINE IN A RUSSIAN CATHEDRAL 
 
 Isles. They are mostly solemn-faced folk, clad in 
 sheepskin, rags, or some fantastic garb. Some are 
 lame; some deformed; some blind; some beggars. 
 Some have money and have traveled in comfort; 
 
82 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 others are without a penny. One man is a pilgrim 
 for life, vowed to spend all his time walking from shrine 
 to shrine. 
 
 There is much praying on board, and prostrating of 
 bodies, and psalm-singing. A heavy gale strikes our 
 boat, and the crew sing psalms while they work. The 
 crews of boats passing us kneel with uncovered heads 
 to receive our blessing. 
 
 The monastery walls rise from the holy isle and show 
 their towers far out at sea. Drawing near, we behold 
 rising above the walls gold crosses, churches, spires, 
 and domes, like the clustered roofs of a city. There 
 are buildings and buildings — cathedrals, shrines, cells, 
 chapels, refectories, a prison, a palace, and all the 
 workshops of the monks. 
 
 We find the monastery crowded with pilgrims. We 
 are lodged in the Guest House outside the walls, where 
 the women pilgrims also must stay. Women are not 
 permitted to dwell on the isle of Solovetsk. During 
 the pilgrim season (from June to August) they may 
 come here to pray, may eat in the refectory, and lodge 
 in the Guest House, but when the summer ends the 
 monastery is closed to them. They are forbidden to 
 enter some of the more holy chapels, and may never 
 remain within the walls after nine o'clock at night. 
 The Greek Church gives its best to men. 
 
 No monk of Solovetsk leads an idle life. All in- 
 mates of the monastery must both work and pray. 
 During the pilgrim season much of the time is spent 
 in prayer. The pilgrim's day begins at two o'clock in 
 the morning with early matins. From then on until 
 noon there is one long service after another in the 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 83 
 
 cathedrals, with prayers at the tombs of saints, and 
 visits to holy spots on the island. A light dinner is 
 followed by more services, until the eight o'clock supper, 
 after which everybody goes to his cell, where he is 
 expected to read the life of some saint until he goes 
 to sleep. 
 
 The pilgrims vie with one another in all this 
 fasting, praying, bathing in holy lakes, kissing the 
 stones of holy tombs, and bowing their heads upon 
 church floors. 
 
 But the monks have workshops as well as cells for 
 prayer. They make things to sell — bread, clothing, 
 rosaries, spoons, and what not. There is a model 
 bake-house, where they make white and rye bread, 
 and also consecrated loaves stamped with a cross and 
 blessed by the priest. People from all parts of the 
 coast come by boat to buy these loaves. 
 
 The monks make famous kvas in their brewery, 
 and they carve platters, make baskets, take photo- 
 graphs, make icons, sew sealskin caps (seals frequent 
 these isles), paint pictures, tan leather, knit, dry fruit, 
 spin thread, build carts and sledges, quarry stone, fell 
 and trim trees, even build boats. 
 
 It is hard to tell what they do not do. In 
 their little shops there is a hum of labor from dawn 
 to dark. 
 
 We find the monastery of Solovetsk a place so full 
 of interest that we half wish we were monks. But we 
 remember what winter must be on these far northern 
 islands, and rejoice, after all, in our freedom. We 
 should not like to be imprisoned by ice for eight or 
 nine months every year 
 
84 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 MOSCOW 
 
 Moscow, the second capital of the Russian Empire, 
 lies four hundred miles southeast of St. Petersburg. 
 The railway between the two capitals is almost a 
 straight line. As we approach the Holy City (as the 
 peasants call it) we look with surprise upon the crowd 
 of many-colored domes and spires. " Mother Moscow " 
 must have nothing but churches, we say. Now we 
 understand why it is called the sacred city. 
 
 But Moscow is more than a city of churches. It is 
 the most gorgeously colored city of Europe, the most 
 Russian city of the empire. St. Petersburg is a copy 
 of other European capitals. Moscow is the quaint old 
 Russian capital. It has a tragic history. It has been 
 sacked by Tartars, and burned, and rebuilt, and ruled 
 by some of the cruelest monarchs the world has known. 
 Its kremlin (or citadel) encloses curious old towers, 
 palaces, cathedrals, monasteries, and chapels which 
 have passed through centuries of strange experiences. 
 Many of its shops look now just as they looked cen- 
 turies ago. Its old whitewashed buildings, its four 
 hundred and fifty . churches with domes of red, blue, 
 green and gold, its splendid palaces, its hovels, its 
 rough stone pavements, make it a city to delight 
 travelers from every part of the world. 
 
 The Russians in Moscow are the real old-time Rus- 
 sians. They are not like the Europeanized Russians 
 of St. Petersburg. Besides, there dwell here many 
 strange-looking subjects of the czar: Tartars from the 
 Volga region, Tartars of the Crimea, Calmucks and 
 Circassins, and silent, strange people in robes and tur- 
 bans, from Asiatic provinces. Moscow lies farther 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 85 
 
 east than Jerusalem. We call it. oriental. Oriental 
 cities are sure to be a jumble of color, filth, squalor, 
 splendor, and richness. 
 
 The city lies on both sides of the river Moskva. It 
 has a population of one million, and is the greatest 
 manufacturing city of Russia. Railways enter here 
 
 THE KREMLIN FROM MOSKVA REKOl BRIDGE 
 
 from every part of the empire. Over six million 
 passengers enter or leave Moscow yearly. One-sixth 
 of all the goods shipped on Russian railways load or 
 unload here. From a magnificent railway station in 
 one part of the city the Trans-Siberian trains start on 
 their long journey to Dalny and Vladivostok. Over 
 
86 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 the entrance to this immense white station are the 
 words, in letters of light, " God Save the Czar." Truly, 
 Moscow is the heart of the czar's vast empire. 
 
 And the heart of Moscow is the kremlin. The word 
 kremlin is said to mean fortress, or central official 
 quarter. The high walls of the kremlin are pyramid- 
 shaped and are built of pinkish colored brick. They 
 enclose a triangle, one side of the wall being along the 
 river bank. Great square watch towers rise here and 
 there along the walls; and five gates give entrance to 
 this fine old fortress. 
 
 When Napoleon invaded Russia with an army of 
 five hundred thousand men, the Russians set fire to 
 Moscow as the French drew near their holy city. The 
 invaders could not stay in a burning city; neither 
 could they advance farther into this bleak country, 
 for the winter had set in with great severity. They 
 began a retreat. This retreat of the French from 
 Moscow was one of the most terrible marches ever 
 made by an army. Cold, famine, disease, and weari- 
 ness beset the soldiers. But, worst of all, the Cossacks 
 assailed them at every point along their route, killing 
 thousands and capturing many prisoners. Only about 
 twenty-five thousand French out of the great invading 
 army left Russia. 
 
 We are shown many memorials of Napoleon within 
 the kremlin. At this gate he entered; in this square 
 are the cannons captured from his army — three hun- 
 dred and sixty-five cannon! Here he dwelt, here his 
 horses were stabled; and here his soldiers ravaged 
 church and palace. 
 
 We ascend to the top of the Tower of Ivan, a lofty 
 
TOWER OF IVAN VELIKE, AND THE 
 GREAT BELL 
 
88 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 tower which is the first prominent structure to catch 
 our eyes. Its five stories are capped by a golden dome 
 with a cross on top. This is a bell tower in which 
 hang thirty-six bells, two being of silver, and the 
 largest weighing sixty-four tons. From the summit 
 of this ancient bell tower the view of Moscow is one 
 of great beauty. 
 
 At the foot of the Ivan Tower is the famous bell 
 which has room within it for forty people. It is 
 twenty-four feet high and weighs two hundred tons. 
 It is broken, but how this happened is not certain. 
 Many different tales account for the accident. The 
 opening in its side is large enough for a man to walk 
 through. 
 
 The palace, "The Great Palace," of the kremlin is 
 full of rich apartments. Seven hundred rooms are 
 crowded with art treasures and magnificent furnishings. 
 In the treasury one sees coronation robes, czar's jewels, 
 crowns, scepters, and insignia, canopies of velvet and 
 gold, and thrones set with thousands of precious stones. 
 
 One enters the Cathedral of the Assumption with 
 especial interest in the little whitewashed church. 
 The exterior of the cathedral is shabby, but within 
 the church is adorned with gold, silver, and precious 
 stones worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Here 
 are tombs of priests and princes; and sacred pictures 
 of greatest value. In this cathedral the czar crowns 
 himself; and, having placed the crown upon his own 
 brow, crowns the czarina. When Nicholas II. per- 
 formed this ceremony in 1896, the coronation scene 
 was said to be the most magnificent the world has 
 ever beheld. Says a traveler who was present: 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 89 
 
 " In the hol- 
 iest spot of the 
 Holy City, 
 amid all the 
 pomp of the 
 living and all 
 the solemnity 
 of the dead, 
 surrounded by 
 the royalty of 
 the world, 
 while bells 
 clash and can- 
 non roar and 
 multit udes 
 throng with- 
 out, he [the 
 czar] crowns 
 and conse- 
 crates himself 
 Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias." The 
 Cathedral of the Archangel Michael is the burial 
 place of all the Russian royal family of two dynasties, 
 until the time of Peter the Great. At different points 
 in the Kremlin we are shown memorials of several 
 famous czars. Who were the great ones among these 
 rulers? Let us make a list, thus: 
 
 Vladimir, who introduced Christianity into Russia. 
 
 Ivan the Third, called the Great, who first took 
 the title of czar. 
 
 Ivan the Fourth, called the Terrible, a monster of 
 cruelty, who was yet an able ruler. 
 
 NEAR VIEW OF THE GREAT BELL 
 
90 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 Peter the Great , of whom we have heard so much 
 at St. Petersburg. 
 
 Catherine II., an empress who ruled Russia with 
 wonderful ability. 
 
 Alexander II., the emancipator of the serfs. 
 
 There are other rulers who have done much for 
 Russia, but these are the most illustrious in a long 
 list of monarchs. 
 
 We leave the kremlin by the Gate of the Redeemer. 
 Over this gate is a sacred picture of the Redeemer, 
 with the consecrated oil always burning beneath it. 
 Overyone must bare his head when passing through 
 this gate. The people of the Greek Church also cross 
 themselves here. Sentries always posted at this gate 
 warn travelers not to fail in this custom of uncovering 
 the head. 
 
 Just without the Redeemer Gate is an open square 
 called the Red Place, where two hundred years ago 
 public punishments were executed. At one end of 
 the Red Place stands the Church of St. Basil. St. 
 Basil was an imbecile, a poor idiot beggar who thought 
 himself a prophet and miracle-worker. So the people 
 honored him as a holy man, for Russians are easily 
 imposed upon, and when St. Basil died, Ivan the Ter- 
 rible had a church built over his grave. It was to be 
 a great church; and it certainly is of great size. 
 
 Ivan the Terrible was pleased with the building, 
 so different was it from anything the world had ever 
 seen in the way of churches. It is said that he sent 
 for the architect and asked him if he could build another 
 church like it. The architect declared he was certain 
 that he could. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 91 
 
 CATHEDRAL OF ST. BASIL, THE BEATIFIED 
 
 Thereupon Ivan ordered that the architect's eyes 
 be put out with red-hot irons, for he wished St. Basil's 
 to be the only church of its kind! This story is not 
 believed by everybod}^ however. 
 
 The church has eleven domes, each of different shape 
 and different color. Such a mixture of forms and a 
 jumble of reds, blues, golds, greens, and yellows could 
 not be found in any other sacred building. Inside 
 
92 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 are eleven chapels dedicated to eleven saints. In 
 the Tretiakoff Gallery we see a fine collection of 
 paintings by Russian artists. We visit the libraries 
 and museums and enjoy a morning in the Foundlings 
 Hospital. This is a important institution, supported 
 by the Government, for the care of destitute babies. 
 Some thirteen thousand babies are admitted here each 
 year. Hundreds of nurses care for these tiny charges. 
 We shop in the handsome new Gostinnoi Dvor (the 
 marketplace), which is built in the same style of archi- 
 tecture as the kremlin. We ride over the rough pave- 
 ments to the promenades and pleasure grounds of 
 Moscow, and we wander about quaint old streets 
 where pedlers and foreign-looking shopkeepers, and 
 quaintly dressed peasants remind us of the Midway at 
 our Chicago World's Fair. 
 
 The climate in Moscow and in other parts of Russia 
 is nearly as trying in summer as it is in winter. The 
 heat is almost intolerable during the short summer, 
 and clouds of dust are everywhere. The people al- 
 most live in the streets at this time. Men go around 
 with odd little carts full of queer wooden jars, selling 
 all kinds of cooling drinks. 
 
 When we enter the restaurants we are waited 
 upon by men in white shirts that look like night shirts. 
 The peasants in the streets wear red shirts, and their 
 trousers are tucked into high boots. They love bright 
 colors, and their clothes look odd to us. They part 
 their hair in the middle and have it cut straight all 
 around. 
 
 We see groups of prisoners setting out for the Siberian 
 mines, exiles for life. We are glad that the czar is 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 93 
 
 now planning to abolish the exile system. Siberia 
 has so long been but a prison for Russian evil-doers 
 that it is now a country where honest folk dislike to 
 live— indeed, cannot live in safety. 
 
 From Moscow distinguished travelers often make a 
 trip to the country estate of Count Tolstoi, which is 
 seven miles from the neighboring town of Tula. Count 
 
 PALACE OP PETROSSKY 
 
 Tolstoi is a Russian novelist and philosopher. He is 
 considered the greatest living man of letters in the 
 world to-day. His desire has been to help the Russian 
 peasants. He, himself a rich man, for years lived 
 the life of a peasant, dressing, eating, and working sis 
 did the laborers on his estate. 
 Through his efforts there have been established in 
 
94 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 Moscow printing houses for publishing millions of cheap 
 books each year for the peasantry. The best pictures 
 are printed, too, at a small cost, and are circulated 
 among the poor. There is no more interesting char- 
 acter in Russia than Tolstoi, the peasants' friend. 
 
 THE VOLGA RIVER 
 
 The Volga is the longest river in Europe. Rising 
 in the Valdai Hills, it makes its way southward, past 
 many an ancient town, to the Caspian Sea, into which 
 it flows, by seventy different mouths, near the sea- 
 port of Astrakhan. Its basin is about seven hundred 
 thousand square miles in extent, for its tributaries ex- 
 tend to the far limits of the empire. The Volga has 
 been called the Russian Mississippi. 
 
 The river is navigable from its source, and, with 
 its tributaries and the many canals connecting with 
 it, forms the great highway of Russia. A system 
 of canals unites it with the Black Sea, the Baltic, 
 and the " Frozen Sea." Its chief tributary on the 
 west is the Oka. At the junction of the Oka with 
 the Volga is the town of Nijni Novgorod, which lies 
 about two hundred and fifty miles east of Moscow. 
 
 For nearly ninety years Nijni Novgorod has held 
 a great national fair every July and August. While all 
 European countries once held these fairs, Russia is 
 now the only country in which they are still to be 
 seen. The Nijni Novgorod fair attracts a multitude 
 of people from Russia, Asia, and, indeed, from our 
 own continent. The town has a population of about 
 95,000, but in fair time the number swells to 250,000. 
 
 The fair is a surburban town by itself. An im- 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 95 
 
 mense space beside the rivers is laid out in passages 
 or streets along which shops, booths, and other build- 
 ings are erected. Flags fly from the buildings, people 
 of every nationality are among the buyers, and shop- 
 men speak the tongues of many lands. Here are 
 sold silks, jewels, linen, cotton, and woolen goods, 
 
 NIJNI NOVGOROD— FROM THE RAMPARTS 
 
 antique rugs, priceless shawls, and quaint curios. 
 One may buy leather goods, metal wares, porcelain, 
 teas, coffees, wines and fruits. 
 
 There is an electric tramway, a semicircular canal, 
 a circus, a theater, floating bridges, and underground 
 galleries, with many a pleasure booth, whence music 
 and laughter sound. We find even a temperance 
 
96 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 tea-shop among the many odd little restaurants. 
 On the boat which takes us down the Volga are 
 crowds of people who have visited the fair. Several 
 Americans are among the passengers. It is hard 
 to travel in any part of the world and not meet our 
 countrymen. We Americans are appropriately called 
 " globe trotters." 
 
 About four miles from the left bank of the Volga, 
 as we steam down stream, is the ancient city of Kazan, 
 which the Russians captured from the Tartars. A 
 picture of the Virgin was carried at the head of the Rus- 
 sian attacking army, the very picture which we saw 
 in the Cathedral of Our Lady of Kazan at St. Peters- 
 burg. Kazan is a strongly fortified old city, and 
 has a university famed as a seat of oriental learning. 
 The largest Russian university is at Moscow. There 
 are other important ones at St. Petersburg, Odessa, 
 Warsaw, and Helsingfors in Finland. 
 
 Because the Volga overflows its banks every spring, 
 few towns are built directly on its shores. In the 
 autumn the river is so low that steamers often 
 are grounded on mud banks or sand bars. But in 
 the spring a flood spreads over the low lands. 
 
 Astrakhan is on a high island in the river, about 
 thirty miles from the Caspian. The city is connected 
 by bridges with both river banks. The name of this 
 seaport is derived from that of an article largely ex- 
 ported from here. . Astrakhan is the curly wool of young 
 lambs of a variety of sheep found in Persia and Syria. 
 The finest astrakhan is almost priceless. The stur- 
 geon fisheries of the Volga are very important, and 
 form a leading industry of the city of Astrakhan. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 97 
 
 POLAND AND FINLAND 
 
 Poland was once an independent and powerful 
 kingdom, with its capital first at Cracow and later 
 at Warsaw. But the name is all that now remains 
 of this once prosperous kingdom. The country is 
 but a province in the czar's empire. Russian soldiers 
 hold its citadels, and the Russian language is used 
 in all its schools. In the reign of Catherine II. of 
 Russia, three powerful nations (Russia, Austria, and 
 Prussia) took possession of Poland and divided 
 it among themselves. Two other partitions took 
 place in later years, until the nation was deprived 
 of all power and yielded itself hopelessly to its 
 captors. 
 
 We remember one brave Pole, Kosciusko, who 
 helped us in our Revolutionary War; he came to 
 America and offered his services to Washington at a 
 time when our little army sorely needed help. Kos- 
 ciusko later led his own people in an uprising against 
 the Russians and was twice victorious, but Prussia 
 came to Russia's aid, and Kosciusko was defeated 
 and taken prisoner. 
 
 The Poles are patriotic to the last drop of their 
 blood. They have risen against their Russian con- 
 querors several times; but only to be defeated. They 
 are a proud and brave people, highly educated, gifted 
 in music, letters, and art; and the women are famed 
 for their beauty, especially the women of Warsaw. 
 
 Warsaw stands on the heights above the Vistula 
 River, its chief objects of interest being the fortress, 
 the ancient cathedral, the citadel which stands on 
 a hill in the center of the city, and the many public 
 
98 
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 palaces, fine residences, beautiful squares, avenues, 
 and pleasure grounds. 
 
 Railways connect this city with Vienna, Moscow, 
 St. Petersburg, Dantzic, and Berlin. The Jews have 
 made it a commercial center of importance. Among 
 
 HARBOR OF HELSINGFORS 
 (Russian Cathedral in the Distance) 
 
 the Poles it is an important literary, musical and 
 dramatic center. One sees famous actors in Warsaw 
 theaters and hears the best singers and pianists at 
 the concert halls. The population is over half a million. 
 The national religion of Poland is the Roman Catholic. 
 Finland is a prosperous, progressive little coun- 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 99 
 
 try, where everything is up to date, spick and 
 span, and substantial. The Finns are Lutherans, 
 since they were ruled by the Swedes until 1809. At 
 that time Russia became master of Finland, and ever 
 since there have been efforts to Russianize the Finns. 
 The present czar makes them learn the Russian lan- 
 guage and wishes to take from them their right to 
 rule themselves, for they have hitherto enjoyed "home 
 rule." They kept their old laws and liberties, had 
 their own parliament, and were looked upon as the 
 freest people in the czar's land. 
 
 Finland is called the "land of a thousand lakes. " 
 It is a lovely country, with its islet-dotted lakes, 
 its woods of fir and pines, and its picturesque towns 
 and villages always swept and garnished as though 
 for a festival. There are excellent roads everywhere, 
 many miles of railroads, telephones all over the country, 
 telegraph lines, electric lights and tramways, and 
 the best of schools. 
 
 We see the people always busy — the men at work 
 on their farms, or fishing, or driving carts full of pro- 
 duce to market; the women spinning, weaving and 
 churning, and busy in many other ways. 
 
 Finland is a country of fishermaids as well as fisher- 
 men, and the girls often go out with their fathers and 
 brothers in the stout little fishing smacks. Often 
 a whole family makes its home upon the water for 
 weeks or months of each year. Almost every farmer 
 has his fishing-boat. 
 
 The peasant women when at work seldom wear 
 shoes or stockings, and we never see them in hats or 
 bonnets. They wear aprons of white striped with red 
 
100 
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 and blue, and upon their heads are snowy kerchiefs. 
 We visit a Finnish peasant home and find it a much 
 pleasanter place than most of the poor homes seen in 
 
 Russia proper. The 
 house is built of 
 wocd — low, and with 
 narrow windows and 
 latched ■ door. In 
 one corner is an open 
 fireplace in which 
 burns a cheerful fire. 
 Near the center of 
 the room is a table 
 upon which the 
 housewife is placing 
 the dinner. From 
 poles suspended from 
 the rafters hang cir- 
 cular loaves of dry, 
 hard black bread 
 and dried fish. 
 
 Near the fire the 
 husband sits mend- 
 ing a fish-net, and 
 by the window a 
 little girl is reading. The common people of Fin- 
 land are much better educated than those of other 
 parts of the czar's domains. The people value edu- 
 cation highly, and there are very few among even the 
 peasants who cannot read and write. 
 
 Helsingfors, the capital of Finland, is a clean, busy, 
 thriving city of over fifty thousand inhabitants. Its 
 
 FINNISH MILKMAID 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 101 
 
 university is the oldest in Russia. Its church of 
 St. Nicholas, with a lofty dome which may be seen 
 far out at sea, will hold three thousand people. 
 We see the parliament house, the libraries and muse- 
 ums, and learn something about Finnish art and 
 literature. Finland is a land of music. The summer 
 music festivals here bring thousands of people to 
 enjoy the splendid choral singing. 
 
 Finland is famous for its strawberries. At the 
 market in Helsingfors we buy pretty birch-bark baskets 
 of this delicious fruit, from Finnish peasant women 
 who wear kerchiefs over their heads, and queer loose 
 bodices, and quaint aprons. 
 
 HOMEWARD BOUND 
 
 And now with a last glance eastward over the Gulf 
 of Finland, toward the czar's capital and the fortress 
 of Kronstadt which guards his western shores, we 
 sail away across the Baltic, homeward bound. The 
 Russian Empire lies behind us. 
 
 Russia is a country of contradictions . She is called the 
 youngest nation of Europe, and is looked upon as really 
 younger than the United States; but in 1862 at Novgo- 
 rod was celebrated the one thousandth anniversary 
 of the founding of the empire. Again, Russia, though a 
 despotism, has for her chief friend and ally the Republic 
 of France. Russia declares that all religions are 
 tolerated within her borders; yet Jews, Roman Catho- 
 lics, and Stindists (Baptists) are often bitterly per- 
 secuted in this country. 
 
 Russia is called the granary of Europe, and she 
 has the greatest farms in the world; yet famines often 
 
102 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA 
 
 occur there. She has the largest lakes and rivers, 
 an extensive canal system, and the longest railway 
 in the world; yet her vast natural resources cannot 
 be developed because she lacks transportation! She 
 has rich mineral deposits, boundless forests, and 
 valuable fisheries, especially the seal fisheries of the 
 Arctic coast; yet the Government is heavily in debt 
 and much of the money needed to start manufactories 
 has to come from England, Germany, or America. 
 
 Russia has the largest oil wells of Europe. In fact, 
 everything about Russia seems to be the "largest." 
 Very likely she has the largest number of people who 
 can neither read nor write. That is because they 
 have not good free schools as we have. But Russian 
 statesmen, artists, authors, and soldiers are among 
 the most eminent men of the day. Our daily papers 
 are full of their achievements. Many thoughtful 
 persons predict that Russia will be the great nation, 
 Russians the great race, of future history. 
 
RUSSIAN NATIONAL ANTHEM. 
 
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Flag of Austria-Hungary 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 
 AUSTRIA- HUNGARY 
 
 Now that Sweden and Norway have severed the bonds 
 that so long held them together, and we are constantly 
 hearing that Austria and her uncongenial sister-state 
 Hungary intend to follow suit, a tour through the 
 Austro-Hungarian Empire, the one remaining dual 
 monarchy on earth, will be particularly interesting. 
 
 The journey will have many features which one 
 through any other land would lack. First among 
 these, and probably most entertaining to us, is the 
 large number of nationalities it permits of our visiting, 
 each of them quite separate from the rest — having dif- 
 ferent manners and customs, wearing entirely other 
 forms of dress, speaking in many cases different dia- 
 lects or even different languages, and in various ways 
 presenting to an observant traveler much that is 
 intensely interesting. 
 
 In this great empire there are Germans, Tyrolese 
 (tir-o-les'), Italians and Croats (kro'ats) ; there are 
 Saxons and Poles, Czechs (checks) and Albanians; 
 Magyars (mag'yars), Bohemians, Moravians and Dal- 
 matians ; and the people of each nationality have lived 
 so completely within themselves as to be absolutely 
 distinct from the rest. 
 
 We shall be confronted at the outset by the difficulty 
 
4 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 of planning a route that is not a constant retracing of 
 steps. If we go first, as so many people do, to Vienna, 
 and from there work to the north, we shall have to 
 return to the capital later and go south, and then once 
 more turn back to meet our steamer. If, on the other 
 hand, we go by the most direct route to Budapest 
 
 DANUBE AT VIENNA 
 
 (boo'da-pest), we shall be no better off, for we shall 
 simply be making that city our headquarters, to which 
 we return at intervals. 
 
 Friends who have been over the ground, on being 
 asked for advice, tell us to start wherever it may be 
 most convenient, and bid us remember that every 
 retracing of steps is so many hours' rest for the tourist. 
 
 We who have been to Italy and to the Balkans at 
 least know how we wish to make the first stage of 
 this present journey; we have become so fond of the 
 Mediterranean route that we resolve to follow it again. 
 We sail from New York in July, for summer is the 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 season in which to visit Austria-Hungary. The sum- 
 mer and autumn weather of the empire is delightful — 
 much like that of our northern states, though a trifle 
 cooler throughout. 
 
 Once land is out of sight, we take to the luxury of 
 steamer chairs, 
 brought by the 
 attentive cabin 
 boys to a shel- 
 tered corner on 
 deck, and begin 
 to read up on the 
 country we are 
 about to visit. 
 An understand- 
 ing of the rela- 
 tions existing be- 
 tween Austria 
 and Hungary is 
 necessary if we summer days on the Atlantic 
 
 wish to enjoy and 
 
 profit by this journey to the fullest extent. The sim- 
 plest explanation of the present state of affairs in the 
 Empire perhaps is this : 
 
 Up to about the year 1866 Austria was the leader of 
 what are called the Germanic States of Europe. Then 
 came a sudden upheaval among the Powers, and as a 
 result Germany took the lead and Austria was left to 
 make her way as best she could. At the same time, 
 troubles at home brought before her that which the 
 Russo-Japanese War and its consequences have forced 
 the Czar of Russia to realize — the fact that a people 
 
6 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 must be given some share in its own government if 
 that government is to be a stable one. 
 
 From time to time during past centuries there had 
 come to the house of Hapsburg, the ruler of Austria, 
 many vast territories, chief among them Hungary. 
 Though almost as large as Austria, Hungary had been 
 treated as a vassal or subject state, but she now 
 demanded a hand in the administration of affairs. 
 So a change was made, with the result that today the 
 government of the Empire is a joint one, in which the 
 two great integral units, Austria and Hungary, are 
 supposed to have an equal part. This change is the 
 main point embodied in the famous Ausgleich*, or 
 agreement, a term with which we shall become familiar 
 on our trip. 
 
 According to this agreement, the Emperor of Aus- 
 tria is likewise King of Hungary, and so soon as he 
 crosses the border from one country into the other his 
 title changes. He is the head, or chief executive, of 
 both lands. Under him, and to assist him in govern- 
 ing the Empire, there are what are known as the Com- 
 mon Ministries — practically a cabinet composed of the 
 heads of the Department of Foreign Affairs, the 
 Department of War, and the Department of Finance, 
 which last governs Bosnia, as we already know.f 
 
 What should strengthen the union, but fail utterly 
 so to do, are the Delegations. These Delegations are 
 practically little legislatures, sent, one from Austria and 
 one from Hungary, to meet together to deal with 
 those matters that pertain to the entire realm. Each 
 
 * Ausgleich. Pronounced, owce-glich, the ch like that in the Scotch word "loch.'» 
 tSee "A Little Journey to the Balkans and European Turkey." 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 7 
 
 Delegation consists of sixty members — forty chosen 
 from the lower and twenty from the upper chamber of 
 the Austrian and of the Hungarian Parliament respec- 
 tively. The two bodies meet at the same time and in 
 the same place — one year in the Capital of Austria and 
 the next in that of Hungary, alternating ever. They 
 do not sit together — often in separate buildings — but 
 they take up and pass on the same matters. It is 
 this parliament, then, that should constitute the true 
 bond between Austria and Hungary, but such is the 
 hatred of each Delegation for the other that they are 
 really bodies working toward disruption. 
 
 As we shall enter Austria first, we next inform our- 
 selves briefly as to how she in particular is governed. 
 We have heard so much of good old Franz Josef 
 (frantz yo'sef) that we feel almost a personal interest 
 in him and his affairs, and this part of the Empire is 
 more truly his than is Hungary. Austria, though 
 probably we have never had the fact drawn to our 
 attention, may almost be called an autocracy. All 
 power not distinctly meted out to some official or to 
 some legislature, belongs to the Emperor. He appoints 
 certain of the members of the upper house of the 
 Austrian parliament or Reichsrath (richs'rat); and 
 through the ministers, also appointed by him, he 
 could very largely control the government. As a 
 matter of fact, however, with grants of this right and 
 that, he has ceded many of his powers, and that 
 means virtually giving them away, and seldom, if ever, 
 would he now care (or perhaps, dare) to act on any 
 vital matter without the consent of the Reichsrath. 
 
 The Reichsrath is the Congress of Austria. It con- 
 
8 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 sists of two chambers. In the upper, the House of 
 Lords, sit " princes of the blood-royal who have reached 
 their majority, the archbishops and certain bishops, 
 nobles of high rank, holding hereditary seats in the 
 chamber, and such life members as the Emperor 
 chooses to appoint in recognition of special services to 
 the State, to the Church, to science or to art." The 
 lower house is formed of the representatives of the five 
 classes of voters, for in Austria voters are divided into 
 classes, each class casting a separate vote. 
 
 Now let us turn to the individual government of the 
 other half of the Empire. Hungary, too, has her 
 parliament, consisting of two houses, or, as they are 
 called in that part of the world, "tables." The rather 
 sleepy upper house, that of the Magnates, is composed 
 of members who hold their seats by hereditary right or 
 by appointment. The lower house consists of repre- 
 sentatives chosen by the people, and this Table of 
 Representatives is the most fiery and tempestuous 
 body in the world. 
 
 Having arranged Austro-Hungarian affairs thus in 
 our minds, we give ourselves up to enjoyment of sum- 
 mer days at sea, and brief indeed seems the trip across 
 the broad Atlantic. Our route lies among the Azores, 
 then past the Straits of Gibraltar, on to Naples and up 
 to Genoa, where we leave the boat. Having followed 
 this route before, we experience only the pleasures of 
 revisiting those points which on our previous journeys 
 we found most attractive. We do not linger in 
 Genoa, but at once board the night train for Triest 
 (tre-esf), stepping upon Austrian soil within a day of 
 our arrival on the Continent. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 9 
 
 1STRIA (ISS'TRE-AH) 
 
 With our arrival at Triest we enter the great district 
 of Istria, one of the integral units of Austria and the 
 upper of the two divisions bordering on the Adriatic. 
 From our very first day in this city we are conscious of 
 the one thing that more than any other forces itself on 
 the traveler over the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and 
 that is the confusion of tongues. In every city, in 
 every village, the inhabitants talk in various tongues, 
 those people who speak one tongue or dialect refusing 
 to learn any other. 
 
 So largely is this the case that a summer or two ago 
 Austria and Hungary came very near entering upon a 
 war for separation over the question of the language to 
 be used in the army, the Magyars insisting that the 
 commands should be given in Hungarian, while the 
 Emperor-king, who is a Teuton at heart, declared that 
 the army, as a whole, was his, and that in Hungary, 
 as well as in Austria, the commands should be given 
 in German. Even the Austrian officers were opposed 
 to this decision, for, as they said, it was far easier for 
 them to learn the dialects of the peasants than to beat 
 into the heads of ignorant farmers' sons the German 
 words of drill and discipline. 
 
 Triest is the chief seaport of Austria, and so we 
 begin our sight-seeing on the wharves, where the blue 
 Adriatic rolls off toward Italy. We are fortunate 
 enough to find an American fleet visiting the port, and 
 we hire one of the little skiffs with which the harbor is 
 filled and row out to visit the flagship. We are inter- 
 ested in hearing the comments the Austrians make 
 
10 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 upon our fleet, showing admiration for the white ves- 
 sels (for their ships, as we shall see at Pola, are painted 
 a dingy green), and astonishment at the fact that 
 though among the crews there are men of various 
 nationalities, including Japanese, throughout the fleet 
 but one language is spoken. 
 
 Leaving the flagship, we let our boat loiter on the 
 sea until sunset, that we may watch the Stars and 
 Stripes come fluttering down, while the band on each 
 vessel plays " America. " Never before, in all our 
 lives, probably, has such a thrill of patriotism run 
 through us as that which we feel here, thousands of 
 miles from home, upon seeing the ' Star-Spangled 
 Banner ' and hearing our own national hymn. 
 
 Returning to the shore, we thread rapidly a market 
 where familiar fruits — apricots, peaches, plums and 
 grapes — are displayed on stands along the old canal, 
 upon the peaceful waters of which ancient speicmens 
 of sailing-ships lie at anchor. The American consulate 
 faces the canal, and if we were in need of assistance or 
 advice we might drop in on our representative. In- 
 stead, we board the street car that runs along the quay, 
 and in the long twilight of the summer evening ride out 
 to the terminus of the line. 
 
 Modern docks and warehouses stretch the length of 
 the route, and we see nothing that interests us par- 
 ticularly. Indeed, we are a bit disappointed in this 
 largest port of Austria. It struck us as a pretty place 
 as we passed through it on our way to Balkan lands, 
 but on the whole, it is like a great overgrown American 
 town with a foreign population. Even the strange 
 costumes we expected to see are absent from its streets. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 11 
 
 Many ladies, we notice, dress exactly alike (possibly 
 they are close friends, for they cannot all be sisters), 
 while the women of the lower classes attract us with 
 their brilliant head-kerchiefs. 
 
 We are not sorry to have stopped at Triest, since we 
 have now seen exactly what there is here, but we are 
 quite ready to start out in the morning on one of the 
 side excursions we have planned. 
 
 We rise early. At breakfast coffee is brought us, 
 and a tray of "horns." We are hungry, for the salt 
 sea air always whets the appetite, and so we help our- 
 selves liberally to the rolls. When the time comes for 
 reckoning, the waiter asks us how many we have eaten. 
 Just to try him, and to see if he knows, we state one 
 less than the true number. Instantly he begs our 
 pardon for correcting us, but assures us that we must 
 have made a mistake in our count. This is a peculiar 
 custom common to all of Austria, one must pay for 
 the "horns" or the pieces of bread eaten, but the 
 waiter always relies, presumably, on one's honesty to 
 tell just how many were taken. We may rest assured, 
 however, that before the tray is brought in, its con- 
 tents have been counted, to a piece. 
 
 miramar (meer-a-mar') 
 
 Threading the cobbled streets to the wharf, we are 
 beset by women selling tuberoses. When each of us 
 has provided him or herself with a boutonniere, we 
 board the boat for Miramar, and there follows a delight- 
 ful sail across the Bay of Triest to the palace of Maxi- 
 milian of Mexico. 
 
 We American tourists do not need to be told the 
 
12 
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 story of poor Maximilian, the brother of the Austrian 
 emperor. Never expecting to rule any land, this 
 prince lived in peace and quiet on the shores of the 
 Adriatic, almost within sight of Triest. Here he had 
 built a beautiful little chateau, with parks set in rolling 
 
 TERRACES AT MIRAMAR, HOME OF MAXIMILIAN OF MEXICO 
 
 terraces, flower-beds, and hedges of the stately arbor- 
 vitse; and, overhanging the coast, wide stone porticos 
 shaded from the beating rays of the sun by grapevine 
 trellises. 
 
 Then, one day, there came the news of a revolution 
 in Mexico, and not long afterward announcement of 
 the choice by the Mexican people of Maximilian for 
 their ruler. The prince had said he would never 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 13 
 
 govern a land unless he knew that all the people of 
 that land had made him their choice. So those having 
 the matter in their control deceived Maximilian into 
 believing that all Mexico awaited but to welcome him. 
 
 But this was far from being the case. Of noble 
 birth; the prince did not appeal to the Republicans of 
 the land at all, and the Royalists soon tired of him, 
 for, being a man of intelligence and liberal views, he 
 refused to act as their tool. So at last friend and foe 
 alike took stand against the Emperor, and revolution 
 broke out anew. That revolution culminated in the 
 execution of Maximilian, and Austria has never for- 
 given Mexico his betrayal. 
 
 Austria, like Germany, has its martyr-queen in the 
 Empress Charlotta, the wife of Maximilian. When the 
 French allies deserted the Emperor of Mexico, she went 
 in person to plead with Napoleon, but he would or 
 could do nothing for her. Then came the death of the 
 Emperor, and the blow cost the poor Empress her 
 reason. For a few years she lingered at Miramar, 
 and then kind hands led her to an old, secluded cha- 
 teau in Belgium, where she is now ending her days. 
 
 Arrived at Miramar, we find ourselves but a small 
 part of an army of tourists, whom the guards take in 
 charge and lead over the grounds.- Entering the 
 palace, we are permitted to visit the apartments of 
 state, the bedrooms and sitting-rooms, and the other 
 chambers leading off from the central rotunda, into 
 which the road from the sea almost leads. 
 
 In our story-books, since early childhood, we have 
 read so much of princes and their palaces that we are 
 much interested in the furnishings of some of these 
 
14 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 rooms. The library, especially, attracts us, with nine 
 well-filled book-shelves encircling the room — a door in 
 the center of each of the four walls alone breaking 
 their symmetry — and the heavy portieres of blue at 
 each of these doorways suggesting the purple of 
 royalty. In the reception-room, beyond, there are 
 splendid furnishings of a paler blue upholstery, great 
 family paintings in heavy gilded frames, and exquisite 
 chess-tables and cabinets. The bedroom of the prince, 
 where he accepted the crown of Mexico, disappoints us, 
 for it contains but two plain walnut bedsteads, such as 
 one would expect to find in a well-to-do farmer's home 
 in New England. 
 
 From the chateau we pass out into the park, strolling 
 among the terraces that make of this place a miniature 
 Versailles, with the added beauty of the sea. We 
 make our way down to the shore of the Adriatic, 
 where a group of Irredentists are in bathing. 
 
 During our stay in Austria we shall hear this word 
 Irredentist used so much that we had best learn its 
 meaning at once. Throughout these Adriatic provinces 
 of Franz Josef's empire many of the people are of Latin 
 descent; they speak an Italian dialect, and in their 
 manners and customs are distinctly Italian. There is 
 only the Adriatic separating them from Italy, and 
 their most ardent wish is to join that kingdom, to 
 which they belonged centuries ago,' when the Republic 
 of Venice controlled almost the entire east coast of the 
 Adriatic Sea. Consequently, they are striving to arouse 
 an Italian feeling everywhere; they demand that 
 Italian shall be taught in the university ; they wish to 
 have public documents drawn up in Italian, and they 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 15 
 
 insist that only Italian shall be spoken at public meet- 
 ings. 
 
 As we see them at Miramar, these Irredentists, or 
 Irreconcilables, as their name may be interpreted — 
 they being irreconcilable to Teuton rule — seem genial 
 enough, shouting and joking, and splashing water on a 
 group of visiting Czechs from Bohemia. Their bathing- 
 suits at once attract our attention: those of the men 
 are much like very loose pajamas, while the women 
 also appear in trousers. Great straw hats, too, are 
 worn in the water. 
 
 As we do not care to indulge in a plunge in the sea 
 today, we continue along the little path, reascending 
 the bluffs to one of the cafes built over the coast at 
 this point. Here we partake of an Istrian dinner — 
 veal cutlet, with a lemon to squeeze over it, potatoes, 
 bread, and beer — concluding the meal just in time to 
 catch the noon boat to Triest. 
 
 We do not linger long in the city, but almost imme- 
 diately board another small steamer for Capodistria 
 (ka'po-des'tri-a), a little town up the coast. 
 
 THE SALT WORKS OF CAPODISTRIA 
 
 Clumsy Istrian peasant women, barefooted and 
 wearing a short skirt of black or navy blue, a waist of 
 the same material, a scarf crossed over the breast, and 
 a kerchief of some brilliant shade wrapped about the 
 head, are our fellow-passengers. They come aboard 
 bearing on their heads huge hampers filled with milk- 
 pails. These baskets they deposit on the deck and 
 use in lieu of seats, as the boat is rather crowded. 
 From the outset these women evoke our pity, with 
 
16 
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 their sad brown faces, their tangled hair, and the broad, 
 protruding cheek-bones that bespeak the direst poverty. 
 Arriving at Capodistria, the peasants shoulder their 
 baskets, or else load them on waiting donkeys, and 
 plod off to their distant homes. We do not follow 
 
 SALT WIND-MILLS AT CAPODISTRIA 
 
 them, but taking a landau, drive through the little 
 town. It is a pretty place, in spite of its dusty look, 
 with its two-story homes set side by side beneath the 
 tall sycamores that line the streets. Out in the open 
 country we go, where the salt marches — or, as we 
 should call them, marshes — are located. 
 
 Those of us who expect to see beautiful blue inlets 
 of the sea are badly disappointed. To right and left 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 17 
 
 from the road there stretch large square reservoirs, 
 separated by low ridges on which a little grass is 
 feebly sprouting, containing sea-water. Where, in 
 an occasional basin, the water has not yet evapor- 
 , ated and is therefore of considerable depth, the color is 
 clear blue, but the process of evaporation leaves almost 
 everywhere a crusty deposit of white or yellow salt, 
 which gives the whole marsh a sort of decayed look. 
 Here and there, on the ridges between the basins, 
 small pyramids of salt are heaped high, and every- 
 where men and women and even children are at work — 
 barefooted, of course — plying what look to us like hoes, 
 keeping the water in motion to hasten evaporation, or 
 scraping up more salt. Low Dutch windmills, here 
 and there, make the scene suggestive of the polders of 
 Holland; only here, at intervals, stand Austrian sol- 
 diers, guarding the salt-bed from smugglers. The salt 
 industry is a government monopoly in Austria (as 
 is the tobacco trade), furnishing the government 
 with one of its most certain sources of income. There- 
 fore it must be vigilantly protected. 
 
 The process of making the salt is, of course, very 
 simple. The water of the sea is allowed to run into 
 the beds, or is forced in by windmill pumps. From 
 the large main basins it filters into aqueducts, and 
 from these into still other passages, until finally there 
 is only the salt left behind. This is then scraped up 
 by the salt workers, and carried to the bins in the 
 lower floor of their homes, where it remains until the 
 end of the season. Then it is all carried to the federal 
 depots, in the town. 
 
 We stop one of the children at work in the salt-beds 
 
18 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 and ask him how he likes his occupation. He is quite 
 satisfied, for all over southern Europe children are ac- 
 customed to work, and work hard, too, and they know 
 nothing of any life but one of toil. The little folks as 
 well as adults rise at dawn (which is usually at three 
 o' clock in the morning in the summer, the busiest 
 season), and labor steadily until about seven, when 
 breakfast is prepared. Breakfast, like dinner and sup- 
 per, throughout the year, consists of a porridge known as 
 polenta, which is made of Turkish maize, rice, beans, 
 white bread, and a little wine. Wine is almost as 
 cheap as water, in all the countries we shall visit on 
 this Little Journey, and we shall become accustomed 
 to seeing the poorest peasants indulge in it. 
 
 From breakfast until the noon meal, and then until 
 supper at dusk, it is work, work, work, for all the 
 people of this region. Often, when the sun dries the 
 salt rapidly, they will even resume ther labors after 
 supper, working until about nine o'clock, and then 
 stopping only on account of the dark. We are inter- 
 ested to know what a family — which usually consists 
 of four grown-up members and numerous children — 
 will earn by a long day's work, and we are told it is 
 about a dollar and sixty cents, or just a little more 
 than a single street-laborer earns a day in the United 
 States. 
 
 We wish to see how the people live in peasant Istria, 
 and so we hire one of the little boys to take us to his 
 home. The lower floor of the house is one big open 
 chamber, heaped high with salt. Upstairs are the 
 living-rooms. The furniture of the first one we enter 
 consists of two heavy bedsteads at one side of the 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 19 
 
 room, a double bed at the other, a table, and a chair. 
 There are several sacred pictures on the walls, a few 
 tomatoes ripening on the window-sill, and some old 
 shoes in line on a rafter. This is all that our eyes can 
 detect. The adjoining chamber is very similar, except 
 
 ISTRIAN PEASANT WOMEN 
 
 that here there are scantlings placed across the walls, 
 and behind these the blue crockery of the housewife 
 stands, very much as we found the dishes arranged in 
 Holland. There is a little fireplace here, with a bundle 
 of faggots lying beside it, and some tin cooking utensils 
 hanging near, but that is all. 
 
 Returning to Capodistria, we drop in on the Govern- 
 ment Salt Inspector, and learn how much money the 
 
20 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 sale of salt pours into the national purse each year. 
 When tired of figures and statistics, we go for a stroll 
 between the tall garden walls — built of stone coated 
 with a brown concrete — to a little inlet of the sea, 
 listening to the Italian patois of the peasants as they 
 pass us on their way home from their faggoting. 
 
 We finally stop at the restaurant, where, strange to 
 say, we find English spoken, for the proprietor was a 
 bugler in the Spanish- American War, and his son is now 
 the United States Consul at Fiume (fe-66'ma). Out 
 in the garden, beneath an ivy arbor, "white" or 
 " black" coffee, according to whether we take milk or 
 omit it, is served us; and here we rest a bit, while 
 watchng the men of the town at their evening game of 
 quoits — a game played with a heavy metal globe in 
 place of the quoit of our own country. Our boat 
 leaves at half-past eight, and we have a delightful 
 moonlight ride on the Adriatic back to Triest. 
 
 TRIALS OF THE TRAVELER 
 
 A journey through any strange land has its difficul- 
 ties and annoyances. On our excursion so far we have 
 found ourselves hampered by an insufficient knowledge 
 of Austrian money-values, for the traveler in the em- 
 pire must be familiar not only with the money-system 
 recognized by the authorities, but with the old system, 
 which has been abolished by the government, and to 
 which the people cling with a peculiar stubbornness. 
 
 The coins most commonly used are the tiny copper 
 ten-heller (hell'er) piece; a large copper coin of twice 
 the value, and the silver krone (kro'na) or crown, 
 which is equal to about twenty cents of our money. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 21 
 
 One hundred hellers make a crown. The old system 
 consisted of kreuzer (kroit'ser) and gulden (gool'den) 
 or florins. One hundred kreuzer equaled a gulden, and 
 a gulden was equal to forty cents of our money. 
 Shopkeepers usually state prices according to the 
 
 TRANSPORTATION IN ISTRIA 
 
 old system, but we pay for goods in the coins of the 
 new, and by the time we are through calculating what 
 the purchase has actually cost we feel that we never 
 wish to make another ! 
 
 Another cause for vexation is the indifference of 
 hotel clerks and porters throughout this land. We 
 have constant difficulty in getting correct information 
 as to trains and boats which we wish to take. 
 
22 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 For instance, we have planned for today an excur- 
 sion to the Caves of St. Canzian, the Mammoth Cave 
 of the empire. We were told at the hotel last evening 
 that the express for the interior would leave at 7:50 
 a. m., but in reality it does not go until half -past eight 
 and we have an hour to spend in the depot, glancing 
 over the time-tables on the walls, for there are no free 
 time-tables to be had. When a train is about to leave, 
 a hand-bell is rung, and so whenever a bell rings we 
 hurry to the gate to find out whether or not it is our 
 train which is starting. 
 
 At last our train does start, with us aboard. When 
 the conductor takes our tickets he gives us receipts 
 for them, and should we lose these receipts we might 
 be forced to pay our fare over again. It was well for 
 us that our friends advised us not to take much bag- 
 gage ; for only after our tickets are bought can we have 
 our trunks weighed and checked, and we must pay for 
 every pound of baggage. Hand-baggage, however, 
 we give to porters, who have the right to enter the 
 trains and deposit it in the cars, insuring a seat for the 
 owner at the same time. 
 
 We have a short ride among the mountains — 
 densely forested and with huge masses of conglomerate 
 protruding from their slopes. The scenery of the 
 region calls to mind the tremendous forestry and 
 mining interests of the empire, but of these we shall 
 see greater evidences later on. Here and there we 
 catch a glimpse of a farm enclosed by rock walls that 
 remind us of New Engliand. 
 
 At Herperje (hair-pell'ya) we change to another 
 train. As we speed along, we notice women standing 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 23 
 
 at the crossings, waving a flag to warn people off the 
 tracks, for the automatic gate at railway crossings is 
 unknown in this part of the world. While we are 
 waiting at a wayside stop, a great train of oil-cars 
 from Baku (bah-koo), Russia, rumbles by, and it gives 
 us real pleasure merely to gaze upon cars that have 
 come such a distance. 
 
 We are entering the dreary Bukovicza now, one of 
 the saddest regions of lower Europe. We cross gently 
 rolling plains covered with rocks deposited here, in 
 ages past, by glaciers that have long since disappeared. 
 Scrub oak abounds on some of these plains, and the 
 lenum and the wild parsnip grow beside the twisting 
 boulder fences. Here and there, on distant hillsides, 
 patches of oats, potatoes, or cabbage, and orchards and 
 pastures show the hand of the husbandman. 
 
 LIFE IN CARNIOLA 
 
 At Divaca (de-vatch/ah), a pretty little village, we 
 leave the cars. At once we are among Slavs, a race 
 utterly different from the Latins we met at Triest, for 
 the people of this section are Slovanians, and the life 
 we see here is that of the agrarian province Carniola, 
 just to the east. 
 
 Slovanians, Slavonians, and Slovaks — it will be dif- 
 ficult for us, at first, to distinguish between them ; but 
 each division is radically different from the others. 
 For convenience we may classify them thus : Slovanians 
 are found in little groups all over Austria; Slavonians 
 are the inhabitants of the province of Slavonia ; while 
 the Slovaks may be said to belong especially to Hun- 
 gary. 
 
24 
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 The Slovanians hereabouts we find greatly to re- 
 semble German peasants, but their features are some- 
 what coarser, and their skin is exceedingly yellow for 
 a Caucasian race. Many of them speak German, and 
 so we get on famously with them. 
 
 THE TAX COLLECTOR AMONG THE SLAVONIANS OF CARNEIOLA 
 
 Long before we left home persons knowing we were 
 to visit southern Austria told us to be sure to see the 
 Caves of St. Canzian, and it is for the purpose of 
 visiting these famous caverns that we have come to 
 Divaca. We engage a little sulky that is a cross 
 between the English gig and the go-cab of the Ken- 
 tucky mountains, and, making sure that our driver 
 can speak a language intelligible to us, start out. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 25 
 
 Along the road are the peasant homes — one story 
 high, square, with the roof sloping upward from each 
 wall to a point over the center — set in old-fashioned 
 gardens bordered with sunflowers. Behind the homes 
 are the fields, and everywhere are boulders — great 
 
 HOME AND STABLE OF ISTRIAN-CARNIOLAN STYLE 
 
 white, smooth rocks that look like tablecloths rumpled 
 in the wind while drying on the grass, as we see them 
 from our sulky. 
 
 It is only in vacation time that the traveler sees 
 children at work in the fields here. The Slovanian 
 insists that between the ages of six and fourteen years 
 the little folks shall be sent to school. After that they 
 "work out." 
 
26 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 Agriculture among the Slovanians is carried on in a 
 curious way. At home every farmer is proud to say, 
 or to hope soon to be able to say, that he owns his 
 land ; but these great farms here are held in a different 
 manner. Vast tracts are in the possession of what is 
 termed an Ober-Bauer*, or tenant farmer, who hires 
 possibly as many as fifty Bauern peasants at a florin a 
 day, with food, to work his farms. The Bauern, in 
 turn, will hire laborers to assist them, at anywhere 
 from forty to eighty kreuzer (not heller, remember) a 
 day; and these laborers do the actual work of hus- 
 bandry, the Bauer remaining at hand to supervise. 
 The plan is rather similar to the Turkish system of 
 government, as we saw it in our "Little Journey to 
 the Balkans," is it not? 
 
 After a bit we leave behind these lands of the plum 
 and the grape and the apple orchards, and enter the 
 Karst. That is a new word, but one with which we 
 shall become well acquainted, for it is in use every- 
 where in the south of Austria. It means simply the 
 desert, or better, the barrens, a stretch of country 
 where rocks monopolize the greater part of the surface 
 of the earth and make useless any attempt at cultiva- 
 tion. Here and there, in the Karst country, we can 
 picture ourselves back in rugged New England, for the 
 farmers have dug out great rock monoliths (blasting 
 is too expensive to be employed here) and piled these 
 into fences, while the soil wrested from the rock-lands 
 is given over to truck-gardens for the farmers' indi- 
 vidual support. 
 
 * Ober-Bauer. Pronounced O'ber-bow'er. Bauer (Plural Bauern) means peasant, 
 husbandman, small farmer. The Ober-Bauer, therefore, is the chief farmer. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 27 
 
 This land of the Karst is remarkable for another 
 natural phenomenon, and that is the terrific wind 
 called here the Bora (bo'rah), which rages here in win- 
 ter. The Bora will often last three days or more at a 
 time, and before it nothing may hope to stand. On 
 the roads in the Karst wagons will be overturned, and 
 people blown about as though they were mere leaves. 
 In Croatia (kro-a/shi-a), later on in our travels, we 
 shall see some of the walls the railroads have been 
 compelled to erect against this wind. While the Bora 
 rages, the cold is intense, and the snow piles high. 
 The peasant sees to it early in the autumn that he 
 has sufficient charcoal and turf to last him from 
 November to March, the season of these cruel storms. 
 
 At Matvoun (mat'voon) we take leave of our driver, 
 paying him the usual Trinkgeld (trink'gelt), for here, 
 as almost everywhere nowadays, the custom of "tip- 
 ping" is well established. In one country the fee 
 given is called pourboire (poor-bwar) and in another 
 Trinkgeld, but by whatever name it goes it is expected, 
 and often, in European lands, even demanded. No 
 matter what one's lodging at the hotel may cost, no 
 matter what the hire of buggy or hack may be, no 
 matter what price a bill-of-fare may state, it is cus- 
 tomary to add, in paying the bill, one-fifth of the 
 amount for the hotel clerk or the driver or the waiter 
 to keep — supposedly that he may drink to one's health, 
 but really as a bit of pocket-money. 
 
 In quest of a guide to take us to the caves, we enter 
 the inn, a pretty little tavern, the exterior painted a 
 delicate pink. There are very few people to be seen 
 about. Over the Slovanian lands the men and women, 
 
28 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 and, in vacation, the children, work in the fields from 
 sunrise to sunset. Only the old people remain at 
 home to guard the houses — the women to sit on the 
 porches and kint, the men to gather beneath the arbor 
 before the inn and see whose go-cab drives by or dis- 
 cuss the crops, or, possibly, to beg a kreuzer from a 
 passer-by with which to buy a glass of the host's wine. 
 
 The guide we engage is a typical old Slovanian, but 
 he speaks fair German, we find, as we follow him into 
 the caves. Steps cut in the rock lead to the base of 
 deep canons, the sides of which rise sheer to dizzy 
 heights, and are pierced here and there by cataracts 
 that tumble upon moss-grown boulders far below. 
 Rustic bridges span the gulfs between these precipices, 
 and friendly rails assist us in scaling the rocky walls. 
 Through caves just wide enough to allow a man to 
 pass with ease one ascends and descends these rocks, 
 emerging now to look up at the face of some gigantic 
 cliff, and again to peer over a precipice as steep. 
 
 In one of the largest of these many caves — a grotto 
 in which there still remains a pyramid of earth thrown 
 up in Roman times — a Christmas tree, set up for the 
 school-children of St. Canzian, is preserved, just as at 
 Mammoth Cave a cedar, brought down by the owners 
 of the cave for school-children of the locality, remains. 
 And here, as there, the tree serves as a natural recep- 
 tacle for the visiting-cards. 
 
 Just as, in Mammoth Cave, there are evidences of 
 excavations made in search of Indian relics, once the 
 single Indian memento had been found, so here, at 
 intervals, are mounds showing where the searcher 
 after Roman remains has been at work. By the light 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 29 
 
 of a torch made of fibers, and an additional magnesium 
 wire, the several curious forms of the cave are illum- 
 ined, the stone likeness of a horse among the most 
 wonderful of the number. 
 
 We are growing rather tired by this time. The 
 climbs are steep and in places dangerous, the walking 
 is difficult, and there is a certain strain in having to 
 pick each step that is telling on us. Throughout the 
 trip the old guide has kept muttering, over and over 
 again, "Das ist alles Natur,"* as though to evoke our 
 wonder the more, and now as we complain of weari- 
 ness, he once more remarks "Das ist alles Natur." 
 Not one of us will contradict him, but we wish that 
 Nature had omitted just that one of all the phenomena. 
 
 On our return to Matvoun we stop at the inn to 
 drink just one more glass of the "red" wine (almost 
 black) of the locality. As we sit here with the tax- 
 gatherer and the ancients, we are joined by some 
 "wanderers," for "wandering" is a favorite vacation 
 in Europe. These wanderers are not tramps, as the 
 name given them might lead one to suppose, but well- 
 to-do gentlemen, who, either alone or in small com- 
 panies tramp from town to town, sight-seeing, and 
 with no other baggage to encumber them than a loose 
 knapsack strapped to the shoulders, and a stout cane. 
 When we reach Hungary, we shall resort to the same 
 form of baggage conveyance. 
 
 We dine with these wanderers, and enjoy the typical 
 Slovanian meal. Chicken is the only meat, and the 
 head is served with the rest of the fowl; beans, cab- 
 bage, salad, and wine complete the feast. The bill- 
 
 * Das ist alles Natur: That is all natural. Pronounced class isst iil-less nali-toor'. 
 
30 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 of -fare is printed in four languages — German, Slovan- 
 ian, Italian, and Croat — in order that all comers may 
 read. 
 
 Dinner over, we engage a hack, and to save time, 
 drive to a nearer station than Divaca to catch the 
 train for Triest. We reach the city ready for a good 
 Istrian supper, in which veal cutlet with lemon, the 
 favorite dish of these people, is, of course, the chief 
 feature. 
 
 LOWER AUSTRIA 
 
 We have. now exhausted all that Baedecker and the 
 other guides list as worthy of inspection in the vicinity 
 of Triest, and are ready to continue our journey south- 
 ward. Early in the morning the porter comes to 
 carry our baggage to the wharf, where lies the little 
 boat that is to take us to Rovigno (ro-veen'yo). 
 
 The trip down the coast is a delightful one. Pic- 
 turesque fisher-boats, with lemon-colored sails on 
 which are worked patterns in maroon, dot the sea, 
 toning in well with the background of little coast 
 towns — sprung up, some of them, in the days of the 
 Crusades. We stop at some of these villages, with 
 their house walls rising directly up from the water, 
 and peasant women come aboard to sell green grapes, 
 peaches, and pears, exposed on broad wicker trays. 
 As these fruit-vendors spy an acquaintance among our 
 fellow-passengers, they rush up and kiss the friend on 
 either cheek in most approved French fashion. While 
 the ticket-seller is going about, selling us our tickets, 
 which we at once turn over to a second man following 
 him with a small wicker basket, we drop anchor oppo- 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 31 
 
 site a little hidden town, and much freight and a few 
 passengers are lightered ashore in skiffs. 
 
 Such of the inhabitants as we can see from the boat 
 strike us at once as curious. All the women carry 
 fans, and many of them wear their hair in a fashion 
 like that of the 
 Japanese. These 
 two fads com- 
 bined with the 
 costumes — white 
 waists with big 
 blue polka-dots, 
 and parasols of 
 gray and white 
 flowered patterns 
 — might almost 
 make one mis- 
 take these maids 
 for sweet Yum 
 Yums from fair 
 Japan. These 
 people, however, 
 are not so kindly 
 as the Japanese; 
 they are even less 
 friendly than the Triestines, speaking only to acquaint- 
 ances, and absolutely ignoring the stranger. 
 
 Now we enter the Dalmatian Archipelago. It has 
 not been long since we followed this route on our way 
 to the Balkan lands, but the fact does not lessen our 
 enjoyment of the wonderfully beautiful island chain 
 which stretches along the coast of Austria. We 
 
 OLIVE GROVES OF ROVIGNO 
 
32 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 remember that in reading up on the archipelago for 
 our former trip we learned that hundreds of years ago 
 the islands were covered with forests. Then came the 
 Romans, and later the Viennese ship-builders, strip- 
 ping the woods of their best trees, and when these were 
 gone, using up the rest before they had attained their 
 proper growth. Then storm and wind and wave took 
 hold of the remaining undergrowth, clearing it away 
 and carrying off the soil, until, in the course of the 
 centuries, almost every vestige of green had dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 The skeletons of these islands are of the whitest of 
 white rock, which rises from the blue sea in peaks and 
 cones. As they loom up, or disappear in the distance, 
 these mounds of white change to blue, and then to 
 azure, fading finally to the same shade as sea and sky, 
 when only the brown fisher-boats, with the sardines 
 pictured on their sails, give variety to the scene. 
 
 There are thousands of these islands, of varying 
 shape and size.. On the larger ones, villages are built, 
 and here some attempt at reforesting has been made. 
 As we stop at their wharves, we hear the locusts sing 
 in the young groves beyond the beach, while the sea 
 chimes in an undertone, and there is the happy laughter 
 of children, busy wading, or catching the sea-urchin 
 for the passengers' admiration, and winning kreuzer by 
 their feats. 
 
 Many of the islands, however, are too small to repay 
 even the sowing of grass, were soil furnished them, and 
 so they lie upon the sea like sugar-lumps of snowy white, 
 with the marine birds hopping about on their stones. 
 
 All too short seems the sail among these enchanted 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 33 
 
 isles, the nearest approach to which at home are the 
 islands in Georgian Bay, but all good things must 
 have an end, and so in season for dinner we drop anchor 
 at the town of Rovigno. 
 
 ROVIGNO 
 
 Our first interest is in knowing among what sort of 
 people we now are, and we find that the inhabitants of 
 Rovigno are what are known as Istrian Italians, speak- 
 
 LANDING THE SARDINE CATCH AT ROVIGNO 
 
 ing a rough Italian dialect, and one and all Irredentists. 
 There is a sprinkling of Croats in the population, and 
 these speak German fluently. We hunt up one of 
 them and he becomes our guide. 
 
34 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 We wish to see the sardineries for which this town is 
 noted, and so we start out at once, threading the lanes 
 between tall trees or four-story houses built of con- 
 crete. In almost every one of these houses the first 
 floor is a shop which is entered directly from the 
 street. 
 
 Outside one of the shops we see a notice of the draw- 
 ing of lotto numbers, and the guide explains that the 
 running of lotto games is a favorite means with both 
 the government and private individuals for raising 
 money for enterprises of every sort. Numbers are sold 
 for a given lotto, and prizes are awarded to those hold- 
 ing the card with the winning number. 
 
 Another feature of the town that strikes us as pecu- 
 liar is the government seal over the shops selling 
 tobacco. These shops are numerous, and a query 
 reveals the fact that one of the largest tobacco fac- 
 tories operated by the Austrian government is located 
 in Rovigno. The factory is composed of handsome 
 brick buildings situated in a little park, and we visit 
 them on our way to the sardineries. Tobacco-work- 
 ing, however, is rather familiar to us Americans, and 
 so after noting the cleanliness that is enforced every- 
 where, we are quite ready to go on. 
 
 SARDINE CATCHING 
 
 As we proceed, our guide tells us of the sardine 
 industry of Rovigno. Boats, both large and small, go 
 out upon the open sea at night, casting their nets, and 
 attracting the fish by means of a huge lantern, or in 
 some cases an electric light. In the morning the nets 
 are raised, and the catch is dumped on the deck. Any- 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 35 
 
 where from one to ten thousand fish of every sort will 
 be brought up by these nets, which are laid in a great 
 circle of sea, at a distance of possibly eight hours' sail 
 from the shore, and are plentifully baited with small 
 sea-crab furnished by the large companies in whose 
 employ the fishers ship. 
 
 Brought to shore and sorted, the fish are ready for 
 sale by about eight o'clock in the morning, and the 
 sardines retail on the beach here at Rovigno at six for 
 a heller, or a fifth of a cent. Bought up by the canners, 
 the sardines are washed in lukewarm water, and then 
 laid on bleachers inside the courtyard of the factory 
 for an hour or two, that the excess moisture may dry 
 off. They are then sorted according to size, and 
 placed in cans holding from six to twelve sardines 
 apiece. Olive oil from the local groves is heated and 
 poured over them ; laurel leaves and a bit of rosemary 
 are added as preservatives, and the sardines are ready 
 for sealing and shipment. 
 
 We shall pass several canning establishments in our 
 walk through the town, but in these visitors are not 
 welcome. We may go so far as to peep through an 
 open gate into one of the drying-yards and take a snap 
 with our kodak, but we must be careful lest the pro- 
 prietor catch us in the act and give chase with a handy 
 stick. 
 
 PRODUCTS OF THE SOIL 
 
 There are other relishes that we may taste in their 
 native haunts at Rovigno. Beyond the town are 
 great vineyards in which fine grapes are grown. Here, 
 in season, the wives of the fishermen work. During 
 
36 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 the rest of the year these women are disposed to spend 
 their time sitting idly on their doorsteps, or watching 
 their husbands 7 nets drying on the quay. 
 
 Just prior to or immediately after the grape harvest, 
 women and children go out and gather hazel-nuts, for 
 the hazels of Rovigno are famous. Children shake 
 the bushes, gathering the nuts in broad sacks, and 
 often as many as two hundred hazels will be brought 
 down from a single shrub. Bought up by the whole- 
 sale dealers, the nuts are dried on canvasses in the sun 
 for perhaps six hours, losing so greatly in weight that 
 a kilo* of undried nuts brings twenty-six kreuzer, 
 whereas a kilo of the dried sells for forty-eight. 
 
 We walk out into the open country, where the olive 
 groves — each tree with a grapevine growing up its 
 trunk — impress us with their mid-summer beauty and 
 dense shade. The olive harvest does not come before 
 November, for frost is required to ripen the fruit; so 
 now we see only the tiny green olives, resembling un- 
 ripe cherries, except for their oblong shape, hiding 
 under the long leaves that so closely resemble those 
 of the silvery willow. 
 
 We have eaten some of the ripe olives in Rovigno. 
 They are black and meaty, looking very much like 
 shriveled prunes, and the taste is quite different from 
 that of the green olives served at home. 
 
 The blackberry hedges along these country roads 
 seem like old friends, in spite of their purple blossoms. 
 The bushes hide the vineyards from view, but through 
 occasional gaps in the hedge we catch glimpses of the 
 
 *Kilo (ke'lo), an abbreviation for kilogram, the unit of weight in these lands and 
 equal to about 2\ pounds. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 37 
 
 long rows of vines, planted as single stocks, and some- 
 what resembling the current bushes of Ohio. 
 
 As we walk back to town, we fall in with the fag- 
 
 . goters — donkey-boys driving animals laden down with 
 
 gleanings from the woods to be sold in Rovigno. We 
 
 have had a hard day, and would fain ride the donkeys, 
 
 ' but there is no room on their backs. 
 
 When we reach our little hotel beside the sea, our 
 pedometers — without which we, as good travelers, 
 would not think of starting on any excursion — show 
 that we have tramped some thirteen miles. Supper is 
 ready, and the little tables on the terrace, lighted by 
 oil lamps hung from iron bars overhead, look very 
 attractive. We heartily enjoy the fresh fish supper, 
 and long after we have finished the meal we linger, 
 listening to the murmur of the waves nearby, and to 
 the songs of the fishermen's wives on the beach. 
 
 POLA, THE NAVAL PORT OF THE EMPIRE 
 
 Leaving Rovigno next morning, we continue on down 
 the coast, taking one of the little steamers running to 
 Pola, the Forbidden City of Austria. Before start- 
 ing we buy from the women at the wharf a liberal 
 supply of the sticky green grapes of Rovigno, which 
 serve for pastime as well as refreshment during the 
 trip. 
 
 Sailing among the Brionian (bre-o'ne-an) Isles, we 
 see handsome chateaux and picturesque villages scat- 
 tered here and there on their shores; or, far off in the 
 distance, between two isles, we catch a glimpse of the 
 rolling headlands of the coast itself. At times we find 
 ourselves almost in a fiord, so narrow is the channel 
 
38 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 between the islands, and then, again, we are out in the 
 open sea, and feel genuine ocean swells. 
 
 In the middle of the afternoon we drop anchor at 
 Pola, the great naval port of the Empire. Dozens of 
 the big olive-colored Austro-Hungarian warships are 
 in the harbor ; and on the street along the quay we see 
 sailors in uniforms of white and of every possible rank, 
 all busy about something or other. 
 
 As we walk up to the hotel from the quay we are 
 reminded of Banjaluka (ban-ya-166'ka), for here we 
 see the same little stands built out in the street for the 
 sale of fruit, apricots, and pears, and in this case of 
 sea-curios also, notably curious shells. 
 
 From the beginning of our sight-seeing, we find our- 
 selves hampered. Everywhere the "No Admittance" 
 sign stares us in the face. We go down to where the 
 warships tower, and we find ourselves separated from 
 them by great walls and gratings, inside of which no 
 one may go without a pass. Everywhere where there 
 are forts or other military arrangements, in Austria, 
 we shall find this to be the case. 
 
 At the gateway of a large three-story military-looking 
 building we accost the sentinel, and ask if there is no 
 hope of our being admitted. He refers us to the 
 admiralty office, and toward it we direct our steps. 
 We are granted the coveted pass to the yards and 
 ships, to have seen which will be very interesting if 
 at any time in the near future Austria enters into 
 long-threatened war with certain of her neighbors. 
 
 The officer who shows us about the yards tells us 
 that in Austria every man is required to serve four 
 years in the army, or navy, and he has no choice as to 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 39 
 
 which, unless he enlists before the required age of 
 eighteen. Should he intend to remain in the ranks for 
 life he must by the time the required years of service 
 are over have attained the rank of an under-officer. 
 On retiring, the soldier or sailor is granted a pension, 
 the rate of which increases with every ten years he has 
 served until it equals one-third of his regular pay. 
 
 Aboard the man-of-war which we visit we are shown 
 only those things it could do a spy no possible good to 
 see. We find that there are two decks in place of the 
 single one which our own ships have, and we are per- 
 mitted to pace one of these, witnessing the turning of 
 the great cannon, and peeping into the mess-room of 
 the higher and the non-commissioned officers, as well 
 as the cabins of the admiral. Compared with those of 
 our own ships the furnishings here seem to us dingy 
 and plain. 
 
 Our attention is called especially to the apparatus 
 by means of which, should occasion require, one-half 
 of the ship may be blown up, without injury to the rest. 
 We have pointed out to us, also, the various steering- 
 rooms aboard, the demolition of any one of which 
 would mean merely the using of another. After a 
 glass of raspberry wine with our cicerone, we return to 
 shore. ' 
 
 All along the streets in Pola we find the tables and 
 chairs of the coffee houses obstructing the passage. It 
 puts us in mind of London in the days of Addison and 
 Steele, for here, too, men come to read an entire after- 
 noon over a single cup of coffee, or to chat with 
 acquaintances and transact matters of business. Cer- 
 tain cliques prefer certain cafes, and so when a man 
 
40 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 we wish to see is not at his store, we shall be directed 
 to seek him at such and such a cafe. 
 
 Military officers, too, frequent these cafes, and we 
 are interested in seeing how they are constantly rising 
 to their feet to salute a superior, or else returning the 
 salute of some passing subordinate. Military law 
 requires that every superior be saluted and that every 
 salute be returned, so that the poor soldier-man is kept 
 almost as alert in times of peace as in war time. 
 
 A ROMAN AMPHITHEATRE 
 
 One thing that is not forbidden us at Pola is a visit 
 to the interesting Roman ruins of the neighborhood. 
 Chief among these is the amphitheatre or Coliseum, 
 one of the largest in the world. After seeing it 
 one loses half his respect for the great Coliseum at 
 Rome, because this one at Pola may be viewed to so 
 much better advantage. Three stories high, except 
 on one side, where the slope of a hill takes the place of 
 the first story, the mighty structure towers around the 
 arena — today a grassy field covered with scattered 
 blocks of stone. 
 
 Here in Austria the metric system of measurement 
 is in use, and the friendly guide who meets us at the 
 gate explains that the distance across this open space 
 in one direction is exactly 142 meters and in the other 
 170 meters. As we pause to reduce these dimensions 
 to feet, our eyes wander over the vast amphitheatre. 
 The stone of which it is built was originally white, but 
 age and the weather have changed it to gray, with 
 here and there beautiful shadings of brown, the whole 
 taking on a peculiar pale blue tinge in the sunlight. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 41 
 
 The old man who shows us about is one of the few 
 people in Pola, aside from the sailors, who speak German, 
 and he is very proud of his accomplishment. Despite 
 the dust, the result of one of the summer droughts so 
 common in this part of Europe, he insists on our tramp- 
 
 AMPHITHEATRE AT POLA, OLD ROMAN RUIN 
 
 ing about the great enclosed meadows to inspect the 
 various ruins of the place. Fragments of the walls 
 which enclosed the pits for the wild animals that 
 fought in the arena are still to be seen, and the bed of 
 a lake that occupied the center of the vast field. Our 
 guide also shows us the spot where petrified human 
 bones were unearthed in the excavations that up to 
 four years ago were conducted by the city, which has 
 
42 
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 owned the site almost since the days when the Romans 
 ruled these coasts. Then, by broad steps built in the 
 all-encircling wall, where the lizards creep among the 
 stones, he leads us to the landing on which the two 
 emperors had their seats. From here we may look 
 
 directly across to 
 the pillars that 
 once supported 
 the tiers of seats 
 set aside for the 
 nobles. 
 
 Now the old 
 man insists that 
 we shall walk 
 around the race- 
 course encircling 
 the arena, and 
 here and there he 
 points out the 
 deep foundation 
 hole of some col- 
 umn or piece of statuary long since removed. After 
 this, with no thought of our weariness, he urges us to 
 mount to the top story of the Coliseum, whence we 
 may look out, through the ragged apertures that 
 original^ formed windows, to the sea, and upon the 
 white dwellings of the town below us. 
 
 Later, descending a street of these dwellings — 
 elegant two or three-story stone houses, coated with 
 a yellow concrete, and joined to one another by tall 
 walls which hide from view the gardens — we reach 
 an arsenal. The building was originally a Franciscan 
 
 TRUE BOHEMIAN CHIMNEY SWEEPS 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 43 
 
 convent, which fact is, to us, the most noteworthy 
 thing about it, for beyond a row of cannon-balls and 
 mortars on the lawn we are permitted to see little 
 here. 
 
 There are in the city two old Roman triumphal 
 gates, which we find interesting. One of these now 
 serves as the entrance to a summer garden, which is 
 today thronged with sailors. As we are peeping in, a 
 funeral procession passes along the street, and we are 
 surprised at the curious hearse — a mere hack with an 
 extension in the rear, on which the coffin is placed. 
 The people in that street take off their hats respect- 
 fully as the hearse goes by. 
 
 We pass on in the shadows of the fig trees whose 
 limbs overhang the tall garden walls; beneath the 
 oleanders that fill the little second story balconies of 
 the finer homes chimney sweeps are lounging, their 
 donkeys loitering near. 
 
 This avenue leads up to the Citadel, from which a 
 charming view may be had, but as we have no friend 
 among the officers, we may not venture there. In- 
 stead, we make our way to an old Roman temple,beside 
 which stands the venerable City Hall. The temple is 
 a small building with a gable roof. The interior is 
 dark and gloomy, quite lacking the grandeur which we 
 expect in anything belonging to ancient Rome. The 
 fact that one wall serves as a wall for the adjoining, 
 more modern structure, however, tells eloquently how 
 well those old Romans built. 
 
 Leaving the temple, we stop at one of the numerous 
 tobacco shops (kept by women in almost every case), 
 to purchase postage stamps for our souvenir postals. 
 
44 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 For over Austria, the tobacconist is the legalized 
 vender of postage stamps. The object of this arrange- 
 ment is to encourage the sale of tobacco, which, as we 
 know, is a government monopoly. 
 
 The postals on sale in these shops are of infinite 
 variety. Every one of the seven thousand marines 
 and the less numerous soldiers in the city lives away 
 from here, and in writing home the men use these 
 cards, for the benefit of the postal collectors in their 
 families. Care is taken, too, as to how the stamp is 
 placed on card or envelope, and one may buy cards 
 telling just what sentiments the different positions of 
 the stamps express. 
 
 The shops of Pola are very modern, and almost 
 everything in them is intended for the use of the 
 soldier. Most of the wares are exposed in cases out- 
 side the shops, to right and left of the door. 
 
 READY FOR WAR 
 
 In the evening we take a car ride through Pola; 
 but again the garden-walls, and the walls about the 
 naval buildings and the walls about very nearly every- 
 thing else, prevent our seeing much, so we return to 
 our hotel in disgust. We question the hotel-keeper as 
 to the need of all this secrecy, and he explains that 
 next only to Vienna, Pola is the most strongly pro- 
 tected point in the empire. 
 
 "Here is a list of the buildings of war the city con- 
 tains," he says, and we take them down as he gives 
 them. The list runs much as follows: 
 
 An infantry barracks; general officers' quarters; an 
 army postoffice and telegraph station; a hydrographic 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 45 
 
 observatory; a marine observatory; marine barracks'; 
 a military prison ; a military hospital ; the lower officers' 
 and naval artisans' homes; the admiralty office; artil- 
 lery workshops ; one artillery depot ; a sails and tackle 
 depot; smithies and foundries, and anchor, chain, and 
 boat magazines. In addition there is a military casino 
 for the officers, and marine primary and secondary 
 schools for their children. In fact, ever since 1848, 
 when the war harbor was opened here, and notably 
 since 1858, when the sea arsenal was started, Pola has 
 been supported by the nation's defenders. 
 
 Before leaving the city next day, we are so fortunate 
 as to meet Admiral Minutello (min-oo-tell'lo), the 
 Commandant of all Pola, a genial old man, wearing a 
 full beard and having a frank, kindly face. He speaks 
 excellent English, and we should hardly take him to 
 be the commander-in-chief of not less than twelve 
 thousand men, so simple and unaffected is his 
 manner. 
 
 From Admiral Minutello's office we pass on, through 
 a yard where armor plate is being tested, to the Naval 
 Museum. Models are the principal exhibit here, but 
 we enjoy more looking at specimens of old Venetian 
 shot. This shot is almost like the South American 
 bolas ; it consists of two halves of a ball, bound together 
 by a chain; when hurled at an enemy the ball will open 
 and the chain between the halves will entangle the 
 victim. 
 
 Having visited Miramar, we are especially inter- 
 ested in the regalia of Maximilian of Mexico, which is 
 on exhibition here. Then we glance over a collection 
 of trophies presented to the Austrian hero Tegetthof 
 
46 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 (teg-get'off), the outfit of a polar expedition, and a 
 stand of trophies — conical umbrellas of mandarins, 
 etc. — taken during the Boxer troubles in China. 
 
 DALMATIA 
 
 A little before four o'clock in the afternoon a great 
 liner leaves Pola for the lower Adriatic and Zara (za'ra), 
 our next stopping-place, and as a regiment of soldiers 
 is being marched aboard we feel anxious lest we shall 
 be unable to engage staterooms. No reservations may 
 be made until almost sailing-time, for the service on 
 these so-called first-class steamers is the most wretched 
 boat service in Europe. However, we succeed in 
 securing fair accommodations, and at last are under 
 way. 
 
 Our cameras, which we have been unable to use in 
 Pola, must still be kept out of sight, if we do not wish 
 to be taken for spies, trying to snap a picture of forts 
 so distant that they would appear mere hair-lines in a 
 photograph, and so we retire to the cabin to bring our 
 diaries down to date, and here we stay until the For- 
 bidden City can no longer be seen. 
 
 Going up on deck again, we find ourselves on the 
 open sea. Everybody is talking politics, for that is 
 the chief subject of conversation in Austria, and we 
 hear more than we have ever heard before of the- 
 Irredenta, and of the Serb and the Croat parties (each 
 of which wishes to gather all its adherents in the 
 empire either into one little kingdom or into some one 
 part of the mother-country), and of the "Pan-German- 
 ists," who would bring Austria over to Germany. 
 
 Those of us who are not able to speak the language 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 47 
 
 we hear about us, and so enter into the conversation, 
 feel rather bored, and we are glad to hear the ring of 
 the supper bell. At table we meet a man from Chili 
 who is taking his son on a tour of Europe prior to 
 leaving him at school in France, several Italians, a 
 
 DALMATIAN PEASANTS 
 The woman wearing about her neck a dowry 
 
 German, and a Frenchman, and we do our best to con- 
 verse with the company during supper, which consists 
 of bouillon, veal with macaroni, chicken with tomato 
 sauce, potatoes, sausage, ripe olives, and lastly, cheese, 
 coffee, and apricots — a typical Dalmatian meal. 
 
 Night comes on fairly early here, and when we go 
 on deck again there is only the dim outline of the 
 coast to be seen. We retire early to our berths and 
 
48 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 soon are sleeping peacefully, rocked in the cradle of 
 the deep. 
 
 At three o'clock in the morning the boat stops at 
 Zara, the capital of the crown land of Dalmatia. It 
 seems to us like the middle of the night as we sleepily 
 follow a porter through the narrow little streets to our 
 hotel. Here and there we pass a dark, forbidding- 
 looking gray shop such as sailors always frequent in 
 stories, and in which is sure to be sold the famous 
 maraschino, a liquor for which Zara is noted. Later 
 we try this maraschino, and find it to be an oily, 
 almost colorless liquid, a sip of which tastes very good. 
 Here it is served in a glass not more than an inch high, 
 over the top of which a paper cap is fitted to preserve 
 the wonderful aroma. 
 
 It is well into the morning before we get to bed, and 
 so we rise late, so late, in fact, that the crowds are 
 surging by on their way to church, just below our 
 windows. We are particularly pleased with our break- 
 fast-room — a graveled court surrounded with shrub- 
 bery, where clean white tablecloths await us and 
 starlings hop about to amuse us between courses. 
 
 After the meal we sally forth. Everywhere we find 
 the people in national costume. The women wear 
 gaudy yellow or red scarfs over the head, folded to 
 form a V upon the back, and exposing just a trifle of 
 the rich brown hair, parted in the middle. In contrast 
 with their white waists the tanned complexions of 
 these peasants show off well ; and they are very quaint 
 and attractive in their heavy bodices richly embroi- 
 dered with gilt and other threads, and their short dark 
 or light blue skirts and navy blue aprons. A heavy 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 49 
 
 metal girdle, composed of three or four windings of 
 chain, is worn about the waist, and embroidered slip- 
 pers of carpet cloth, black stockings, and earrings 
 complete the costume. 
 
 The men of Zara are conspicuous for their little flat 
 red caps, with 
 black embroidery 
 about the rim, 
 and a tiny black 
 tassel. Most of 
 these fellows are 
 of swarthy com- 
 plexion. They 
 wear heavy slip- 
 pers of hide, 
 white woolen 
 socks that ap- 
 pear below very 
 dark ''blue- 
 jeans" trousers, 
 and a loose 
 white shirt, over 
 which there fits a 
 vest of scarlet, 
 so heavily em- 
 broidered in every color of the rainbow, as to put us 
 in mind of Joseph's many-hued coat. Over one 
 shoulder is hung (never worn) a coat of a dull yellow- 
 ish brown, held on by a curious clasp. From the 
 other shoulder hangs a carpet-bag, in which all pur- 
 chases are carried, as well as provisions when the day 
 is to be spent away from home. Most of the men — 
 
 PEASANT GIRL OF ZARA 
 
50 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 Croatian Italians, speaking either Croat or Italian — also 
 wear earrings. 
 
 Here, as in France, we notice that most of the people 
 walk in the streets, and also that, despite its being Sun- 
 day, the little stores remain open for business for part 
 of the day. Indeed, many of the peasants from the 
 interior come to town on this day only, and then make 
 all their weekly purchases. While the signs of the 
 shops are printed in Italian and Croat, there are many 
 soldiers in the city, and consequently German is 
 spoken very generally by the tradespeople. 
 
 Every now and then, as we pass along, we notice a 
 flag floating from above some door — a banner on 
 which on a field of red, numbers, such as 25 or 45, will 
 appear. These flags are the signs of wine shops, and 
 the figures indicate the price in kreuzer at which the 
 wine is sold per liter within. If we peeped into one of 
 these shops we should find man}^ peasants (some 
 dressed for Sunday in European attire, except for the 
 little red national cap), smoking their cigarettes or 
 long German pipes. Their low, flat wagons, with the 
 bars around the bed, and horses in the curious pro- 
 truding collars, await them, just outside. 
 
 In the shadow of the old Roman arches groups of 
 young girls are gathered, each girl bearing upon her 
 head a bundle or basket, for this is the usual method 
 of carrying here. These girls wear pretty scarfs and 
 dowry coins such as we see for sale in the nearby 
 shops. The coins are the ordinary money of the 
 realm, pierced so that they may be hung on chains or 
 fastened to the dress, and are very popular as orna- 
 ments. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 51 
 
 Melon peddlers saunter about, disposing of their 
 wares or chatting with the girls. Down where the 
 walk leads between dwarfed arbor-vitae to the church 
 a balloon vender has his place, and the children crowd 
 around him. At perhaps four o'clock all this selling 
 will cease, and the rest of the day will seem more like 
 the Sabbath. 
 
 AN ALBANIAN VILLAGE 
 
 As we watch the gay throngs in the street a dili- 
 gence rolls by, bound for Knin (k'nin), out in the 
 Bukovigna (boo-ko-veen'ya), as the desert-land is 
 called in this part of Austria. We had thought of 
 taking the ride to Knin, but we should enjoy it only 
 for the very pretty falls at its end, so we prefer to 
 spend our afternoon in making an excursion to the 
 Albanian village of Erizzio (er-ritz'e-o), on the out- 
 skirts of Zara. 
 
 Those of us who have made "The Little Journey to 
 the Balkans" remember the Albanians we met at 
 Cetinje (cha-teen'ya), in Montenegro, and of whom we 
 heard so much while in Turkish lands. We recall 
 being told how they are the fiercest people in the 
 Sultan's realm, and how, if every one else were to desert 
 Abdul Hamid, he could take refuge with his Albanians, 
 in the mountain fastnesses of eastern Turkey, and defy 
 all the world. In fact, so aloof are the Albanians from 
 the rest of mankind that the traveler dares not pene- 
 trate their native vales until he has drunk blood- 
 brotherhood with some of their chieftains. This 
 drinking of blood-brotherhood is a horrible custom, 
 which we have described to us thus: Guest and host 
 
52 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 bare their arms, and each cuts himself slightly, letting 
 the blood trickle into a glass. Wine is added to the 
 blood, and of this mixture each man takes a sip, 
 whereupon the two become blood-brothers. 
 
 We are anxious to see what Austrian civilization has 
 been able to do for the little group of these wild peo- 
 ple which, away back in the days when all Europe 
 was in chaos, and the tribes wandered hither and 
 thither, encamped on the shores of the blue Adriatic. 
 
 Shortly after luncheon we pass through streets 
 which are quite deserted, owing to the intense heat, 
 out into the country. Had we more time to spend at 
 Zara, and no photographs to take, we might await the 
 cool of evening for our excursion; but we must go 
 now or not at all. Where oleanders overhang a garden 
 wall a woman street-cleaner, for whom Sunday is as 
 much a working day as Monday, has dropped her 
 broom and is taking a siesta, and farther on we over- 
 take a young girl sauntering towards one of the famous 
 Five Wells of Zara, on the heights, for the daily water 
 supply. 
 
 Beyond the city proper we pass through the Park, 
 filled with semi-tropical verdure — palms and oranges 
 and lemons, and plants the names of which we do not 
 know. Here shady paths wind in and out where the 
 locusts thrum as they do on like by-ways on summer 
 days in the park at home. 
 
 We take a dusty country road beside the sea. 
 Opposite us is the Island of Ultreo (ool-tra/o), from 
 whose peaks, on a clear day, the coast of Italy is visible. 
 Beggars sit beneath the trees along the road, not being 
 permitted to enter the city. But for the sea and the 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 53 
 
 beggars, and the little donkeys (worth but eight 
 dollars a head in this land) which pass us on the road, 
 we could easily imagine ourselves somewhere in our 
 own Middle West: dry, dusty fields with thistles, 
 alternating cabbage-patches and fields of corn, stretch 
 off toward the town. 
 
 Erizzio is a village of cottages — one-story buildings, 
 which consisted originally of one or two rooms but 
 which have been added to, room after room, until 
 they extend some distance back from the road. They 
 are constructed of lathing covered with light concrete 
 and tasty terra-cotta roofs, from which grapevine 
 trellises are built out to throw a shade before the 
 door. Doors and windows are in the fronts of the 
 houses only, while from the rear a low boulder wall 
 that would delight the eyes of a Vermont farmer, 
 stretches round to enclose a straggling garden, and a 
 pair of olive or fig trees. Beneath these trees sit the 
 large Albanian families, dressed in European attire or 
 in the costume of the Dalmatians of Zara, but differ- 
 ing from these people in their greater fairness of com- 
 plexion and a kindlier spirit toward the stranger 
 
 We are surprised at the size of households here, 
 until we learn that not alone all the unmarried chil- 
 dren, but the married sons with families of their own, 
 live with the parents until the death of the old folks, 
 when frequently one or two branches will move out, 
 establishing a house for themselves. As the families 
 grow, the cottages are prolonged, until some of them 
 look like the long-houses of the Iroquois Indians. 
 Over all the children the father is absolute ruler, for 
 though^ Austrian law, of course, makes every adult his 
 
54 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 or her own master, no Albanian would ever think of 
 disobeying the paternal decree. 
 
 Like their brethren farther to the south, the Alban- 
 ians of Erizzio seem to grow only enough vegetables 
 to meet their own needs, their main occupation being 
 the raising of goats and some sheep, and the cutting 
 of hay. The latter they pile in probably the tallest 
 haystacks to be found in the world, excepting only the 
 Rumanian. 
 
 We find an interpreter to tell one of the richest of 
 these patriarchs that we have come all the way from 
 America to visit his town, and he kindly allows us to 
 peep into his home. The glimpse we get is interesting. 
 Across one wall slats have been tacked, and behind 
 these the dishes of blue crockery stand. Over the 
 fireplace (and the sight reminds us at once of some of 
 Longfellow's descriptions of New England in the days 
 of the red men) the long muskets and the pistol are 
 hung — relics of the days when the Albanian was the 
 scourge of Europe. 
 
 There are some chairs and two tables in the room, 
 and on the largest table the youngest member of the 
 family, a baby perhaps six months old, lies playing 
 with a broken sword-hilt. Beyond is a bedroom, 
 much like those of other peasant homes of Europe, the 
 mulberry trees outside throwing their shadows on its 
 floor. 
 
 These Albanians, in distinction from their Moslem 
 cousins, are Roman Catholics, and in the cemetery at 
 one end of the village the graves are marked by bat- 
 tered wooden crosses, each formed of two shingles 
 nailed together. At the junction of the arms of the 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 55 
 
 cross, a large circular g!ass case is hung, enclosing a 
 wreath of beadwork, and in its center two photo- 
 graphs of the deceased are exposed. This ornamental 
 headstone seems odd to us, but certainly it is more 
 liable than any epitaph to perpetuate the memory of 
 the dead. 
 
 Beyond the cemetery is the village threshing- 
 ground, just now occupied by a herd of swine. The 
 little herder has joined some men in the road in a game 
 of lotto. As we learned in Rovigno, lotto is a great 
 gambling game in Austria, but with these folks the man- 
 ner of playing is different from ours. One man has all 
 the cards before him, each of the others who are in the 
 game having bet on a given number, or row of numbers. 
 As the holder of the cards calls, he uses gravel from 
 the roadside to mark off, and when a line is filled, a 
 happy cry proclaims the victor. When crossing the 
 Atlantic, we have seen this same game played by 
 Italian emigrants aboard ship. 
 
 ABOUT THE CITY 
 
 Just after sundown we return to Zara, in season for 
 the evening promenade along the quay. Hundreds 
 of people have come out to enjoy the delightful Adri- 
 atic breezes and the twilight chill, and the sight of the 
 passing throng recalls the board walk at Atlantic City 
 or Asbury Park. Happy-go-lucky, for the most part, 
 these people appear, and they are proverbially lazy. 
 A little pork, a little corn or cabbage, and an occasional 
 ham constitute the fare of the wealthy, while the poor 
 live very largely upon ordinary white bread or corn 
 bread. 
 
56 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 We cannot leave Zara without knowing more of the 
 famous maraschino than the mere taste of it, and so 
 on the morrow we visit one of the largest distilleries. 
 On our way to the institution we are passed by a long 
 procession of the Albanians from Erizzio, marching 
 two by two — first the children, then the men, then the 
 women — chanting as they go, and bearing sacred 
 relics and church banners. The procession is a 
 religious one, on its way through the streets and to 
 the church, that prayers may be offered for the cessa- 
 tion of the great drought that now reigns. 
 
 We find that the maraschino distillery greatly 
 resembles a dwelling, its sunny courts filled with 
 flowers. The cherries of which the drink is made, we 
 are told, are not cultivated, but grow wild all along 
 this section of the coast. They are gathered by the 
 farmers in the month of July, when agents from the 
 distillery go about, buying them for shipment to Zara. 
 These cherries are not the Maraschino cherries we see 
 in our lemonade at home, but a small fruit, little 
 larger than one of our smallest June cherries, and 
 darker in hue. Brought here, the fruit is pressed, and 
 the juice prepared with other secret ingredients to 
 form the beverage. The leaves, too, are collected, cut, 
 and added to the juice. The whole forms a compote 
 or mass with which an alcohol admixture is allowed 
 to ferment for almost half a year, when the resulting 
 liquor is distilled and bottled for sale. 
 
 Over three hundred thousand bottles of the maras- 
 chino are turned out by this one distillery annually, 
 and some five thousand casks of it are sent from here 
 to the United States alone. As we are leaving, the 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 57 
 
 genial manager of the company makes us a present of 
 several bottles of the maraschino, as well as some of 
 the cherries themselves, preserved for the use to 
 which we put the so-called maraschino cherry at home. 
 
 We are to take the ten o'clock boat for Sebenico 
 (sa-ba/ne-ko), the next town of any importance on the 
 coast, and as no luncheon will be served on board, we 
 must have something to eat before we leave. So, 
 after a peep into the cathedral, with its fine choir 
 stalls, we return to the hotel. 
 
 Our luncheon is commonplace. We have veal, 
 potatoes, cucumber salad and bread — a typical meal 
 of the region ; but the dessert is a novel one, consisting 
 of a plum or two served inside a puffy steamed noodle, 
 with plenty of plum preserves to moisten the mass. 
 
 AT SEA AGAIN 
 
 The first part of the sail to Sebenico is rather monoto- 
 nous, past low cliffs of the grayish-yellow shade of the 
 Rock of Gibraltar, and occasionally islands covered 
 with olive groves. We stop now and then at a small 
 coast hamlet, at whose dock the boys reach down to 
 haul up some sea-urchin and toss it aboard, for the 
 amusement and the kreuzer of the passengers. 
 
 After the noon hour, the scenery grows more beauti- 
 ful, as the Dalmatian archipelago again takes on a 
 definite shape — its snowy white deserted cones rising 
 out of the sea, barren and desolate save for here a 
 fringe of trees or there possibly a peasant home. Of 
 every size and shape are these bits of land, and so 
 beautiful that we almost envy the fisher boys whose 
 happy lot it is to ply these straits the year around. 
 
58 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 Sebenico, which we reach at dusk, is a typical 
 South-Croatian town, the center of a region famous 
 for a peculiar industry. All about the hills enclosing 
 Sebenico there grows a daisy, which closely resembles 
 our camomile. At the blossoming season, which is 
 early in May, every one goes out to gather these 
 daisies, bringing them into the city and drying them 
 on the flat house-tops. The dried flowers are sold to a 
 large insect-powder establishment, where they are 
 ground to dust, and this, of varying grades, is sold as 
 one of the best insecticides in the world. Thus the 
 flowers even things up with the insects that have 
 robbed them of their honey. 
 
 Sebenico has really only one other industry to inter- 
 est us, and that is a macaroni factory, which we visit 
 the morning after our arrival. Here we see the dough 
 forced through what appears to be a log made of 
 metal and filled with little tubes. From the tubes 
 the newly-cut macaroni or noodle of the larger size is 
 turned out upon big boards, covered with heavy 
 wrapping paper, and placed on turnstiles that revolve 
 so as to hasten the drying, while the smaller varieties 
 are strung on canes to dry. 
 
 Some twenty-nine varieties of these dough products 
 are made here, and the picture presented by the great 
 beams laden with the tubelets is rather pretty. On 
 an upper floor, especially, where the longer varieties 
 hang, drooping from the canes to the floor when dry, 
 the yellow turns to green in the sunlight and almost 
 dazzles one with its radiance. 
 
 The citizens of Sebenico have a peculiar costume. 
 The women wear a short black skirt with a band of 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 59 
 
 red around the bottom; a white waist with long flow- 
 ing sleeves, and a bodice of black on which a severely 
 stiff pattern is worked in red, both in front and behind. 
 A white cap tied so that the ribbons hang over the 
 shoulders completes the picturesque dress. The men, 
 like the women, are of splendid physique, but like 
 them, again, they are inordinately dirty. Blue vest 
 and trousers; white shirt and the tiny red cap — no 
 larger than possibly two of our silver dollars, and 
 serving as ornament alone — are all so grimy and 
 spotted that if we were to see only such Croats as 
 these we would certainly not wish to continue our 
 journey into Croatia. 
 
 The children of Sebenico are a happy lot, and down 
 on the market — the weekly market, that is — there is 
 maintained a booth where singing-tops, whistles, and 
 similar wares are displayed. If we have any spare 
 kreuzer left in our purses on our return to the hotel at 
 noon, we may have great sport dropping these down, 
 one by one, among the little ones at play in the yard- 
 below our room, then quickly drawing in our heads. 
 So poor are the most of these people that they cannot 
 imagine any one being rich enough to be able to give 
 away money, and it is quite possible the children will 
 believe the coin (equal in value to two-fifths of a 
 cent) to have keen dropped by some good angel from 
 heaven. 
 
 After we have taken a walk among the tall three- 
 story houses, of stone very roughly cut, that crown the 
 hill behind the city proper, we are ready to continue 
 southward. 
 
60 
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 A CITY BUILT IN A PALACE 
 
 We leave Sebenico shortly before noon, bound for 
 the most curious place, probably, that we shall visit 
 in our entire journey. For we are going to Spalatro 
 
 TOWN WALLS OF SPALATRO THE CITY INSIDE A PALACE 
 
 (spa-lah'tro), the city built in a palace. All afternoon 
 we shall sail once more among the snow-white Dal- 
 matian Islands, noting here and there a stone wall 
 that seems to enclose barren ground but in reality 
 protects a young vineyard which peasant enterprise is 
 bringing to grow upon the rocks. 
 
 At sundown a wonderful sight greets our eyes. 
 From the shore which we are approaching rise the 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY [61 
 
 walls of a vast and ancient Roman palace, with little 
 modern dwellings clustering about it so closely that 
 new and old are inextricably commingled. This is 
 Spalatro, once the home of the Emperor Diocletian, 
 after he had wearied of governing the world and 
 entered retirement in Dalmatia. 
 
 From the wharf we follow the baggage bearer 
 through the imperial gateway and find ourselves in- 
 side the great enclosing walls, three or more stories in 
 height and themselves formed of dwellings which are 
 still inhabited. A town has grown up within this 
 enclosure, its houses packed in almost solidly together, 
 rising up severely side by side like tenements on an 
 American water front. Here are no gardens and no 
 side entrances. Little narrow streets that once formed 
 passageways between the buildings of the palace 
 thread this way and that, and these are constantly 
 spanned, we find as we advance, by little bridges, which 
 recall the Bridge of Sighs in Venice. In some of the 
 bridges which join the old buildings people now live, 
 though the government, bit by bit, is buying out all 
 the palace dwellers, that the deserted imperial residence 
 may be preserved for the future. Up to one hundred 
 years ago no steps of any sort were taken for such 
 preservation, and hence the houses, both inside and 
 out, which mar the beauty of the stanch old pile. 
 
 Our hotel is located in the heart of the palace, beset 
 by a small army of waiters. One man brings the soup, 
 another the meats and vegetables, another the bread, 
 and still another attends only to our bill. He seem- 
 ingly relies wholly on our honesty, asking us to tell 
 what we have had, but should we, by any little slip of 
 
62 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 memory, fail to give the entire list, he would at once 
 prove himself better informed than we in that par- 
 ticular. 
 
 While we are dining, the town clocks strike — ten 
 minutes after the hour, according to our watches, 
 which we set in Sebenico, for Spalatro's time is ten 
 minutes later than that of the rest of Dalmatia. 
 Four minutes afterward they strike again, like the 
 clocks of old Venice, to make sure that every one has 
 heard. 
 
 We do not sit up late. We shall have a busy day 
 to-morrow, as we do not wish to stay over-time in 
 Spalatro, and so must rise early. 
 
 An old Serb native, who speaks German, takes 
 charge of us immediately after breakfast, and we 
 follow him through the curious palace-town, which 
 covers a space equal to several of our city blocks. 
 First, he shows us an ancient Venetian public build- 
 ing set in an open square, its windows ornamented 
 with little railings of stone. In the background we 
 see the still more ancient walls of one of the original 
 buildings of the palace. 
 
 We thread some exceedingly narrow lanes among 
 three and four-story houses of modern date, their 
 lower floors given over to shops, and one or more of 
 their walls always giving evidence of having belonged to 
 one of the Roman buildings. Donkeys, laden with fagots 
 and other burdens, dispute the way, for the use of 
 wagons is impossible here; and now and then a peas- 
 ant company will stand aside to let us pass. We notice 
 that very few of these palace dwellers wear a distinctive 
 costume. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 63 
 
 Near the center of the town we are shown the old 
 cathedral tower, of uncertain date, but probably 
 erected about 1000 A. D. It rises like some sky- 
 scraper above the surrounding structures. The cathe- 
 dral is now undergoing repairs that threaten to prove 
 endless. 
 
 From here through an arcade or covered passage 
 of Venetian origin we make our way to the gate by 
 which we entered last evening, that we may take 
 another, closer view of the great outer wall of the palace, 
 and of the green Italian shutters and lace curtains 
 added to its windows by the present inmates. 
 
 Once more within the enclosure, we peep into the 
 modern Baptistry of Spalatro, originally the private 
 chapel of Emperor Diocletian, and still containing the 
 old sarcophagi and stones belonging to the Roman 
 period. In the town museums, of which there are 
 three, we see more of these stone relics, old pillars and 
 statues, as well as cases filled with coins and pottery, 
 urns of pale blue, translucent glass which hold ashes ; 
 handsome cameos delicately chased, and figures in 
 alabaster. In one of the museums we see men tak- 
 ing impressions of the inscriptions on some of these 
 relics, working a sheet of prepared paper into the 
 cracks and crannies so as to reproduce even the faintest 
 cutting. Later, these inscriptions will be translated 
 by scholars whose life is devoted to research. 
 
 Where an old winged lion, dating back to Venetian 
 rule at Spalatro, flaunts from a corner of the walls, 
 the market-place is laid, and here we see many Turks 
 and Bosniacs. A few steps beyond, we are in 
 modern Spalatro, outside the palace, where a little 
 
64 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 horse-car wanders along without a track, and gas 
 lamps light the streets, and there are pretty gardens 
 behind the low walls. 
 
 In the afternoon we hire open carriages for a long 
 drive into the interior of Dalmatia. It is extremely 
 warm, and those of us who are not provided with the 
 broad straw hats worn by the peasants, and resem- 
 bling Mexican sombreros, or thin head kerchiefs, such 
 as the women wear, have to ask that the carriage-top 
 may be kept up. 
 
 We follow a great barren mountain chain, at whose 
 base lie vineyards edged with olive trees, traversing 
 the fertile valley of the Jader (ya/der), that we may 
 get an idea of its quaint hamlets. Each tiny village 
 consists of perhaps a dozen odd houses, built of roughly 
 cut boulders of every size and contour, cemented to- 
 gether so as to form a dwelling. 
 
 Lone pomegranate hedges, with an occasional 
 stretch of blackberry vines, serve as fences here, and 
 over them we have to climb to inspect those curious 
 remains of Roman settlements which, as seen from 
 the road, resemble nothing so much as the cellar holes 
 of ruined houses. A wild flower like the dandelion, 
 but having a different leaf, everlasting, and larkspur, 
 and the wild fig and wild olive inhabit these ruins, 
 helping to make them picturesque, while frogs and 
 crickets sound their notes from the lowest depths. 
 
 VILLAGE LIFE 
 
 It will be some time before we become accustomed to 
 the fact that here all the people live in the villages, 
 going out during the day to work their fields. We 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 65 
 
 find no farmhouses in the country between the hamlets, 
 or any human habitation other than the little shacks 
 of pine boughs thrown up by the farmers as a pro- 
 tection from the sun at noon. In fact, aside from 
 an occasional flock of sheep or goats, or a pass- 
 ing donkey, bearing anywhere from one to four 
 people, we often see no sign of life at all as we drive 
 along. 
 
 At Trau (trow), we cross the Jader on a long stone 
 bridge, to enter a typical town of the interior, with its 
 church facing the open square or plaza, and the gardens 
 about the homes edged with pink and scarlet oleanders. 
 Along the river we see the women of Trau sitting in 
 little groups beneath the trees, spinning and gossiping. 
 Old Venetian walls and towers, with the winged lion 
 everywhere manifest, are all about here, and on the 
 cathedral portico we see some rare old sculptures, dat- 
 ing from the time when the Doges' power extended over 
 all this land. 
 
 The side streets of Trau are narrow and gloomy, 
 winding in and out among the ugly boulder houses. 
 Uninviting shops, fish-markets, and inns open upon 
 the street, and in the last named we always find one 
 wall deeply indented to make way for the tun of wine. 
 Men sit here playing pinochle (at least such seems the 
 game), the day through, and if the work in the fields is 
 done we can scarcely blame them, for their homes are 
 so dark and dingy that it is little wonder they do not 
 care to go there. 
 
 We ourselves tire very quickly of Trau, but we would 
 not have missed our excursion for a good deal, since 
 it has shown us exactly what village life in Dalmatia is. 
 
66 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 After a glance at the great silvered statue of an abbot 
 in the town church, we return to our carriages for a 
 circuitous drive to Salonae (Sa-lo-na'). 
 
 WHERE THE FURIES FOUGHT 
 
 On our way to this town the guide tells us its story. 
 In the struggle between Octavius Caesar and Pompey, 
 Salonae, then a flourishing city, adhered to Caesar. 
 As a result, it was besieged by Pompey, and it seemed 
 as though the town must yield. Finally, one night, 
 while the beleaguering forces were encamped all around, 
 the women of the town appeared on the walls, hair 
 flying, voices uttering long, wild calls, and hands 
 brandishing torches, and the superstitious legions of 
 Pompey, mistaking them for the Furies come to pro- 
 tect Salonae, fled in terror, pursued by the soldiers 
 from inside the city. 
 
 To-day Salonae reminds us of the excavated parts 
 of Herculaneum, for it is a city of ruins. A very pretty 
 stone dwelling has been erected for the custodian of 
 the place, behind which, over the hillside, stretches 
 the early Christian burying-ground, with its old pillars 
 and tombs. The latter bear the marks of desecration 
 by ravaging Goths, while the graves of the poor re- 
 main almost untouched, containing too little of value 
 to warrant raising the heavy stone covers. 
 
 In the valley, among the vineyards and the meadows, 
 old walls and piers and pillars rise everywhere, giving 
 to the landscape an air of sadness in the sundown. 
 Little folk from the vicinity come up from these fields 
 of vine to sell us Roman coins or ornaments, dug up in 
 plowing ; or to volunteer to guide us to a small amphi- 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 67 
 
 theater which has been exhumed on a more distant 
 hillside. 
 
 The sun is well nigh set before we have completed 
 our ramble here, and, as we return to the road, we find 
 Turks and Bosniacs, Croats and Serbs, thronging the 
 highway, bound, as are we, for the town. Our boat 
 leaves at midnight, so we are in no haste, but enjoying 
 the delightful evening breeze drive slowly back to 
 our hotel in a palace. 
 
 THE BALKANS AGAIN 
 
 The next stage of our journey will not be new to some 
 of us, who only a short time ago visited the Balkan 
 lands, for we are now bound for Ragusa and Cattaro. 
 Those of the party who did not take that trip are 
 anxious to see something of the lower coast of Austria, 
 and all of us can enjoy the sail. There is little travel 
 along this route in July, so we have plenty of room on 
 the steamer, and we revel in the luxury, and sleep 
 soundly the night through. When we wake and go on 
 deck before breakfast, we find that the boat has cast 
 anchor at Gravosa, the port for the summer city of 
 Ragusa. Ragusa is the most beautiful spot, barring 
 none, in the Balkans, and our hearts thrill with pleas- 
 ure as we once more gaze upon the lofty mountains, 
 forest clad, and reaching almost to the clouds, in 
 majestic splendor all about us. 
 
 Landing, we take a wagonette for one of the summer 
 hotels on the heights. This time we shall stop at the 
 largest of these, because it has the deserved reputation 
 of being one of the finest in all Europe. Four great 
 verandahed stories rise up among the shrubbery in 
 
68 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 Venetian lines and curves, upon a terrace where olean- 
 ders of five several hues are planted in great hedges. 
 From the house avenues bordered with the century 
 plant and palms of every sort lead away through the 
 trees. From our rooms we have a view of the bay at 
 the foot of the forest palisades. 
 
 After washing up a bit, we stroll down again to the 
 older town of Gravosa, at the foot of the mountains. 
 Originally the two places were quite distinct, but now 
 the name of either is used for the other, and the steam- 
 ers call the stop Ragusa, because of the hotels at that 
 place. We fall in with a farmer's boy who speaks a 
 little German, and from him we learn one of the 
 pretty stories of the Adratic, which reminds us of 
 one we have often read in connection with Scotch 
 history. 
 
 Many, many years ago a poor sailor left Gravosa to 
 sail the seas. He had put all his little savings in a 
 vessel, that he might hold the honored title of skipper, 
 and he hoped much from the voyage. But Neptune 
 was unkind, and the ship went down. The sailor 
 escaped with his life, and returned to his home. His 
 ill-luck made him first curse his fate and then vow to 
 prosper in spite of it, and so he borrowed from friends 
 and relatives, borrowed all that they could spare — 
 which is so little in these countries — and fitted out 
 another boat. Again he put to sea, and again the 
 ship was wrecked, and the skipper himself barely 
 escaped drowning. 
 
 Wrecked financially, the man took one of the small- 
 est rooms in the upper floor of a tenement of Gravosa, 
 and there sat down to bemoan his fate. As he sat 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 69 
 
 looking out on the cruel sea, which smiled so peace- 
 fully here, he caught sight of a spider in the corner of 
 the window, trying, as spiders will, to throw her cables 
 and secure her web. Once the little insect made the 
 swing and failed. Again she tried, and again she failed. 
 Then she rested a moment before nerving herself for 
 a third attempt. This time a favoring breeze caught 
 the silky strand, and the cable was fast. 
 
 To the sailor, superstitious as all sailors are, the 
 little incident seemed as a message from heaven. 
 Going before the town council, he told his story, inspir- 
 ing his hearers with its divine suggestion, and vowing 
 that if the council would assist in fitting him out once 
 more, and he should succeed, he would richly repay the 
 city. The money was lent, the man put to sea, and 
 came home richer than his fondest dreams had ever 
 anticipated. Faithful to his promise, he bequeathed 
 to the city a sum whereby every poor girl of the place 
 is given a dowry sufficient to allow her to wed the 
 man of her choice; for, in this part of the world, 
 people must have a certain amount of wealth, 
 according to their station in life, before they may 
 marry. 
 
 Natives in blue bloomers with broad red belts, lav- 
 ender skirts and scarlet fez; Turks with a towel of 
 white wrapped around the head as a turban, and 
 Albanians in white flannel suits with tight fitting 
 trousers, will attract our eyes at once as we pass through 
 a gateway in the thick old walls and take the path 
 beside the sea, with the Island of Lacroma (La-kro'ma), 
 a tropic park belonging to Ragusa, just opposite. 
 
70 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 THE LESSON AN EARTHQUAKE TAUGHT 
 
 There is a curious feature of Ragusa, that strikes us 
 during this visit. Each house stands isolated from its 
 neighbors — a precaution learned from an earthquake 
 that wrought much damage here early in the nineteenth 
 century. The homes almost invariably have a store 
 on the lower floor, with a single narrow window at 
 one side of an equally narrow door. Clothing and fire- 
 arms are the chief wares displayed in these shops. 
 
 The sights of the town are soon seen — an old Fran- 
 ciscan church, the statue of a soldier surmounting a 
 tall pillar, a tall old clock tower, with a curious, carved 
 entry, facing the custom house, and the cathedral. In 
 the shadow of the buildings about the plaza, the Al- 
 banian melon sellers squat awaiting the chance pur- 
 chaser. 
 
 A QUEER RECEPTION 
 
 Returning to the hotel for a meal on the veranda, in 
 the shade of the great old trees, where locusts thrum 
 and the sea wind sings, we prepare for a trip out into 
 the heart of the country, the Canali-tahl (Ka-nah 7 - 
 le-taM'). We remember vividly our former excursion 
 into this region, and are interested in seeing how the 
 uninitiated of our party enjoy the trip. 
 
 We have a long drive, skirting the Adriatic to the 
 foot of the mountains. Here the horses are hitched, 
 while we go afoot up a narrow little trail to a peasant 
 home. Only the women are in, so we await the return 
 of the men for our real reception. This opens by the 
 oldest man of the family taking from a closet a decanter 
 probably a foot in height, filled with gin. He pours 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 71 
 
 out a little maraschino glassful of it, and, wishing us 
 good luck, swallows the liquor. Refilling the glass, 
 without washing or wiping it, each member of the 
 family drinks to us, and, last, we must return the com- 
 pliment by taking a glass of the liquor. 
 
 After that the women in their clean white head- 
 dresses and embroidered white waists, and skirts of a 
 darker material, pass about a wine cake. This cake 
 resembles the pumpernickle of Germany, externally, 
 but is composed of pressed figs and other fruit. After 
 this drinking water is served, and the host offers the 
 men of our party tobacco from his little box. While 
 the men smoke in silence, the voices of the sheep, 
 occupying the lower floor of the dwelling, are heard 
 below. 
 
 After the smoke we are taken about the house to 
 see the bedrooms, each with a double bed, and sus- 
 pended from the ceiling a pole on which to hang clothes. 
 A few sacred pictures adorn the walls. 
 
 We return to the stone porch, overlooking a barren 
 little garden enclosed by walls and shaded by mulberry 
 and fig trees, where the supper is served, our hosts 
 refusing to eat with us, that they may have the honor 
 of serving the meal. Dishes, ornamented with a flower 
 pattern, silver knives and forks, and napkins are in 
 use. The feast consists of a great eighth-loaf of freshly 
 baked bread, tasting like Boston brown bread, dried 
 ham cut so thin as to be almost translucent, and a 
 decanter of home-made red wine. 
 
 While we sup we catch glimpses of the children 
 peering around the corners at the rare Americans, but 
 the little ones flee before our most gentle advances. 
 
72 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 After this course a light orange sherry, sweet and 
 strong, is served in water goblets and followed by a 
 dish of soft boiled eggs. 
 
 On leaving we shake hands all around, while our 
 guide, who is the landlord of the adjoining farms, 
 gives to our host's eldest son a kiss/ since he is this 
 boy's brother, his father having been the young peas- 
 ant's sponsor at baptism. The drive back to Ragusa 
 in the moonlight is delightful, and we regret that we 
 have not longer to spend among the summer hotels on 
 the bluffs, but the next morning a steamer leaves for 
 the south, and we must go on. 
 
 This lower Dalmatian coast is remarkable for its 
 innumerable bights, or little bays, formed by curves 
 and bends in the coast. They certainly deserve their 
 name, for they give one the impression that some giant 
 has bitten large mouthfuls from the shore. A road 
 follows the coast along here at the base of curious 
 yellow-white hills of rock, covered with a scrub vege- 
 tation, which reminds us of that of the Axenstrasse 
 (ahk'sen-strahs'sa), of Switzerland. 
 
 CATTARO 
 
 We dine aboard the boat, and as we leave the table 
 after the meal we find ourselves entering the famous 
 Bocches Cattaro, conceded by many to be the most 
 magnificent series of fiords, or inlets of sea, in the world. 
 The fact that we have sailed through them before does 
 not lessen our enjoyment of the wonderful scenery. 
 
 Entering the first of these basins, we find ourselves 
 in an almost circular lake of sea, surrounded by stu- 
 pendous mountains, some of them forested, others not, 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 73 
 
 but faced with rock alone, and rising steep and sheer 
 to higher chains ahead, which threaten, apparently, 
 to hem us in. Here and there a hamlet may be seen 
 upon the mountain side, often so near the summit as 
 to cause us to wonder how the inhabitants make the 
 long climb from the sea. 
 
 At one o'clock we stop at Castelnuovo (kas-tell-noo- 
 oh'vo), at the foot of a great mountain rock, with an 
 ancient castle high above, commanding the last great 
 highway in the south of Austria, and also a road that 
 leads easterly across to the Herzegovina, branching off 
 at one side. We are told that at Christmas time, in 
 the little villages along this road, the families strew a 
 log with grain and oil and wine, and the head of the 
 family asks God to be equally bountiful to his little 
 ones next year. Then there are songs and a feast on 
 Christmas eve, ending in the firing of the guns of all 
 the men of the family out under the stars. 
 
 Firearms play an important part in the festivities 
 of this region. On the occasion of a wedding, the men 
 of the bridegroom's clan go armed to the home of the 
 bride, demanding her from her parents, and giving a 
 hearty handshake in token of their good intentions. 
 When she is given over to them, all muskets are emptied 
 in her honor. At baptisms, too, shooting is the proper 
 form of congratulation. 
 
 Leaving Castelnuovo and rounding the base of the 
 mountains, the ship enters an unsuspected little strait, 
 which reminds us of the Narrows of Lake Chautauqua, 
 and comes out in the next bocche, this one distinguished 
 from the rest as the harbor of a good sized fleet of 
 Austro-Hungarian warships. At the foot of the 
 
74 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 mighty mountains surrounding the basin, the eight 
 dull colored vessels ride at anchor, and as we sail by 
 so quietly into the third bocche, we dip our flag in 
 salute. On and on the boat glides, stopping only at 
 the little wharfs of small, half forsaken towns, almost 
 deserted since the great emigration to California. 
 Late in the afternoon we reach Cattaro, the southern- 
 most point in Austria, and here we go ashore. 
 
 Cattaro' s only interest is its position at the very end 
 of a mighty empire, and the fact that Germany cher- 
 ishes the hope some day to extend as far as this. We 
 who have passed through the town on our way to Mon- 
 tenegro, remember it only as a gateway to the Balkan 
 lands. Its plain, ugly stone houses face on narrow, 
 paved streets. There are no gardens, save an occa- 
 sional raised terrace, graced by a fig or pomegranate 
 bush in a flower pot, and a little park, the lower end of 
 which serves as a market place. The signs of shops 
 are in Cyrillic, as well as German, for Montenegrins 
 are numerous here, and we hear both the Serb and the 
 Croat spoken by many people. 
 
 After peeping into a little Greek church, which is 
 worth visiting for its pretty altar screen, and looking 
 at the various Roman arches and bits of wall dating 
 back to the days of the Caesars, we have practically 
 seen the city. In order to be able to say we have stood 
 at Ultima Thule, we walk to the town wall and out 
 over a bridge where sentries stand guard, and here our 
 journey must end. 
 
 Beyond, the serpentine road criss-crosses up the 
 mountain side into Montenegro, and some of us recall 
 a delightful drive we had over that thoroughfare. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 75 
 
 We sleep late next morning. Having accomplished 
 a good bit of globe-trotting in the past few days, we 
 are pleased to find now that we may indulge in solid 
 rest, and this without the waste of a moment's time. 
 We have the morning in Cattaro, to idle in the park — 
 where the ladies smoke their cigarettes while doing the 
 family knitting — and to saunter through the market. 
 Then, after luncheon, we go aboard the through boat, 
 and stowing away our possessions in our cabins, settle 
 ourselves on deck, prepared to enjoy a long, delightful 
 sea voyage. 
 
 At half past two we weigh anchor, bound northward. 
 This time our way lies farther from the coast. We 
 pass new, larger islands, and often are out of sight of 
 land altogether. We are now enroute for Fiume. 
 
 All the afternoon, all night, we sail, ploughing our way 
 quietly northward up the Adriatic, and at a quarter 
 before ten next morning are off Zara. On and on we 
 go, until almost opposite Pola, when we bend into the 
 Gulf of Fiume and drop anchor before Fiume, the great 
 seaport of the kingdom of Hungary. 
 
 Close to the harbor is the American consulate, and 
 Uncle Sam, with his flag floating in the breeze, is the 
 first to welcome us, just as he was the last to wave us 
 a good-bye when, homeward-bound from the Balkans, 
 we sailed from this port for Italy. 
 
 A ROYAL FREE CITY 
 
 Arriving at Fiume, we enter one of the most curi- 
 ously governed cities in the world. Hungary owns 
 the crown land of Croatia, in which Fiume is located, 
 and the city, instead of being subject to the law of 
 
76 
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 Croatia, is responsible only to the central government. 
 It is as though Chicago, lying in the state of Illinois, 
 were not subject to the laws of Illinois in any way, but 
 simply obeyed those of the United States as a whole. 
 The reason for this is that Fiume is what is known as 
 a " royal free city." 
 
 Possibly in our " Little Journey to Germany" we 
 learned something of the old free cities of that country. 
 In ancient times a city was usually governed by some 
 powerful noble, who had his castle on the hill or Burg 
 (boorg) above the town, and who forced the people to 
 pay for every privilege he granted them. In times of 
 war, however, when the noble needed money, he was 
 only too glad to sell to the city certain privileges for 
 
 FIUME, THE GREAT HUNGARIAN SEA-PORT 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 77 
 
 the gold with which wealthy merchants could provide 
 him. 
 
 That was one way of achieving independence. 
 Another was this: When the noble and the king fell 
 out and the city sided with the monarch, the latter, 
 when he had crushed his rebellious subject, would 
 reward the faithful townspeople by giving the place 
 liberties not possessed before. Thus came about the 
 royal free cities, and such a one is Fiume. 
 
 Fiume city interests us for another fact: In the 
 past few years Bridget and Paddy have to some 
 extent been supplanted in our kitchens and stables 
 by Hungarian immigrants, and almost all of these 
 have come to us by way of Fiume. The Hungarian 
 government encourages the poor and needy to emi- 
 grate to America, and they are sent over on vessels 
 constructed purposely for emigrant passage and oper- 
 ating between Fiume and New York. We visit one 
 of these ships while at Fiume, and are amazed at the 
 immensity of the one long deck on which the third- 
 class passengers sit during the voyage. On the wharf 
 we see some of our prospective countrymen — bare- 
 footed, hatless, and many of them wearing only a 
 gingham slip, or a shirt and pair of trousers. 
 
 Returning to the land, we walk along the quays of 
 Fiume, where the great warehouses are located. 
 These big buildings remind us somewhat of those we 
 saw at Salonica. Suddenly we hear the ringing of a 
 bell near us, and a traveling butcher shop, such as we 
 used to have in the country at home, goes by. There 
 is another jingle, a street car stops beside us, and we 
 board it for a ride. Besides going through town, we 
 
78 
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 are going out of the country, for before we have ridden 
 many blocks we learn that we are again in Austria. 
 We go on and are in Hungary once more. So close 
 is the border to the heart of town here. 
 
 On the latter part of this ride we pass a great yard, 
 
 SLOVAK EMIGRANTS ON SHIP AT FIUME 
 About to leave for New York 
 
 surrounded by high brick walls. In the buildings 
 within, we learn, the famous Whitehead submarine 
 torpedoes are manufactured, to be sent to all parts of 
 the world. Here were made the deadly missiles that 
 created such havoc in the Russo-Japanese war. There 
 are so many secrets about torpedo-making that 
 visitors are unwelcome to the factory, and even our 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 79 
 
 consul here at Fiume cannot manage to have us 
 admitted for a trip of inspection. 
 
 Past an immense rice and starch factory and a 
 petroleum harbor, where Russian oils are handled, we 
 go, and return at length to the center of town, repassing 
 the Public Gardens, and the Imperial Naval Academy 
 and Theater. Leaving the car, we step into a cafe, 
 as does every one in Fiume, either for a cup of coffee 
 or a dish of the ice-cream, served with a wafer, which 
 is so popular here. While we are eating our ice-cream 
 children go by, peddling fresh fruit dipped in a glass 
 of melted sugar just thick enough to coat the plum or 
 grape, and, as in France, we feast on these dainties. 
 
 In Fiume a little knowledge of Italian stands one in 
 good stead. The town is full of Irredentists, and 
 while there are many signs printed in German and in 
 Magyar, they are not nearly so numerous as the 
 Italian. 
 
 Our second day in the city we walk down the broad 
 asphalt streets to do some shopping, for the stores 
 here are as attractive as any in Europe. They have 
 exceedingly broad and large show windows, opening 
 like doors streetward, and usually two or three times 
 as large as our own. 
 
 In many of these windows are exposed, on a series 
 of shelves, novelties made of a shell found on some 
 near-by islands which resembles mother-of-pearl so 
 closely as to deceive all but the expert. Most of 
 these trifles are miniature reproductions of well- 
 known articles — tiny aquariums to be worn on the 
 watch-chain, diminutive pencils and pens and forks, 
 knives and spoons, little boxes of dominoes, the whole 
 
80 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 case not an inch in length— and a thousand and one 
 other things. 
 
 Following the street to the outskirts of town, we 
 come to the second-hand bazaars, and then to the 
 town walls, where persons entering the city are searched 
 for dutiable articles, for Fiume has a right to exact a 
 customs duty just as a country has. 
 
 We take a hill road from here, and follow it to the 
 foot of the famous pilgrimage stairs — a broad flight of 
 stone steps leading among the homes and fields, up a 
 very steep hill, to the large Roman Catholic church 
 overlooking the city. All along the stairway are built 
 little shrines, where sacred relics are shown beneath 
 panes of glass, and in the shadow of the shrines women 
 sit, peddling rosaries, scapulars, and tapers to be 
 burned at the shrine. 
 
 The church of Saint Vest, at the top of the hill, to 
 which the pilgrims go to offer their prayers, we find 
 intensely interesting. Its walls are hung with pic- 
 tures of storm-tossed vessels, and in one corner of each 
 picture is a portrait of the Saint, whose prayers have 
 saved the vessel from destruction. Pilgrims go bare- 
 footed from picture to picture, kissing each, or they 
 encircle a certain pillar of the church a given number 
 of times before kissing the relics which are hung in 
 cases on this column. 
 
 We are very tired after our climb, and the descent 
 of the stairs is made slowly — the more so because of 
 the charming view of town and sea which it affords. 
 On our way back to the city we pass a house in course 
 of erection, and are surprised to see at work women as 
 hod-carriers. In fact, the activity of everybody 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 81 
 
 WOMEN HOD-CARRIERS AT FIUME, CROATIA 
 
 in Fiume is a shock to us, coming from the easy- 
 going southern provinces. 
 
 During the noon hours, however — from twelve to 
 two — the stores are closed here, and so we drop into 
 another cafe for a long summer's dinner, from which 
 we rise to catch the tug to Abbazia (ab-bat'ze-a), 
 Hungary's summer-resort by the sea. Abbazia is 
 semi-tropical in its foliage, and with its hotels, its 
 villages, its band-stands and its booths, recalls some of 
 our own southern winter resorts. Here, however, the 
 villas all belong to royalty, the Prince of This, the 
 King of That, and the Duke of Something Else. We 
 could not have found a more delightful spot in which 
 to spend the warm summer's evening than this, where 
 
82 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 the music of the gypsy orchestras chimes in with that 
 of the waves, and the pretty lanes among the orange 
 and lemon trees invite one to wander on, to baths and 
 bazaars and belvideres beside the sea. 
 
 There is another summer resort in Hungary which 
 we wish to see in order to watch the Magyar at play, 
 and that is in the Plitvica (plit-vit'ka) Lake country. 
 Accordingly we leave Fiume in the morning for Ogulin 
 (o'goo-lin), a typical hamlet of interior Croatia, which 
 is the railway station from which the lakes may be 
 most conveniently reached. 
 
 A CROAT VILLAGE 
 
 Ogulin reminds us somewhat of a Dutch village, the 
 roofs of the little plaster-coated houses having the 
 peculiar slant we notice in roofs in Holland, and their 
 thatch, also, being covered over with moss. There 
 are double sets of windows here for protection against 
 the cruel Bora, or winter wind, of which we hear so 
 many almost incredible tales in this region, and between 
 the two sets of panes lace curtains swing idly now. 
 Most of the houses consist of but two rooms, and one 
 of these cottages is a little country store, with a sign in 
 Croatian over the doorway. Now and then a bar 
 occupies the front chamber of a house, and the fact is 
 made known by a big wooden pitcher hanging from a 
 crane above the door. 
 
 From one side of every house there stretches a low 
 garden wall — so low that we can look over it into the 
 garden behind. Plum trees, whose laden boughs 
 remind us of the groves on the Lake Erie islands, 
 shade these walls, dropping the plums into a neat 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 83 
 
 vegetable garden containing carrots and cabbage and 
 onions, each row of the plants edged off with the old- 
 fashioned phlox, lady-slippers, oleanders, and sun- 
 flowers. Every garden, moreover, has a little latticed 
 summer-house, where, at about four in the afternoon, 
 the family gathers — the women to sew, or to do some 
 darning; the men with their long German pipes to 
 indulge in a recess smoke; and all to make merry over 
 the afternoon coffee. 
 
 The dress of these Croatians we do not find particu- 
 larly attractive. The men wear a long white jacket 
 which hangs below the belt, and over which a short 
 vest of darker color fits; white trousers and a soft 
 black hat complete the costume. The women have 
 
 LITTLE CROATIANS TAKING THE WEEKLY BATH 
 
84 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 still less in the way of a distinctive dress, wearing 
 common blue ginghams. The only noticeable thing 
 about their costume is a handkerchief of navy or even 
 darker blue, upon which a pad is fastened, so that they 
 may carry on their heads their great hampers of wash 
 to and fro between their homes and the river. 
 
 We follow one of these women to the public laundry, 
 situated in a ravine behind the town, and we come on 
 a merry scene. Ail the little folks of Ogulin are here, 
 either helping their mothers tread the wash on the 
 rocks, or indulging in a bath, or else romping about 
 clad only in Nature's own garments, as children will, 
 the world around, at the old swimming-hole. 
 
 We have been planning to drive from Ogulin into 
 the lake country, and as the only drivers to be had are 
 the farmers of the place, we must wait till the men 
 come in from the fields. Their coming, at sunset, 
 brings us disappointment, for seeing at once that we 
 are Americans, they demand a double fare, and rather 
 than be cheated so outrageously we give up the trip 
 entirely. We are influenced in our decision by the 
 appearance and manner of the men; they are a rough 
 lot, and their reputation is not of the best. 
 
 So we spend the night, or part of it, at the inn of 
 Ogulin, lulled to sleep by the perfect quiet of the 
 country town. 
 
 THE CAPITAL OF CROATIA 
 
 At three in the morning we rise to catch the train for 
 Agram (ah'gram), the capital of Croatia. We wish to 
 spend a Sunday morning there in order to see the 
 weekly market, which we missed when we passed 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 85 
 
 through the city on our way from Montenegro to Bosnia. 
 The Agram market is considered the most beautiful in 
 the world. Every village in Croatia sends peasants 
 here to sell fruits and vegetables, and all the people, 
 both men and women, are in white. Upon this white, 
 designs in red or blue are embroidered, in some cases 
 very heavily, in others only as a border or to set off 
 the white, but in every case so as to leave the shade 
 of the snow-flake predominant. The sight of these 
 hundreds on hundreds of people in white, with just 
 enough variety in the ornamentation to prevent 
 monotony, is one we shall never forget. We spend the 
 entire morning among the peasants, beginning the 
 regular sight-seeing only at noon, when they depart 
 for their homes. 
 
 A tall church, with a curiously painted rococo roof, 
 at once attracts us, though the interior we find to be 
 very plain. In the shadow of the church is the palace 
 of the Bonus (bah'nuss) or Governor of Croatia. The 
 palace is an unpretentious, two-story building, the 
 roof sloping streetward, and the coat of white paint 
 which covers the whole making it resemble some of the 
 taverns in Continental times in our own country. 
 Over the way from this palace is the home of the 
 Croatian Landtag (landt'tag) or Parliament. This 
 assembly, a stormy body, is now having trouble with 
 Hungary, who, it claims, does not give the Croatians a 
 proper government. 
 
 We pass another church with exquisite windows of 
 stained glass, descend a lane, and crossing the old 
 threshhold of the city, a gate of ancient bricks and 
 mortar, pass out into beautiful modern Agram, a 
 
86 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 city of wide asphalt streets, shaded but slightly by the 
 young trees planted at their sides ; of handsome public 
 and business structures; of boulevards and parks and 
 plazas that in many ways remind us of the modern 
 sections of Boston. 
 
 Almost all the business houses are three or four 
 stories high, wide, and built in nearly every case of 
 stone, so as to present one impressive facade. Beyond 
 the stores are the residences, likewise in rows, almost 
 all have gardens in the rear, and most of the buildings 
 are rented out in suites of rooms, much like our flats. 
 
 The school buildings of Agram, which cluster closely 
 together, are the finest we have seen anywhere in our 
 travels. There are the high school, the weaving- 
 school, the university, and the ordinary schools — all 
 lodged in buildings so fine that the famous Bourse at 
 Paris does not excel them so far as external appear- 
 ances go. 
 
 Close at hand is the Art Muesum, where we see 
 some of the fine paintings by Masic (ma/she-sha), one 
 of Croatia's greatest artists. The one of these which 
 particularly attracts our attention shows a group of 
 little girls in white, seated at play among the wild 
 flowers of the fields. A great pumpkin- vine twines 
 through the flowers to where a hen with her brood of 
 chickens is scratching about, while in the background 
 we see the melon and onions the children have dropped 
 from some basket, and a flock of turkeys gathered 
 around them. The picture contains so much that is 
 distinctly national, and is all so well put together 
 that we stop long to admire it. 
 
 We see here the original or Cermak's (ker'mak) 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 87 
 
 famous painting of the Montenegrins carrying a fallen 
 leader down the mountain-pass in a litter, and those 
 of us who have made the Little Journey to the Balkans 
 are deeply interested in it. 
 
 There are other paintings, and a number of 
 interesting Roman relics, 
 over which we linger 
 The cap-of -office of the 
 Banus or Governor of 
 Croatia is shown here; 
 it is simply an exag- 
 gerated drummer-boy \s 
 shako, made of fur, and 
 having an aigrette in the 
 front. 
 
 Agram is such a pret- 
 ty city, with the long 
 chestnut rows shading 
 its residence streets, with 
 its parks and its prom- 
 enades, that we should 
 imagine the people to 
 be the happiest in Eur- 
 ope. As a matter of 
 fact, however, they are 
 
 decidedly in ill humor; and as we hear them tell how 
 they are compelled to pay taxes to Hungary, without 
 receiving any benefits therefrom, and of the other 
 wrongs they suffer, we recall at once the causes of our 
 own Revolution, and our blood boils in sympathy for 
 these patriots. 
 
 After we have concluded our sight-seeing, by way 
 
 ON THE MARKET, AGRAM 
 
88 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 of relaxation we take the little one-track horse car out 
 among the alfalfa fields of the country, to Maximilian 
 Park, a summer resort owned by the Archbishop of 
 Agram, where the citizens hold picnics, soldiers' 
 reunions, and the like, and on Sunday the promenaders 
 gather to drink fresh cream or buttermilk and eat 
 clabber, as summer tourists are fond of doing among 
 the dells of Wisconsin. 
 
 We are so lucky as to chance on such a picnic, and 
 we are struck with its similarity to a harvest-home 
 in one of our northern states. There are the long 
 booths with eatables, there are the canes for the merry- 
 makers to "ring,"' and the "nigger babies" to be shot; 
 but, in addition, we see the picnickers gather about 
 bonfires and roast pork chops on long iron bars, which 
 is hardly a popular custom at home, though in a way 
 suggestive of the barbecues of our own South. 
 
 There is a little excursion out from Agram to Somo- 
 bor (so'mo-bor), in the grape-cure country, which we 
 enjoy. We go by narrow-gauge and then country bus 
 to the town, which is really a mere village. Arrived 
 there, our way leads up a delightful country road 
 through the woods, to the entrance to the kur (koor) 
 grounds, where we begin the climb of a steep "hill of 
 digestion." In among the trees of a venerable forest 
 we go, past the benches and tables of the grape-eaters, 
 to a chalet at the top of the hill. 
 
 Those of us who had no appetite to begin with have 
 one now, and are ready to pay almost any price for 
 the grapes which are offered. If we were patients, 
 come for the cure, we should take so many pounds of 
 the red, the green, and the ordinary blue grapes 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 89 
 
 between meals, and so many after dinner or supper, at 
 the same time regulating our diet according to what- 
 ever complaint we might have. In America folk 
 rather ridicule the grape-cure, but here it has many 
 firm advocates. 
 
 r From the heights where the grapes are eaten it is 
 an easy walk to an old ruined castle, just like the 
 castles along the Rhine, so we saunter among the 
 remains of the ancient chambers, and climb the tur- 
 rets, poking into this nook, exploring that, without a 
 soul to say us nay. 
 
 GIPSY LAND 
 
 Returning to Agram, we prepare to continue our 
 journey overland, towards the national capital. Our 
 next stop, at Sissek (siss'seck), will be but a brief one. 
 This village is the center of the gall-nut industry, and 
 between trains we stop off to inspect the warehouses 
 where the gall-nuts, those little products of the oak, 
 are stored for the tanners' call. Otherwise Sissek has 
 but little to interest one. We have seen the place in 
 ten or fifteen minutes, in fact, and so we wander out on 
 a delightful country road, recalling the bluegrass high- 
 ways of Kentucky, to a castle, which by its shape 
 reminds us of the Norman castles we visited in France. 
 It is fast falling to decay, but we find tenants living in 
 the few remaining rooms into which storm and wind 
 cannot creep. 
 
 But the gipsies are what interest us most on this 
 ramble. We remember reading in St. Nicholas many 
 years ago, a little poem about the gipsies, the real 
 "Romany," and when in Rumania found the gipsies 
 
90 
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 A CROATIAN HOME, NEAR SISSEK 
 
 living in such squalor we were sadly disappointed. 
 We felt, in fact, that these people could not be the 
 gipsies of whom we had read so much. Here in 
 Hungary, or better, in Croatia, we meet the genuine 
 gipsy, a dark race, so yellow as to resemble our own 
 mulatto, and with the wild black locks flowing to the 
 wind and the eagle eye of the Indian, but having a 
 more musical voice. 
 
 We find the gipsies living in wagons with gay-col- 
 ored sides, such as pass now and then through our own 
 Middle West, lighting their camp-fires in some shel- 
 tered glade, where the happy, though poorly clad and 
 seemingly half -starved women, cook the scanty meals. 
 In the daytime the men chop the trees along the roads, 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 91 
 
 sawing them up into boards, or fashioning them 
 various-wise, while the women will stop to tell fortunes 
 to the passer, or preferably run after his wagon to beg. 
 When we get into the Carpathians we shall meet 
 more of the gipsies, and even a wilder branch of the 
 race, and there we shall find them begging for sugar, 
 i. e., money with which to buy sugar or candy. Happy- 
 go-lucky are these people, and when the cold, cruel 
 winter comes to Croatia they will follow the birds 
 southward to the lands of fez and turban. 
 
 BUDAPEST THE BEAUTIFUL 
 
 From Sissek, we continue by rail to Budapest, the 
 national capital of Hungary, and next only to Paris 
 
 THE REAL HUNGARIAN GIPSY 
 
92 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 and Berlin, the most beautiful city in Europe. We are 
 to spend a good deal of time here, so we go about our 
 sight-seeing in a methodical manner. We find that our 
 guide-book omits certain things we care to see, and 
 lists others we do not, so we shall take a map of the 
 
 THE BLUE DANUBE AT BUDAPEST 
 
 city, and, starting in one corner, work our way from 
 point to point. 
 
 In fact, unless we speak Magyar, we shall have to 
 rely largely on our map. If we ask persons on the 
 street, as politely as we can, in German, to direct us, 
 they will snub us, believing that we are of the hated 
 Austrians. If we ask them in French, they do not 
 understand, and as for English, while a compara- 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 93 
 
 tively large number of the better class speak our 
 language, such persons must be searched for, and in 
 times of doubt as to the right path are usually not to 
 be found. 
 
 In Budapest, moreover, we shall be forced fiom the 
 outset to rely on ourselves. Curiously enough, at the 
 depot there is not a single hotel omnibus to meet the 
 train, and we have to hail a "cabby" to wheel us away 
 to the hotel of our choice. We find this hotel to be 
 almost American in its equipment, and in every way 
 so much like the big hotels of New York that we feel 
 quite at home. 
 
 Our mail has been accumulating for us at this place, 
 because in a journey such as this we never can tell 
 beforehand just how long we shall stay in any one 
 town, our limit being always as long as anything 
 remains to be seen, and so friends have headed us off 
 by mailing everything to Budapest. It takes a long 
 time to read and answer letters when one is traveling 
 far and seeing much, and we are busied with ours 
 until the supper hour. 
 
 Then we go out to our first real Magyar supper. 
 The chief feature of the meal is, of course, guylas 
 (goo'lash), the national dish. Guylas is any meat — 
 preferably beef, but often lamb or chicken — boiled 
 with mangoes and red peppers until it is a soft mass, 
 and we find it very palatable indeed. 
 
 We eat supper on the broad pavement in front of one 
 of the cafes beside the Danube. In fact, all the time 
 we are in Budapest we shall never eat indoors unless 
 the weather prove inclement. Every cafe has tables 
 upon these wide pavements, often surrounded by little 
 
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 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
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 RESIDENCE STREET IN BUDAPEST, THE "CHICAGO OF EUROPE" 
 
 hedges of boxwood or myrtle and shielded by awnings 
 from the broiling sun. Here the Hungarians come, 
 not so much to eat as to read over the great files of 
 papers of all Europe that are always kept on hand, and 
 to meet their friends and indulge in a quiet hour's chat. 
 They do not eat and run, as do we; supper lasts far 
 into the evening. . 
 
 In those cafes music is furnished by gipsy bands, 
 whose members do not, however, belong to the nomad 
 race we met at Sissek, but are of another "stem," as 
 the Magyars put it. We wish to hear the real gipsy 
 music, and so we go to the best cafe, expecting, of 
 course, to have it there. The band is excellent and 
 the music well rendered, but "Teasing/' and "Hia- 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 95 
 
 watha," and " Under the Bamboo Tree" are the airs 
 we hear, for our American " rag-time" has penetrated 
 to the heart of Europe and is driving out the national 
 songs everywhere. 
 
 Our sight-seeing begins in the heart of Budapest, in 
 the shopping district. We walk up an elegant boule- 
 vard lined with tall buildings five to seven stories high. 
 Handsome stores occupy the ground floor of these 
 buildings, while in the upper stories are apartments in 
 which people live. The sidewalks are broad and there 
 is a parkway down the middle of the street, with 
 the electric cars on either side. In this park feature 
 Budapest reminds us at once of Boston. 
 
 As we turn into the Andrassy Strasse (an-drass-e 
 strass'a), the finest boulevard and most important 
 highway in the city, we notice that while all the stores 
 of course have their signs and advertisements in the 
 Magyar, a very large number have them in English 
 also — this owing to the army of English and American 
 tourists who visit Budapest each year. 
 
 Along the Andrassy Strasse, or, as the Magyars 
 would say, Andrassy Uhlica (66'le-ka), the stores in 
 which novelties are sold attract us. We notice a 
 music dealer's window and step in to look over his 
 wares. As we enter, the opening door plays a strain 
 of sacred music that puts us in a mood to buy almost 
 anything we may be urged to take. We see little key- 
 rings with a set of three keys, which prove on inspection 
 to be a knife, a file, and a pencil, respectively ; and only 
 twenty cents for the lot. Near by is a miniature Tatra 
 (ta'tra) Mountain hat, which hides an ink-well. We pick 
 up a tiny pistol, and pull the trigger ; a pencil comes out. 
 
96 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 For some future Little Journey into lands where we 
 must camp out, a handy tool is offered us — a knife, 
 seemingly, but one which comes apart and contains 
 table-knife, fork, and spoon, penknife, corkscrew, and 
 scissors, all in one. 
 
 As we leave the store, a magnate, one of the Hun- 
 garian nobility, dashes by in his landau, the driver 
 and footman wearing his ancestral livery. Baggage- 
 bearers in uniform, with whom the streets are filled, 
 stand aside, and the innumerable hand-cart pushers 
 make way for him. 
 
 At a corner below the Opera House, which is closed 
 at this season, we find a curious and very helpful 
 establishment, bearing the sign of "Touristry Bureau." 
 This is an office operated under the supervision of the 
 government, to assist tourists in finding out what is 
 worth seeing in Hungary — how to reach certain places, 
 and when to go — and at the same sime insure their 
 comfort. In addition, this bureau has the sale of 
 native works of art, and when one buys from it he 
 knows that the object comes from the exact place 
 from which it is claimed to come, and that it is not the 
 product of a factory, as too many of the souvenirs we 
 buy from peasants elsewhere prove to be. As a result, 
 the store of the bureau is a perfect museum of the 
 native wares of Hungary, and we linger long before the 
 cases of peasant needlework, pottery, and carving. 
 Not far from the bureau are the headquarters of 
 Uncle Sam in Hungary, the American Consulate- 
 General, where our representative, Mr. Chester, has 
 charge. If King Francis Joseph were in town and we 
 wished to be presented to him, we should have to apply 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 97 
 
 to Mr. Chester, who is the next thing to an ambassador, 
 and, in fact, would be an ambassador if our country 
 could recognize Austria and Hungary as two separate 
 nations. 
 
 We drop in upon Mr. Chester, and we are interested 
 in asking him about Americans in Budapest. He tells 
 us that American wares of many sorts are sold here, 
 from hardware and typewriters down to shoe-polish 
 and flypaper. As we continue our tour of the stores 
 of Budapest we see abundant evidence of the truth of 
 the statement, for down near the Danube, where 
 the parliament houses loom up over the river, and the 
 great bridges span the stream, there are little shops 
 among the trees on the quay (like those we found 
 along the Seine at Paris), and here everything that can 
 possibly be made to bear an American label is styled 
 an American product. 
 
 In a dim two-story arcade, where flower-venders 
 congregate, we stop to look over the toy-stores, but 
 there are no toys here different from those at home; 
 in fact, our old friend " Robinson Crusoe" is here, and 
 American lawn-tennis balls are offered for sale. The 
 jewelry shops, however, have their charms, for there 
 the specialty is of mother-of-pearl, and we see lockets 
 containing twelve circlets, each with one of the signs of 
 the zodiac worked upon it, that sorely tempt our purses. 
 
 It is twelve o'clock, and the shutters are being 
 pulled down before all the stores, for eve^body stops 
 work for the noon-hour. Only here and there is any- 
 thing left open for us, and we rely for our sight-seeing 
 on the peddlers of post-cards, who have novelties of 
 every sort. A favorite Magyar insult is to call a man 
 
98 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 a " straw-head/' and so there are cards of curious 
 people with heads of real straw under celluloid covers, 
 to be sent for a joke. 
 
 We watch the crowd surging by, and it appears to 
 us most cosmopolitan. Among the men there seems to 
 be a special hobby for gray felt hats. The children, as 
 we see them on their way to school, are dressed in 
 more sober colors than our little ones wear. Often 
 several little girls will be dressed exactly alike, though 
 probably not related, but only close friends. Customs 
 here differ from ours more than costumes. When two 
 ladies meet, each kisses the other's hand. A gentle- 
 man, meeting a lady of his acquaintance, kisses the 
 back of her hand. When two gentlemen meet, they 
 take off their hats to each other, and should a man or 
 boy of our party forget this on meeting a Hungarian 
 acquaintance on the street, the carelessness would be 
 taken as an insult. 
 
 We are astonished by the number of carriages that 
 pass, and by the swarms of newsboys everywhere. 
 The many trackless street cars are another surprise to 
 us. We follow the passing throng down to the river 
 bank, where stands the Academy — a handsome three- 
 story sandstone pile, facing a park in which is the 
 statue of one of the patriots of Hungary. Across the 
 park from the Academy is a small, three-story hotel, 
 with the palace of the Count of Koburg for neighbor. 
 Beyond are the Police Headquarters, and one of the 
 large public baths of the city, while to the south we see 
 the Chamber of Commerce, with a statue of Deak, the 
 author, before it. 
 
 This is the usual starting-point for the sight-seer in 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 99 
 
 the city, and from here we follow the Franz Josef quay 
 up among the cafes beneath the trees. Along here an 
 electric car line has been built almost directly above 
 the river, a huge wall descending sheer from the track 
 to the wharves. The Danube here is muddy in color, 
 
 A FIREMEN'S DRILL IN BUDAPEST 
 
 and only on the rarest days, the loungers tell us, does 
 it deserve the name "Blue Danube/ ' 
 
 As we proceed up the banks, we have Ofen, the 
 imperial suburb, across the river, on our right, while on 
 the left great apartment houses stretch to the Re- 
 doubten (ra-doot'en) Buildings, a sort of armory 
 facing a park, in which is one of the popular outdoor 
 cafes. A few more steps and we are at the Place of the 
 
100 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 Oath, where Franz Joseph took the oath as King of 
 Hungary. When Hungary secedes from Austria, as 
 there is great likelihood of her doing very shortly, this 
 tiny park surrounded by tall buildings will probably be 
 the center of interest for the entire world. 
 
 We have but to cross a street to the City Hall of 
 Budapest, and its beautiful frescoed ceilings, its 
 heavily gilded woodwork, and the great bronze gratings 
 before the doors recall some of the old mediaeval town- 
 halls we saw in Germany. Beyond is the market, 
 where the wares of the peasants are sheltered by big 
 white umbrellas, and then the suspension bridge cross- 
 ing the Danube to Of en. The river at this point 
 reminds us of the St. Clair, because of its grain-boats 
 — long, flat monsters that bring up the grain from the 
 Rumanian and Bulgarian fields, and deposit it in 
 handsome warehouses and elevators here. 
 
 Beyond rise other magnificent buildings of buff 
 brick set in little parks, and it is with astonish- 
 ment we learn that these constitute the city slaughter 
 houses, for Budapest operates its own butchering busi- 
 ness, or requires the butcher to come here to do his 
 slaughtering, and the institution is one of the famous 
 ones of the world. Passing through these slaughter 
 houses we are surprised at the number of Cape buffaloes 
 in the pens, for in Hungary the flesh of these animals 
 takes the place of beef to a large extent. 
 
 We have now reached the upper end of the city. 
 We return by another route to Andrassy Street, where, 
 in the center of a wide boulevard, a policeman sits 
 motionless on his horse the day through, an unfor- 
 gettable feature to the Budapest promenaders. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 101 
 JOTTINGS FROM OUR DIARY 
 
 We have many odd things to jot down in oar 
 note-books during our stay in Budapest. Going out 
 one morning, we find all stores and shops closed, and 
 learn that it is a Saint's day. In spite of this fact, 
 bill-posters go about distributing hand-bills of an 
 American Wild West Show. We wander in the direc- 
 tion of the circus, and come on a religious procession, 
 one of those held in seasons of drought by congrega- 
 tions of certain churches, who parade the streets, 
 carrying church banners and emblems, and singing 
 their hymns as they go. For a moment the procession 
 is stopped, and one of the immense Budapest moving- 
 wagons, resembling a huge whaleback boat, and 
 capable of carrying the furnishings of an entire house, 
 crosses the street. 
 
 As we pause at a corner, we notice a little girl buy- 
 ing a bouquet of asters from a street vender ; for chil- 
 dren here often spend their pocket-money on flowers 
 — a thing our American children seldom do. At one 
 place a sign indicating cures by the Finsen and 
 Roentgen rays, interests us, as one of the very latest 
 things in the medical line. Outside the Peoples' 
 Theater we see some peasants who have come to town 
 lounging about, the women in short black flowered 
 skirts, and blue aprons bordered in red. These women 
 wear no shoes and stockings, and as we pass they are 
 cooling their feet in the streams of water from the 
 firemen's hose. For the streets here are sprinkled 
 thus twice a day; hence the wonderful cleanliness of 
 Budapest. 
 
102 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 We find little in the east end of the city to interest 
 us but the huge depot, with the statue of Barocs in 
 the park at its side. Barocs was the man who made 
 the Hungarian railways famous for what is known as 
 the Zone System. He divided up the fares in Hungary 
 so that no matter how far one travels, he does not pass 
 through more than three zones. For any distance in 
 the first belt, whether it be a mile or a dozen miles 
 from the starting-point, one pays a given amount ; for 
 any point in the second belt, again so much, and for 
 any point in the third there is another fixed price. In 
 this way the cost of traveling in Hungary is reduced to 
 a minimum. 
 
 THE CEMETERY 
 
 Not far from this depot is the Kerepest Cemetery, 
 one of the city's sights. Graves here do not lie under 
 the sod, for the ground of the cemetery is barren, but 
 each grave is marked by a square mound, perhaps six 
 inches high, from the center of which there rises another 
 hillock, possibly three feet in height, both of these 
 mounds having grass on their sides and flowers on the 
 top. In addition, at every grave there stands a 
 wrought-iron lantern, on a pole possibly sixty inches 
 high. These lanterns are lit on what corresponds to 
 All Saints' Day — a feast celebrated here on the first of 
 October, when everyone flocks to the graveyard. 
 
 To us Americans, the first interest is the grave of 
 Kossuth, Kossuth Ferenz, they call him here, for in 
 Hungary the last name is always put first. (This fact 
 accounts for the large number of Mr. Janoses, or 
 Jameses, we at first believed to be in town, judging 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 103 
 
 from the signs and advertisements.) Kossuth's grave 
 consists of possibly a half-dozen very broad steps of 
 stone, meant, perhaps, to be topped at some time with 
 a statue, and the whole surrrounded by an iron railing. 
 A new mausoleum, somewhat resembling Grant's 
 tomb, is being erected now for Kossuth, the money 
 coming from contributions collected by the news- 
 papers all over the country. 
 
 Where two of the cemetery roadways cross, we come 
 upon a plain, half-neglected mound, without stone of 
 any sort, and we pause, for here lies the great Hun- 
 garian novelist Jokai. All the time we are in Hungary 
 we shall hear so much of the case of Maurus Jokai that 
 we had best learn the story at once. 
 
 Jokai endeared himself to the Hungarian people by 
 both his poetry and his dramas, but more particu- 
 larly by his historical novels of Magyar life, most of 
 which have been translated into every language, while 
 not a few are given the students of European history 
 in our own universities to read. That this writer was 
 esteemed by others than his own people is shown by 
 the fact that when he celebrated his fiftieth birthday, 
 not so very many years ago, kings and emperors sent 
 him gold and silver wreaths and other testimonials. i 
 
 In his later life, after the death of his first wife, 
 Jokai began writing plays, and it was while directing 
 the staging of one of his dramas that he fell in love 
 with a young actress of the capital and married her. 
 Immediately there began to be circulated all sorts of 
 stories of the young wife's cruelty tp the poor old man ; 
 it was even said that when she was angry she would 
 turn him out of the house, hungry and ill. The Hun- 
 
104 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 garian people grew indignant, but out of regard for the 
 author's feelings nothing was done. Soon it was seen 
 that he was declining, and not long ago he died, of a 
 broken heart, very probably. 
 
 Then the storm broke out, and there has followed 
 between Jokai' s sympathizers and those of his wife 
 what is known as a pamphlet war. Each party prints 
 pamphlets for free or very cheap distribution, giving 
 its side of the story, and then answering the latest 
 facts brought out by their opponents. This war is now 
 on in Hungary, and in every bookshop we find matter 
 concerning the Jokai case. 
 
 We meet Mrs. Jokai, and find her a charming young 
 woman, who cries when she tells of the wrong that has 
 been done her. She shows us the poems her husband 
 wrote about her, and lets us look over his books and 
 his keepsakes. 
 
 A BUDAPEST RESORT 
 
 From the cemetery we go through the heart of the 
 " Chicago of Europe," a section of Budapest which 
 is so termed by its citizens because of the vast number 
 of well-built apartment houses all enclosing courts, off 
 which are small shops that we should never suspect 
 to exist in what appear to be residences pure and 
 simple. 
 
 Beyond this district, we come to the Stadt-Wald- 
 chen (stat-valt'chen), one of the pleasure resorts of 
 Budapest. Lawns and fountains are shaded by fine 
 old sycamores, which meet overhead, and benches are 
 scattered about, that the people may rest and lounge. 
 Peddlers of every sort are here, from little girls selling 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 105 
 
 queer brown toy monkeys, to Salvation Army singers, 
 who have for sale the literature of their order. 
 
 Surrounded by gorgeous beds of dahlias, coleus, and 
 begonias, there is a series of buildings of exceptional 
 interest to us as tourists. These were a part of the 
 last exposition of Budapest, and have been allowed to 
 remain standing, as examples of the architecture of 
 Hungary at various periods in her history, the whole 
 recalling at once "Old Paris/ ' built along the Seine 
 during the last French exposition. Here, too, is the 
 statue of Anonymous, the bronze figure of a seated 
 man, his face hidden in a hood. Anonymous was the 
 Venerable Bede of Hungary, leaving notes on her his- 
 tory of incalculable value to the student of early times, 
 but signing these only by that title. 
 
 Restaurants where gipsy bands play ; a lake on which 
 in the winter some four thousand people skate ; colored 
 fountains, art museums, and the Millenium Monument 
 help to make the park attractive. At the farther end, 
 the subway cars come out from the ground, just as they 
 do at one point in the public gardens in Boston. 
 
 To return to our hotel we take a seat on the top of 
 one of the busses that are so popular with the Buda- 
 pesters, and which are almost as numerous in this 
 section of the city as they are in Paris. In the evening 
 we drop into the Cafe New York, the finest of the 
 many cafes in the city, and watch the Magyars enjoy- 
 ing their beverage — coffee. Almost as great coffee- 
 topers as the Turks are these Hungarians, but here 
 "milk-coffee" (coffee diluted with an equal quantity 
 of milk) is what most people drink. As we overhear 
 the conversation of the politicians and the journalists 
 
106 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 in their respective corners here, we find Austria to be 
 the one subject of discussion. We hear so much talk of 
 the wrongs Hungary suffers and of the misdeeds com- 
 mitted by her fellow in the dual yoke, that we grow to 
 feel that to be linked with Austria must be a hard fate 
 indeed. 
 
 THE ROYAL PALACES 
 
 Another day we devote to Ofen, crossing the Danube 
 on one of the magnificent bridges and then by a ser- 
 pentine road climbing the hills on which the palaces 
 are built. We might make the ascent in an elevator, 
 such as is to be found in south Ohio. As we mount 
 the hills, the lower section of Ofen, the Danube, and 
 Pesth, with its academy and parliament buildings and 
 domes and spires, and below, the curve in the river, all 
 unfold into one charming bird's-eye view, and we feel 
 that the climb is well worth while, if only for this. 
 
 Passing the Ministries, which correspond to the 
 offices of our executive departments, and in which 
 there is nothing for us to see, we reach the palace, the 
 Hungarian residence of the Hapsburgs. For block 
 upon block there stretch magnificent buildings of 
 marble and sandstone, some with terraced gardens, 
 into which we may peep through ornamented gratings, 
 and others closed to the sight-seer, and with guards in 
 showy uniforms all about. The dome over the king's 
 residence is surmounted by a crown that is visible for 
 miles up and down the river. 
 
 The streets between these buildings are well paved, 
 and clean as those in any park in the United States, 
 and there are police at every hand to prevent the 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 107 
 
 slightest misdemeanor. The Ministries and the arch- 
 bishop's palace, the coronation church, and the sentry 
 barracks, are all built to form one magnificent whole 
 that is tantalizing because of the "No Admittance" 
 signs that stare one in the face. Elsewhere in Buda- 
 pest soldiers are conspicuous by their absence. 
 
 From the palaces we saunter on to a cafe built on 
 these heights because of the magnificent view of the 
 Lower Danube which they command, and here the 
 people of the capital gather at sunset to dine and wine 
 and enjoy the panorama of city and river, and low, 
 flat Hungarian plain. 
 
 AWAY FROM BEATEN PATHS 
 
 As ill-luck will have it, the Hungarian parliament is 
 not in session in the summer. We visit the great 
 parliament buildings on the Danube, but find the 
 session chambers much like those we have seen else- 
 where in Europe. It is in the members of this assem- 
 bly that we are interested ; we are told that when they 
 become excited in debate they rise from their desks and 
 shout wildly at one another, shaking their fists and 
 raving like madmen. Only the leaders seem able to 
 take things coolly. Of order there is none; one man 
 speaks and others chime in ; members of the opposition 
 hoot and hiss; while those of the speaker's party 
 applaud. How the stenographers are able to keep the 
 faintest sort of record of what is really said on the floor 
 is a mystery. 
 
 Since it is impossible for us to witness this interesting 
 spectable, we plan a little side excursion up into the 
 Carpathians, as a change from the monotony of city 
 
108 
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 sight-seeing. These mountains, we remember, are the 
 scene of many of Jokai's stories, so we are especially 
 interested in visiting them. 
 
 To begin with, we have a railway ride of some hun- 
 dred and seventy miles from Budapest to Kassa 
 (kash'a), out through the grain lands, the rolling Hun- 
 garian prairies, where only an occasional white-walled, 
 red-roofed village, or a hedge or locust tangle, breaks 
 the endless rolling surface of the earth. At Kassa we 
 change cars for Poprad (pop'rat), the center for the 
 summer-resort country of the Hohe Tatra (ho'a ta'tra) 
 Mountains. 
 
 On this latter part of the journey we meet with one 
 of the natural phenomena of Hungary — the fields 
 
 A BUDAPEST GENTLEMAN AND HIS WIFE IN THE HOHE TATRA 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 109 
 
 sloping up the ever-rising mountains in stretches of 
 brown and yellow and green, but with a peculiar vel- 
 vety effect such as we have seen nowhere else in the 
 world. So beautiful is this play of colors on what 
 seem to be terraces of the mountain sides, that we pay 
 little heed to anything else, even neglecting the peasants 
 in their gaudy costumes, at the stations. We do 
 notice, however, that most of the men of this region are 
 dressed completely in blue, save for the long sleeves of 
 a white shirt projecting through the vest and a black 
 slouch hat, worn well down on the head. 
 
 We are exceedingly surprised, on arriving at Poprad, 
 to find every one speaking, not Magyar, but German — 
 the more so after the way we had been treated at the 
 capital when we made use of German. The explana- 
 tion lies in the fact that this whole region is not Magyar, 
 but Saxon, the people being descendants of Saxons 
 who were called in here by one of the early Hungarian 
 kings to assist him in repelling an invasion. They 
 were then given land and settled here, and their 
 descendants retain their language and customs. There 
 are in all sixteen Saxon towns, known as the Zips 
 cities, and they are almost as independent as the old 
 free cities. 
 
 Poprad, the map informs us, lies at the kernel of the 
 Hohe Tatra, the highest of the Carpathian Mountains. 
 In the last few years the summer tourists have been 
 coming into these mountains, being encouraged to do 
 so through the efforts of .an association formed by the 
 people of all these towns, who see to it that guides do 
 not overcharge or hotels worst the stranger, and in 
 many ways add to one's comfort. 
 
110 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 
 
 4, 
 
 \ 1 j. vr • ■ ■ * '■ - 
 
 
 If r 
 
 # 4 ' 
 
 — ■— . -■■'■■„■■, ; ; 
 
 
 PEASANTS OF SIEBENBURGEN (TRANSYLVANIA) 
 
 -» 
 
 From our rooms in the hotel we see the mountains, 
 with the clouds about them, inviting us to come and 
 explore. Before accepting the invitation we dine on 
 true mountain fare, mushrooms and venison, until we 
 have satisfied the most violent longings any of us may 
 have had for either of these dainties. 
 
 As we venture forth to see the little town, we are 
 struck by the intensely German character of the place. 
 The old men smoke curved German pipes, the children 
 play as German children do, and even the signs on the 
 doors are in German. We watch the little ones skip- 
 ping rope, and learn of their day's work. In season, 
 all the children go out into the mountains to gather 
 bark and herbs and simples, from which are com- 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 111 
 
 pounded delicious mountain drinks and specialties 
 unknown to the rest of Europe. Berries likewise are 
 brought in and put up by the peasants. 
 
 Our sight-seeing begins at the town museum, where 
 t are preserved specimens of the flora and fauna of the 
 r region. Foxes and squirrels, eagles and hedgehogs, 
 are grouped together with relics of the Stone Age and 
 the Iron Age in a medley that is more picturesque 
 than scientific. A bird whose feathers are sky blue, 
 changing to violet, attracts our attention especially, 
 and we are also interested in the Alpine butterflies, 
 small though most of them are. 
 
 From Poprad we go for a delightful drive out into 
 the Hohe Tatra to the Ice Cavern. This drive is one 
 of the most beautiful we have ever taken. The road 
 winds through dense and virgin forests, broken only 
 here and there by lumber camps, where strange-look- 
 ing, simple-hearted Slavoks — with long, tangled hair 
 emerging from hats so broad-brimmed as to remind us 
 of those of the Spanish toreadors — are at work cutting 
 the trees into lumber. When we stop at an inn it is to 
 find ourselves beset by the gipsies — not the picturesque 
 gipsies of Sissek, but a dirtier, even wilder race, whose 
 little ones follow our carriage for miles, slapping their 
 faces until the tears start, to enlist our pity and induce 
 us to give them "sugar." 
 
 The peasant women of the little hamlets en route 
 take our fancy, for they are one blaze of pink; dress 
 and head-kerchief and stockings (when any are worn) 
 are all of a beautiful roseate hue, that is as character- 
 istic of the region as lavender is of Bucarest and white 
 is of Agram. 
 
112 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 The Ice Cavern, too, is a curiosity worthy of our 
 attention. For centuries the people of this region had 
 noticed that the ice seemed to linger longer here in the 
 spring than elsewhere, but no especial attention was 
 paid to the fact. Some few decades ago, however, a 
 gentleman set out to investigate, with the result that 
 he came on an immense cavern, which apparently was 
 completely rilled with ice. An entrance was cut into 
 this great mine of frozen water, and within the mass 
 of ice there were discovered huge bubbles, so large as 
 to form rooms. 
 
 Through the ice chambers we are taken. In order to 
 prevent people from slipping, a wooden walk has been 
 laid over the ice, with steps leading from one "bubble" 
 
 THE PINK COSTUMES OF THE ZIPS COUNTRY 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 113 
 
 up or down into the next, and there is a railing to 
 which we may cling. The strange part about the 
 cavern is that every summer, as the sun's heat pene- 
 trates the earth, a certain amount of the ice melts, but 
 in the winter the loss is mysteriously replaced, though 
 not from without, and so in the ages the cave has been 
 neither filled nor emptied; in fact, so permanent is it 
 that arc -lights have been placed in the larger cham- 
 bers. In winter people from all Hungary come to the 
 cavern to skate on its frozen floors. 
 
 After our visit to the cave we have luncheon at a 
 typical Magyar mountain hotel, built in the Swedish 
 style, with broad shaded verandas, from the steps of 
 which tempting little paths lead off into the wildwood. 
 The dining-room is decorated with antlers and mounted 
 deers' heads, as are some of the rooms in our own 
 White Mountain hotels, and here we enjoy venison 
 fresh from the forest. 
 
 We return to Poprad by a roundabout way, in order 
 to pass through Blumenthal (bloom'en-tal), a hamlet 
 of neat cottages and a little church, set in a great 
 mountain meadow, with tall blue peaks towering all 
 around. Some of us who years ago were readers of 
 BeljoroVs Annual for Young Folks recall a delightful 
 little love story, a The Merry Bells of Blumenthal," 
 about a young Saxon of this village who went out to 
 seek his fortune while his sweetheart remained behind, 
 keeping house for the old pastor. Blumenthal is just 
 such a place as the story describes, and we would fain 
 linger here. 
 
 Returning to Poprad, we start for another section of 
 the Austro-Hungarian summerland. We are to visit 
 
114 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 the three Schmecks cities, mountain summer resorts 
 closely resembling our own in the Alleghenies. In a 
 curious electric car, having no track, but furnished 
 with heavy rubber tires and operated by means of a 
 trolley connecting with wires strung along one side of 
 the road, we are carried up a country turnpike filled 
 with hay-wagons and truck-gardeners' carts and wan- 
 dering peddlers, to Old Schmecks. 
 
 There are Old Schmecks, New Schmecks, and Lower 
 Schmecks, the three forming what is practically one 
 town, and we feel as though we were on a sort of 
 vacation jaunt in the midst of our Little Journey as we 
 wander among the fountains and the gardens, the 
 lovers' lanes leading through the forests to belvederes 
 commanding wide mountain views, and the booths 
 where are displayed tempting hand-carved souvenirs, 
 and the like. If we wished, we might indulge in curi- 
 ous mountain-baths — pine-needle baths, the water of 
 which is a deep, dark brown, a tea, as it were, brewed 
 of pine needles; and cone baths, and any number of 
 others. 
 
 Once more we return to Poprad, and there take the 
 train to Csorba (tschor'ba), which is much like the 
 Schmecks resorts. The ride is an exceedingly short 
 one, and it seems but a few moments before we are 
 deposited at the foot of the cog railway which makes 
 the ascent to the Csorba See (sa), one of the famous 
 Magyar lakes. We are now in the heart of the moun- 
 tains, and our companions are all people who are pre- 
 pared to " rough it." Men with knapsacks on their 
 shoulders, and bearing stout alpenstocks, women in 
 short skirts, or even bloomers, guides and porters, are 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 115 
 
 our fellow-passengers in the car. All of them are bent 
 on scaling the peaks, and we, too, shall have a taste of 
 mountain-climbing. The cog ends at the Lake of 
 Csorba, enclosed on every side by tremendous granite 
 mountains, without sign of vegetation and with broad 
 patches of snow everywhere. It gives us a thrill of 
 delight to look up at these peaks. 
 
 We saunter among the government hotels on this 
 beautiful upland lake, and then follow a little forest 
 path into the wilderness, mile on mile, to the Popper 
 (po'per) See. It grows dark as we ascend ever higher 
 into the mountains, and only the light of the moon, 
 filtering through the trees, and in the denser glades 
 the trusty alpenstock, enable us to pick the path. As 
 we go on and on, the increasing altitude makes itself 
 felt, and our breath comes shorter, and we tire more 
 and more easily. The frogs are singing on the shore 
 of the lake among the peaks, when a light far ahead 
 reveals our goal, the little hotel of the Popper See. 
 
 We spend the night here, at the last civilized point on 
 the heights. Just at bed-time a storm comes up sud- 
 denly, and as the spray of the waves dashes against our 
 windows, which overhang the water, and we hear the 
 mountain wind roaring through the bending pines, we 
 think of " William Tell," and the tempest on the lake 
 in the Swiss mountains, as described by Schiller. 
 
 We rise early next morning, for we are to ascend the 
 Meerauger Spitze (mare'ow-ger'spit-sa), one of the 
 giant peaks of the Carpathians. Armed only with 
 bags of eatables, on our backs, our cameras, and alpen- 
 stocks, we begin the ascent. From the starting-point 
 the peak seems so near that we hardly believe the 
 
116 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 guides when they tell us we shall be many hours 
 reaching it. We tread first grassy meadows; then 
 areas where only a peculiar lichen makes green and, in 
 fading, brown, the mountain sides; and finally a land 
 of rocks, reminding us of parts of Mammoth Cave by 
 its jumble of boulders. 
 
 We reach the peak on which our eyes have been 
 fixed, only to find it is but a side spur of the Meer- 
 auger, after all, and that we must descend to another 
 lake, the Frog Lake (so named for a rock on its shore 
 which resembles a sitting frog), far below; then begin 
 our climb again. 
 
 On the next ascent we go slowly — oh, so slowly! 
 Every step is too much for us, and we are very thirsty, 
 but the guides will not hear of our drinking from the 
 clear, icy brooks flowing down from the snow at our 
 side. Nor will they allow us to wet our parched lips 
 with the snow at our side, claiming that to do so would 
 do our lungs irreparable injury. And so we go on, and 
 on, and on ! 
 
 Towards the last the task becomes almost too much 
 for us. It is a hand-over-hand climb, over boulders, 
 along narrow ledges of rock, up and down, in and out, 
 and roundabout, until we vow that what pleasure 
 people can find in climbing mountains we fail to see. 
 
 Ever and anon we pause to watch the chamois, run- 
 ning in herds on opposite cliffs, or standing up against 
 the sky on the very tip of a crag, and uttering their 
 peculiar cry. The view is growing more and more 
 gorgeous, as the sun shines on the mountains all about. 
 Finally we reach the summit, and the entire panorama 
 is unfolded. Everywhere below us are the peaks, and, 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 117 
 
 NEAR THE ISKER PASS, OUT OF TRANSYLVANIA 
 
 on one hand, we are actually looking down into 
 Poland. 
 
 While we lunch here on the mountain-top, we can 
 enjoy the spectacle, the clouds playing on the peaks — 
 now uncovering one and shrouding the next, now 
 revealing an unsuspected range or chain, and then 
 again turning to fog and gossamer and rising up to 
 our feet, so that below us there is only vacancy. 
 
 From a height of 2,503 meters above the sea we 
 begin the descent, and it is much more rapid than 
 was the upward climb. As we go down, the air 
 grows denser and we tire less easily; we may drink 
 now, too, at every brook; and so, strange to say, our 
 strength returns, and when the base of the mountain 
 
118 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 is again reached, we are almost as fresh as when we 
 started upward, long hours ago. Our Hungarian 
 friends make musical this ride by songs, and to our 
 surprise the tune of one of these is our own "John 
 Brown's Body/' which, it seems, is really a national 
 air of theirs. 
 
 From the top of the Meerauger Spitze, back via the 
 Popper See, the Lake of Csorba, Csorba town, and 
 Poprad, to Budapest is a long retracing of steps, but 
 we enjoy it thoroughly, for we need not be bothered 
 now with taking notes or watching for " catches" for 
 our cameras, while things which interest us most can 
 be fixed more firmly in our memories by a second 
 glance. 
 
 Where to go from Budapest is a question to be 
 debated. Again, the immensity of the Austro-Hun- 
 garian Empire confronts us — this, and the fact that, 
 whichever way we go, we shall have to make a long 
 retracing of our route, in order to see other sections. 
 There is the Danube, with the lands of fez and turban 
 just below to tempt us, and the whistle of the boats, 
 ready to take us on to Rumania and Servia, to Bul- 
 garia, and, if we will, almost to the Black Sea, stirs 
 every drop of nomad blood left in our veins from 
 distant ancestors, and urges us to explore. 
 
 TRANSYLVANIA 
 
 We cannot, however, leave Franz Josefs land as yet, 
 and so we go on eastward into Transylvania— or, as 
 the natives call it, Siebenburgen (see'ben-btir'gen). 
 This is Jokai's land, and those of us who have read 
 "The Golden Age in Siebenburgen/ ' " Among the 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 119 
 
 Wild Carpathians/' and others of his stories are 
 exceedingly anxious to see this province of mystery 
 and glamour. 
 
 Our first peep, however, disappoints us. We stop 
 off at Klausenburg (klow'sen-boorg), because we have 
 been told it is a 
 typical Magyar 
 town. We do not 
 doubt the truth 
 of the statement, 
 after having seen 
 the place, and do 
 not care to waste 
 time in any other 
 of the sort. Long 
 rows of sandstone 
 houses, set side 
 by side, with the 
 roofs sloping 
 streetward, and 
 a few trees here 
 and there, sun- 
 baked asphalt 
 avenues, a little 
 park, a church, 
 and a few large public buildings, and we have seen 
 the entire city. In fact, even between trains, we can- 
 not find enough to occupy our time, and drop into the 
 cafe of the " Hotel New York' ' to read over the papers 
 in order to make the hours pass more agreeably. 
 
 Going from Klausenburg to Kronstadt is like passing 
 from this prosaic old world of ours into a fairy city, a 
 
 SAXON TOWN HALL, TRANSYLVANIA 
 
120 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 dear old German town made up of little painted houses 
 and curious old rathskeller (rahts'kel-ler), and a town 
 church in the middle of the main square. In this 
 square women sell gingerbread men and candy boys, 
 and the chimney-sweep calls and the pretzel-vender 
 cries his wares. Here and there the upper stories of 
 the gabled houses project, and there is heavy timber, 
 quaintly carved, set into the eaves, while below hang 
 swinging flower urns, or there is a portico filled with 
 "green things." Beyond the town tower the moun- 
 tains, the Carpathians, beautiful, too, with their fading 
 heather and the beach forests turned to brown and 
 gold ; and looking up the road to w T here a little bridge 
 spans a mountain streeam, on can readily imagine 
 
 NEAR BRENNDORF, THE CITY OF BEETS 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 121 
 
 himself back in the Transylvania of the time of robber- 
 knights and barons and feudal obligations. 
 
 From Kronstadt we make an interesting excursion 
 countryward to Brenndorf, the town of beets. On 
 every hand, as far as the eye can see, run long, seem- 
 ingly endless, rows of beets. Here men and women 
 and children are busy gathering the vegetables, first 
 into great heaps, where other workers cut the leaves 
 from the bulbs, and then taking them off in ox-carts 
 to the sugar refinery, where the famous beet-sugar of 
 Brenndorf is made. The sugarmakers, however, are 
 not an obliging folk, and aside from a glance at the 
 immense buildings stretching along either side the 
 road, we cannot hope to see much of the sugar industry. 
 
 Again we turn back on our route, returning to 
 Kronstadt, then to the Magyar capital, where we go up 
 the Danube to Vienna, the capital of Austria. 
 
 VIENNA 
 
 Vienna is one of the most beautiful cities in the 
 world. Its especial pride is the famous Ringstrasse, 
 following the line of the old city fortifications, and 
 today a magnificent boulevard. The Ringstrasse is 
 about two miles long, and possibly two hundred feet 
 wide. It has a promenade in the center, flanked by 
 trees, while either side is bordered by the handsomest 
 buildings, taken as a whole, in the Empire. 
 
 Cafes like those at Budapest are scattered along the 
 Ringstrasse and the narrow streets leading from it, and 
 we find metropolitan life here much as it is in the other 
 great centers of Europe, except that the Austrians are 
 the most affable, most courteous people in the world, 
 
122 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 IMPERIAL PALACE VIENNA 
 
 so that in a journey through their land one is spared 
 the little indignities which travelers suffer elsewhere, 
 and which cause visitors to leave a place before they 
 have really seen all it offers them. 
 
 Sight-seeing in Vienna usually starts with St. 
 Stefen's Church, one of the most magnificent houses of 
 worship in Europe ; and is continued on to the Graben 
 (gra/ben), now the heart of the shopping district of the 
 city, but a center of town life almost as far back as the 
 thirteenth century, when the Hapsburg line first 
 established its seat at Vienna, and taking its name 
 from the old moat which prior to that time occupied 
 the site. Of the old buildings on the Graben, but few 
 remain for our inspection; but here is a monument to 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 123 
 
 commemorate the cessation of the plague, around 
 which, until not so many years ago, town markets 
 were held. This monument interests us for its pecu- 
 liar conception of figures among the clouds. 
 
 As at Budapest, our sight-seeing includes a shopping 
 excursion, and we are interested in noting the various 
 Russia leather articles for sale. There are purses, 
 shopping-bags, knife cases, and the like, that make us 
 wish we had an unlimited amount of pocket-money to 
 spend on souvenirs for our friends. 
 
 THE HAPSBURG PALACES 
 
 Of course, we wish to see the Royal palaces, but 
 after having visited Of en the beautiful, we join with 
 the Magyars in wondering why it is that Franz Josef 
 prefers the din- 
 gy, dilapidated 
 Hofburg of 
 Vienna to the 
 beautiful home 
 built for him 
 over the Dan- 
 ube, farther 
 down stream. 
 Aside from 
 statuary on the 
 front and the 
 historical asso- 
 ciations of the 
 Palace, which has cradled this family of Austrian mon- 
 archs since twelve hundred and something, there is real- 
 ly nothing to make the palace seem better than the 
 
 IN THE AUSTRIAN EMPEROR'S HOME 
 
124 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 palazzios of the higher classes of nobility of poverty- 
 stricken, dirty Italy. 
 
 Natural history museums, and a library containing 
 some four hundred thousand volumes, are open for 
 inspection, and we spend considerable time over the 
 great collection of wood-cuts (possibly three hundred 
 thousand in all) which are shown in the latter. 
 
 Those of us who visited the Sultan's treasury at 
 Constantinople are anxious to see the royal treasury of 
 Austria, and an impressive sight it is. One enters a 
 hall hung with gorgeous robes of the imperial heralds 
 since the time when the Empire was young, then 
 passes by the collection of royal orders, and finally 
 reaches the jewels themselves. The collection of which 
 they are a part ranges in variety and date from the 
 crown, scepter, and robes of Charlemagne down to those 
 of Franz Josef. Diamonds and rubies and emeralds 
 are everywhere, and especially showy is one order — 
 that of the Golden Fleece — in which, we are told by 
 the guide, not less than a hundred and fifty diamonds 
 are set. 
 
 Passing the Court Theater, we make our way to the 
 Prater (pra-ter), of which we have heard so much. 
 The Prater has been a park for some eight centuries, 
 but for only a little over a hundred years have people 
 other than the nobility been allowed to enter it. 
 Nowadays it is given over to merriment; there are 
 little dumb-shows, venders and fakirs, cafes and res- 
 taurants on every hand. So gay is the scene here 
 that we linger long, taking supper in the park, and 
 spending the evening in quiet enjoyment . 
 
 Vienna still has much to detain us. There is a 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 125 
 
 votive church, built in thanks for the Emperor's 
 escape from death at the hands* of an assassin. The 
 building faces a plaza, or, as the Viennese say, Platz, 
 named for Maximilian, whose home at Miramar we 
 visited. From this plaza it is not far to the great 
 Viennese stock exchange, the scene of the celebrated 
 panic of a quarter of a century ago. Both the church 
 and the stock exchange, however, interest us chiefly 
 for their handsome exteriors, and to see them does not 
 require more than a few moments in passing. The 
 Opera House is another of the great structures of the 
 city, built to accommodate some three thousand peo- 
 ple, and at a cost roughly estimated at six million 
 gulden. The university and the parliament houses 
 likewise are architectural models of their sort. 
 
 GRAND OPERA HOUSE, VIENNA 
 
126 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 PARLIAMENT BUILDINGS, VIENNA 
 
 Vienna, however, is a metropolis, and big cities, we 
 have found, are very, very much alike the world over. 
 The streets here, fine as they are, are tiring to our feet ; 
 the hum and thrum and bustle is more wearying than 
 is sight-seeing in a smaller place, and we should be 
 happy indeed to get back among the peasants. We 
 make an ascent of the Kalenberg (ka/len-berg), the 
 great pleasure garden on a bluff, for a final view of 
 Vienna, and then prepare to leave. 
 
 A JAUNT INTO THE TYROL 
 
 We are anxious for a taste of the genuine Teuton life 
 of Austria, and so we hie us westward to the Tyrol, a 
 land of mountains again — a summer-land of hotels and 
 drives and belvederes. We shall make Innsbruck, the 
 ancient capital, our headquarters, and from here go on 
 various excursions. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 127 
 
 HOFER MONUMENT, NEAR INNSBRUCK 
 
 At Innsbruck 
 we see soldiers 
 everywhere. As 
 we are taking a 
 stroll before 
 breakfast, we 
 suddenly note 
 that all the peo- 
 ple on the street 
 are removing 
 their hats. Then 
 a landau dashes 
 by, accompanied 
 by four mounted 
 orderlies in white 
 
 uniforms trimmed with red, and a bystander explains 
 that the carriage contains a high officer of the gar- 
 rison. Others of the soldiers wear a blue-gray suit, 
 much like those of our mail carriers at home, with 
 a band of red about the arm and one of green at the 
 neck, to which is added a cap of gray, bearing a green 
 tassel which hangs down upon the shoulder. Prettier 
 still are the dark green caps with cock feathers all 
 about, worn by another branch of the service. 
 
 This is an interesting town. On every hand rise 
 large old dwellings, without a sign of a yard, but often 
 made picturesque by paintings — floral and other designs 
 — upon the walls facing the street, done in the gayest 
 colors. Women wearing spotless white waists, black- 
 braided corsages, dark skirts, and broad black hats, 
 come out of the doorways, making their way past the 
 Rathhaus, a modern building, to the Hofkirche 
 
128 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 (hof'keerch-a), or church attended by the royal court 
 when it is in Innsbruck. If we should follow them at 
 this time we should not be able to do much sight- 
 seeing beyond catching a glimpse of the Hofer Monu- 
 ment erected to the memory of the Tyrolese patriot, 
 of whose deeds we have often read, for at mass the 
 church is crowded. So we ramble on past the university 
 and arsenal, and the royal residence, which is closed to 
 sight-seers, and into the delightful public park, enclosed 
 by gratings, in which old sycamores, elms, and lindens 
 and chestnuts throw a grateful shade on the prome- 
 nader among the fountains and the flower-beds. 
 
 A street-car comes along, marked "For Hall in 
 Tyrol/ ' and we jump aboard. The car is not like our 
 surface street cars, but more like the elevated railway 
 trains of New York and Boston — four cars, in series, 
 drawn by an old-fashioned dummy engine. We are 
 carried through the prettier part of Innsbruck, and we 
 are amazed to see that the very ancient custom of put- 
 ting those gay color patterns on house exteriors, which 
 has been dropped for centuries, is again in vogue ; where 
 a house is nearing completion, the decorators are 
 already busy. 
 
 Beyond the town rise the barren, snow-capped 
 mountains, with the wild little Inn River running at 
 their base. Pretty gardens in which grow tiger lilies 
 and roses and callas border the stream, behind peak- 
 roofed homes, only the upper story of each having a 
 porch, and that shaded by a shutter-like screen. The 
 royal salt-works and the great woolen-mills are here on 
 the outskirts, representing the principal industries of 
 Innsbruck. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 129 
 
 Returning, we cannot resist the temptation of 
 dropping into one of the great beer-gardens, where 
 the military bands play their liveliest and gaiety pre- 
 vails. The beer-gardens are a distinct feature of life 
 in this land, it must be remembered, just as cafes are 
 characteristic of 
 Budapest. Over 
 the beer, men 
 plot and plan 
 business and 
 politics ; over the 
 beer their wives 
 arrange parties 
 and the affairs 
 of the home; 
 over the beer 
 lovers meet and 
 students quarrel, 
 duels are fixed, 
 and disagree- 
 ments patched 
 up ; in fact, everything that makes up the hum and 
 thrum of existence goes on here. If we watch the 
 younger men carefully, especially those whose cheeks 
 bear scars received in duels and who wear little round 
 caps that mark them as students, and, as such, 
 members of particular corps or associations, we shall 
 find them indulging in drinking-contests to see who 
 can drink the most glasses of beer. 
 
 In the afternoon we drive out into the real Tyrol, 
 among the quaint, German-speaking peasantry of the 
 " back-country." The vehicle in which we go is a 
 
 ONE OF THE PAINTED HOUSES 
 
130 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 plain mountain hack, and we are driven into the 
 mountains almost at once. An old ruin, a counterpart 
 of the robber castles of the Rhine, rises on one of the 
 lower peaks, and then man's hand has no further part 
 in the scene, for we enter the wilderness. 
 
 Mighty mountains, covered with evergreen forests, 
 are all about us, the wild flowers growing at their feet, 
 beautiful as only mountain flowers can be. In fact, 
 we are constantly tempted to help the horses up hill by 
 walking, in order to gather these posies to press and 
 send home to friends. A blue clover, the elecapitaine, 
 white and yellow melilot, harebells and bluebells, a 
 yellow pea, and countless other blossoms make redolent 
 the wayside. 
 
 In the heart of this forest we suddenly come upon a 
 wayside tavern, a large, two-story building, on the 
 front portico of which people are dining. As we drive 
 up to the door we pass a woman and a dog harnessed 
 together to a cart. Here in what is now the inn (as a 
 tablet on the wall informs us), Andreas Hofer, the 
 William Tell of the Tyrol, was born, and here, in 1809, 
 he had his headquarters. 
 
 We have now entered the famous Stubai (stoo-ba/e) 
 Thai, one of the most magnificent valleys, scenically 
 considered, in the world. On every hand the chains 
 roll off from the blue, brimming Inn. Above, the 
 clouds break on ice-clad peaks that tempt one to 
 explore. Away up on the crest of one of these peaks, 
 seemingly in the center of the valley, a hotel is built, 
 and here we take luncheon, the while enjoying the 
 panorama before us. 
 
 Of course, all this country is associated with Andreas 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 131 
 
 Hofer and the battles of the peasants against the 
 French and Bavarians in the Tyrol, between the 
 months of May and August of 1809 — a fight for liberty 
 with which, it is to be hoped, all American boys and 
 girls are familiar. 
 
 In the hallway of the hotel antlers and implements 
 
 / of the chase are hung, and upon one wall is tacked one 
 of the old German mottoes, in which country hotels in 
 
 . Austria delight. In German the motto rhymes : 
 
 Dies Hauses Schmuck ist Reinlichkeit ; 
 Dies Hauses Gluck, Zufriedenheit; 
 Dies Hauses Segen, Frommigkeit.* 
 
 Everywhere in the Tyrol one sees these mottoes. 
 Our eyes sweep the valley with its chalets, whence 
 rises the tinkle of goat bells ; they pass on up to where 
 two huge glaciers break a slope and then fall on a 
 dwelling nearby. On its walls, on either side of the 
 door, is printed in the quaint German type this legend : 
 
 Ich habe gebaut nach meiner Sinn, 
 Und es gafallt mir wohl darin; 
 Gar mancher shauts und tadelt dran. 
 Er mag es besser wenn er kann. 
 
 This we may translate so : 
 
 I have built according to my taste, 
 And I am well pleased with it; 
 Many look at it and criticize, — 
 Let them improve it, if they can. 
 
 From the hotel we may walk to a summer-house, 
 where a mosaic table, standing at a height of exactly 
 1,026 meters above the sea, contains a key to all the 
 view. On a map of mosaic-work the various peaks 
 
 * "This house's ornament is cleanliness; this house's fortune, contentment; this 
 house's blessing, piety." 
 
132 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 are shown, and, below, the height of each is given. 
 A party of tourists who are spending their vacation 
 afoot, tramping from place to place, scan this closely 
 in preparation for their next pilgrimage. 
 
 We drive back to Innsbruck in the quiet of evening, 
 that we may watch the after-glow on the mountains, 
 making a detour to view a handsome bronze monu- 
 ment of Hofer, on a height where the soldiers hold 
 their targetry practice. A little museum, containing 
 Hofer relics and trophies of the Austrian Jager (ya/ger) 
 corps of the army, is close by, and those of us who are 
 not too tired ramble about looking over the collections. 
 
 We spend one day sight-seeing in Innsbruck itself. 
 The usual plan is to start with the Women's Church, 
 interesting because of the old-fashioned samplers, 
 worked with the German words for "Mary has helped/ ' 
 which are hung on a rail across the interior by the 
 women worshipping here, as penitential offerings. It 
 was in this church that the Emperor Maximilian I 
 worshipped when each year he went in retreat, garbed 
 as a monk, to the neighboring monastery. We visit 
 the monastery later, and are shown his bed and chair. 
 
 Again we are interested in the shops. One of the 
 most wonderful things in the world is here to tempt 
 those of us who have anything left in our purses — 
 a cloth actually woven from cobwebs, on which are 
 painted views of Innsbruck! This fabric is the work 
 of a young peasant of an adjacent valley. Tiroler 
 majolicas, burnt and carved wood novelties, and, for 
 the hungry, a honey that is almost black in color, are 
 other specialties offered us. Little cages for insects 
 and botanic drums also are numerous, being bought 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 133 
 
 by the school-children, who are fond of studying 
 botany and zoology. 
 
 There are several small churches we might visit, but 
 the Hofkirche is the finest of all. Four marble pillars 
 at either side of the central aisle stretch off from the 
 door, and between them one sees, against each side 
 wall, twenty-eight life-size bronze men-at-arms, wear- 
 ing quaint armor and equipped with old-fashioned 
 weapons. Extending across the body of the church 
 are the pews, high and stiff, as was the fashion when 
 the church was built. In the center of the church is 
 the tomb of the Emperor Maximilian I (though he is 
 buried at Vienna). Eight marble tablets depicting 
 scenes from his life are cut in two rows about the sides, 
 between pillars of a black stone, the whole surrounded 
 by a handsome grating. 
 
 In the back part of the church, beneath a monu- 
 ment on which are represented the mountaineers 
 cheering him, Andreas Hofer is buried, while a tablet 
 close by records the deeds of his compatriot, Joseph 
 Speckbacher. It is the very popular custom over the 
 more central part of the Continent to bury the great 
 in the churches, and so here Hofer lies in an edifice 
 which since the time of its erection, way back in 1553, 
 has been the pride of the province. 
 
 THE FAR WEST AND UPPER AUSTRIA 
 
 We scan our map carefully. We are now at the far 
 western extremity of the great Austro-Hungarian 
 Empire. Just a few miles more, as travelers under- 
 stand the word "few," and we shall be in Switzerland, 
 Bavaria, or Italy. Looking back at the territory we 
 
134 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 have visited — Istria, Carniola, and Croatia, hovering 
 close together just to the east ; Dalmatia, on the south, 
 with Bosnia* for boundary; Hungary, that great 
 leviathan lying next toward the east, which we have 
 penetrated to Transylvania — we are at a loss as to 
 which way to turn. 
 
 A bit more to the north is the province of Lower 
 Austria, and we saw Lower Austria when we saw 
 Vienna, for that city is the center of everything in the 
 province. Only Salzburg, with the city of that name, 
 and upper Austria, with the town of Linz and the 
 Traun (trown) See, remain, and then we may away to 
 the far north of the Empire. 
 
 Salzburg is a beautiful city, with wide promenades 
 and broad, well-paved streets. It is hemmed in by 
 hills, from the top of which there are splendid views to 
 be had, and on most of these hilltops cafes have been 
 built. The city has its Hofburg or governor's palace, 
 its town museum, and the like, as all Austrian cities 
 have, but what interests us most are the home of 
 Mozart and a museum of mementoes of his career. 
 There is one thing for which we must give the Aus- 
 trians credit : in every town where a great man in any 
 line of work has arisen, we find them perpetuating his 
 memory by preserving his home, and erecting in honor 
 of him museums, monuments, and statues. 
 
 A brief excursion to the Traun See is refreshing now, 
 for the beauty of the lake, hemmed in by the moun- 
 tains, is such as to remind us of the Italian lakes not 
 so very far to the southward. 
 
 * Bosnia: An Austrian province in all but fact; but visited on our "Little Journey 
 to the Balkans" and so omitted on this trip. 
 
A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 135 
 MORAVIA AND BOHEMIA 
 
 We are now prepared for a long railway ride across 
 Moravia, a province so wholly agricultural that it 
 would be almost unknown to Americans were it not 
 for a band of emigrants from here who made their way 
 into our Alleghenies many years ago, and who have 
 there preserved the ancient rites. Their church fes- 
 tivals, notably the Easter service, have some peculiari- 
 ties that are interesting to the stranger. We, however, 
 are far from the Eastertide now, and so do not halt in 
 this province. 
 
 Our way leads north to Prague, the capital of Bohe- 
 mia, and almost the very northermost point of the 
 Empire. Once we have seen Prague we can well say 
 that we have seen all that is worth the attention of the 
 tourist and the careful traveler in Francis Joseph's 
 great monarchy. 
 
 In Prague, as over the rest of Bohemia, we find our- 
 selves sadly hindered again by our inability to speak 
 the language of the inhabitants ; for here the Czechish 
 alone is spoken, and a barbarous combination of 
 sounds it is. Beyond the picture gallery and the cathe- 
 dral, however, we find that there really is not so very 
 much to be seen in Prague. The statuary on the pub- 
 lic squares is fine, but on an extended journey one sees 
 so many statues that they fail, toward the last, to 
 impress us. The bridges over the Moldau are splendid 
 spans, and the churches are most impressive. 
 
 The picture gallery holds us longest, for here are 
 gathered originals of many of the great masters — Van 
 Ruysdael, Millet, Rembrandt, and Rubens, Jan Steen, 
 Cuyp, and Defregger; one and all are here. We are 
 
136 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO AUSTRIA-HUNGARY 
 
 very close to picture-gallery land, Germany, at this 
 place, and for an intimate study of these men must go 
 to the great galleries there. We are not urged to 
 linger among the Czechs; they are a race unto them- 
 selves, and make us feel that they can do very well 
 without us. So after having made the promenade of 
 the main streets, as every one does at Prague, we pre- 
 pare to leave. In fact, steamer-departure time is 
 close at hand, and we shall have to race for it, back 
 by rail across country to Munich and Innsbruck, 
 southeast to Milan, and so on to Genoa, whence our 
 boat is to sail. And so, gathering together our souve- 
 nirs, our post-cards and our photographs of all this 
 long globe-trotting expedition, we bid Austria-Hungary 
 a final adieu. 
 
 MARIA THERESA MONUMENT, VIENNA 
 
 56 
 
AUSTRIAN NATIONAL SONG. 
 
 Laurenz Leop. Haschka, 1797. 
 
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 "Heaven reward him, God defend him," 
 
 Thus we sing and thus we pray; 
 Kaiser, Emperor, Monarch, Father, 
 
 All thy peaceful rule obey! 
 
 He from bondage will deliver, 
 
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 In the German heart shall ever 
 
 He the brightest memory be. 
 Till in other worlds, a welcome 
 
 Greets in blest eternity; 
 God defend thee, God attend thee, 
 
 Emperor, Franz, all hail to thee! 
 

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