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 REV. WILBUR L. DAVIDSON. 
 
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 CRANSTON AND STOWE. 
 
 New York : Phillips and Hunt. 
 
 1S8S. 
 

 Copyright by 
 
 WILBUR L. DAVIDSON. 
 
 1885. 
 
 I [the LI] 
 
 IjOF COMGEESSl 
 
 11 WAS J 
 
DEDICATORY. 
 
 To MY Friend, 
 
 ^liver y 1 e et a ©t(zt]|®i»(a, 
 
 Who, more than any one else, helped to realize to 
 me the dreams of my youth, 
 
 <S>\)is "Folume is Mztxlbtls 
 
 BY 
 
 The Author. 
 
REALIZE that I am entering a well- 
 plowed field, but I raise the open 
 link another notch in the clevis, and hope 
 to strike the subsoil. This is not a guide- 
 book ; nor does it tell a connected story 
 in the order of a journey. It is rather 
 made up of bits of description, selected 
 at random from the observations of a 
 well-filled Summer. It is written, at the 
 solicitation of friends, for them and for any 
 others who may care to read it. In the 
 hope that it may reanimate dying memo- 
 ries for some, and for others awaken a 
 desire to look upon the things which I 
 have so imperfectly described, I let it to 
 
 its work. 
 
 W. L. D. 
 
 Painesville, O. 
 
)0N1iEEirnS. 
 
 
 CHAPTER. PAGE. 
 
 I. OUTWARD BOUND ii 
 
 II. STRATFORD-UPON-AVON— Part First 29 
 
 III. STRATFORD-UPON-AVON— Part Second 39 
 
 IV. OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT 51 
 
 V. ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE 65 
 
 VI. SUNRISE ON THE RIGI 79 
 
 VII. LAKE COMO AND MILAN 91 
 
 VIII. NAPLES AND VESUVIUS 109 
 
 IX. ONE ROMAN RUIN : 131 
 
 X. HOMEWARD BOUND 149 
 
«5> 
 
 ^ulwam • ]^our)Gl. 
 
)N May, 1883, on the very day that 
 loving hands were placing garlands 
 of flowers upon the soldiers' graves, we 
 left New York for Liverpool on the 
 good ship Bothnia, of the Cunard Line, 
 We had three hundred and one passen- 
 gers on board. I can never forget the 
 scene as the cables were loosened from 
 their moorings, and we drifted away from 
 the dock. Hundreds of people stood 
 waving their handkerchiefs to departing 
 friends, and with heroic mastery of feel- 
 ing tremulously shouted their tear-choked 
 "good-byes." 
 
12 OUTWARD BOUND. 
 
 As we glided down the bay the tall 
 spires of New York and the lofty Brook- 
 lyn Bridge, which, on the morrow, was 
 to be the scene of a sickening horror, 
 gradually faded from our view. Gov- 
 ernor's Island, with its massive fortifica- 
 tions and frowning cannon, Rockaway 
 Beach, with its famous hotel and crowds 
 of happy bathers, are quickly passed ; 
 Sandy Hook, at the mouth of the bay, is 
 reached, our pilot is discharged, our last 
 American letter hastily penned on ship- 
 board is sent by the returning tug to 
 anxious friends, and we steam out to sea:. 
 Our eyes are turned homeward as long as 
 we can see a trace of land. But soon 
 the white Jersey cliffs seem to be but a 
 cloud hanging upon the horizon. 
 
 I confess to a little sinking of the heart, 
 and moistening of the eyes, as my na- 
 
OUTWARD BOUND. 13 
 
 tive land sank into the sea. But not long 
 was I permitted to indulge in sentimients 
 of this sort. A sudden unwelcome attack 
 of nausea claimed my immediate atten- 
 tion, and I left the gayety of the deck for 
 the seclusion of my state-room, where I 
 found a Catholic from Maine and an en- 
 thusiastic Methodist from Indiana were to 
 be my room-mates. They, too, had been 
 "struck by the swell," and looked sadly 
 demoralized. Their dilapidated appear- 
 ance had its effect on my uncertain condi- 
 tion, and in a little while I had a first-class 
 case of Mark Twain's "O my's. " Even 
 those who knew me best were compelled 
 to acknowledge that my gastronomic poAv- 
 ers had been shamefully underrated, and 
 that there was really more in me than 
 they had supposed. O, how fearfully sick 
 I was; I wanted to die, but couldn't. 
 
14 OUTWARD BOUND. 
 
 Friends came with restoratives and tempt- 
 ing bits of supper. I hid my face in the 
 pillow, and rudely motioned them away. 
 Friendship's tenderest ministry is, after 
 all, but little appreciated by a stomach 
 diseased. 
 
 Towards evening, arrayed in my rub- 
 ber-coat, for a wind and rain-storm had 
 suddenly come out of the West, I stag- 
 gered up on deck to get a breath of fresh 
 air. The boat pitched like mad, so that 
 I was compelled to hold on to the ropes 
 for dear life (with my mouth ever over the 
 sea). The sailors were spreading the can- 
 vas to catch the freshening breeze. The 
 shrill voice of the boatswain sang out, 
 "Heave ho." I checked my inward ex- 
 ercisings long enough to look up over 
 the gunwale and say, " I 'm a heavin'." I 
 draw the curtain over my intolerable suf- 
 
OUTWARD BOUND. 
 
 15 
 
 ferings for the next eight days, and leave 
 all to the reader's imagination. 
 
 Six days pass away, almost every body 
 is sick, and the deck is comparatively de- 
 serted. Down in the imprisoned, stifling 
 air of our state-room we lay thinking of 
 home and friends. How strange it seems 
 to be cut off from all possible communi- 
 cation with them ; for ten whole days to 
 hear no word from the outside world. A 
 President may be assassinated, a cyclone 
 may do its work of death in communities 
 where fondly loved ones dwell, and yet 
 you be totally oblivious to it all. How 
 strange to have no daily paper with its 
 record of the world's doings. You are 
 completely shut up to your own thought. 
 Nowhere else are you so discovered to 
 yourself as when far out at sea. In- 
 finitely more than on land there comes 
 
1 6 OUTWARD BOUND. 
 
 an intense feeling of isolation and de- 
 pendence, and the soul, in its utter help- 
 lessness, reaches out toward the only 
 One who is able to protect and keep it. 
 Looking out over the trackless waste of 
 waters and up into the voiceless sky, the 
 soul expands, and there seems to come 
 with the force of a sublime conviction, 
 an overpowering sense of Him ' ' who holds 
 the sea in the hollow of his hand, and 
 taketh up the isles as a very little thing." 
 Then when ' ' night draws her sable cur- 
 tain " over the scene, the loneliness is 
 intensified tenfold, and the soul, seem- 
 ingly without volition, )'earns to solve 
 the dark problem of the future. You ask 
 yourself, Will there be a future life ? 
 When, lo, a solitary star rising in the 
 east, casts its pencilings of light .clear 
 from its home in heaven across the water 
 
OUTWARD BOUND. 
 
 17 
 
 to the very spot where you are standing, 
 and it says, ' ' Beyond thy bounded vision, 
 beyond the gloom and darkness, there is 
 a land of light." With these intensified 
 feelings how the aroused and quickened 
 "conscience begins to search the secret 
 cells of the heart," and the almost for- 
 gotten events of the past pass in quick 
 review before you, appalling you with 
 their distinctness. Memory, the police- 
 man of the mind, calls up sins indulged, 
 opportunities unimproved, promises bro- 
 ken, sorrows borne, and joys long fled. 
 With such surroundings there comes the 
 retrospective power which some have tes- 
 tified as experiencing when, about to be 
 launched upon the ocean of eternity, they 
 looked back with spiritual vision cleared. 
 
 But, like every thing else, seasickness 
 has its end. Constant familiarity with it 
 
1 8 OUTWARD BOUND. 
 
 breeds contempt, and you come at last to 
 realize the utter foolishness of a strong 
 man like yourself being in subjection to 
 a little stomach ; and then, too, the time 
 comes when the poor stomach has not 
 strength enough left for a creditable insur- 
 rection, and you resolve to be well. In 
 the very resolve comes relief — you go 
 boldly on deck. The sun is shining 
 brightly, giving to the crest of every wave 
 the appearance of polished silver. The 
 pure air of heaven fills your lungs with 
 new life. Children full of frolic are run- 
 ning hither and thither. All around you 
 men and women are laughing and jesting, 
 and you feel that you are a man again. 
 A little dose of will power is the best 
 remedy in the world for seasickness, which 
 is, after all, in about four-fifths of its en- 
 tirety, a disease of the mind. 
 
OUTWARD BOUND. 
 
 19 
 
 People find various methods of killing 
 time on shipboard. Frivolity and idleness 
 seem innocent and appropriate occupa- 
 tions. For these, on shipboard, you feel 
 no reproach, while to countenance them 
 on shore would drive you into bitter re- 
 morse. Some spend the time in reading, 
 and nothing is too trashy to be wel- 
 come ; some in writing, some in sleeping ; 
 others play cards, and a few gamble in a 
 limited way. Shipboard quoits are rel- 
 ished by some, while flirting consumes the 
 time of others. Often the sailors con- 
 tribute to the amusement of the ship's 
 company by indulging in their boisterous 
 games. I especially recall one. A ring, 
 about eight feet in diameter, is drawn 
 with chalk on the deck ; two men seat 
 themselves on the opposite edges of the 
 ring; a stick is put through under their 
 
20 OUTWARD BOUND. 
 
 knees ; their hands are tied in front of 
 their legs, close down to their feet. All be- 
 ing ready, they crow in imitation of chan- 
 ticleer, and the contest begins. As can be 
 imagined, they move but slowly, gradually 
 coming to a foot and foot combat. Each 
 attempts to get his toes under the toes of 
 his enemy and upset him ; this done, he 
 is easily rolled out of the ring. 
 
 Occasionally sights are seen which 
 break the monotony of vision. One morn- 
 ing several whales spouted just off the 
 stern of the ship. At another time we 
 sighted a dismasted vessel drifting along 
 a prey to the merciless waves. How long 
 she had been disabled, and what had become 
 of her crew, were questions we discussed, 
 but could not answer. Schools of porpoises 
 were frequently seen, and it was exceed- 
 ingly amusing to watch their acrobatic feats. 
 
OUTWARD BOUND. 2 1 
 
 Before starting on my journey I had 
 frequently expressed the wish in conver- 
 sation that I might encounter a first-class 
 storm at sea. Well, my wish was grati- 
 fied, and I never want to see another. 
 About dusk, one night, a strong wind 
 sprang up dead against us. The sails 
 were speedily reefed, and every thing put 
 in readiness for a gale. Great armies of 
 angry waves came dashing against the 
 vessel, spray filled the air, the ship trem- 
 bled in every timber, the cordage creaked, 
 the wind howled, accompanied by a deep 
 shuddering undertone that "sounded like a 
 voice from some distant world." The ship 
 seemed a very plaything for the mountain 
 waves. No one could stand on deck 
 without a clutch on something solid. The 
 life lines were adjusted. The great waves 
 rolled in and lapped the deck \\nt\\ their 
 
22 OUTWARD BOUND. 
 
 liquid tongues. I sought my berth with 
 unaccustomed alacrity, and got on the flat 
 of my back. At one moment I seemed 
 to be standing erect, with my feet on the 
 foot-board of the berth, the next moment 
 I was standing on my head ; then chucked 
 from side to side until I was fairly black 
 and blue. The storm lasted all night. 
 Many of the passengers were badly scared, 
 and sat up with their valuables in a 
 "grip-sack," ready to take passage in a 
 life-boat if it was launched. But the cap- 
 tain did not deem such a course neces- 
 sary ; he was, doubtless, laughing in his 
 sleeve while we poor mortals were shiv- 
 ering with fright. Still the old sailors 
 said it was as stiff a breeze as they usually 
 encounter. 
 
 It is a difficult matter, on shipboard, 
 to tell when Sunday comes, unless you 
 
OUTWARD BOUND. 23 
 
 chance to consult a calendar. People 
 laugh and jest just as on other days. The 
 bar is open, and the deck steward flies to 
 and fro with all kinds of mixed and un- 
 mixed drinks. True, the captain reads 
 the Church of England service in the 
 morning in the cabin, and a song-service 
 fills the vesper hour, but I leave you to 
 imagine how much solemnity of feeling 
 can be cultivated during a song service 
 when the popping of bottles serves as an 
 accompaniment. Not caring to witness 
 such sacrilege, I hurried to a quiet spot 
 on deck, preferring to hear the "litany 
 of the waves, and watch the altar lamps 
 of the stars." I took as my text, "The 
 Lord on high is mightier than the noise 
 of many waters ; yea, than the mighty 
 waves of the sea," and preached myself 
 to sleep. When I awoke thick night had 
 
24 
 
 OUTWARD BOUND. 
 
 gathered about me, the waves had gone 
 to sleep, and naught was heard but the 
 rattle of the machinery and the weird 
 song of the sailors as they trimmed the 
 sails. 
 
 Well, nine days have passed since we 
 set sail. The captain promises us that 
 when we rise to-morrow morning we shall 
 see the Irish coast. Already we can al- 
 most sniff the land, and catch the scent 
 of the hawthorn hedges. We turn in for 
 a snooze. In the morning we rise at 
 daybreak, and over our starboard bow 
 we catch sight of Fastnet Lighthouse, 
 high up on a jagged cliff. A rousing 
 cheer goes up from those that had by 
 this time assembled on deck. A mo- 
 ment later we run into a fog bank, and 
 the enrapturing vision is obscured. The 
 boat slows its speed, and the fog-whistle 
 
OUTWARD BOUND. 25 
 
 sounds its clarion notes every minute. 
 All is excitement and preparation. 
 
 The day is filled with sociability of the 
 genuine sort. During the earlier days of 
 the voyage seasickness interfered with the 
 formation of acquaintanceships. Those 
 who were well looked askance at stran- 
 gers, and imperiously lived in an atmos- 
 phere of their own. But the warmth of 
 constant contact served to melt these 
 human icebergs ; and now, on the last 
 day of the voyage, the ship's company 
 seems more like a family than a collec- 
 tion of people ten days before practically 
 unacquainted with one another. 
 
 The fog noAv lifts. The sea is covered 
 with fishing smacks of all descriptions. 
 Off to the north appears the coast of 
 poor, oppressed Ireland, " the emerald set 
 in the rine of the sea." The shores are 
 
26 OUTWARD BOUND. 
 
 rocky and precipitous. On the uplands 
 are little fields which, in Ireland, repre- 
 sent farms, covered with the greenest 
 grass you ever saw. Not a tree is to be 
 seen on the whole coast. A lighthouse, 
 now and then, lifts its welcome form, a 
 beacon to the anxious mariner. We pass 
 Queenstown and send some passengers 
 ashore on a " lighter." They are de- 
 termined to "do" Ireland first. We 
 slowly forge our way along through St. 
 George's Channel, which is a regular grave- 
 yard of ocean steamers. At last we run 
 up the turbid Mersey to Liverpool, and 
 step on terra firma, filled with thanksgiv- 
 ing and appetite. 
 
)fpaf[opd=upor)=<2/iv©r). 
 
II. 
 
 )N Stratford - upon - Avon it was my 
 good fortune to stop at the same ho- 
 tel—the Red Horse — that had been the 
 home of Washington Irving while in Eng- 
 land gathering material for his immortal 
 "Sketch Book." By some lucky chance 
 I was assigned to the room once occu- 
 pied by him, much to the dissatisfaction 
 of several Americans who pined for that 
 honored distinction. I slept well, but am 
 not conscious of having felt a descending 
 mantle or receiving any special inspira- 
 tion. In the morning I breakfasted in 
 
 what was his old parlor. I saw the fa- 
 
 29 
 
3° STRA TFORD- UPON- A VON. 
 
 vorite chair in which he was wont to sit, 
 which he facetiously called his "throne," 
 and I held in my hand the poker — his 
 "scepter," as he called it — with which 
 he used to stir the fire. 
 
 I reached Stratford in the evening, 
 during that delightful season when twi- 
 light stretches far into the night. With 
 what a thrill of genuine delight one plants 
 his feet within the sacred inclosure of this 
 grand old town, where lived and died the 
 immortal bard, whose deft fingers could 
 draw sounds of sweetest melody from 
 every string set in the harp of the soul, 
 and whose far-seeing eyes peered into the 
 very depths of human nature, and saw 
 the very uttermost of the passions and the 
 loves whose castle is the human heart. 
 
 The gentle Avon, dark and almost cur- 
 rentless, still flows, bank full, through 
 
STRA TFORD- UPON- A VON. 3 I 
 
 meadows green that skirt the town along 
 its southern border. Stately elms, sweet- 
 scented limes, white blossoming chest- 
 nuts, adorn its banks, and stoop to kiss 
 its upturned face. A solitary bridge, with 
 massive arches of rough -hewn stones, 
 spans the narrow stream just where the 
 street comes tumbling down the hill straight 
 from the market-place, leaps the river, 
 and winds onward through the meadows 
 to the somber ruins of old Kenilworth. 
 
 I stood upon this bridge immured in 
 thought, as night drew her sable curtain 
 over the scene. One by one the stars 
 timidly stole out of their enforced seclu- 
 sion, glistening on the dark and silent 
 stream, seemingly glad to do their little 
 work of lighting up the darkness of the 
 night. With such surroundings I could 
 but think of him by whose cradle and 
 
32 6- TRA TFORD- UP ON- A VON. 
 
 whose grave I stood ; he who but three 
 hundred years before shone as a sun in 
 the firmament of the world's thought, 
 echpsing many a lesser light that, but for 
 his radiance, might have astonished the 
 world, and did astonish it, after his eclips- 
 ing gave them opportunity. 
 
 The pale moon rose out of the grave 
 of the day, and cast her rays of mellow 
 light over meadow and river, spire and 
 deeping town. Chance pedestrians crossed 
 the bridge at intervals — a harvester late re- 
 turning from the field with sickle and jug; 
 a milkmaid humming a merry tune ; a 
 company of children, full of frolic, long 
 staying at their play, whose rippling 
 laughter rang loud and long on the still 
 night air. Old age, too, tottering on a 
 staff, came to cross the bridge. Beneath 
 was heard the dip of oars, and out of the 
 
STUA TFORD UPON- A VON. ZZ 
 
 shadow of the arch there ghded a boat 
 with two occupants, and he who pulled 
 the oars seemed less intent on the speed 
 and course of his craft than on bringing 
 into the harbor of his love the one who 
 leaned with listening ear to catch the 
 promise of his devotion. How such a 
 scene as this recalls to the mind of one 
 thinking of Shakespeare and his writings, 
 the words he put into mouth of Jacques 
 respecting the seven ages of man. 
 
 Looking down the river from the bridge, 
 some distance, may be seen a vast build- 
 ing towering above its fellows. Even in 
 the moonlight its unfinished Gothic tur- 
 rets proclaim that it is new. It is the 
 latest outgrowth of Stratford's love for 
 her illustrious son, a memorial theater, 
 where the great plays of the renowned 
 dramatist are to be presented. Further 
 
34 STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. 
 
 off, glimmering through the tree-tops, is 
 the dusky spire of old Trinity, keeping its 
 sacred vigil over the dust of Shakespeare. 
 But the night is over, and I leave the 
 bridge, and through the winding streets 
 of the quaint old town seek the birth- 
 place of the poet-dramatist. To find it is 
 not hard. All the boys and girls in Strat- 
 ford know the spot, and will trudge a long 
 distance out of their way to become your 
 guide to the consecrated place. Then, 
 too, kindly fingerboards at the corners of 
 the streets direct to the "birthplace of 
 Shakespeare." The building is now the 
 property of the government, and has been 
 so patched and mended that it scarcely 
 seems to have stood three hundred years. 
 It is low, with gables and projecting win- 
 dows built of wood and plaster, as was 
 the custom in the fifteenth century. The 
 
STRA TFORD- UPON-A VON. 35 
 
 furniture within remains much as it was 
 in the Hfetime of the gifted man. Two 
 maiden ladies do the honors of the place, 
 pointing out with flashing eye and undis- 
 guised pride the room in which Shake- 
 speare first saw the light of day, and the 
 old kitchen where he played his boyish 
 pranks. On a pane of glass, cut with a 
 diamond, is the autograph of Sir Walter 
 Scott. On a piece of plastering which 
 has recently fallen from the wall, is the 
 name of Lord Byron, written in lead pen- 
 cil ; and in the visitors' registers, which are 
 opened for the inspection of all who care 
 to look, are found the autographs of nearly 
 all the notable personages who, in the last 
 three centuries, have made the pilgrimage 
 to this Mecca of the world's affectionate 
 thought. The old stairway leading to the 
 upper rooms is well worn by the feet of 
 
36 STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. 
 
 tourists. Antique furniture of the oddest 
 designs is visible on every hand. In a 
 half-attic bedchamber hangs the "only 
 true, original, and genuine painting" of 
 the immortal bard. As a work of art it 
 is certainly a pronounced success. The 
 lawn about the house is kept with scru- 
 pulous care, and is filled with the flowers 
 that poor Ophelia names in the scene of 
 her madness. A graceful ivy encircles the 
 old-fashioned chimney (once again the new 
 fashion), as if to conceal the deformities 
 of its age. Standing by the cradle of this 
 wonderful man, this blazing meteor that 
 swept through the sky of the world's 
 thought, let us pause and think a little of 
 his life and work before we wander to his 
 grave. 
 
''G^f pal to m = u p o F) = (g/i V r) . 
 
 CONTINUED, 
 
III. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 ^ET us check for a moment our mus- 
 ings over the cradle of Shakespeare, 
 full of inspiration as they are, and look 
 upon the end of human genius. A few- 
 steps from Shakespeare's birthplace is the 
 house in which he died. No, not the 
 house, for that was torn down by an 
 irreverent and much despised iconoclast, 
 and a new one, with all the modern im- 
 provements, stands in its place ; but the 
 spot is still held sacred, and visitors, with 
 uncovered heads, are conveyed within the 
 
 2>9 
 
4° ^ TRA TFORD- UPON- A VON. 
 
 hallowed inclosure, and are shown the old 
 well with its "moss-covered bucket," and 
 the stump of the favorite mulberry, under 
 whose shade the immortal bard was wont 
 to take his rest. Just across the street 
 stands the town hall, a massive stone struc- 
 ture, built to perpetuate the memory of the 
 man whom Stratford people delight to 
 honor. Within is his portrait, painted in 
 oil. In a niche in the exterior is his bust 
 in marble, presented by the actor, Da- 
 vid Garrick. Underneath are the words 
 familiar to all readers of Shakespeare, 
 "Take him for all in all, we shall not look 
 upon his like again." 
 
 Just across the street is the curiosity 
 shop, presided over by a garrulous old 
 lady, Mrs. James, who has no difficulty in 
 satisfying herself, at least, that she is a 
 connecting link in the lineage of the house 
 
STRA TFORD- UPON- A VON. 4 1 
 
 of Shakespeare, let her long-sufferhig vis- 
 itors think as they will. She has suc- 
 ceeded in gathering together a large num- 
 ber of Shakespearean relics, a study of 
 which well repays an extended visit. One 
 old family heir-loom, before which the boy 
 Shakespeare possibly often kindled his 
 heroism, is worthy a passing notice. It 
 is a crude painting of the encounter be- 
 tween David and Goliath. It is encased 
 in a queer old frame, and is encircled 
 with poetry. I copied the follovv^ing : 
 
 *' Goliath came with swoi^d and spear, 
 And David with a sling ; 
 Although Goliath rage and swear, 
 Down David doth him bring." 
 
 The date is 1606. 
 
 A few more steps down a lane shaded 
 by limes, and we are at the parish church, 
 one of the finest specimens of old eccle- 
 
42 STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. 
 
 siastical architecture in all Europe. It is 
 rich in ornamentation, but is slowly mold- 
 ering into decay. Innumerable birds have 
 built their nests along its eaves, and keep 
 up an incessant twittering. The church- 
 yard, filled with venerable elms and sweet- 
 scented limes, skirts the river for a con- 
 siderable distance. Under the shade are 
 a multitude of graves, grass-grown and 
 marked only b)' half sunk tombstones cov- 
 ered with moss. I spent an hour in wan- 
 dering through the silent city and reading 
 the quaint inscriptions. I reproduce two 
 as specimens of the rhythm of olden time: 
 
 "What faults you see in me 
 Pray strive to sliun, 
 And look at home, tliere 's 
 Something to be done." 
 
 " Peneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree shade, 
 Each in their narrow cell forever laid, 
 
^77?^ TFORD- UPON- A VON. 43 
 
 The swallows twittering from their straw-built shed, 
 No more shall rouse thee from thy lowly bed." 
 
 Lovers of "graveyard poetry" will 
 have detected that the gem quoted last 
 sounds strangely like one of the stanzas 
 in Gray's "Elegy." Whether the tomb- 
 stone stole from the elegy, or vice versa, 
 we leave the reader to decide. For our 
 own part, we lean to the opinion that the 
 tombstone was chiseled long before Gray 
 commenced his rhyming. 
 
 The old church stands facing the blue 
 Avon that Shakspeare loved. Into its 
 holy precincts he had often gone as a de- 
 vout worshiper, and it was but befitting 
 that it should become the receptacle of 
 his dust. His grave is under the gray 
 pavement of the chancel, and his wife and 
 two daughters sleep beside him. On a 
 flat stone which marks the spot where 
 
44 STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. 
 
 the bard lies buried are inscribed, in old 
 English, these four familiar lines, said to 
 have been written by himself: 
 
 "Good friend, for Jesus sake forbear 
 To dig the dust inclosed here ; 
 Blessed be he that spares these stones, 
 And cursed be he that moves my bones." 
 
 The fear that the curse would be exe- 
 cuted has prevented the removal of his 
 dust to Westminster Abbey, which has 
 more than once been contemplated. In a 
 niche in the wall above the tomb is his 
 bust, said to be correct in form and fea- 
 ture. Other tombs are scattered through 
 the church, giving it a decidedly sepulchral 
 appearance. Almost every stone in the 
 pavement bears an epitaph. Statues look 
 down on you from every side, frown- 
 ing indignantly that you should tread so 
 thoughtlessly over the bones of the dead. 
 
STRA TFORD- UPON- A VON. 45 
 
 I attended a Sabbath service in this 
 quaint old church. It was one of the 
 most memorable experiences of my life. 
 Before starting I had read William Win- 
 ter's eloquent description of a Sabbath 
 service in Stratford parish church. His 
 experience became mine. As I can not 
 hope to equal him I shall let him describe 
 it. "There is the sound of music, very 
 soft and low, in the Stratford church, 
 and the dim light, broken by the richly 
 stained windows, streams across the dusky 
 chancel, filling the still air with opal haze, 
 and flooding those gray gravestones with 
 a mellow radiance. Not a word is spoken, 
 but at intervals the rustle of leaves is 
 audible in the sighing wind. What visions 
 are these that suddenly fill the region ? 
 What royal faces of monarchs, proud with 
 power or pallid with anguish ? What 
 
4^ S TRA TFORD- UP ON- A VON. 
 
 sweet, imperial women, gleeful with happy 
 youth and love, or wide-eyed and rigid in 
 tearless woe ? What warriors, with ser- 
 pents' diadems, defiant of death or hell ? 
 The mournful eyes of Hamlet, the wild 
 countenance of Lear, Ariel with his harp, 
 Prospero with his wand. Here is no 
 death. All these, and more, are immor- 
 tal shapes, and he that made them so, 
 though his mortal part be but a handful 
 of dust in yonder crypt, is a glorious angel 
 beyond the stars." 
 
 A picture of Stratford would be im- 
 perfect without a glimpse of the scene of 
 Shakespeare's courtship. Interesting in 
 the extreme is the journey down the grass- 
 grown path over the stiles to the little 
 village of Shottery, a mile away. It is 
 the same path which the feet of the ar- 
 dent lover had doubtless pressed, many 
 
S TRA TFORD- UP ON- A VON. 4 7 
 
 and many a time, as after a day of toil he 
 had given himself over to the passion to 
 which all men are heir. It would be hard 
 to find a sweeter, a more enchanting rustic 
 retreat than Anne Hathaway's cottage is 
 even now. The tall trees embower it, 
 and over its porches and all along its 
 picturesque, irregular front, and on its 
 thatched roof, the woodbine and ivy cling, 
 and there are wild roses and maiden blush. 
 A queer looking little old woman shows 
 you the interior — the oaken seat, now 
 badly mutilated by the knives of tourists, 
 on which William and Anne were wont to 
 sit; many bits of venerable furniture, and 
 upstairs an immense old bedstead, on 
 which a long line of Hathaways have met 
 the "last enemy." In the dooryard I 
 looked into the same old well, scarce ten 
 feet deep, in which the blushing couple 
 
4^ STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. 
 
 had often seen their happy faces mirrored, 
 and near by I plucked a spray of sweet 
 pea, which I shall ever keep as a souvenir 
 of my visit. 
 
 With reluctant footsteps I turned away 
 from Stratford and its sacred dust. Its 
 memory will ever remain a joy and a de- 
 light. If I have enabled the reader to 
 see the picture as I see it, my object has 
 been accomplished. When will the ages 
 produce another Shakespeare? 
 
^vepfrje wer)(2repr)/ilp or) K00I 
 
IV. 
 
 )NTERLAKEN is the Saratoga of 
 Switzerland. It is the Alpine sum- 
 mer resort most frequented by English- 
 speaking people. It is charmingly sit- 
 uated on an isthmus between Lake Brientz 
 and Lake Thun, from which fact it derives 
 its name. It is famous for its score of 
 elegant hotels, its wood carving, and its 
 unrivaled view of the snow-dome of the 
 giantess Jung-frau, which, on a clear day, 
 seems almost to be within your touch, 
 but is, in reality, a score of miles away. 
 The Jung-frau is, beyond all question, 
 
 51 
 
52 OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT. 
 
 the most beautiful and impressive single 
 mountain in Switzerland. The name sig- 
 nifies VIRGIN, and is given on account of 
 the peculiar purity and beauty of the 
 peak. In the distance it seems as smooth 
 as if chiseled by an Angelo out of a solid 
 block of marble. The topmost peak re- 
 sembles a head, the lower peaks on either 
 side stretch away as graceful shoulders, 
 and, with but little stretch of the imagi- 
 nation, the Jung-frau stands before us 
 clad in white raiment, "beautiful as a 
 bride adorned for her husband." In the 
 sunlight she is dazzling "and seems so 
 near to heaven, and so pure in her vestal 
 robes, that we are willing to believe the 
 gateway must be there." Lord Byron 
 has filled this region with dark and evil 
 spirits. In Manfred he compares the 
 "curling clouds" creeping up the preci- 
 
OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT. 53 
 
 pices to the ' ' foam from the roused ocean 
 of hell." Such descriptions could only 
 emanate from a mind filled with horror 
 and remorse, and dead to all beauty and 
 glory. As I looked at the "curling 
 clouds" circling the brow of Jung-frau, 
 which the sun was filling with glorious 
 light, I thought not of "hell waves," but 
 rather of "heavenly robes;" and as I saw 
 the lofty summit, which seemed to touch 
 the very vault of heaven, wreathed with 
 this indescribable beauty, I could easily 
 fancy"angels were on it, and not far from 
 home." 
 
 A quiet Sabbath evening experience 
 which I had in this delightful spot can 
 never be effaced. The church bells were 
 ringing out the invitation to vespers. The 
 sun was just sinking into the west. The 
 mountain tops were all ablaze, but broad 
 
54 OVER THE WENGERh ALP ON FOOT. 
 
 shadows stretched themselves across the 
 valley. The distant mountain ranges were 
 tinged with a deep purple, but Jung-frau, 
 high above them all, was suffused with a 
 glow of crimson and gold — this light 
 changing, playing, and deepening with in- 
 describable effect. And long after the 
 valley had been wrapped in darkness, this 
 glorious radiance lingered on the head 
 of the queen of the Alps, and she carried 
 it far into the night. 
 
 But let us begin our foot journey. A 
 little distance from the town you enter a 
 dark, narrow valley, through which the 
 Lutschine, fed by the thousand springs 
 that trickle down the almost perpendicular 
 sides of the canyon, rushes with mad 
 fury. During the short days of the year 
 the valley has barely two hours of sun- 
 light. The ruggedness of the scenery 
 
OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT. 55 
 
 soon grows monotonous, and it is with a 
 feeling of relief that the little village of 
 Lauterbrunnen, at the head of the valley, 
 is reached. Plere we find the famed Staub- 
 bach Falls. It leaps over a precipice 
 nearly one thousand feet high, promising 
 much in the way of grandeur, but so 
 small is the volume of water that, leaping 
 from such a giddy height, it is dissipated 
 into spray, in which rainbows play, long 
 before it reaches the valley. In con- 
 trast with the verdure of the mount- 
 ains it looks like a scarf of mist flung out 
 by the mountain sprites. Wordsworth 
 calls it " a heaven-born waterfall, " and Mur- 
 ray compares it to a "beautiful lace veil 
 suspended from a precipice." It is said 
 that the famous bridal veil of the Yose- 
 mite Valley is a finer fall than the Staub- 
 bach, although it has not had Byron for 
 
5 6 OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT. 
 
 its poet nor Longfellow for its historic 
 romancer. 
 
 The waters on the edge of the precipice 
 seem suspended a moment in mid-heaven, 
 like a bird of prey hovering over its vic- 
 tim, then swooping down to the work 
 of destruction ; yet long before the threat- 
 ening torrent strikes the ground its pro- 
 digious fall diffuses it into softest mist, 
 which refreshes to new verdure the very 
 fields it had menaced with desolation. 
 After all, how like this are most of life's 
 seeming calamities ! In the distance they 
 threaten to destroy us, but when they reach 
 us we find them fraught with blessing, or, 
 at least, robbed of much which gave us 
 grave apprehension. 
 
 From Lauterbrunnen I crossed the 
 Wengern Alp, which some wag has called 
 the "Boulevard of Switzerland." It is 
 
OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT. 57 
 
 the most frequented foot pass in the 
 Alps. On any bright day, during the 
 season, you are sure to meet a score at 
 least of merry parties of travelers, slowly 
 forging their way along the narrow bridle- 
 paths in various directions, all seeking to 
 see the world of Switzerland. The dis- 
 tance is eighteen miles, and is full of the 
 hardest climbing. The best plan is to 
 break the journey by walking nine miles 
 in the afternoon, which brings you to the 
 hotel at the summit ; here spend the night, 
 and then complete the journey in the 
 fresh hours of the morning. ^ The highest 
 altitude reached is six thousand feet, and 
 here, at the crown, is situated an elegant 
 little hotel, just on the edge of an im- 
 mense ravine, which separates the Wengern 
 Alp from Jung-frau. The trip, though 
 hard to make, is one of the best paying 
 
5 8 OVER TH-E WENGERN ALP ON FOOT, 
 
 in all Switzerland. Constant surprises are 
 in store for you, and being on foot you 
 can "make haste slowly," and give things 
 a thorough investigation. The scenery baf- 
 fles description. At one point I counted 
 thirteen cascades tumbling down the 
 mountain gorges. At first, you look up 
 to see them, but after toiling diligently 
 up the narrow, rugged path, you finally 
 get above them, and as you look down 
 they have greatly diminished in apparent 
 height. 
 
 Here, too, the Alpine horn wakes the 
 echoes of the mountains. Along this fa- 
 mous pass scores of poor peasants are 
 blowing their lives away to earn the odd 
 centimes of the tourists. The effect is some- 
 times magical. A shrill blast is blown, 
 which is caught up and thrown back by 
 peak after peak, until you may some- 
 
OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT. 59 
 
 times count eight distinct and separate 
 repetitions, a magnificent octave of echoes 
 struck from the organ of the mountains. 
 On this pass the flora is exceedingly 
 abundant and beautiful. I gathered thirty 
 choice varieties of Alpine flowers. It 
 seems so strange; just across the deep 
 ravine, scarcely half a mile away, are the 
 cold, icy slopes of Jung-frau, and here, 
 all about you, is the richest profusion 
 of bloom. 
 
 Beggars of all ages and descriptions 
 infest this pass. Behind every rock, at 
 every turn, especially just where a " tender- 
 foot" would, in all probability, be obliged 
 to stop and catch his breath after a hard 
 bit of climbing, you find them. Children 
 with the oldest faces (a marked charac- 
 teristic of all Swiss children) offer for sale 
 bunches of Alpine roses, sprays of the 
 
6o OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT. 
 
 famous Edelweiss, or baskets of Alpine 
 strawberries, a variety small in size but 
 with an exceedingly delicious flavor. If 
 these things fail to cause your hand to seek 
 your pocket your ears are tortured with 
 Tyrolean melodies, until you are right 
 glad to pay the small price they ask for 
 stopping their noise. 
 
 Here, also, at the hotel of which I have 
 spoken, through a glass, I caught my 
 only glimpse of a real live chamois, feed- 
 ing on a cliff high up the side of Jung- 
 frau. These little animals have been so 
 hunted for their horns and hoofs and skin, 
 that, to "save their bacon," they have 
 taken refuge in the fastnesses of the mount- 
 ains, where none but the daring, agile 
 hunter can find them. 
 
 Here, too, I saw and heard a score of 
 avalanches lazily moving down the glis- 
 
OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT. 6 1 
 
 tening face of Jung-frau — tears shed by 
 the Virgin at the wooing of the sun, yet 
 leaving no stain upon her fair cheek. 
 This is the famous Swiss depot for ava- 
 lanches, and my expectation ran high ; 
 but I was doomed to a sore disappoint- 
 ment. An avalanche isn't much after all. 
 It is composed principally of noise. They 
 move with the voice of ten thousand 
 thunders, but in the distance they look 
 like narrow streams of powdered marble. 
 Still I felt thankful that the voracious jaws 
 of a great ravine were between me and 
 danger, and that I ran no risk of being 
 buried alive in an icy grave. All night 
 long my sleep was broken by the un- 
 earthly rumbling of some newly loosened 
 mass of ice, as it went hurrying to the 
 valley. 
 
 In the morning I completed the nine- 
 
62 OVER THE WENGERN ALP ON FOOT. 
 
 mile down hill journey to Grindelwald, 
 and saw its two famous glaciers. Then, 
 being foot-sore and weary, I took the dili- 
 gence through a valley of unrivaled beauty 
 back aeain to Interlaken. 
 
'jf^c^oss f r)e |^pur)iq fo Jjucerrie. 
 
V. 
 
 ytr0$$ i\$ Jriimg in Jinuvm. 
 
 ^ROM Brientz to Alpnach, by dili- 
 gence, over the Brunig Pass, is one 
 of the most deh'ghtful rides in all Switzer- 
 land, From the summit, where we pause 
 a moment under the "hanging rock," 
 the scene is most enchanting. For miles 
 adown the valley the river Rhone stretches 
 like a silver thread. Lake Brientz glis- 
 tens in the distance, and just beyond 
 Jung-frau seems like a fleecy cloud cHmb- 
 ing up the sky. 
 
 The down hill drive is surpassingly 
 
 fine. It lacks the rugged grandeur of 
 5 65 
 
66 ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE. 
 
 the Tete-Noir, and, indeed, is thoroughly 
 unalpine, though in the very heart of 
 Switzerland. This, by the way, consti- 
 tutes its pecuHar charm. For a time we 
 lose sight of snow peaks and glittering 
 ice, and drive through arbored avenues, 
 through which we catch glimpses of quiet 
 landscapes, rich in the verdure of their 
 foliage. Mad mountain streams subside 
 into a .respectable decorum, your chilled 
 blood grows warm, things take on a 
 home-like look, and without much stretch 
 of the imagination you might easily fancy 
 yourself among the Alleghanies. 
 
 At last the valley is reached, and the 
 strange guttural ''gee up" of the driver 
 urges the horses into a lively canter. Lit- 
 tle patches of grass and grain of various 
 kinds are strangely intermingled, giving the 
 landscape a variegated appearance. Har- 
 
ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE. 67 
 
 vest has commenced, and the air is laden 
 with the odor of new-mown hay. The 
 Ruths and the Maud Mullers are the harvest- 
 ers of Switzerland. They "bear the bur- 
 den and heat of the day, " while the " lords 
 of creation " do the planning in the shade. 
 
 Into this fertile valley population crowds, 
 and there is evidence on every hand of 
 thrift and refinement. Many of the chalets 
 are tastefully built, and are covered with 
 grapevines, trained between the windows. 
 From the upward slopes many fine man- 
 sions, with castellated towers, look down 
 upon you. 
 
 At last you are awakened from the 
 reverie which these scenes have engen- 
 dered by the cry, as we round the bend, 
 "There's the Rigi," and we know the 
 end of our journey is near. Soon through 
 the trees the glistening water is seen, and 
 
68 ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE. 
 
 in a few moments more we stand on the 
 shores of Lake Lucerne. It is called the 
 lake of the Four Forest Cantons, a very 
 appropriate name, as its waters lave the 
 shores of four of the cantons of Switzer- 
 land which here converge — Lucerne, Uri, 
 Unterwalden, and Schwytz. Above all 
 the lakes of the country, perhaps of the 
 world, it is distinguished for the majesty 
 of its scenery and the grandeur of its 
 historical associations. Its shores are the 
 scenes of William Tell's illustrious deeds, 
 and the theater also of modern deeds 
 of valor not surpassed by those of an- 
 cient times. Sir James Mackintosh has 
 written of it in these eloquent words: 
 "The combination of whatever is grand- 
 est in nature, with whatever is pure and 
 sublime in human conduct, affected me 
 more powerfully in the passage of this 
 
ACROSS THE BRUN/G TO LUCERNE. 69 
 
 lake than any scene which I have ever 
 seen. Perhaps neither Greece nor Rome 
 would have had such power over me. 
 They are dead. The present inhabitants 
 are a new race, who regard with little or 
 no feeling the memorials of former ages. 
 This is, perhaps, the only place in our 
 globe where deeds of pure virtue, ancient 
 enough to be venerable, are consecrated 
 by the religion of the people, and con- 
 tinue to command interest and rever- 
 ence. No local superstition so beautiful 
 and so moral anywhere exists. The in- 
 habitants of Thermopylae or Marathon 
 know no more of these famous spots than 
 that they are so many square feet of earth. 
 England is too extensive a country to 
 make Runnymede an object of national 
 affection. In countries of industry and 
 wealth the stream of events sweeps away 
 
70 ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE. 
 
 these old remembrances. The soHtude 
 of the Alps is a sanctury destined for the 
 monuments of ancient virtue ; Grutli and 
 Tell's chapel are as much reverenced by 
 the Alpine peasants as Mecca by a devout 
 Mussulman ; and the deputies of the three 
 ancient cantons met, as late as 17 15, to 
 renew their allegiance and their oaths of 
 eternal union." 
 
 I had just read this fine passage, as the 
 little steamer puffed away from the wharf, 
 and headed for the city of Lucerne at 
 the upper end of the lake, and was con- 
 sequently filled with such emotions as 
 brought me into sympathy with my sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 The lake is, indeed, inexpressibly beau- 
 tiful ; cruciform in shape, with number- 
 less bays and inlets, charming nooks and 
 retreats filled with the richest verdure. 
 
ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE. ?! 
 
 Mountains hem it in. Mount Pilatus, 
 stern, rugged, precipitous, on the right 
 of the city, and on the left Rigi, a mass 
 of variegated green, densely wooded, and 
 dotted, for its whole height, with white 
 farm-houses and chalets that seem to cling 
 to the mountain side. Not strange is it 
 to me now, that amidst this rugged scen- 
 ery Tell's soul panted for liberty, and that 
 through all these years the Swiss people 
 have battled so heroically for freedom. 
 
 Lucerne is charmingly situated just 
 where the river Reuss leaps away from the 
 lake's embrace. I stopped at the hotel 
 Sweitzerhof, which I unhesitatingly pro- 
 nounce the finest hotel in all Europe, at 
 least, as far as my knowledge goes. As 
 to its table and appointments it is unsur- 
 passed. It stands facing the lake, and is 
 fronted by a miniature park filled with 
 
72 ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE. 
 
 floweis and fountains, which every even- 
 ing is brilhantly illuminated and densely 
 thronged by those attracted by the music 
 of an excellent orchestra. But my great 
 regard for this hotel arose from the fact 
 that it was so much like our American 
 hotels. My bill was actually squeezed 
 into a single item, and when I took my 
 departure I did not have to run the gaunt- 
 let of waiters and porters and "boots," 
 anxiously waiting for gratuities. On the 
 inside of the door in each room in the 
 house was a notice, requesting guests not 
 to fee employes, as they were paid for 
 their services. All this I enjoyed so thor- 
 oughly that I feel like giving the hotel a 
 free *'ad." 
 
 Of course, my first pilgrimage of sight- 
 seeing was to the famous lion of Lucerne, 
 which is one of the noblest monuments 
 
ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE. 73 
 
 and grandest designs in all Europe. It is 
 impressive in its very simplicity, and stirs 
 the uttermost depth of feeling to an ex- 
 tent which no other single piece of sculp- 
 ture in all Europe can do. I am confi- 
 dent my companion and myself stood 
 before this masterpiece fully half an hour, 
 lost in admiration, without speaking; and 
 when, at last, the silence was broken, we 
 spoke in whispers. Imagine a huge preci- 
 pice with perpendicular rock face, from the 
 crevices of which water trickles into a 
 little lake at the base. The precipice is 
 fringed on its side and over its brow with 
 trees, shrubbery, and ferns, a graceful 
 drapery hung with nature's careless ease. 
 In the solid rock is carved a dying lion. 
 A broken spear is in his side, and the 
 blood oozes from the wound. The agony 
 of death is in his face. Still his e.yt flashes 
 
74 ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE. 
 
 defiance, and his paw rests upon the shield 
 bearing the Hhes of France, which, to his 
 last breath, he seems determined to de- 
 fend. The lion is twenty-eight feet long, 
 and was designed by Thorvvaldsen to com- 
 memorate the heroic death of eight hun- 
 dred Swiss Guards, who perished while 
 defending the Tuileries in 1792. A sol- 
 dier, in the dress of a Swiss Guard, is 
 present to repeat the story of their heroic 
 death. Quite near at hand is the Glacial 
 Garden, where, for a franc, you can study 
 the geological formation of the Alps. 
 
 The mention of one other peculiar feature 
 of interest, must end our stay in this charm- 
 ing little city. I refer to the two quaint 
 covered foot-bridges across the Reuss, con- 
 necting the two portions of the town. 
 The people of olden time conceived the 
 idea of making them the receptacles of 
 
ACROSS THE BRUNIG TO LUCERNE. 75 
 
 paintings. None of them possess any 
 particular artistic merit, and time has sadly 
 defaced and marred them ; still, as a cu- 
 riosity, they are well worth visiting and 
 studying. On the Kapell bridge, sus- 
 pended from the roof, about every ten 
 feet, are pictures in triangular frames. 
 Going through one way you behold scenes 
 taken from Swiss history ; on the reverse 
 side, as you return, you see the exploits 
 of the patron saints of the town. In the 
 Mill bridge, lower down the river, are 
 found rude imitations of the paintings of 
 the "Dance of Death" — a series of pic- 
 tures, the originals of which were de- 
 stroyed. The world was not a serious 
 loser. I can name places where destruc- 
 tion might begin again with great profit 
 to humanity. 
 
'''ofe)ur)Fis£ 01) Irje n^^^* 
 
VI. 
 
 ;HIS happens about once in every 
 two weeks. I do not mean that 
 there ever comes a morning when the sun 
 fails to rise, but his "coming forth out 
 of his chamber" in rainy Switzerland is 
 often obscured by lowering clouds, if not 
 by black-browed tempests. Nowhere are 
 storms so black as on Lake Lucerne, 
 which ripples at the foot of Rigi. I 
 reached this Mecca of my desire in such 
 a storm. The mountains clothed them- 
 selves in darkness, the rain fell in torrents, 
 the eddying winds and rushing waves 
 
 79 
 
8o SUNRISE ON THE RIGl. 
 
 played with our boat as with a toy. Ever 
 and anon the sword of fire cleft the dark- 
 ness, followed by thunder peals which 
 echoed long among the caverns of the 
 hills. Drenched to the skin, I stepped 
 from the rocking boat to the dock at Vitz- 
 nau, the end of the inclined railway reach- 
 ing to the summit of Rigi. This road is 
 a marvel of engineering. It is four and 
 a half miles in length, and its grade is 
 one foot in every four. It passes through 
 tunnels and over trestles innumerable. 
 The cars are open, and seated like our 
 summer street-cars. Frequently, as you 
 look down over the edge of some giddy 
 precipice, and see the mad mountain tor- 
 rent lashing itself into foam on the jagged 
 rocks five hundred feet below, you shrink 
 back a trifle and hold your breath. The 
 road is of ordinary gauge, is built on the 
 
SUNRISE ON THE RIG!. 8 1 
 
 rod and pinion system, and is perfectly safe. 
 The speed is about three miles per hour. 
 When we reached the summit the storm 
 still raged, and we abandoned all hope 
 of seeing the sunrise in the morning. 
 Our journey had been in vain. It was hard 
 to bear, but we tried to possess our souls 
 in peace. The great hotel was crowded, 
 and expressions of sore disappointment 
 were heard on every hand. In the vis- 
 itors' album we found many melancholy 
 records of disappointment, and took some 
 comfort in the fact that nothing had be- 
 fallen us which is not "common to men." 
 The first half of the record of one expe- 
 rience we were sure we had realized: 
 
 ".Seven weary uphill leagues we sped, 
 The setting sun to see ; 
 Sullen and grim he went to bed, 
 Sullen and grim went we." 
 
82 SUNJ?ISE ON THE RIG I. 
 
 And as we looked and listened, it 
 seemed very much as though we were des- 
 tined to realize the other half: 
 
 "Nine sleepless hours of night we passed, 
 The rising sun to see ; 
 Sullen and grim he rose again, 
 Sullen and grim rose we." 
 
 It was the evening of the glorious 
 Fourth of July, and although a score of 
 Americans were in the hotel, I labored in 
 vain to get up an impromptu patriotic 
 demonstration. They were too cold among 
 the clouds and too disappointed to "en- 
 thuse." At eleven o'clock, wdien we all 
 "turned in," the storm still beat furiously 
 about the brow of the silent sentinel. 
 
 At four o'clock in the morning, a man 
 with a great horn went blowing through 
 the halls, — enough to waken the dead. 
 We all knew what that meant. The sky 
 
SUNRISE ON THE RIG I. 83 
 
 was clear, and we were to see a sunrise 
 after all. This is the old-time custom. 
 Half an hour before sunrise, if the sky be 
 at all clear, the Alpine horn sounds the 
 reveille. In an instant all is noise and con- 
 fusion. Morpheus is consigned to obliv- 
 ion. The sleep)^ eye soon brightens ; the 
 limbs, stiffened by the exertions of the 
 preceding day, are lithe again in that 
 exciting moment. The huge hotel is for 
 once without a tenant. Men, coatless and 
 hatless, rudely jostle one another in their 
 efforts to get a good position. Women, 
 for once in their lives, appear in public 
 without consuming hours in making an 
 elaborate toilet; and "if the eager crowd 
 are not like the disciples of Zoroaster, 
 ready to prostrate themselves before the 
 great source of light and life, there are 
 few whose thoughts do not turn in silent 
 
84 SUNRISE ON THE RIGI. 
 
 adoration towards that mighty Hand which 
 created the great light to rule the day." 
 
 All stood shivering (for we were now 
 nearly six thousand feet above the level 
 of the sea) and in breathless expectation. 
 The whole eastern sky was crimsoned. 
 The banks of clouds, for there were some, 
 looked like peaks of distant mountains. 
 In the growing light I had but to turn 
 round and look out on a panorama of 
 landscape covering three hundred miles in 
 circumference. From north to west, cov- 
 ering three-fourths of the view, is an ocean 
 of Alps, looking almost as close together 
 as crests of billows in a storm. Many of 
 them are snow-capped, with dull blue gla- 
 ciers stretching from peak to peak across 
 immense ravines. Jung-frau thirteen thou- 
 sand seven hundred feet high, its com- 
 panion. Wetter-horn, but little less; then 
 
SUNRISE ON THE RIGI. ^5 
 
 Titlis and Rothstock ; and off to the east 
 Dodi, Sentis, and Glarish, — these hoary 
 sentinels of the Alps seemed piercing the 
 very sky. You seem to look out on 
 all the world. From such a mountain 
 Satan must have tempted Christ. 
 
 Look again. Three bright lakes wash the 
 base of Rigi, while dark forests and green 
 pastures hang upon its sides, except where 
 its northern wall stands nearly perpendic- 
 ular. Glimpses of thirteen lakes are had, 
 looking like diamonds set in emeralds, 
 green rivers, silvery streams, nestling vil- 
 lages, and miles of harvest fields, A mur- 
 mur of applause bursts from the expectant 
 crowd. Above the distant horizon the 
 edge of "the coming conqueror" appears, 
 red as blood. With snail pace he creeps up- 
 ward. The distant mountain peaks catch 
 the golden light and throw it off their icy 
 
86 SUNRISE ON THE RIGI. 
 
 shields. The first rays rested on the snow 
 dome of giantess Jung-frau, then it was 
 caught up by its companion domes a Httle 
 lower, then successively by lower peaks and 
 needles, and, as each mountain caught the 
 blaze, the light spilled over the summit 
 like water from an over-full vessel, and 
 trickled gradually down the sides, till all 
 the mountain tops and sides, looking west, 
 were aglow with roseate hue. The burn- 
 ing bush was reproduced before me. A 
 hardy pine, standing solitary and alone 
 upon a rocky cliff, seemed burning, but 
 unconsumed. Had I not known better I 
 should have actually thought it on fire. 
 At length trees lower on the cliff caught 
 the flame, and were kindled into an in- 
 tensely luminous blaze, shooting up waves 
 of flame into the sky. The optical delu- 
 sion was perfect, and the experience, one 
 
SUNRISE ON THE RIGI. 87 
 
 not soon to be forgotten. Soon the fire- 
 king climbed the shoulder of the hill, and 
 the whole landscape was bathed in glo- 
 rious light. 
 
 Our fondest hopes had been realized. 
 We had seen a sunrise on Rigi, that was 
 all we wanted, and while other weary- 
 lookers on turned in for a morning's 
 snooze, we left the region of the clouds, 
 ere the sun had found the valle}-, by a 
 path which leads at times through Alpine 
 meadows, with grazing herds and singing 
 mountaineers. 
 
tOLi^z fe(0rY)o ar)d /pillar). 
 
VII. 
 
 hmrx uttb Mhn. 
 
 ^ROM the region of perpetual snow 
 let us leap over the famous St. Got- 
 thard Pass, thence down through the vine- 
 clad slopes to the region of perpetual 
 summer. But a sudden notion, which 
 we look upon as an inspiration, causes us 
 to leave the train at Lugano, and make a 
 short detour, not included in our original 
 itinerary, which, with all sight-seers, ought 
 to be a very flexible affair. 
 
 Lugano is a quaint old town, and 
 
 although in the Swiss canton Ticino, — a 
 
 little tongue of land nearly surrounded by 
 
 Italian territory, which centuries ago was 
 
 91 
 
92 LAKE CO MO AND MILAN. 
 
 seized by the brave yeoman of the little 
 towns among the Alps, — to all intents and 
 purposes it is an Italian town. I found 
 the little place in the bustle of excite- 
 ment. The Tiro Federale, a bi-annual 
 shooting carnival, open to all Swiss marks- 
 men, had just commenced. The spacious 
 grounds where the contest was held was 
 just on the edge of the town, and was 
 filled with a heterogeneous crowd. My 
 thought went back to the tower of Babel 
 as I listened to the strange jargon of 
 French, German, Italian, and Spanish. 
 "Side-shows" of every possible descrip- 
 tion lined the grounds and the princi- 
 pal thoroughfares of the town, reminding 
 me of "circus day" at home. 
 
 Towards evening I sauntered along the 
 shore of the lake to catch, if I might, the 
 glory of the departing sun. Hundreds of 
 
LAKE COMO AND MILAN. 93 
 
 boatmen, proprietors of jaunty little skiffs, 
 stood motioning for passengers, and prais- 
 ing the qualities of their crafts. I especially 
 remember one very demonstrative fellow, 
 who, having in some way discovered my 
 nationality, pointed with a look of triumph 
 to a diminutive American flag fastened to 
 the bow of his boat, thinking, no doubt, 
 that by waking my patriotism he could 
 secure a leverage on my patronage ; and 
 I can never forget the withering look of 
 fierce Italian disgust he threw after me as 
 I passed on and left him. Soon I came 
 to a statue of William Tell standing near 
 the water's edge ; and not far away, be- 
 neath a pavilion in a garden, is a fine bust 
 of Washington, erected b}' an Italian resi- 
 dent of Lugano, who amassed a large for- 
 tune by commerce with the United States. 
 The next morning I took steamer on 
 
94 LAKE COMO AND MILAN. 
 
 Lake Lugano for Porlezza. This is the 
 smallest and least frequented of the three 
 Italian lakes, but is not the least beautiful 
 of the three. It lies in the basin of the 
 hills, with a rim of irregular contour, 
 varying in height from a few hundred to 
 four or five thousand feet, overhung by 
 vine terraces, olive and chestnut groves, 
 and gardens that seem suspended over the 
 very water. White farm houses, villas, and 
 chapels dot the wooded slopes. At Por- 
 lezza the stage is taken, and a pleasant 
 ride of nine miles brings us to the moun- 
 tain summits which overhang Menaggio, 
 and we catch our first glimpse of the lake 
 of Come, whose charms were sung by 
 Virgil two thousand years ago, and by 
 many an admirer since. It is completely 
 locked in by hills and mountains wooded 
 to their very summits, which preclude all 
 
LAKE COMO AND MILAN. 95 
 
 distant views, except that, at one point 
 along the north, a somewhat lower ridge 
 permits a prospect of the snow peaks of 
 the far off Alps. The water of the lake 
 is as blue as the sky above it. No pos- 
 sible description could do justice to its 
 surpassing beauty. I spent a day upon its 
 placid bosom, and along its historic banks. 
 A soft, thin haze hung on the shores and 
 mountains, tempering the rays of the fierce 
 Italian sun. It chanced to be a festival 
 day. The fleets of boats that thronged 
 the lake with awnings of divers tints ; the 
 gaily decorated steamers ; the merry par- 
 ties in holiday attire, that sought the 
 sequestered coves that were formed by 
 the tongues of land that jutted out into 
 the lake ; the music that came floating 
 over the placid water ; the delicious in- 
 toxication of the air heavily laden with 
 
g6 LAKE COMO AND MILAN. 
 
 magnolia bloom, — all have left on my 
 memory an impression which can hardly 
 be repeated or approached. Marble vil- 
 las, half hidden by magnolia groves, con- 
 taining the finest sculptures of Thorwald- 
 sen and Canova, every once in a while 
 break upon the enraptured vision. The 
 villages on the shore are very numerous, 
 and the villas of the Milanese famihes 
 numberless, and often exquisitely beau- 
 tiful, some of them really grotesque, yet 
 having a fine effect as they peer out from 
 the dense mass of foliage in which they 
 are uniformly embosomed. 
 
 From Como I went to Milan by rail. 
 The great cathedral, of course, held the 
 first place in my interest, and thither I 
 wended my footsteps. The one thing 
 which attracts a traveler's attention, espe- 
 cially in Southern Europe are the cathe- 
 
LAKE CO MO AND MILAN. 97 
 
 drals, vast piles of masonry, which have 
 taxed to the utmost the skill of the most 
 gifted architects of the ages, and out of 
 which they have made undying reputations, 
 if not vast fortunes. Every town, every 
 city has its cathedral, and it is always 
 considered the point of greatest interest 
 to the tourist. They are, of course, Ro- 
 man Catholic, and were built at a time 
 when the voice of the Pope was thought 
 to be the voice of God, and when his 
 fingers turned the key that unlocked the 
 coffers of the governments. The wealth 
 of the nations was gathered into the lap 
 of the Church, and each Pope desiring to 
 perpetuate his fame became interested in 
 the building of some great cathedral. The 
 one at Milan is, beyond question, the most 
 impressive of all the great cathedrals of Eu- 
 rope, and, as it is the only one I shall under- 
 7 
 
98 LAKE COMO AND MILAN. 
 
 take to describe, permit me to go some- 
 what into detail. It was commenced in 
 1380, and has never since been without 
 scaffolding and the noise of workmen. 
 It is four hundred and seventy- seven feet 
 long, one hundred and eighty-three feet 
 high, and, in the interior, it is one hun- 
 dred and fifty-five feet to the ceiling. It 
 is cruciform in shape, and is supported in 
 the interior by fifty-two carved capital 
 columns, twelve feet in diameter. The 
 floor is of marble mosaics of various rich 
 patterns. The ceiling is deceptive. From 
 the floor it looks like the finest carved 
 ivory open work ; but is, in reality, only 
 fresco. The tower is three hundred and 
 sixty feet high, and affords a magnifi- 
 cent view of the city, the distant Alps and 
 Apennines, and the plain of Lombardy. 
 It is reached by four hundred and ninety- 
 
LAKE COMO AND MILAN. 99 
 
 four steps. The tower is surmounted by 
 a colossal gilt statue of the Virgin. The 
 wonderful marble roof supports ninety- 
 eight Gothic turrets and hundreds of pin- 
 nacles, each surmounted by a life-size statue 
 of some saints. On the roof there are 
 two thousand statues. Standing on the 
 tower and gazing out it looks like a 
 "peopled forest petrified." In the sun- 
 light the marble assumes a flesh-like tint, 
 and it takes but a touch of imagination to 
 fancy yourself surrounded by a "glorified 
 humanity." On and in the whole building 
 there are six thousand life-sized statues, 
 with niches for four thousand more. 
 
 The cathedral is the outgrowth of the 
 combined labors of two hundred of the 
 foremost architects of Europe, and has 
 cost already one hundred millions of dol- 
 lars, and even then two thousand men 
 
lOO LAKE CO MO AND MILAN. 
 
 worked gratuitously for twenty years upon 
 it that their souls might be saved, as they 
 believed. The marble cost nothing, as it 
 came from quarries in the Apennines which 
 were owned by the Church. Not inappro- 
 priatel}' has this magnificent structure been 
 called a "poem in marble," and charac- 
 terized as the eighth wonder of the world. 
 At first sight it is disappointing. It 
 lacks the airy gracefulness of the Gothic, 
 but the longer it is studied the more its 
 beauty grows upon the beholder, until at 
 last he comes to believe it belongs less to 
 architecture than to sculpture, and then 
 the disappointment vanishes. The interior 
 is satisfying from the very first. As you 
 push aside the leathern curtain which 
 serves as a door, and advance through the 
 broad center aisle skirted by immense pil- 
 lars, look up at the star-studded vaulting, 
 
LAKE COMO AND MILAN. lOI 
 
 watch the light mellowed and tinted by the 
 richly stained windows streaming across 
 the dusky chancel, and behold the hun- 
 dreds of devout worshipers kneeling before 
 the various altars, you are filled with 
 feelings of profound reverence. Even the 
 most frivolous stand in voiceless silence, 
 with bared brow, filled with the spirit of 
 confession and worship. With such sur- 
 roundings one could scarce feel otherwise 
 than devotional. While the poor and 
 homeless of Italy have free access to these 
 magnificent cloisters, where, in true sin- 
 cerity, they think they can go and shake 
 off the fetters of sin, which the cares and 
 follies of life wind about them. Protestant- 
 ism must struggle hard for a foothold. 
 
 Being so close to it, we must stop a 
 moment at the Victor Emmanuel Gallery, 
 a glass-covered promenade, lined on either 
 
I02 LAKE COMO AND MILAN. 
 
 side by fine shops, with four stories of 
 offices and dwelHngs above. It is the 
 finest arcade in the world, cruciform in 
 shape, and covering a whole square. It is 
 seen to best advantage at night, when the 
 octagon under the dome (one hundred and 
 eighty feet high) is brihiantly lighted, and 
 when the entire population of the city 
 seems to throng these canopied avenues. 
 But we can not leave Milan with- 
 out looking upon that famous picture of 
 the Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci, 
 which the steel engraver's art has made 
 familiar to the whole world. The fresco 
 covers one entire wall in the refectory be- 
 longing to the convent of the Sante Marie 
 della Grazie. The room is small and 
 poorly lighted, giving the beholder but an 
 imperfect view. The picture has suffered 
 much from the smoke of incense from cen- 
 
LAKE CO MO AND MILAN. 103 
 
 sers in tlie hands of over-zealous priests, 
 and by the fumes from a neighboring 
 kitchen. Several times the building has 
 been inundated, and the consequent damp- 
 ness has sadly marred the picture. In 
 the time of that fierce iconoclast Napoleon 
 I, the room was used as a stable, and a 
 doorway, which reached well up into the 
 table-spread, was cut through the wall 
 bearing the picture. In many places the 
 paint has peeled off and hangs like scales. 
 By a recent process the picture has been 
 given integrity, and further decay ren- 
 dered impossible. While other parts are 
 sadly defaced, it is a remarkable fact that 
 there is not one of the thirteen counte- 
 nances which does not retain its expression. 
 There is no other picture in Europe before 
 which so many artists are constantly 
 gathered, each engaged in making copies. 
 
I04 LAKE CO MO AND MILAN. 
 
 I suppose I should lay myself liable to 
 the criticism of pedantry were I to say that 
 modern painters display more skill and 
 real genius, both in conception and exe- 
 cution, than did the old masters whom 
 everybody praises — but still I think it. 
 The latter only excelled in the "art" of 
 mixing colors. The themes on which they 
 painted gave their work immortality, and 
 not the intrinsic merit of the work itself. 
 The historic connections surrounding many 
 of these old pictures, the superstitious 
 care with which the Romish Church guards 
 the effects of their Popes, the blind rever- 
 ence which many people give to "age" in 
 any thing, regardless of defects, — these are 
 all that have saved many a "famous" pic- 
 ture, now worth thousands of dollars, from 
 standing dust covered in some dark cellar. 
 
 If to-day there could be unearthed 
 
LAKE CO MO AND MILAN. 1 05 
 
 from the ruins of some crumbling old 
 monastery a well-authenticated painting by 
 one of the recognized masters of the olden 
 time, which dissatisfied priests had con- 
 signed to ablivion because it fell below 
 the art standard of the age in which it 
 was executed, there could be found wealthy 
 Englishmen, and especially wealthy Amer- 
 icans, who would pay a fabulous price to 
 become its possessor, and the connoisseur 
 would fill our magazines and journals with 
 his well-paid lines respecting the "rich, 
 rare, priceless treasure" which had been 
 exhumed from the grave of the past. 
 Such is the superstitious reverence which 
 we of this age pay to gray hair. 
 
 The Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, 
 of which I have spoken ; the Last Judgment, 
 by Michael Angelo, in the Sistine Chapel ; 
 the Transfiguration, by Raphael, in the 
 
Io6 LAKE CO MO AND MILAN. 
 
 Vatican; the Sistine Madonna, by Raphael, 
 at Dresden ; and the Descent from the Cross, 
 by Rubens, at Antwerp, are, to my mhid, 
 the five great pictures of Europe coming 
 down to us from the old school — and yet I 
 will guarantee to find finer work, looked at 
 in any light, among the modern paintings 
 in the National Gallery at Berlin or the 
 Louvre at Paris. Angelo, Raphael, Ru- 
 bens, Titian, Correggio, Da Vinci, live 
 to-day in the thought of all, because they 
 dipped their brushes in the holy light of 
 heaven, and thus secured immortality. 
 Their masterpieces are priceless, simply 
 and only, because they are representations 
 of scenes that are dear to the great heart 
 of the world, and because of their historic 
 associations. But I wander from my pur- 
 pose in this little monograph, and, before 
 getting into deep water, call a halt. 
 
IP 
 
 apies and \7esuvius. 
 
VIII. 
 
 ;HE saying has passed into proverb, 
 
 "See Naples and die, there is 
 
 nothing better to see." This may have 
 
 been true of the ancient Naples, but the 
 
 traveler to modern Naples sees much to 
 
 make him sick at heart, and is filled with 
 
 an intense desire to live at least long enough 
 
 to get out of it. Beautiful for situation 
 
 she is, indeed, sitting as a queen on the 
 
 edge of the blue Mediterranean. There 
 
 is, probably, no other city in Europe 
 
 around which cluster so many charming 
 
 109 
 
no NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 
 
 associations. It is the metropolis of a re- 
 gion in itself gloriously beautiful, " full of 
 sites of transcendent mythological and 
 historical interest, and rich in memorials 
 of ancient wealth, luxury, and art." 
 
 Here you wander among the scenes 
 of many of the most sublime descriptions, 
 both of Pliny and Virgil. To the stu- 
 dent there is excruciating pleasure in trac- 
 ing the wanderings of vEneas and examin- 
 ing the abode of Charon. One feels so 
 absolutely certain about every thing. The 
 glib-tongued guide tells so straight a 
 story, — and then here are the physi- 
 cal demonstrations. Should you show the 
 least hesitation in accepting these well-au- 
 thenticated facts you are instantly branded 
 as an infidel. 
 
 But how can a mistake be possible? 
 Here is the Grotto del Cane, sending up 
 
NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 1 1 1 
 
 from its far depths spasmodic puffs of vapor, 
 heavily charged with carbonic acid gas. 
 This grotto is mentioned by PHny as one of 
 "Charon's breathing holes," and a little 
 touch of imagination quickly transforms 
 the intermittent vapor bursts into the 
 excited breathings of some fire -eating 
 giant of the under-world. Several times 
 a day, during the busy season, a dog is 
 thrust into the aperture, but is thrown 
 into a state of asphyxia by Charon's 
 broath. He is soon, however, reanimated 
 by exposure to the air, and is ready for 
 another experiment by the time the next 
 company of Plinyian students arrive. 
 
 Near by, is the spot where Virgil has 
 laid the successive scenes of the descent 
 of yEneas into the infernal regions, and 
 surely it would be difficult to find a more 
 natural entrance to the fiery kingdom of 
 
1 1 2 NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 
 
 Pluto ; and ghastly enough are the sur- 
 roundings to cause one to think that not 
 far away is the "seat of his lurid court." 
 Quite close at hand are the Elysian 
 Fields and the cave of the Cumsean Sibyl. 
 To the latter (history tells us) nnultitudes 
 came to consult the "oracle," who was, 
 probably, a crazy old woman, whose some- 
 times shrewd guesses had gained for her a 
 considerable notoriety, and whose "high- 
 flown words were regarded as tokens of 
 inspiration." This is the best authenti- 
 cated of the many Virgilian sites, for here 
 you see the sibyl's bed and bath and seat, 
 as well as the little opening through the 
 outer wall, through which she gave her 
 oracles. What more could the most in- 
 credulous demand ? And then, to make 
 assurance doubly sure, near by is the tomb 
 of Virgil, which testifies to his consist- 
 
NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 1 13 
 
 ency. All these sites are just on the edge 
 of Naples. 
 
 But not yet is your enchanting survey 
 complete. Take your stand in the castle 
 of St. Elmo, built on an eminence in 
 upper Naples, and let your eye sweep out 
 over the magnificent landscape. There 
 to your right, nestling on the silver edge 
 of the bay, is Pozzuoli, the Puteoli where 
 it is said Paul stopped seven days on his 
 way to Rome. Yonder to the left, across 
 the neck of the bay, from the orange and 
 lemon groves, the white villas of Sor- 
 rento — a port of considerable importance, 
 and the birthplace of Tasso — peer out at 
 you. The situation is enchanting beyond 
 all description, and the whole shore-line, 
 as far as the eye can carry, presents 
 an Eden-like appearance. The eye flashes 
 across fifteen miles of rippling water 
 
1 14 NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 
 
 until it is arrested by the rocky slopes of 
 Capri, a circular island nearly three miles 
 in diameter, lifting itself out of the bay. 
 Underneath is the famous Blue Grotto, 
 and on its summit are the crumbling ruins 
 of the twelve palaces built by Tiberius. 
 Yet further to the right, and off on the 
 fringe of vision, smoking Ischia clouds 
 the western sky. But, standing sentinel 
 over all, the eye turns first and last to the 
 treeless slopes of fiery old Vesuvius, with 
 the buried cities of Pompeii and Hercu- 
 laneum at its base. Surel)^ our standing 
 place seems like a verj' Pisgah height, 
 from which we get glimpses of the prom- 
 ised land. And were this all of Naples, 
 and were it not irreligious, we might say, 
 in sympathy with the oft-made statement 
 with which this chapter opened, "Now 
 lettest thou thy servant depart in peace." 
 
NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. II5 
 
 But first, let us go to lower Naples 
 and mingle with its pe()[)le. Never have 
 I seen such squalidncss and filth. Never 
 have I seen beggary so reduced to a pro- 
 fession. In a ride of twenty minutes 
 along the narrow streets of Naples a dozen 
 hideous specimens of humanity, half-naked 
 and covered with filth, will crowd the steps 
 of your carriage, piteously asking for alms. 
 The poorer people live almost wholly out 
 of doors, the winter's sunshine being pref- 
 erable to the damp atmosphere of the 
 earthen-floored and windowless tenement- 
 houses. They have no domestic life worthy 
 of the name. They wander aimlessly from 
 place to place, and when hungry pre-empt 
 a curbstone, and over a pan filled with char- 
 coal embers cook their little bite, then coil 
 themselves up, just out of the way of pass- 
 ers-by, and go to sleep in the sun. 
 
Tl6 NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 
 
 "At home" for these poor Neapoli- 
 tans has various meanings. Under the 
 huge porticoes and gateways, under the 
 porches reaching over the walkways, 
 and on the steps leading from lower to 
 upper Naples, they make their bed, when 
 they can not put together the two or 
 three soldi to pay for a bed or apart 
 of a bed, in the so-called locanda, or 
 lodging-house, of the lowest order. These 
 are to be found chiefly in the quarter 
 of the Porte. Enter them, if you have 
 the courage, and you will find in a dark 
 and ill ventilated room, six, eight, or 
 ten beds, and often in one and the same 
 bed are an entire family. The lodging- 
 keepers positively assure you that the men 
 are kept in one room and the women in 
 another ; but the police, w^ho often enter 
 them to seek for suspected persons, tell 
 
NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. II7 
 
 quite a different story. It is heartsick- 
 ening in these quarters to see the vast 
 number of homeless, nameless, abandoned 
 children who could tell you neither who 
 their mothers were nor where they were 
 born ; whose ostensible trade is begging, 
 fetching cabs, selling newspapers, and run- 
 ning errands — naked, barefooted, hideous, 
 covered with scars, and often wounds. 
 These little nomads have a language of 
 their own, and when they are starving 
 will never part with their knife or dagger, 
 which they keep concealed in their rags, 
 and which you ma)\ see them clutching 
 even in their sleep. These lodging-houses 
 are dens of every imaginable vice, the 
 infant schools of these man-abandoned 
 urchins of Naples. After midnight they 
 swarm in these dens, and in the morning 
 disperse to their various callings, taking 
 
Il8 NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 
 
 care to pay for their "shake down," 
 landlords and pohcemen being their only- 
 idea of authority. When children are 
 allowed to grow up in such an atmosphere 
 as this, is it any wonder that Naples is 
 filled with indolent and vicious men ? 
 
 Strange to sa}-, little change has taken 
 place in the treatment of the poor in 
 Naples in the last thirty years. The lower 
 stratum of society is too densely peopled to 
 hope for rapid elevation. There is no 
 lack of charitable institutions. There are 
 three hundred and forty-nine, with an an- 
 nual income of seven million francs. But 
 the trouble lies in the fact that the rev- 
 enues are not well administered. Most 
 of the edifices serve to house priests, 
 friars, monks, and nuns, and no one 
 knows what share of the income is di- 
 verted from its original purpose, and is 
 
NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. II9 
 
 used in keeping up the king's palaces. 
 Royalty and popery are the curses of 
 Italy to-day. They grind the people, keep 
 them poor, and make beggary an absolute 
 necessity. When shall Protestantism de- 
 liver it from both ? 
 
 But before leaving Naples we must 
 look down the red throat of Vesuvius. 
 For three days we have seen the ' ' pillar 
 of cloud by day, and the pillar of fire by 
 night." From the veranda of the Hotel 
 Vesuvius we have watched the waves of 
 flame light up the black brow of night, 
 causing the clouds in the background to 
 take on the form of spectral armies march- 
 ing through the sky. 
 
 An irresistible desire fills us to make the 
 ascent, and stand on the rim of the crater. 
 We are warned on every hand that the 
 journey will be hard to make and tho- 
 
120 NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 
 
 roughly unprofitable. Weary mortals with 
 scorched shoes and stiffened limbs, just 
 back from the excursion, implore us to 
 desist. But, regardless of entreaties, we 
 determine to make the journey. How 
 humiliating it would be, back in America, 
 when asked about Vesuvius, to be com- 
 pelled to acknowledge that we did not 
 make her personal acquaintance, although 
 we stood on the hem of her garment. 
 
 There are two ways to reach the 
 crater. One, by carriage across the plain 
 and part way up the ascent to the in- 
 cline railway hanging upon the side of 
 the mountain, then from the upper sta- 
 tion, on foot, to the summit ; the other, 
 by railway to Pompeii, then by ponies 
 to the lava fields, then on foot to the 
 crater. We chose the latter, because less 
 expensive and because being crowded 
 
NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 121 
 
 for time, we could "kill two birds with 
 one stone." 
 
 The ride by rail from Naples to Pom- 
 peii, although short, is full of engrossing- 
 interest. For the whole distance the blue 
 bay is in view, hung along its edge with 
 olive, orange, and lemon groves. When 
 the brakeman shouts " Herculaneum," 
 what memories crowd upon one. This 
 ancient city was flooded with molten lava, 
 which, on cooling, became a flinty rock. 
 The work of excavation has consequently 
 been slow, and but little has been done in 
 all these years. A few moments more 
 and Pompeii is reached. Here the pick 
 and the shovel have accomplished won- 
 ders in bringing to light the long buried 
 monuments of the past. Pompeii was en- 
 tombed in ashes, which renders the work 
 of excavation comparatively easy. For 
 
122 NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 
 
 centuries the site of this cit}' was lost. 
 About one hundred and fifty years ago, 
 in building an aqueduct, through which to 
 bring water from the mountains into Na- 
 ples, workmen came upon some ruins 
 which attracted attention. For fifty years 
 but little was done towards discovering 
 their extent. About one hundred years 
 ago the Italian government commenced 
 the work of excavation, and now about 
 one-third of the ancient city is open for 
 the inspection of visitors. The work is 
 progressing with a languor characteristic 
 of southern Italy, but almost every day 
 some new treasures are discovered. 
 
 But the ponies stand waiting before the 
 door of the Pompeiian inn, and we must be 
 off for the summit. A score of dark-faced 
 guides, who look as though they might cut 
 your throat for a franc, crowd around and 
 
NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 1 23 
 
 offer their services. We think the one 
 already secured sufficient, and whip into a 
 hvely canter to rid ourselves of their pres- 
 ence ; but what is our astonishment, to find 
 them at our heels propelling themselves 
 along by clutching the pony's tail. They 
 know that the time is not far distant 
 when, tired out with our exertions, we will 
 pay them almost any price for their 
 assistance. 
 
 On we ride, at first through innumerable 
 vineyards, purple with ripening clusters; 
 past tastefully built cottages, surrounded 
 by luxuriant gardens, and embowered by 
 trees bending with their luscious fruits. 
 The thought of possible danger seems not 
 to slacken the efforts of the husbandman. 
 He tends his crops and builds his home 
 right under the blazing summit of Vesu- 
 vius. The pent up fury may at any mo- 
 
124 NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 
 
 ment roll down upon him in a tide of 
 desolation and death, but he is willing to 
 take the chances, and hopes to have suffi- 
 cient premonition to permit of his escape. 
 
 We push our upward way by a zigzag 
 path, until the timber line is reached, and 
 the vast lava field begins. Here we leave 
 the ponies and continue the journey on 
 foot. This lava field, as you look over it, 
 very much resembles an ice gorge in the 
 time of a spring freshet, save that it is as 
 black as ink. The lava has cooled in the 
 most fantastic shapes, and only over the 
 well-beaten path can you make your way 
 with any safety or comfort. 
 
 A steady look, kindled by the torch of 
 imagination, will enable you to trace the 
 contour of animals, ruined abbeys, and 
 scores of other things in the irregular 
 folds of the black lava, ribbed as they are 
 
NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 125 
 
 with diminutive jagged mountain ranges ; 
 just as in the long ago, you have found 
 landscapes and castles and human faces 
 in the dying embers of the grate. 
 
 Every once in a while a lazy stream of 
 molten lava comes seeping through a fis- 
 sure in the black rock. It is needless to 
 say that we weighted ourselves down with 
 chunks of lava, into which, when hot, we 
 had dropped coins, which, on cooling, 
 held them in their flinty grip. 
 
 Beyond the lava beds, and near the 
 cone of the mountain, the field of ashes 
 begins. Here the climbing is exceedingly 
 laborious. At very step we sink ankle 
 deep in the soft ashes, and soon tired 
 nature calls for assistance. Now begins 
 the triumph of the persistent horde 
 of guides, who have dogged our every 
 footstep. A provoking look of satisfac- 
 
126 NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. 
 
 tion sits on every face, as we in our state 
 of sheer exhaustion are compelled to call 
 for their services, and pay them the out- 
 rageous price they ask. The bargain be- 
 ing struck, one fellow passes a rope over 
 his shoulders, which we clutch, another 
 gets behind and pushes, and thus as- 
 sisted we trudge for an hour through 
 the ashes, until we reach the rim of Vesu- 
 vius and look down into the smoking 
 crater. 
 
 We were unfortunate in visiting Vesu- 
 vius when the volcano was unusually ac- 
 tive, and a very few moments of inspec- 
 tion satisfied us. The hot rocks soon 
 scorched our shoes, the smoke blinded 
 us, the fumes of chloride of sulphur which 
 came up from the seething caldron below 
 nearly suffocated us, and gasping, and 
 dizzy, and half dead we groped our way 
 
NAPLES AND VESUVIUS. I 27 
 
 into the fresh air, feeling that we had 
 stood at the mouth of sheol — glad, after 
 all, that we made the venture, )'et hav- 
 ing some cause for wishing we hadn't. 
 
)r)e l\0n-)Q:r) l^uir). 
 
IX. 
 
 'ITH but time to take one glimpse 
 at "the lone mother of dead em- 
 pires," in which way shall we direct our 
 gaze? Standing on one of the fabled 
 "seven hills," we look out upon the sad- 
 dest and grandest city in all the world. 
 "Wherever we move we tread upon some 
 history." Ruins, eloquent with the story 
 of perished glory, lift their gloomy forms 
 in all directions, while over the shattered 
 sepulcher of the Rome that was, and out 
 of the mold and ashes of twenty cen- 
 turies, has arisen another Rome, whose 
 
132 ONE ROMAN RUIN. 
 
 stately palaces and gorgeous cathedrals 
 but dimly commemorate her departed 
 glory. 
 
 Yonder, leaning against the blue of the 
 Italian sky, is the magnificent dome of 
 St. Peter's, which Michael Angelo lifted 
 out of the Campagna. Not far distant, 
 is the massive castle of Angelo standing 
 on the edge of the historic Tiber, and 
 surmounted by the bronze statue of an 
 angel sheathing his sword — the material- 
 ization of the night vision of Pope Gregory 
 during the days when pestilence was doing 
 its dreadful work. 
 
 Near by stands the column of Trajan, 
 with its twenty-six hundred figures in bas- 
 relief; farther off, nestling on the bank of 
 the river, is the charming little temple of 
 Vesta. Another gaze is arrested by the 
 graceful Arch of Titus, whose marvelous 
 
ONE R OMAN R UIN. 133 
 
 bas-relief figures give us increased confi- 
 dence in the Scripture narrative. From 
 our point of vision we also get glimpses 
 of the gigantic ruins of the baths of Cara- 
 calla, still retaining some vestige of their 
 former grandeur. Here also is the Pan- 
 theon, the oldest and best preserved of 
 the ancient Roman buildings, in which the 
 remains of the immortal Raphael and of 
 Victor Emmanuel, the first king of United 
 Italy, lie side by side. 
 
 Let the eye sweep out over the Cam- 
 pagna, and in many directions you see the 
 broken arches of stupendous aqueducts, 
 yet well preserved. The road reaching 
 across the green meadows and climbing 
 in the distance the Sabine hills, is the Ap- 
 pian Way, a military road constructed 
 two centuries before Christ, extending to 
 Brindisi, on the Adriatic coast. But we 
 
134 ONE ROMAN RUIN. 
 
 must narrow our vision, and as we are to 
 describe in detail but one Roman ruin, we 
 shall select the most impressive of all — 
 that "tragedy in stone," the Colosseum. 
 In the year 70 of the Christian era 
 Titus, at the head of the Roman army, 
 accomplished the destruction of Jerusa- 
 lem, and took home with him to Rome 
 twelve thousand Jewish prisoners. The 
 "divine" Vespasian sat upon the throne 
 of the Caesars, a man given to revelry 
 and licentiousness. For a long time he 
 had been looking for some means by which 
 he could push his fame into the genera- 
 tions that were yet to come. Rome, with 
 its two million of population, furnished 
 sport for all the world. Gladitorial con- 
 tests were much in vogue, yet no build- 
 ing in all Rome was large enough to hold 
 the immense crowds which gathered to 
 
ONE ROMAN RUIN. 135 
 
 witness these brutal exhibitions of phys- 
 ical courage and endurance. Here was 
 a chance to curry favor with the people, 
 and at the same time to make a reputa- 
 tion for himself which should go sound- 
 ing through the centuries. Ground was 
 broken, the twelve thousand Jewish slaves 
 were set to work, and the greatest amphi- 
 theater of all time was commenced in the 
 year 72 A. D. Its circumference is 
 one-third of a mile. It is an ellipse in 
 shape, its long diameter six hundred and 
 fifteen feet, and its short diameter five 
 hundred and ten feet. It is four stories 
 in height, and is an appropriate blend- 
 ing of different styles of architecture. 
 The first story is of the Doric order, its 
 massive piers and pilasters being sugges- 
 tive of strength. In the midst of his ma- 
 turing plans Vespasian passes from the 
 
136 ONE ROMAN RUIN. 
 
 scene of action, and Titus, his son, ascends 
 the throne to take up the work where his 
 father left it. The second story is of the 
 Ionic order, and, while it partakes some- 
 what of the Doric, is less massive, and is 
 relieved of heaviness by graceful arches. 
 The third and fourth stories built by 
 Titus and his successor, Domitian, pos- 
 sess the lightness and airiness of the Co- 
 rinthian order of architecture. The entire 
 height of the building is one hundred 
 and fifty-six feet. The amphitheater was 
 so built as to accommodate about eighty- 
 seven thousand people. The seats were 
 in tiers rising rapidly, one above another, 
 to the number of sevent}^ each tier so 
 elevated as to admit its occupants to 
 look over the heads of those below them. 
 The seats surrounded an arena large 
 enough for the conflicts of a little army 
 
ONE ROMAN RUIN. 137 
 
 of wild beasts, or the manceuvers of a 
 regiment of gladiators. The building had 
 no roof, but the spectators were pro- 
 tected by awnings. 
 
 This gigantic masterpiece of Roman 
 architecture was seven years in process 
 of construction, and was completed early 
 in the year 80 A. D. The inaugural 
 services occupied thirty days, and during 
 that time ten thousand men and five thou- 
 sand wild beasts were slain. Such is the 
 history of the ancient Flavian Amphi- 
 theatre, for such it was called until the 
 eighth century, when a proverb appeared 
 couched in these words: "While stands 
 the Colosseum, Rome will stand." The 
 name seems to have been given on 
 account of its great size, or, as some 
 think, because a colossal statue of Nero 
 stood in it. 
 
138 ONE ROMAN RUIN, 
 
 The Colosseum remained entire until 
 the eighth century ; its destruction then 
 began as a militar}^ necessity. In the 
 twelfth century it began to be used as a 
 quarry. A building craze had struck 
 Rome, and it was much easier to get 
 stone and marble here which had already 
 felt the edge of the mason's chisel, to put 
 into palaces and cathedrals, than to go 
 off to the mountains for it. Cardinal 
 Farnese was the first to take of these ma- 
 terials for these purposes ; it is said he 
 extorted a reluctant consent from his 
 uncle, Paul Til, that he might take as 
 much stone as he could carry away in 
 twelve hours. Unhappily his shrewdness 
 was equal to the emergency; he brought 
 four thousand workmen, and got enough 
 for liis purpose in the allotted time. 
 
 During the last century the feeling has 
 
ONE R OMA N R UIN. 1 3 9 
 
 changed ; '' Rome lives by her ruins," and 
 she has at last awakened to the fact that 
 she can not afford to have them further 
 tampered with. The bloody hand of war, 
 rocking earthquakes, intense conflagra- 
 tions, the tooth of time, and the rapacity 
 of man have all combined to obliterate 
 this marvelous piece of ancient architec- 
 ture, and yet it stands "the most pic- 
 turesque, the most perfect, and the most 
 instructive ' wilderness of ruin ' in the 
 imperial city ; a monument of misfortunes 
 clothed with dignity, and sorrows crowned 
 with grandeur." Patches of modern ma- 
 sonry are now visible in many parts of the 
 building, which have been inserted to hold 
 the old together ; and Pope Benedict XIV, 
 about a century ago, partly in order to 
 constitute further dilapidation an act of 
 sacrilege, consecrated the entire edifice as 
 
I40 ONE ROMAN RUIN. 
 
 a Christian church in memory of the numer- 
 ous martyrs who, from this arena ' ' passed 
 through a bloody death to heaven." 
 
 There is now a rude pulpit in the cen- 
 ter, with stations for worship in various 
 parts of the arena, and I was never there 
 in the daytime without seeing numerous 
 suppliants kneeling at these shrines. 
 
 But how changed from the glory of the 
 former days! The seats have now fallen 
 into decay ; ferns struggle for an existence 
 in the crevices of the rocks ; the arena 
 and the sloping sides are grass grown, and 
 the smile of the flowers speaks of the 
 better days that have come. Underneath 
 the arena are the subterranean dens in 
 which the wild animals were confined until 
 they were maddened by hunger ; then, on 
 a platform, they were raised until on a 
 level with the arena, and then they leaped 
 
ONE ROMAN RUIN. I41 
 
 out to meet the gladiators who were in 
 waiting for them, I also saw the subter- 
 ranean canal — its massive stone sides still 
 covered with green slime, giving plain 
 evidence of the water's action — in which 
 the dead bodies of gladiators and animals 
 were thrown and carried out into the cur- 
 rent of the Tiber. 
 
 A moonlight visit to the Colosseum is 
 one of the experiences of a lifetime. The 
 massive building stands just a little apart 
 from the present city, and Rome is so 
 dimly lighted and so very still at night. 
 Over the stone pavement of the Forum, 
 which once resounded with the tread of 
 Roman senators, you grope your way. 
 Here Cicero awed into breathless silence 
 the thousands who hung upon his words ; 
 here was the "theater of immortal elo- 
 quence and the center of imperial power." 
 
142 ONE ROMAN RUIN. 
 
 To the right, the Arch of Constantine 
 lifts its gloomy form, spanning the tri- 
 umphal way ; to the left, the Colosseum. 
 Startled at your own footfalls, you clam- 
 ber over the recently exhumed rocks and 
 enter its dark portals, and then such deep 
 arches ; such heavy, widening shadows ; 
 such dreary vaults and passages ; such 
 sudden flashes of moonlight, as one emerges 
 from them ; such sepulchral sounds ; such 
 weird, ghost-like forms, as visitors and 
 guides step from under the dark arches 
 and suddenly appear to one another ; 
 such "somber memories of the night 
 side of humanity which seem to project 
 themselves visibly on that once bloody 
 arena " — all these conspire to make a 
 moonlight visit to the Colosseum a mem- 
 orable experience, one never to be for- 
 gotten. 
 
ONE ROMAN RUIN. 1 43 
 
 Before us and around us rise the ruined 
 walls, upon whose sloping sides ninety- 
 thousand spectators could once be seated. 
 We stand upon the grass-grown central 
 space, which was the arena where gladia- 
 tors fought and Christians suffered for 
 their faith. Many and many a time, for 
 the repression of the new religion, were 
 these put to a shameful and painful death. 
 Among them were strong men and tender 
 women who might have had life for the 
 simple recantation of their faith, and even 
 little children, who came running to the 
 cruel executioners, crying, "We are 
 Christians, we are Christians," begging 
 to be permitted to die with their par- 
 ents in joyful confession of their parents' 
 faith. 
 
 For centuries these things continued, 
 but in 403 A. D. it is said, a monk, 
 
144 ONE R OMA N R UIN. 
 
 named Telemachus, moved by pity and 
 horror at what he saw, ran into the arena 
 and Hfted up his hands and voice in an 
 agony of appeal to the people to give up 
 these cruel practices. The people, indig- 
 nant at this interruption to their sports, 
 actually stoned him to death, and called 
 for further scenes of blood ; yet scarcely 
 two years had passed before the Em- 
 peror Honorius forbade its further indul- 
 gence as inconsistent with the spirit of 
 Christianity. 
 
 So the years have passed, bringing 
 with them their blessings to humanity. 
 But there stands the Colosseum to teach 
 us what the world would be without the 
 Gospel. The sound of revelry is hushed. 
 No longer do excited, lawless rabbles 
 gather with shouts to see the flesh torn 
 from the bones of the luckless combatant. 
 
ONE ROMAN RUIN. 145 
 
 Flowers bloom in the once bloody arena, 
 wearing forever upon their fair petals a 
 deep blush at the inhumanity of the past, 
 and the Christ, whom Paul preached, rules 
 in Rome. 
 

X. 
 
 HEN John Howard Payne, far 
 across the sea, in a land strange to 
 him, wrote "Home, Sweet Home," he 
 wrote a song that shall be immortal. It 
 was the rhyming of his own heart's ex- 
 perience, and it is the one song of the 
 ages that awakens a sympathetic chord 
 in every human heart. Towering mount- 
 ains, silvery lakes, marble palaces, lofty 
 domes, matchless painting and sculpture, 
 at last lose their attractions, and we long 
 for the loved faces and familiar haunts of 
 
 home. So I found it ; and when once the 
 
 149 
 
ISO HOMEWARD BOUND. 
 
 longing filled my soul the hours seemed 
 days until the time of departure came. 
 At last I stood on the ocean shore, with 
 my face turned westward. The good ship, 
 soon to sail, rode at anchor a mile away. 
 A "lighter" conveyed us on board. The 
 anxiously looked-for hour came at last. 
 The anchor was weighed, the sail unfurled 
 to catch the favoring breeze, the measured 
 throbbing of the machinery was heard, 
 and we steamed out to sea. 
 
 A few hours, and land had receded from 
 our view, and nothing could be seen but a 
 trackless waste of waters. Then followed 
 ten days of pitching, tossing, and rolling, 
 accompanied by sickness indescribable. 
 It seemed like ten months, and I was led 
 to conclude that I was about as poor a sailor 
 as I was preacher. But at last, one bright 
 morning, the steep Jersey cliffs broke 
 
HOMEWARD BOUND. 151 
 
 upon our anxious vision. In a few hours 
 we had passed Sandy Hook and were 
 steaming up New York bay. Tears of 
 thankfuhiess streamed from many an eye, 
 and more than once was heard the ex- 
 pression, "Thank God, we are home." 
 
 Soon the towers of the great Brooklyn 
 Bridge and the spires of New York stood 
 out against the sky. Slowly we neared 
 the pier, where hundreds of anxious 
 friends stood waiting to welcome loved 
 ones ; handkerchiefs were waved, and tears 
 of gratitude moistened many cheeks. A 
 moment more, and above the noise and 
 confusion the captain shouted, "Make her 
 fast"; the bridge was lowered, and like 
 children off for a holiday, men and women 
 rushed down, pell-mell, to receive the em- 
 braces of friends, and plant their feet 
 once more on American soil. 
 
152 HOME WARD BO UND. 
 
 The feelings and sensations of that hour 
 can not be described. I fancy it was some- 
 thing like the scene which shall be enacted 
 when we reach our eternal home, where 
 partings are forever over. The only wish 
 I had in that hour was, that when I reach 
 the eternal shore I shall find more friends 
 to receive and welcome me than I found 
 on the shores of my native land. What 
 would heaven be without a welcome ? 
 
 Yes, America, daughter of the sea, last 
 born, though absent from thee in lands 
 which were full grown before thou wast 
 born, in lands sung of by poets and im- 
 mortahzed in story, still I come back to 
 thee with a stronger love and devotion 
 than I have ever known before. Land of 
 as lofty mountains, of as fertile plains, 
 of as charming lakes, of as noble rivers, 
 of as blue skies, of as brilliant foliage, of as 
 
HOMEWARD BOUND. 1 53 
 
 luscious fruits, as any land on which the 
 sun looks in his journey round the globe; 
 land where every man is a king, and 
 where no shackles bind and no chains gall; 
 land of pluck, energy, and thrift ; land 
 built on the sure foundation of civil and 
 religious liberty ; land destined to be- 
 come the lighthouse of the world— yes, 
 America, thank God, I am thy son, and 
 that once more my feet press thy soil. 
 
 Talk about the Rhine, the Danube, the 
 Alps, the sunny, trellised slopes and 
 ruined castles of Italy ! Americans run 
 wild over European tours, and talk rap- 
 turously of sights abroad, when right here 
 in our own land, within easy reach of the 
 poorest, are sights and scenes that, for 
 grandeur and sublimity, can not be ex- 
 celled in the whole world. Our Yose- 
 mite, and Niagara, and Hudson ; our Mam- 
 
154 HOMEWARD BOUND. 
 
 moth Cave, White Mountains, and Royal 
 Gorge, are spots where the Great Archi- 
 tect has wrought most dexterously, and 
 left the impress of his matchless power. 
 When Americans have visited, in our own 
 land, all the places where God's smiles 
 have crystallized, then let them go sight- 
 seeing across the water, and not before. 
 They will thus be relieved from many a 
 blush on the other side of the sea, and 
 many a charge of pedantry on this side. 
 It is simply amusing, in illustration of 
 this thought, to discover how many Amer- 
 icans there are traveling in the Old World 
 who are thoroughly ignorant of the land 
 of their birth. The simplest question in 
 geography completely puzzles them ; and 
 to hear them struggling with localities 
 when questioned by some bright, well- 
 posted foreigner, is one of the rich diversions 
 
HOMEWARD BOUND. 1 55 
 
 of a trip abroad. Indeed, one has quite 
 as much real fun at the expense of Amer- 
 ican shoddy aristocracy, which, of late 
 years, flood Europe during the summer 
 months, as through any other source. 
 You find this class of people in every 
 hotel. They usually travel in families. 
 You see the father, swelling with import- 
 ance, thumbs in vest, strutting in lordly 
 mien through the corridors of the hotel, 
 awing into silence the call-boys, who really 
 look upon him as a millionaire. 
 
 Fortune has usually come to such as a 
 surprise. A sudden rise in real estate, a 
 bubbling spring of oil, a mineral paint 
 vein, or the death of a "dear relative," fills 
 the pockets of an uncultivated boor, who 
 has never been outside of the county in 
 which he was born, and he immediately 
 proposes to signalize his good fortune by 
 
I $6 HOMEWARD BOUND. 
 
 a trip to Europe. To every ear to which 
 he gets access he rehearses in horrible 
 English the story of his rise in life, and 
 invariably adds, "I thought I'd bring 
 ma'm and the gals to Europe." 
 
 He is usually particular and exacting, 
 but seldom miserly. For this reason hotel 
 proprietors abroad are coming to care 
 but little for his patronage, while waiters 
 and porters are always glad to see him, 
 because they know that while they are 
 to suffer for a season, they are, in the 
 end, to be amply rewarded. 
 
 American travelers abroad have spoiled 
 the employes of Europe. The prodigality 
 with which backsheesh has been distributed 
 has taught them to expect reward for 
 the smallest service, and one must fall 
 in with the prevailing custom or else be 
 branded as a miserly thief. And when 
 
HOMEWARD BOUND. 1 57 
 
 one comes to understand that the sal- 
 aries of most of the waiters in the res- 
 taurants and cafes of Europe consist solely 
 of the gratuities which they receive from 
 patrons, and that many of them actually 
 pay proprietors for the privilege of wait- 
 ing, he hardly has the heart to refuse the 
 little pittance which is necessary to insure 
 him attentive service. Each "tip" is 
 small, to be sure, but their sum during an 
 extended European trip approximates a 
 small fortune. The best way is to submit 
 gracefully, but still one can not help har- 
 boring a feeling of disgust for proprietors 
 who will secure service in this manner, and 
 especially for snobbish Americans who 
 have had to do so largely with the growth 
 of this pernicious custom. But I find my- 
 self running off at a tangent, and a glimpse 
 of the spire of old Trinity brings me back 
 
158 HOMEWARD BOUND. 
 
 from the reverie in which I have been 
 indulging. 
 
 Well, after a tedious waiting under the 
 surveillance of custom house officers, our 
 baggage is at last chalked, and we take a 
 hack for the Astor House, which is quite 
 the place for an American fresh from Eng- 
 land to stop. Our first inquiry, after 
 hurrying up the steps, is for mail. A score 
 of letters and half as many congratulatory 
 telegrams on our safe arrival, are slowly 
 counted out. The letter from home is the 
 first seal broken, and lo ! a rhyming epistle, 
 signed by the whole family, tells me that 
 all is well, and welcomes me home. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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