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WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 
 
WITH THE TOURIST 
 TIDE 
 
 By 
 ARTHUR B. COOKE 
 
 Author of " Essays on Work and Life'' 
 
 New York and Washington 
 THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 1907 
 

 LIBRARY Of C0NCIRE3S 
 
 Two Copies Recefved 
 
 MAR 16 1907 
 
 fc Copyrlerht Entry 
 
 CLASS A XXC, Wo. 
 
 /7/J Cf 
 
 COPY B. / 
 
 Copyright, 1907, by 
 THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
TO 
 ARTHUR CLEVELAND, VANNOY CLEVELAND, 
 HARRY HARRIS, HENRY STANTON, FRANK TATUM, 
 LEWIS WALKER- 
 COMPANIONS OF A PLEASANT SUMMER. 
 
 Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabtt.'' 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Preface, ; 9 
 
 I. By the Way, 11 
 
 II. The Log of a Landlubber, 17 
 
 III. Naples, 32 
 
 IV. The Buried City, 46 
 
 V. Rambles about Rome, 57 
 
 VI. Zigzagging Through Italy, 75 
 
 VII. The Island City, 93 
 
 VIII. To the Top of the World, 113 
 
 IX. The Land of the Rhine, 132 
 
 X. Paris, 153 
 
 XI. On English Soil, 178 
 
 XII. College and Cathedral Towers, 203 
 
 XIII. The Land of Purple Heather, 217 
 
 XIV. The City of the Scots, 231 
 
 XV. Scotch Lands and Letters, 247 
 
 XVI. The English Lakes, 260 
 
 XVII. Westward Ho ! 270 
 
PEEFACE 
 
 ISTot long since a small group of students in a 
 Southern college began, under tlie guidance of one 
 of their teachers, to prepare for a taste of "wander- 
 years.'' And when the fireside travels had been 
 taken and all preparation made, in due time they 
 set out with staff and scrip — which in modern tourist 
 parlance means Baedeker and circular notes — to see 
 for themselves something of the wide, wide world. 
 Those who will may follow them through the com- 
 ing pages, as they drift with the tourist tide or 
 pause in the eddies of the stream. 
 
 A. B. C. 
 
 WoFFOBD College, 
 
 Si»ARTANBUEG, S. C. 
 
CHAPTEE I 
 
 BY THE WAY 
 
 It was a beautiful and beneficent custom that 
 maintaining among the people of the German lands 
 in the long ago — a custom which their descendants 
 have not forgotten — that when a youth had served 
 his apprenticeship he should have his "wander- 
 years"; that before he assumed the cares and re- 
 sponsibilities of life he should take staff and scrip, 
 and journey away with light heart and eager mind 
 to explore the wonders of other lands, to drink in 
 new sights, to observe new customs, to mingle with 
 strange peoples, to discover for himself new worlds. 
 
 What an epoch it must have been in the life of a 
 wanderer from the dreary plains of North Germany 
 when he caught first sight of the mountains of 
 Switzerland serrate upon the far horizon, or looked 
 upon the sunny slopes of Italy stretching beneath 
 cerulean skies, or mingled with the mobile people of 
 a summer land. What wealth of memory he gath- 
 ered as he journeyed at leisure from land to land. 
 What revelations came to him as he touched a 
 strange people on the wayside or in the hostelry or 
 in the hospitable home. One has only to follow the 
 youthful Louis Stevenson in his "Travels with a 
 Donkey in the Cevennes," or walk with Victor 
 Hugo "Along the Banks of the Hhine,'' or keep 
 
12 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 John Ruskin company in Hs early excursions, to 
 realize the possibilities of deliberate travel. 
 
 And when the "wander-years'' were over, the 
 youth returned to take his place among his people, 
 bringing back memories to cheer the dull monotony 
 of daily life, and inspirations to sustain him in the 
 coming days of toil. 
 
 Such is the ideal of travel, and such are its richest 
 rewards. 'Tis not the curios the traveler may bring 
 back that constitute the value of travel, nor the 
 exact information he may gather by the way, nor 
 the strange stories of distant lands with which he 
 may charm away the hours. The virtue of travel 
 defies measure by rule of thumb. It is like nitrogen 
 at the root of the plant, whose result is seen only in 
 the greater harvest of autumn. It is a new window 
 in the chamber of life through which the world is 
 seen in larger prospect. To Goethe the "wander- 
 years'' in Italy meant a new birth; they marked a 
 new era in his Hf e. 
 
 Frequently the "wander-years" furnish the store 
 from which the whole of after life draws suste- 
 nance. Such was the case with Charles Darwin. 
 Looking forward at the age of twenty-two to his 
 anticipated voyage around the world, he said with 
 prophetic enthusiasm, "My second life shall then 
 commence, and it shall be a birthday for the rest of 
 my life." And how rich were those Rve years of 
 wandering ! 'No island of the sea was so barren but 
 it had an interest for him; if nothing more, it 
 yielded a few rocks and strange spiders for his col- 
 
WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 13 
 
 lection. Wherever the ship cast anchor by any 
 shore, he studied the flora and fauna of the soil, the 
 natives in their ways of life, the fossils that lay 
 hidden in the earth or exposed along the face of 
 "scarped cliff," finding in the past and present life 
 of the land, as it lay there written in large curious 
 letters, a book more absorbing and full of wonders 
 than the finest romance. When the "wander-years" 
 were over, he returned to his native land, and dur- 
 ing all the rest of his life scarcely journeyed be- 
 yond the limits of a county. 
 
 The collections he brought back constitute a most 
 valuable addition to natural history. But however 
 valuable, they were not the chief result of his wan- 
 derings. That was the fertilizing effect which 
 travel had on the mind of the traveler himself, and 
 was only to be seen in the results of after years. 
 Almost every one of the great scientist's works may 
 be clearly traced to some suggestion out of the 
 period of his travels. It was not so much that he 
 had found priceless specimens, nor that he had 
 returned with a larger knowledge of Chile and 
 Patagonia and the Galapagos Islands, but that he 
 settle down in his own country with a larger knowl- 
 edge of the past and present life of the globe, with 
 a deeper insight everywhere into the principles of 
 that life, and with a greater power to interpret its 
 manifold phases. He found in the suggestions of 
 distant lands a key to the mysteries that lay thick 
 about him at home. In the possession of that larger 
 view, he found in the fields about the village of 
 
14 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 Down an inexhaustible source of interest and in- 
 struction. And it was in Down, not in CMle, that 
 he became the world's foremost scientist. 
 
 It is not that one's native heath is barren that 
 one needs to browse in other fields. The most com- 
 monplace community is inexhaustible to him who 
 has eyes to see and the power to read aright the 
 stories that are hidden there. But, like Charles 
 Darwin, the most of us need the shock of novelty to 
 reveal the significance of things which all our lives 
 we have been passing by with dull indifference. We 
 travel abroad that we may learn more about home. 
 It is well, therefore, for the man who would make 
 the most of his life in any community to learn some- 
 thing of the world elsewhere before he settles there. 
 
 But he who would travel with profit must travel 
 w^isely. An English statesman has said that ^^If you 
 would bring back the wealth of the Indies you must 
 carry the wealth of the Indies out." It is note- 
 Avorthy that the men who have reaped largest har- 
 vests from travel have been those who prepared 
 themselves to profit by it. Darwin would have 
 brought back nothing for himself or science if he 
 had set out as a mere curio hunter. Study had 
 made him ripe for the voyage around the world. 
 Goethe had been preparing more or less consciously 
 for his Italian journey since as a child he studied 
 the pictures of Italy that hung in his father's home. 
 It is said that before John Ruskin set foot upon 
 Italian soil he knew more about the country than 
 any native. And especially in these days of rapid 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 16 
 
 transit is preparation essential to wise travel. Mr. 
 Gladstone has aptlj said, "Once the traveler was 
 bathed in Italy; now he is dashed with its spray.'' 
 He who would see Europe in a single summer must 
 be ready to receive and interpret impressions if he 
 would not bring back from his wanderings weariness 
 and confusion. 
 
 And in the very preparation there should come a 
 keen delight. Next to real travel there is nothing 
 more charming than to draw one's chair beside the 
 study fire of a winter evening and while the wind 
 blows cold about the corner, fly away on the magic 
 blanket of imagination to some distant clime. On 
 such an evening one might hie himself away to the 
 Island City of Italy, and with the introduction of so 
 accomplished a gentleman as Mr. Howells lose one's 
 self in the whirl of "Venetian Life"; or with Mr. 
 Hopkinson Smith as guide surrender one's self to 
 the charm of "Gondola Days," gliding with him 
 through the ins and outs of the quaint canals, or 
 mingling with the kaleidoscopic throng of the 
 Eialto, or joining the promenade of fashion as it 
 circulates about the colonnades of St. Mark's when 
 the lights are on. 
 
 And the journey might be continued down to 
 Florence, the home of Dante and Giotto and Michael 
 Angelo and Savonarola and a host of others whose 
 deeds fill history's pages. There one might take his 
 "Mornings in Florence" under the direction of 
 J ohn Ruskin, while that master led the way through 
 the gallerieg of art and the triumphs of architecture 
 
16 WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 
 
 which lend fame to the Etruscan city. Or one 
 might sit with Mrs. Oliphant for teacher and learn 
 of those stirring times when the "Makers of Flor- 
 ence" held uncertain sway over the ancient city. 
 Or again one might follow George Eliot's "Eomola" 
 through the turbulent tide of humanity that surged 
 back and forth in those now so quiet streets in the 
 long ago. And surely one could not turn back from 
 Florence with the City of Seven Hills almost in 
 sight. Hare, the veteran guide, stands always ready 
 to take the fireside traveler on innumerable "Walks 
 in Rome." And a dash of color might be added by 
 having Hall Caine act as escort through "The 
 Eternal City." 
 
 Such fireside travel every one must take who 
 would bring back from real travel the richest cargo 
 of culture. And such every one may take, with 
 great profit to himself, whether or not the lines of 
 his life ever lie across the great waters; for many 
 have seen Venice who never touched the Italian 
 shore, and many, alas ! have never seen the magic 
 city though they have ridden in its gondolas over 
 and over again. 
 
CHAPTEE II 
 
 THE LOG OF A LANDLUBBER 
 
 There are, broadly speaking, two routes from 
 America to Europe. And by America one means 
 the United States, for the land of the Stars and 
 Stripes seems to stand for the whole continent, not 
 only in the eyes of the patriotic Yankee, but even 
 in the mind of the European. He classes men of 
 the New World as Mexicans, Canadians, Americans. 
 And perhaps he is not so far from the mark, for as 
 one stands upon the shores of the Old World and 
 looks toward the sunset, there is one object which 
 looms dominant upon the horizon, and that is the 
 land over which Old Glory waves. Canada is just a 
 piece of England wandered away from home, and 
 Mexico is still the land of Maximilian in the eyes of 
 Europe. 
 
 One of these routes veers north from Sandy 
 Hook, passes by the Grand Banks of IN'ew Found- 
 land, and follows the Gulf Stream across to the Bri- 
 tish Isles — a distance of some three thousand miles. 
 This is the northern route and is the great thorough- 
 fare between two continents — the Broadway of the 
 ocean. Eor the traveler it has all the attractions 
 afforded by the wonderful phenomena of the Gulf 
 Stream; and all the detractions afforded by the fogs 
 
18 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 and bleak weather which mark the northern course 
 of this river in the ocean. The other route drops 
 south after clearing the coast, and picking up the 
 thirty-ninth parallel — the parallel of Washington 
 City — follows it for two thousand miles to the 
 Azores Islands, from where it dips gradually to the 
 parallel of ISTorfolk, Va., and enters the Strait of 
 Gibraltar. This route is to be preferred by the out- 
 going tourist, for several reasons. It is more pleas- 
 ant, and the voyage is delightfully broken by the 
 Azores. Moreover, by taking this route, and land- 
 ing at !Raples, the loop of Italy is avoided, and one 
 can make the tour of the continent without having 
 to retrace his steps at any point. 
 
 Just here it may be worth while to institute a 
 few comparisons in the latitudes of Old and 'New 
 World places, for geography lessons are often defi- 
 cient on this score. Gibraltar, for instance, which 
 is the extreme southern point of Europe, is about 
 parallel with ISTorfolk. !N"aples is exactly opposite 
 ISTew York. Paris is a hundred miles farther north 
 than Quebec. And London is opposite Labrador. 
 Yet !Nraples is without winter, and Paris never sees 
 sleighing. Perhaps some sprightly schoolboy can 
 explain this apparent partiality on the part of 
 Mother N'ature in the treatment of her children. 
 If not, let him take a trip to Europe by the southern 
 route one of these days and learn the secret. 
 
 In mid-ocean it is often uncomfortable on deck 
 without a wrap, so sharp is the breeze. But when 
 you have slipped through between the Pillars of 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 19 
 
 Hercules and are sailing under Sardinia, summer 
 clothing becomes almost a burden in the hot mon- 
 soon from Sahara. If I^ew York had such a foot 
 stove as ^N'aples has in the great desert, and Quebec 
 had such a radiator as London has in the Gulf 
 Stream, there would be small chance of a coal 
 famine in the American cities. Many Italian immi- 
 grants follow the example of the millionaire, spend- 
 ing their summers in America and their winters in 
 Italy. They doubtless find the steerage passage on 
 an ocean liner cheaper than a winter coal bill in 
 'New York. 
 
 One may find a sea voyage very monotonous, or 
 wonderfully varied, according to one's humor; just 
 as one finds the stream of humanity on the streets 
 of a great city interesting or the reverse, according 
 to one's own attitude. The stretch of the sea as you 
 look at it hour by hour over the rail has more or less 
 sameness, especially when the sky overhead is an 
 unbroken blue or a blanket of cloud day after day. 
 But for the voyager who can throw off the lethargy 
 of a deck chair in mid-ocean, the sea presents an 
 almost kaleidoscopic change. All day the stormy 
 petrels, Mother Carey's chickens, keep you a kind 
 of errant company, flitting along your wake to pick 
 up a chance morsel of food. There is something 
 pathetic about these little tramps of the ocean. 
 Brooded upon lonely strands, they set out on the 
 ocean air never to return. They are homeless. 
 They sleep upon the evanescent wave, now here, 
 now there, without a local habitation. How like 
 
20 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 some wayward children of men, who drift on the sea 
 of life, trailing in the wake of every ship that 
 passes, if perchance they may snatch a castaway 
 crumb; but evermore left to drift again on the 
 waves as the ship passes on to its haven. 
 
 If you are willing to breast the spray of the 
 prow, you may catch sight now and then of the 
 winged nautilus, looking much like a chimney swal- 
 low, as he rises before the ship and dashes away to 
 hide in the friendly bosom of a billow — a curious 
 creature, this flying squirrel of the ocean. And 
 while you watch you may see a school of porpoises 
 churning the surface of the sea to foam, leaping 
 above the waters like dogs in pursuit of their quarry. 
 And at night the wake of the sliip becomes a Milky 
 Way, where a myriad stars of phosphorus blend 
 their glow. 
 
 The things that are not seen on the waters are as 
 significant as those that are seen. There is a won- 
 derful harmony in JSTature's realm. She groups the 
 great things together. To the great creatures she 
 gives a habitation in her great expanses. The roar 
 of the lion echoes over the desert. The stately soar- 
 ing of the condor is in keeping with the peaks of 
 Chimborazo. The grace and noise of the eagle's 
 flight as he slides against the vault of summer sky 
 is in perfect harmony with the clouds that serve 
 him for canopy. For a like reason the rapid wing- 
 beat of the lesser bird is in keeping with the wind- 
 shaken tree-tops into which he darts. Now in that 
 immensity where boundless sea is blended with 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 21 
 
 boundless sky there are no soarers; as if nature felt 
 that none of her children was great enough for that 
 frame. But down on the surface of the water 
 skims the stormy petrel, rising and falling with the 
 billow; and out of the wave crest dashes the 
 nautilus, like a part of the far-flung spray. 
 
 The personnel of a ship's company is in itself of 
 inexhaustible interest; not that personnel of ice- 
 bergs in the presence of which one too frequently 
 shivers on the promenade deck of a fast liner, but 
 that personnel of warm-hearted human beings 
 whose souls are larger than their purses, and who 
 are therefore more frequently found in the second 
 cabin — second class on the ship's passenger list, but 
 first class in the fine qualities that make manhood 
 and womanhood. Here is a man who twenty years 
 ago gave up the plans of a university graduate, and 
 sought refuge from "the white peril" in the Lone 
 Star State. With true patriotism he has lent his 
 energies for those twenty years to the building up 
 of that great new State. Now he is going abroad 
 for the summer to recuperate body and spirit — a 
 cheerful, brave-hearted, whole-souled fellow, just 
 as a man will be who has looked death full in the 
 face these twenty years without flinching. And by 
 his side are a noble wife and two daughters enter- 
 ing nascent maidenhood. It is refreshing to watch 
 their enthusiasm over everything along the way; 
 the callous globe-trotter might well envy the fresh- 
 ness of their spirits. Here are teachers who, in- 
 stead of investing their savings in corner lots or 
 
22 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 cotton futures, have cliosen to invest them in en- 
 largement of their lives and in greater fitness for 
 the helping of others. Here are young men just 
 out of college, going abroad to sow one more season 
 of seed for the coming harvest of culture. Here are 
 artists and musicians of promise willing to spend 
 time and means in acquiring those fine qualties of 
 touch and taste which cost so much^ but which are 
 the essence of art. Here is a man who has devoted 
 his life to the buying and selling of rare stamps — a 
 veritable cyclopaedia when it comes to his business. 
 Think of a man crossing the seas to sell a handful 
 of stamps. But his heart and his money are in it, 
 and that combination will carry one to the ends of 
 the earth. 
 
 Then there are adopted children of the strong 
 'New World going back now to pay a filial visit to 
 the old mother — Germans, French, Italians, Span- 
 iards, Greeks. What a wonderful cosmopolitan 
 country that land of Columbia is, lying there under 
 the western skies, nursing at her ample breast the 
 children of all nations, and bringing them up into a 
 maturity of unfaltering fidelity to their foster 
 mother. We need not wonder at the army of immi- 
 grants who yearly knock for entrance at her doors. 
 To the poor ISTeapolitan it is more than a land of 
 promise, it is a kind of halo-circled paradise whose 
 streets are made of gold, and beside whose limpid 
 rivers grow wide-spreading trees of life. We who 
 have known no other life than that in a land of lib- 
 erty have little idea of the charm which our coun- 
 
WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 23 
 
 try has for the wistful multitudes of the Old World. 
 In fact, the American himself rarely appreciates 
 his country so much as when he sees it from a for- 
 eign shore. 
 
 "Land ahead !'' For days we had been measur- 
 ing endless miles of summer sea sloping toward a 
 fugitive horizon, and our eyes were eager for sight 
 of the billows that are never capped with foam. 
 With one accord we rushed to the rail, and saw far 
 ahead on the misty horizon a dark line which we 
 made out to be land. It was Flores, the most west- 
 erly member of the Azores — that scattered group of 
 islands which straggle out from the Old World like 
 bold waders into the gulf of water. It was off the 
 coast of this island in the stirring days of !N"ew 
 World conquest that Sir Richard Grenville in his 
 ship Revenge stood out for a whole long day and 
 night against the combined attack of the Spanish 
 fleet, and thereby became one of England's im- 
 mortal sailors. 
 
 It might not be out of place to jot down in the 
 log of a landlubber a few observations on that group 
 of islands, the Azores, which lie upon the southern 
 way, for they deserve more attenton than is com- 
 monly given them in geographies. They are at a 
 mean distance of eight hundred miles from Portugal 
 and nineteen hundred from IN^ewfoundland. They 
 represent seven hundred square miles; and three 
 decades ago counted some three hundred thousand 
 souls. They are a Portuguese colony — have been 
 
24 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 since their discovery by Prince Henry the JSTavi- 
 gator in 1433. 
 
 But tliey must have been known before that 
 time — known and lost to sight again in those days 
 of uncharted oceans when Leif the Lucky discov- 
 ered Vinland, and his countrymen let it lapse from 
 memory. Indeed, there is a suggestion of these 
 islands in Greek mythology. Eor who does not 
 know the beautiful story of the Isles of the Hes- 
 perides, where the daughters of Hesperus^ the even- 
 ing star, kept Juno's golden apples; and of how 
 Hercules, coveting the apples, agreed to take the 
 burden of the world from the shoulders of Atlas if 
 the latter would fetch him the prize. One can 
 easily imagine that some mariner from ancient 
 Hellas, sailing out where the Pillars of Hercules 
 stand guard at the gates of the west, and the Moun- 
 tains of Atlas cast their shadow across the sands, 
 was caught by adverse winds and driven out over 
 the ocean rim till he came within sight of these un- 
 known isles lying under the sunset glow; and that, 
 winning his way back to the inland sea and home, 
 he brought vague news of lands that lay in the vast 
 waters where Hesperus goes down to her bath. At' 
 any rate, if Hercules should come to these islands 
 to-day, he would find golden apples there in abun- 
 dance, for the finest oranges of the market are 
 grown there. 
 
 Though the islands are of volcanic origin, the 
 ancient cones and lava beds being distinctly trace- 
 able, they are wonderfully fertile. Fayal and San 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 25 
 
 Jorge, two of the largest members of tlie group, are 
 in the highest state of cultivation. They are dotted 
 with orange and lemon groves, with fields of pine- 
 apples, and with vineyards clambering up the steep 
 ascents. Their climate is semi-tropical. They are 
 hilly, sometimes mountainous. As our ship skirted 
 the shores at close range during the afternoon of a 
 June day, they presented a panorama of surpassing 
 beauty. The hills were robed in many colors, each 
 field clearly marked by the tint of the crop it bore. 
 The volcanoes that once spread their sulphurous 
 fumes over the islands have long since fallen asleep, 
 and the hardy children of men are tilling their 
 sides and gathering hay from the very meadows 
 that cover the craters. The hillsides are dotted with 
 shimmering haciendas half hidden in the trees, and 
 red windmills wave their skeleton arms from the 
 hilltops. A little village stands by the water's edge 
 to wave a passing salute, while her more retiring 
 sisters sit modestly among the hills. Here and there 
 deep ravines furrow the slopes, and streams run 
 unseen beneath the foliage till with airy leap they 
 clear the precipice and fall headlong into the sea. 
 On one cliff three of these falls are visible, hang- 
 ing from the precipice like silver ribbons. 
 
 As we stood at the taffrail, and watched the day 
 go out in the west, the view took on a marvel- 
 ous beauty. The sea lay like a crinkled mirror 
 under the cloud-flecked sky. The slant rays of the 
 declining sun touched land and water into mellow 
 tints. On the one side lay San Jorge, its shore ris- 
 
26 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 ing now half a thousand feet, and now stooping to 
 touch the waves. Beyond cHff and shore the 
 verdant fields sloped to meet the sky. In the dis- 
 tance Pico loomed, forest-robed and storm-capped, 
 seven thousand feet into the clouds. While we 
 waited, the sun sank behind a shoulder of the hills. 
 Then for one brief moment the landscape turned to 
 orange and gold, and we watched the glory fade, till 
 darkness settled over the ocean, and the stars came 
 out to keep their vigil. 
 
 Far as these islands are now from the world's 
 highway, their history has not been without events. 
 They are upon the way from Gibraltar to America, 
 and in the days of world discovery Gibraltar was 
 the western gate of the world. Through it issued 
 the first bold adventurers. So it came about that 
 Columbus touched at these islands, on his homeward 
 voyage — put in here to repair some damage done to 
 his caravels on the uncharted sea. Here, too, Mar- 
 tin Behaim settled a colony — he who made the first 
 globe of the earth, which notable work may be seen 
 to this day in the old navigator's house at Nurem- 
 berg in Bavaria, if you have a mind to travel so far. 
 But in these latter days when England has suc- 
 ceeded to the heritage of Spain, the tide of com- 
 merce and travel has turned northward, and the 
 Azores stand upon a by-path of the ocean. 
 
 Louis Stevenson once invited a friend to visit 
 him in Samoa, and for direction told him to come to 
 San Francisco, take a steamer, and turn to the left 
 at the next corner. So much has space shrunk 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 27 
 
 under the pressure of steam. The next station be- 
 yond the Azores is Gibraltar, some thousand miles 
 to the east. Three days of pleasant sailing brought 
 us to the Old World. Our first sight of it was a 
 hazy view of the Spanish mainland. ISTot long 
 afterward we caught sight of Africa lying to the 
 south. Then for the rest of the day we had the 
 peculiar privilege of looking upon two continents 
 at once. Surely that is all a traveler can ask for 
 one afternoon, if he is in a mood to let his memory 
 play in the past of the one and his imagination in 
 the future of the other. 
 
 In due time we steamed in through the famous 
 Strait, flying the English flag from the masthead in 
 recognition of the power that rules the Mediter- 
 ranean. The sun was setting in the western waters 
 as we entered the harbor, and when he should rise 
 on the morrow he was to find us well on our way 
 toward Sardinia. It was a case of ^^twenty minutes 
 for Gibraltar," but with true American spirit we 
 determined to storm the fortress. The harbor was 
 alive with craft of every kind. There were mer- 
 chantmen from the ends of the earth, great colliers 
 with grimy hulks, sailing smacks with their orange- 
 tinted canvas, trim steam launches darting in and 
 out among the larger craft, and rowboats manned 
 by vociferous venders. This is the rendezvous of 
 the British Mediterranean fleet, and behind the 
 huge stone mole that runs out into the harbor we 
 could see the low-lying men-of-war and their com- 
 
28 WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 
 
 panion ships at rest or sluggishly sMfting position, 
 like giant aquatic armadillos. 
 
 "No sooner was our ship at anchor than fruit and 
 souvenir venders thronged about and clambered up 
 the sides to offer their wares — the peddlers and beg- 
 gars of these southern countries are indefatigable. 
 "We were pleasantly surprised to find the venders 
 offering fresh strawberries — the season had been 
 over a month when we left home. The berries were 
 large and luscious, and sold at two baskets a 
 shilling — if you wouldn't give more. Golden apri- 
 cots half the size of an apple were to be had for a 
 few pence a dozen, and tempting purple plums at a 
 shilling for as many as a party could eat. The 
 hawkers had little trouble in disposing of their 
 stock to the seven hundred passengers who had 
 been nine days on the sea. We were genuinely 
 fruit hungry. What a time those old tars must 
 have had who shipped for a three years' cruise. No 
 wonder they suffered from scurvy. Eresh fruit has 
 been essential to the health of man ever since Adam 
 and Eve formed the habit. 
 
 Mark Twain's description of Gibraltar is charac- 
 teristic — both of the man and the place. He said 
 it reminded him of ^^a ^gob' of mud on the end of a 
 shingle." Nevertheless, the rock of Gibraltar is 
 most imposing. The famous ^^rock" so often seen 
 in pictures is not, however, the main fortress, but 
 is that portion which overlooks the harbor of the 
 town and faces inland, the harbor being rather in 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 29 
 
 the rear of the rock. The part which guards the 
 entrance to the Inland Sea is two miles away. 
 
 The streets of the town present a cosmopolitan 
 appearance. Despite the fact that the Moor was 
 driven out of Europe politically with the capture of 
 Granada in 1492, he is largely in evidence at 
 Gibraltar yet — and in his original garb of turban 
 and robe and naked shanks, at that. He is one thing 
 at Gibraltar that has not been Anglicized, though 
 he speaks English per force of business, and does 
 not hesitate to take an American dollar. The Moor 
 is your true cosmopolitan — all things to all men, if 
 perchance he may make a piastre. The English 
 soldier is also in evidence, in his khaki. In fact, it 
 looks as if every second person on the streets were 
 a soldier. 'Nor are fair women wanting. It was a 
 strange sight to us, this throng of Moors and 
 soldiers, and women dressed in the latest style, all 
 pouring along the narrow street together, pedestrian 
 and carriage taking chances in the middle of the 
 way. The Gibraltar hack is a curiosity. It is a 
 cross between a horse car and a summer trolley. If 
 that hybrid is inconceivable to the reader, he must 
 charge it to the Gibraltar hack. 
 
 We "did'' the town and got back to our ship in 
 good time. How much American money that 
 crowd left on shore, how many cheap souvenirs and 
 spurious coins they brought with them, it would be 
 hard to tell. The writer found three nationalities 
 represented in his purse the next day. There is 
 one advantage in the tipping custom of the Old 
 
30 "WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 World. It gives you a chance to get rid of spur- 
 ious coins, for the servant never examines the gift 
 in the presence of the donor; and there is usually 
 no injustice in thus disposing of the metal — the 
 would-be service is generally as spurious as the coin 
 you give. The clown reasoned that when he got 
 a bad dollar and gave it to another, it was a case 
 in which two wrongs made a right — at least it made 
 him right. One is fain to accept the clown's ethics 
 when traveling on the continent. 
 
 We left Gibraltar at midnight, and when we 
 turned in to our berths the lights of the citadel 
 were twinkling against the sky far behind us, and 
 before us lay three days of sea — and Naples. 
 
 It is good to get away from one's country now 
 and then, and consider it as a unit. Sectional lines 
 grow dim with distance. Even the Mason and 
 Dixon line fades when seen from foreign shores. 
 When we meet abroad, it is not as sons of the 
 several States, but as citizens of a single coimtry. 
 A fair amount of travel cultivates patriotism. It 
 also cultivates respect for other peoples. Acquaint- 
 anceship is a gl^eat educator. The Crusader thought 
 there was no civilization but his, until he met the 
 Mussulman in the latter's own country. 
 
 When one touches Europe, the limits of history 
 move back from 1492. It is one thing to read his- 
 tory in books that were turned out yesterday. It is 
 another thing to read it in the very vestiges of the 
 centuries as one finds them gathered in museums or 
 scattered abroad upon the face of these millennial 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 31 
 
 lands. It is one thing to read "The Gallic Wars." 
 It is another to walk in the crumbling ruins of 
 Caesar's palace. Travel is greatly worth while if 
 one can thereby come to realize the past out of which 
 we have come and its relation to the present in which 
 we live. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 NAPLES 
 
 It was a perfect day in latest June when onr sMp 
 sailed into the world's most beautiful harbor. We 
 had been three days out from Gibraltar, with 
 scarcely a sail to break the monotony of our horizon 
 and no vestige of sea life to divert our attention. 
 Above the ship arched the cloudless blue of a south- 
 ern sky, and around us stretched an ocean of liquid 
 lapis lazuli. But for the hot breath of the desert 
 and the churning propellers we might have seemed 
 to be hanging between the sky and its reflection, 
 
 "As idle as a painted ship 
 Upon a painted ocean." 
 
 How forsaken the great sea seemed, as we plowed 
 league after league of its ancient surface, ourselves 
 the sole occupants of this quondam world's arena. 
 Where are the merchantmen whose sails once 
 whitened the blue waters? Where are the galleys 
 whose banked oars made the waters foam? For 
 the warships of Hellas and the galleys of Rome used 
 to scour these waters, and the merchant fleets of 
 Venice and Pisa and Genoa once plied upon the now 
 forsaken paths. Hither came the early Greeks to 
 extend their colonies, — these first expansionists, — 
 some twenty-five hundred years ago, planting the 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 33 
 
 seed of civilization in Sardinia, and afterward 
 upon the mainland where Marseilles now stands. 
 The fleets of Marius and Hannibal once sailed upon 
 these waters, as did those of Caesar and Pompey. 
 Hither came our crude forefathers out of !N'orseland 
 a thousand years later, those bold adventurers push- 
 ing the prows of their Viking ships into every nook 
 of European coast. Here Columbus first shipped 
 as cabin boy from Genoa, little suspecting that one 
 day he should open the western gates, and the teem- 
 ing life which for centuries had been confined to 
 the inland sea, should ebb out through the Strait of 
 Gibraltar forever to find in a new world of lands 
 and waters a larger home. 
 
 We sailed under Sardinia, lying like a gray cloud 
 along the north, and held our course straight 
 toward the Italian shore. About noon of the third 
 day there was a stir on deck, for word had passed 
 that we should soon sight land. The soft haze of a 
 summer day half obscured the distant view, but we 
 peered steadfastly ahead, till at last out of the haze 
 gradually dawned the cone of Vesuvius like a moun- 
 tain in the clouds, waving from his summit a long 
 pennant of smoke. For three hours we watched 
 through the lessening distance "the old man with 
 his pipe," as he sent up pufi after puff against the 
 sky. Then land gradually appeared on either side 
 across the shimmering water, as we steered in where 
 the rugged isle of Ischia and the rock of Capri stand 
 guard at the entrance of the bay. To our right, 
 3 
 
34 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 Vesuvius, the shore at his feet fringed white with 
 houses where Herculaneum lies buried. In front of 
 us J^aples stretched along the beach and clambered 
 up the steep ascent of the background, white as 
 marble in the sun. 
 
 'No sooner was the ship at anchor than we were 
 treated to a taste of ^N'eapolitan life. Small boats 
 swarmed about the great liner like ants about an 
 apple. Some were laden with fruits — oranges and 
 lemons, peaches and apricots, plums and pomegran- 
 ates, and great black figs as large as the fist. The 
 venders found ready sale for their cargo in stateroom 
 and steerage. One of the boats was occupied by 
 three Italian girls of respectable appearance. At 
 first we thought they had come out to welcome 
 friends among our ship's company, but when close 
 up under the ship's bows they began to sing, and the 
 serenade finished, held an umbrella inverted to catch 
 any soldos that might be tossed from the deck. But 
 the men were not to be outdone by the maidens. 
 Several leaped from their boats into the water and 
 offered to dive for a coin. Immediately there was a 
 small shower of copper from the merry company, 
 and the divers were equal to their offer, bringing 
 up the coins now in their fingers and now between 
 their toes. 
 
 At last the red tape of the quarantine had all 
 been measured out in accordance with the require- 
 ments that be, and we went ashore. A legion of 
 hotel porters met us before we were off the lighter, 
 and almost fought each other in their mad efforts 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 35 
 
 to secure our patronage. If they had been Ameri- 
 cans, you might have expected bloodshed; but be- 
 ing Italians, you knew nobody was in danger. Hav- 
 ing run the gauntlet of the porters and customs 
 officers, we had to face the beggars. Some of them 
 are mendicants pure and simple, others live under 
 the guise of peddlers; but in either case they are 
 equally persistent. It was with difficulty we could 
 keep the venders from filling our pockets with 
 matches, flowers, soap, and trinkets of every sort. 
 Indeed, we had once or twice to divest ourselves of 
 such impedimenta. A modest young man of our 
 party was greatly embarrassed by having a beaming 
 Italian maid put a nosegay in his buttonhole on 
 such short acquaintance. The ITeapolitan beggar 
 and his concomitant, the Neapolitan flea, are equally 
 persistent and aggravating. As we drove to our 
 hotel an old man ran beside the wheel for half a 
 block begging alms, and when we refused, turned 
 away muttering what we took to be a curse. As 
 we paused on the street an old woman came and 
 held out her hand. When we alighted at the hotel 
 a horribly maimed man led by a woman barred our 
 way. Another time three beggars besieged us in 
 as many blocks, and on still another occasion we had 
 to leave the street because of their annoyance. The 
 maimed and deformed beggars are legion in south- 
 ern Italy. It is strange the government allows 
 these parasites to prey upon the public, but it seems 
 rather to encourage them. We were told the privi- 
 
36 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 lege of begging is farmed out, and under the con- 
 trol of regularly organized companies. 
 
 Your room at Naples should be chosen with an eye 
 to the view. If your window looks out on the bay, 
 you will have before you morning and evening one 
 of the loveliest views in all the world — the craft- 
 crowded harbor in the foreground, Vesuvius to the 
 left, the stone pines of Posilippo to the right; 
 across the waters, Capri. And stretched round all, 
 the horns of the crescent shore sloping to meet the 
 sea. 
 
 The street scenes are no less interesting to the 
 stranger than the views are beautiful. The Italian 
 dairyman is in evidence everywhere, morning and 
 evening, driving his flock of goats or leading his 
 cows. You get your milk fresh from the cow, and 
 see it milked while you wait. If the customer lives 
 in the fourth story he lets down his bucket by a 
 cord, and when the order has been filled draws it 
 up again. The milk is presumably fresh, but there's 
 no telling how much chalk water a N^eapolitan cow 
 may yield. Her latest offspring always accom- 
 panies her as evidence that the mother is fresh and 
 the milk mild. But some of these offspring are of 
 questionable age; and no doubt the adoption of 
 children is not entirely unknown in the dairies of 
 ISTaples. The goats lie about contentedly on the 
 sidewalks when not being driven, and are as lazy as 
 the lazzaroni. When on duty they do not hesitate 
 to mount the most precipitous flight of stairs to 
 serve an attic customer, their long inheritance from 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 37 
 
 agile mountain ancestry standing them in good 
 stead. 
 
 The horses of Naples are for the most part 
 scarcely larger than ponies, and the donkeys a size 
 larger than the St. Bernard dog^ — mere pygmies 
 beside the Percherons of 'New York and London. 
 Yet they draw loads we would hesitate to put upon 
 our animals. The cart is the usual vehicle, and 
 when the load is on, it looks as if the little beast 
 might be caught up bodily any moment by the tilt- 
 ing of the cart and thrown backward over his bur- 
 den. There is a society for the prevention of 
 cruelty here, but the Italian estimate of cruelty 
 must be different from the American, for one of 
 the uniformed representatives of this order stood 
 complaisantly on the street while two ponies nearby 
 were left in the hot sun for half an hour under the 
 strain of a heavy load on the hillside. Another time 
 a hackman who offered his services had to ply the 
 lash while his fellow pushed the wheel, in order to 
 get the miserable steed in motion. The American 
 liveryman would be amused at the way the Neapoli- 
 tan hackman feeds his horse. About noon he 
 secures a few handfuls of green hay, and feeds it to 
 the starving beast from his hand a few straws at a 
 time. Another w^ay is to tie a bundle of hay to the 
 shaft and let the animal eat as he goes, but this is 
 practised chiefly among draymen. The teamster's 
 horse is often driven without bit, being controlled 
 by a metal piece which takes the place of nose strap 
 on the bridle. 
 
38 WITH THE TOHEIST TIDE 
 
 Cabs are reasonable, even if tlie turnout is not 
 first class. A dollar will hire a hack half the morn- 
 ing. But you must always make your agreement 
 beforehand, for the Neapolitan gets all he can, and 
 the policeman acts on the maxim that blood is 
 thicker than water. Whatever you give must be 
 supplemented by pourboire. But the currency is 
 such that the tip need not be large. A two-cent 
 piece is nearly as heavy as our half dollar. When 
 you are in a hurry to catch the train, give a handful 
 and go on. Half of it will likely be spurious, but 
 it will not get out of circulation for all that. The 
 amount of counterfeit and worthless coins in Italy 
 is beyond computation — a great multitude of bas- 
 tards whose paternity is not too closely questioned. 
 One day the writer found among his coins a lead 
 two-lire piece (forty cents). Calling a scavenger, 
 he handed it to him. The play of expression on the 
 wizen face was significant, as it lighted up, then fell 
 at the leaden touch, then lighted up again. 
 
 However archaic Naples may be in many phases 
 of life, she is not altogether behind the times. She 
 has not escaped the electric trolley. It is strange 
 that this American invention is known all over 
 Europe by a name which, so far as the writer knows, 
 is never applied to it in the land of its birth. The 
 Neapolitan speaks glibly of the ^^tramway," and 
 signs along the streets inform the public that the 
 "tramway'' stops at the places indicated. The 
 tramway is no omnibus. Each car has so many seats 
 inside and so many standing places on the platform. 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 39 
 
 When these are occupied the conductor hangs up a 
 small sign in front marked ^^completo." You need 
 not hail a car thus marked. It is rather hard for 
 the man who is not on, but is certainly easier for 
 one who is — and after all, this is a world of com- 
 promises. The fares are very reasonable, varying 
 from two to five cents, according to the distance 
 traveled. There is a first and a second class seat, 
 the difference being the luxury of a cushion^ for 
 which you pay an extra cent — and that cent is 
 enough to break down for the moment all caste. 
 
 For the visitor the city itself and the life on its 
 streets constitute the chief interest. There are few 
 monuments of antiquity such as Rome affords, nor 
 are there such treasures of art as adorn Florence 
 and Venice. The National Museum is, indeed, a 
 famous collection, but a large part of its treasures 
 come from Herculaneum and Pompeii, and will be 
 noted in the following chapter. There are besides 
 these the Farnese Hercules and the Farnese Bull, 
 with which masterpieces of art every reading 
 American must be acquainted. They are both of 
 marble. The toe of the god is as large as a man's 
 fist, and the figure is in perfect proportion. One 
 gets some conception of the luxuriousness of later 
 Roman life when it is remembered that these mas- 
 terpieces adorned the public baths of Caracalla in 
 Rome. They were unearthed some hundred years 
 ago, and set as central figures in the ITational 
 Museum. Here are to be seen too the lovely 
 '^Crouching Venus'' and the "Venus Calypygus," 
 
40 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 tlie latter found in the ruins of ISTero's Golden 
 House. 
 
 When you have feasted your eyes upon these and 
 all the other treasures that are gathered here under 
 one roof for your delectation, you will come out — for 
 it will be well past noonday — and stroll through the 
 tide of JSTeapolitan life till you come to the Galleria 
 Principe di N^apoli. Here you may turn in and 
 take your seat at one of the many tables that cover 
 the marble floor, while the eddies of the street play 
 about you, and the arch of transparent roof bends 
 gracefully a hundred feet above your head. For 
 two lire and a half you will be served with a dainty 
 meal after the most approved culinary art, and for 
 another lire a flask of fine red wine without which 
 a lunch in Italy is not complete, i^ative fruits in 
 abundance form part of the repast — all laid on 
 spotless linen, and served by immaculate waiters in 
 full dress. And while you eat at leisure you may 
 purchase matches or cameos or corals or souvenirs 
 of countless kind from peripatetic venders who 
 penetrate even here. 'Nov will you escape that 
 other ubiquitous personage, the vender of illustrated 
 cards. You have had to fight past him at every 
 church and gallery door and on every corner. If 
 you climbed out of breath to some eminence to get 
 a lauded view, he was there to insist that you could 
 see it as well on his cards. His one rule of trade is 
 to get all he can, and the purchaser's may well be 
 the same. But for all the intrusions, you will have 
 a wonderful chance to study Italian life while you 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 41 
 
 Knger here over the fruit and the wine. And per- 
 haps you will get in this hour of rest and refresh- 
 ment more than was included in the bill of fare. 
 
 Luncheon over, you cannot do better than devote 
 the afternoon to San Martino — on foot if you are 
 a hearty climber, by tramway or cab if you are not 
 a disciple of the strenuous life. Taking the Strada 
 Salvator Rosa in front of the Museum, you wind 
 in and out through the serpentine ways that crawl 
 at haphazard up the steep ascent. You mingle with 
 the populace that overflows here in all the abandon- 
 ment of an indolent people at home. You pause to 
 purchase a handful of figs from a woman whose at- 
 tention is divided between her stock and the dirt- 
 begrimed baby on her knee. An old woman on the 
 corner is offering roasted chestnuts for sale, while a 
 man near by earns a precarious living as sidewalk 
 cobbler. Your curiosity is aroused by a huckster 
 with a little brass barrel suspended from his 
 shoulder. He is your perambulating cold drink 
 fountain, and sells you for a soldo a glass of water 
 ^'spiked'' with some anonymous germ-killer. So you 
 loiter through the streets at your ease — always do 
 your sight-seeing at your ease — till unconsciously 
 you have compassed the greater part of the other- 
 wise tedious climb. You are under the walls of the 
 old monastery of the Dominicans, San Martino — 
 long since deserted by that brotherhood, and left 
 here to be worn by the elements and looked at by 
 the curious eye like a shell by the seashore. The 
 chambers and corridors of the old monastery are 
 
42 WITH THE TOIJEIST TIDE 
 
 hung with paintings of long-forgotten artists, which 
 you look at in passing and in turn forget. But do 
 not forget to hunt out the little room justly 
 called the Belvedere, from which you will get 
 altogether the most beautiful view of E'aples. 
 Vine-clad terraces slope down to where the white 
 city bends like a crescent about the bay eight hun- 
 dred feet below; and in the background Vesuvius, 
 and the steep cliffs of Sorrento shimmering in the 
 sunset, and Capri beyond the blue waters. 
 
 One afternoon when the heat of the day was well 
 passed, we strolled down to the Riviera di Chiaia, 
 and boarded the trolley that runs to Posilippo. ISTo 
 visitor to ^^sTaples in the summer season should miss 
 this excursion. As the car climbed leisurely up the 
 long gradient we had ample opportunity for sight- 
 seeing. On one side the bay dropped steadily be- 
 neath us, its matchless panorama stretching away 
 to the horizon. On the other an unbroken wall of 
 houses stood against the hill, teeming with life. 
 These houses are rather caves with ornate fronts, 
 for they butt against the living rock, their only light 
 being such as struggles through the windows of the 
 front. But the occupants seem to thrive in such at- 
 mosphere. One door may open into a dwelling and 
 the next into the stall of cow or horse. The glare of 
 a smithy will light up a cave mth lurid glow, till one 
 could almost imagine he had come upon the fabled 
 forge of Vulcan. Through the next entrance will 
 be dimly seen the outlines of unnumbered casks, the 
 long-garnered vintage of the sunny hills. So 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 43 
 
 Bacchus and Vulcan consort^ as they have done 
 these many centuries on the slopes of Vesuvius. As 
 we passed, an urchin was milking a cupful from the 
 udder of a goat leaning against the wall. A slat- 
 ternly woman railed at a group of slatternly chil- 
 dren. And a gens-d'armes strutted officiously by on 
 his beat. And as if by contrast, smart equipages of 
 the aristocracy with their lolling occupants rolled 
 indifferently along the street, going for an airing on 
 the heights of Posilippo. Finally we were at the 
 end of the line. Beneath us the slopes of the rocky 
 promontory were verdant with trellised and bowered 
 vine, under the foliage of which could be seen clus- 
 ters of grapes. Here and there white villas dotted 
 the slope, half hidden in the trees. Eigs, plums, 
 and cherries were growing in luxuriance, and gar- 
 dens of semi-tropical plants adorned the terraces of 
 this natural conservatory. When we reached the 
 summit, the landscape broadened. On one side was 
 the bay of ISTaples; on the other, the bay of Baia. 
 Before us in the nearer distance was the island of 
 Msida, its beauty desecrated by a convict prison and 
 a Lazaretto. Beyond it Procida and Ischia were 
 bathed in the soft glow of sunset. Hereabouts are 
 'many shrines of classic story. It was here that 
 Aeneas lost his trumpeter overboard, and here he 
 found the grotto of the Cumean Sibyl. On the 
 slope of Posilippo is the reputed tomb of Virgil. 
 And Baia was the Saratoga of Home in the days of 
 Nero. 
 
 But no one has seen Naples who has confined his 
 
44 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 wanderings to tlie highways of the city. Alexander 
 Dumas characterized Naples as "a city consisting of 
 some five hundred streets of which only three are 
 ever trodden by the visitor/^ You want to see some 
 of the other ^ve hundred before you bid farewell to 
 this most oriental of eastern cities, — some of those 
 deep, narrow ways — ^mere cracks in the wall, as it 
 were — which run hither and thither under stories 
 of reeking windows. And you do not have to go 
 slumming to see them either. ITaples has no dis- 
 tinctly slum district. Turn off from a principal 
 street at almost any corner, and you are with the 
 submerged ten thousand. So closely do poverty and 
 vice cHng to the skirts of respectability in this 
 ItaKan city. 
 
 It was through such a crack in the wall we often 
 passed by night and by day as we took short cut 
 from the Villa Nazionale to our pension on Via 
 Amadeo. It was just broad enough for the easy 
 come and go of pedestrians and too steep for wheels. 
 Here again we came upon the ISTeapolitan at home. 
 Men, women, and children sat before the doors in 
 airiest garments — the children often in all the inno- 
 cence of Eden. The narrow ribbon of sky visible 
 between the tiled roofs was obscured by the out-" 
 hangings of numerous domestic laundries. A foun- 
 tain of clear water filled an ample basin, from which 
 the denizens dipped at will. In a niche of the wall 
 near by was a faded image of the Virgin with a 
 taper burning before it — but where was the vestal in 
 that sordid street who kept the sacred fire ? Further 
 
WITH THE TOITEIST TIDE 45 
 
 up the slope was a little cliiircli where a well-kept 
 priest heard the confessions of the parish, and (as 
 he passed down through his flock) held his hand per- 
 functorily to be kissed. 
 
 But with all its narrow streets and archaic ways 
 and sordidness, there is a charm about the city that 
 draws the visitor, and makes him turn back for a 
 last lingering look. It is a city where one would 
 not care to dwell, but to which one would fain re- 
 turn ever and anon for a season. 
 
CHAPTER ly 
 
 THE BUKIED CITY 
 
 For all the cities that in ages past have been 
 folded into the bosom of the earth, there is to the 
 world of to-day only one buried city — Pompeii. 
 Mneteen centuries ago it was a flourishing town of 
 some twenty thousand inhabitants, situated upon the 
 Mediterranean coast, eclipsing its neighbor E'eapolis 
 both in commerce and wealth. It was then seven 
 centuries old, and its life was a mixture of the 
 Greek and Eoman. It had won by its situation re- 
 nown as a pleasure resort, and many wealthy Ro- 
 mans were wont to come hither when the stress of 
 business or the strain of festivity became too great 
 in the Eternal City — a sort of Newport for the 
 Rome of the Caesars. 
 
 Behind the city and away from the shore rose a 
 mountain, wooded to the top and used as a kind of 
 suburban park by the Pompeians. This mountain 
 was known as La Somma. The inhabitants of the 
 city looked upon it with as little fear as the inhabi- 
 tants of St. Pierre looked upon the wooded slopes 
 and lake-crowned summit of Pelee. E'ot within the 
 memory of man had the mountain given the slight- 
 est sign of life. To be sure, certain wise men of 
 that day had said that it was the tomb of a long dead 
 volcano. But the Pompeians were quite too much 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 47 
 
 taken up with tlieir own business and pleasures to 
 concern themselves with the tombs of volcanoes or 
 the possibility of Vulcan's resurrection. Like the 
 people of St, Pierre, they went serenely about their 
 work, and on occasion ran up for a day to the sum- 
 mit of the ancient hill for recreation. 
 
 But in 63 A. D. the city with its neighbors was 
 almost destroyed by an earthquake, which threw 
 down the houses and wrecked the temples. The 
 people, however, were not to be frightened from the 
 city of their fathers by even so frightful a portent 
 as that. Humanity is much the same in all ages. 
 Galveston is visited by a wave that drowns thou- 
 sands of its inhabitants and ruins millions of prop- 
 erty. But scarcely are the dead buried when the 
 survivors set about to repair their losses on the same 
 spot. San Francisco is laid waste, only to be builded 
 again by its people. So, after this terrible visita- 
 tion, the fathers of Pompeii issued a decree that the 
 city should be restored in greater magnificence than 
 before. This work of restoration was well-nigh 
 completed, when one August day in 79 A. D., with 
 scarce a word of warning, the whole side of La 
 Somma blew out with great violence, and the cone 
 which is now known as Vesuvius was thrown up. 
 
 In this, the birth of the famous volcano, there 
 seems to have been little discharge of lava. Rivers 
 of boiling mud were thrown out, and these descend- 
 ing at great speed to the sea, overwhelmed the town 
 of Herculaneum. The fate of Pompeii, though no 
 Jess tragic, was different. That town was situated 
 
48 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 across a shallow basin some eight miles from the 
 volcano, and could not have been reached by a mud 
 or lava flow. It was nevertheless doomed. The 
 new-born volcano, leaping full grown from the 
 bosom of La Somma, seemed to exult in its terrible 
 power. A huge mushroom of smoke, laden with 
 ash and pumice-stone, was sent to a great height. 
 This was caught by the wind and bent over Pompeii 
 till day became night on the streets of the fated 
 city. For three days this pall shook down its ash 
 and stones, and when the wind shifted^ Pompeii was 
 buried. 
 
 But the destruction of the population was not so 
 complete as at St. Pierre, for whereas there were 
 twenty thousand inhabitants, it is estimated that not 
 more than two thousand lost their lives. Most of 
 the people fled at the first outbreak, and it is prob- 
 able that those who lost their lives were chiefly per- 
 sons returning during a lull in the volcanic storm. 
 
 So the city of Pompeii was removed from the 
 world's stage of action and sealed for nearly two 
 thousand years, to be unsealed again for our own 
 generation as a specimen of that long past life. At 
 first one wonders how it was that in a time of such 
 enlightenment as that of the Caesars the buried city 
 should have been lost to sight. But on second 
 thought it is not so strange. If St. Pierre were 
 buried now under twenty feet of ash, no one would 
 think of exhuming it. If people wished to dwell 
 there again they would do just what the later Ko- 
 mans did, build over the city, and leave its ashes in 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 49 
 
 peace. The interest in Pompeii to-daj, leaving 
 aside the nameless curiosity of the tourist, is archae- 
 ological; and that interest had no existence in 
 the centuries which immediately succeeded the age 
 of Pompeii. So the story of the city lapsed almost 
 into oblivion, until some hundred and fifty years 
 ago. In 1748 a peasant while digging happened 
 upon the walls of a ruined house. The government 
 at once took the matter of excavation in hand, and 
 to-day the most important part of the ancient city 
 has been laid bare. 
 
 The visitor to ISTaples whose time is limited has a 
 choice of excursions — Capri with its blue grotto, the 
 crater of Vesuvius, and Pompeii, any one of which, 
 taken at leisure, costs a day. We chose the last, 
 and having secured tickets from an up-town office, 
 set out for the station to catch the ten o'clock train. 
 But there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip 
 of the traveler in Italy. An evil genius prompted 
 us to inquire of a guard before the central station 
 where the train to Pompeii could be found. He 
 was impervious to English, French, or German, 
 which was the limit of our repertoire. But a native 
 guide, who understood some English — beware of the 
 tribe, all ye who travel in this land of parasites — 
 informed us that we were at the wrong place, and 
 offered to show us where our train was waiting. We 
 followed him^ only to learn on getting there that it 
 was the wrong place. Betracing our steps, we 
 4 
 
50 WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 
 
 found the train just gone. The next train landed 
 us in the roofless city just at noon of a July day. 
 
 Having secured the services of a licensed guide — 
 Pompeii is one of the few places where the traveler 
 really profits by the services of a guide — and paid 
 the lira and a half which the government exacts of 
 every visitor, we entered the famous ruins and 
 wandered through them for several hours with what 
 enjoyment the torrid heat permitted. Several 
 other Americans sought safety under the leadership 
 of our guide. One's fellow travelers are often as 
 interesting as the native attractions. There was a 
 young drummer in the party who had evidently 
 gotten a month's vacation, and had decided to "do 
 Europe" in that time. His first act, as self-ap- 
 pointed spokesman for the crowd, was to instruct the 
 guide: "Cut it short now. We don't want to be 
 peeping into every hole and pecking at every rock 
 like some of these tourists, and I've got to catch 
 that 1.30 train back to Rome." Now he had come 
 three thousand miles and spent large time and 
 money, partly to see Pompeii, which, too, was well 
 worth the seeing. Yet he purposed to devote just 
 forty-five minutes to the buried city. Fortunately 
 for some of the party who, though not given espec- 
 ially to rock pecking, preferred to linger a little in 
 the deserted streets, the guide said that he would 
 show the young man out when his time was up, and 
 return to the party; which he afterward did. 
 Science has made possible the instantaneous photo- 
 graph; but the human mind remains much like the 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 51 
 
 plates of Daguerre, it requires a time exposure. 
 We took our time, and dropped back into ancient 
 Pompeii while our drummer friend was rushing to 
 his engagement in modern Home. 
 
 The remarkable state of Pompeii's preservation 
 is due to the manner in which it was destroyed. It 
 was not burned. The hot ash and pumice falling 
 upon the roofs, which were tile supported by wooden 
 beams^ charred the wood work till it gave way and 
 the roofs fell in. The houses were then filled with 
 ash, and covered well over with the same deposit, — 
 sealed from sun and rain. So it came about that 
 when this ash was removed after eighteen hundred 
 years, the very fresco paintings on the walls of the 
 rooms were in almost a perfect state of preservation. 
 By the aid of these paintings one gets a glimpse into 
 the voluptuous life of that age. The better dwell- 
 ings had their walls decorated in real art, the fres- 
 coes of a room harmonizing with the use to which it 
 was put — fruits and meats and hunting scenes in 
 the dining-room, nymphs and fountains in the baths. 
 The Pompeian gentleman's whole house was an un- 
 premeditated art gallery, beginning sometimes, as in 
 the house of the Tragic Poet, with the mosaic floor 
 of the vestibule, and running through corridors and 
 rooms. One can but wonder what it cost to deco- 
 rate a house, for the work was that of artists and 
 not whitewashers. These Pompeian frescoes have a 
 peculiar interest in that they are the oldest speci- 
 mens of painting extant; they belong to the late 
 Greek school, and through them we get nearest to 
 
62 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 the long-lost work of the Greek masters. The 
 Pompeian was a connoisseur in art. Some of the 
 finest bronzes extant were found in these ruins; for 
 instance, the statuette known as ^^N^arcissus/' now 
 in the museum at ^N'aples, a perfect gem for pose 
 and proportion. 
 
 In the houses were found many things of inter- 
 est, which you may still see in the I^ational Mu- 
 seum. Quantities of bread were found in the bak- 
 eries, carbonized, but otherwise looking much as if 
 the cook had forgotten her oven last week. 
 Kneaded dough was also found in the tray. Plum 
 cake was not unknown to the epicure of that day, 
 as the charred remains of Pompeian pantries testify. 
 In the museum you may see eggs that were laid 
 about the time of Paul, and shells whose contents 
 were consumed nearly two thousand years ago; and 
 English walnuts that might well have been pulled 
 from the embers of your hearth on yesterday. 
 Bunches of grapes may be seen there too that were 
 intended for a Roman palate when our forefathers 
 were roaming wild along the shores of the Danube. 
 Prunes, pears, and plums were also on that ancient 
 menu, their blackened mummies perfectly pre- 
 served to this day. The remains of a roast pig were 
 found in a bakery. 
 
 Passing through the Street of Portune, we en- 
 tered the house where Glaucus lived in "The Last 
 Days of Pompeii." The dog still keeps guard at 
 the threshold, and by him you may see the inscrip- 
 tion Cave Canem, written in mosaics of black and 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 63 
 
 white. But no Glaucus comes out to welcome the 
 visitor, nor are the chambers ready for the guest. 
 The walls still bear the frescoes upon which Glaucus 
 and his friend the Epicure looked when thej sat at 
 feast in the long ago. The knives and forks and 
 spoons thej used may still be seen, and the viands 
 that were served on the sumptuous board. In the 
 court yard are the jars from which their wine was 
 drawn, and across the street is a wine booth with its 
 jars let into the counter, where doubtless they 
 stopped on their way from the baths. The flower 
 beds are traceable in the court. The leaden pipes 
 which supplied the house vdth water are in their 
 place and ready yet to serve. And down in the 
 museum at the entrance to the ruins you may pos- 
 sibly look upon the very bodies of Glaucus and his 
 friend, lying stark and stony as they were left when 
 the whirlwind from Vesuvius took away their breath 
 that summer day of 79 A. D. 
 
 ISlot far off is "The House of the Surgeon," so 
 called because of the surgical outfit found there — 
 knives, lancets, probes, singly and in cases, besides 
 many complicated instruments such as our surgeons 
 use to-day; and along with them bottles of drugs. 
 The art of Aesculapius was practised with evident 
 skill in Pompeii. How often the knocker of that 
 house sounded through the silent street in the nights 
 of long ago, calling the physician to the bedside of 
 some sufferer ! But all flesh is grass, and all the 
 glory of man is as the flower of grass. The grass 
 withereth and the flower fadeth away. The name- 
 
54 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 less sufferers are gone. The physician and his fame 
 are likewise lost in the darkness of oblivion. 
 
 At the farther extremity of the excavations and 
 next to Vesuvius is the Herculaneum Gate, where 
 legend says the Roman sentinel stood guard in the 
 face of death. And just beyond it is the street of 
 tombs, set on either side with marble monuments 
 in the niches of which were deposited the ashes of 
 the city's dead, before Pompeii became one common 
 tomb of her citizens. Just inside the gate is the 
 ^'House of Diomede/' one of the most pretentious 
 dwellings in all the city. It was built around a 
 quadrangular court, and had a cellar running like 
 a corridor the whole perimeter of the house. Here 
 was kept the wine; the long neck jars you may see 
 to-day, leaning against the walls, filled to the lip 
 with the all-pervading ash. Here too the shovel of 
 the excavator laid bare eighteen bodies of those who 
 fled thither for safety from the deadly breath of the 
 volcano. 
 
 The baths of Pompeii are remarkable. They 
 represent on a reduced scale the Roman bath, an 
 institution which played no small part in the life of 
 the later Roman. There is the cool chamber, where 
 the bather took off his street garb, and prepared for 
 exercise. The stone balls, resembling ten-pin balls, 
 mark it as a sort of bowling alley. Exercise over, 
 he entered a room heated by hot air passed through 
 hollow walls. He then proceeded to the plunge 
 bath, and to the massage. One comes close to his- 
 tory as one sets foot upon the marble steps of the 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 55 
 
 plunge bath, made smooth by the pressure of feet 
 that passed two thousand years ago. 
 
 With all his epicurean life, the Pompeian was 
 not without his religion. Indeed, if we may judge 
 from the temples to manifold deity that dot the 
 ruins, he was too liberal along these lines, having 
 almost reached the point at which Paul found the 
 Athenians. There are temples to Jupiter and 
 Apollo and Mercury and Hercules and Fortune. 
 Then there is a temple to Isis, the Egyptian deity, 
 which shows the presence of Oriental influence in 
 the city. 
 
 Passing down toward the exit, you turn aside to 
 the museum. Here are specimens of the two thou- 
 sand bodies exhumed. And what stories the stony 
 bodies tell. Here is a slave who lingered in the 
 service of his master too long, his servile station 
 indicated by the girdle about his waist. Here is an 
 old man with his iron-shod cane beside him; and 
 here is a cripple with a shortened limb. Eor them 
 the destroying storm was too swift. Here are a 
 mother and daughter in the same bed. Did the 
 daughter refuse to forsake an invalid mother even 
 in the face of death ? Here are the bodies of crimi- 
 nals found in their prison cell. Here is a young 
 man with knotted muscles, perhaps a gladiator. 
 And here is a child with its arms outstretched. 
 Their ears have been deaf these eighteen hundred 
 years, and their eyes have been sealed since that 
 terrible night descended upon them from Vesuvius. 
 
56 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 But as jou look "upon them, fancy builds about them 
 again the structure of that long-vanished life. 
 
 So lies Pompeii with its dead beside the blue 
 waters of the Mediterranean, wliile Vesuvius sends 
 up its intermittent cloud of smoke, black by day, and 
 red against the walls of night. And along the 
 crescent shore of the bay stretches N'aples, its 
 streets sprinkled anon with ashes from the volcano, 
 and its pavements trembling with repeated quakings 
 of the earth, while its people do not so much as lift 
 their eyes toward the smoking mountain. 
 
CHAPTEK V 
 
 RAMBIJES ABOUT ROME 
 
 The days of our stay in J^aples were ended all too 
 soon. But we left it with cheerful hearts, for the 
 City of Seven Hills was in prospect. A hurried 
 packing of grips on the last morning, a drive against 
 time to the station, a running connection with the 
 north-bound express, and we were off, bag and bag- 
 gage, for Eome. It was a hot day; the dust and 
 cinders almost unbearable; the accommodations 
 none too good. But we enjoyed the ride, for all 
 that. It was our first pretentious piece of conti- 
 nental travel, and its novelties diverted us from the 
 discomforts of the way. The cars on the continent 
 are divided into compartments, which you enter at 
 the side, with accommodation for four, eight, or 
 more, according to the class. Through trains, how- 
 ever, carry corridor cars, with a side passage the 
 length of the car. The "smokers" are usually more 
 numerous than the "non-smokers" on a European 
 train — a comment upon the use of the weed; though 
 the absence of cuspidors everywhere is note- 
 worthy — the European gentleman leaves the quid 
 to the peasant. There is also a compartment for 
 "women only," so that ladies may travel alone 
 without risk of exposure to unpleasant company. 
 Few trains furnish drinking water; that you pro- 
 
58 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 cure along the way at a cent a glass, ^or is there a 
 newsboy or fruit vender on the train. The con- 
 ductor does not take up tickets; they are handed to 
 the gate-keeper at the place of destination. If you 
 ride beyond the ticket Kmit you pay the extra fare 
 and a fine. 
 
 The roadbed is equal to any in America, but the 
 rolling stock, especially in Italy, is inferior to that 
 of our trunk lines. The engines look diminutive 
 and antiquated beside the machines which pull our 
 heavy freights and transcontinental flyers; but 
 some of them nevertheless have a speed of fifty 
 miles an hour. As no stock are allowed to roam, 
 the cowcatcher is unnecessary and is dispensed with; 
 but its absence makes the locomotive look like a 
 hairHpped woman. Every crossing has its guard- 
 ian, who stands like a sentry, \vith trumpet to warn 
 of the approaching train and flag to wave it the right 
 of way. And every station has a pretentious build- 
 ing, with attendants enough to see that the traveler 
 and the road both get their deserts. Accidents are 
 rare on the continent, not because trains run slower 
 than with us, but because every precaution is taken. 
 Moreover, the continental train keeps its schedule 
 promise. In two months of travel we were never 
 so much as an hour late. One fain puts up with a 
 little jolting if he may get there on time. 
 
 The country through which we passed en route to 
 Rome is one of remarkable fertility, considering its 
 mountainous nature. No such thing as wornout 
 fields in these long-tilled lands. That is an Ameri- 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 69 
 
 can coinage, corresponding to a fact in our economic 
 life. After three thousand years of use these lands 
 yield bountifully. And that, because the Italian 
 farmer cares for his land as well as for his crop. 
 The crop is the year's interest; the land is the prin- 
 cipal. We ran through countless acres of wheat, 
 rye, and oats, yellowing to the harvest. The reapers 
 were in the fields with their hooks. Think of har- 
 vesting a thousand acres with reap hooks; for that 
 was the only implement we saw along the entire 
 way, though steam threshers were not uncommon. 
 Poppies were a feature of the fields, blending with 
 the yellow grain or dyeing the stubble red with their 
 myriad blossoms. We were surprised to find, too, 
 a large acreage of Indian corn, for the European has 
 never taken to that cereal, and corn bread is not 
 offered on the table — the crop is evidently for the 
 barn. The ox is the favorite farm animal — a huge 
 white creature with horns like a Texas steer, form- 
 ing a picturesque feature of the landscape. On 
 this tour we had the privilege of seeing three months 
 of harvest. The season was closing when we left 
 home; we caught it at high tide in Italy, followed 
 it through Switzerland, Germany, France, England, 
 and saw it ebb out over the Scotch highlands. 
 
 As the sun was sinking to the western horizon we 
 turned the crest of the mountain, and began to glide 
 down toward the Eternal City. An ancient aque- 
 duct across the Campagna told us we were nearing 
 our destination, and as the shades of night settled 
 over the land we caught sight through the gathering 
 
60 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 gloom of the dome of St. Peter's indistinct against 
 the darkening skj. A few minutes of eager expect- 
 ancy, and we were in the city of the Caesars — 
 landed there by a panting locomotive. What would 
 the shade of the great Roman say to see his city thus 
 invaded ? 
 
 A short drive through the night and we were at 
 our stopping-place under the Pincio. It was most 
 delightful, this home of Professor Sicuro and his ex- 
 cellent wife. They had postponed their summer 
 outing at the request of common friends, in order to 
 receive us. Our host was a Greek by birth, an 
 Italian by long adoption, a scholar by training, a 
 gentleman by nature. His wife, an Italian lady, 
 and their niece, made up the family. French, 
 Italian, and English were spoken at table, besides 
 the native tongue of the host when he could find a 
 Grecian ear. So we entered Pome through hos- 
 pitable doors. 
 
 The day of our arrival was said by the thermom- 
 eter to be the hottest the city had experienced in 
 seventy years — and thermometers are not usually 
 prejudiced. At any rate, we were prepared to sup- 
 port the mercury in this case. Evidently, if we 
 were to do any sight-seeing it had to be done in the 
 early and later hours, when Apollo was not so busy 
 with his golden arrows. The Colosseum and the 
 Appian Way are not inviting with the mercury at 
 one hundred and four in the shade. One of our 
 first days we set aside for these, and made arrange- 
 ments with some cabmen to be at our door by five 
 
WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 61 
 
 o'clock in the morning. They were punctual; and 
 after a hasty breakfast of coffee and stale bread, we 
 set out at sunrise for a drive among some of the 
 world's most historic scenes. 
 
 Our route lay through the modern city, which has 
 gro^vn westward from the Eome of the Caesars. 
 Modern Rome boasts all the improvements of the 
 twentieth century — automobiles, electric lights, 
 cable cars, and many another thing that was not 
 dreamed of in Cicero's philosophy. But all these 
 we left behind as we dropped down between the 
 Quirinal and the Capitoline. Crossing the Via 
 ^Rationale and turning into the Street of Serpents, 
 we caught sight of the noblest ruin of antiquity, the 
 Colosseum. No picture of pen or pencil can do it 
 justice. It must be seen. Sacked by Vandals, 
 shaken by earthquakes, crumbled by time, quarried 
 for centuries, it still stands the most imposing struc- 
 ture of ancient times — one of the seven wonders of 
 the world. As we drove down to it towering there 
 against the background of cerulean sky, the morn- 
 ing sun brought out in lights and shadows the details 
 of the splendid pile. We alighted in its shadow, 
 passed under the massive arches along ways which 
 two thousand years ago were wont to be thronged 
 with merry crowds, and came into the arena. 
 Around us rose the ruins of the great amphitheater, 
 its ornate magnificence gone now, but majestic still, 
 like some mighty man who has risen out of life's 
 battle stripped and scarred, but commanding in his 
 very dignity. How must the Colosseum have 
 
62 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 looked to tlie gladiator when fifty thousaiid faces 
 were turned upon him from the now deserted slopes ; 
 when emperors and vestal virgins and senators and 
 the nobility of the world's then capital lent their 
 presence to the scene ? We climbed to the topmost 
 walls, and looked across. Ample need for lorgnettes 
 when society was on display there, for one's vis-a-vis 
 was a hundred yards away. The outer walls are 
 five feet thick at the top, and some of the stones 
 even in the highest tiers weigh many tons. How 
 many years the Colosseum was in building or how 
 many lives were worn out in raising its mighty walls, 
 history fails to tell. It is said that ninety thousand 
 captive Jews at one time worked upon it. 
 
 But the day grew on apace, and the Campagna 
 was before us. Leaving the Colosseum, we set out 
 for the Appian Way, passing under the arch which 
 the Emperor Constantino erected sixteen centuries 
 ago. Country wagons were coming into the 
 city as we drove out, bringing their produce to 
 market — fruits and vegetables, and mountains of 
 fragrant hay drawn by patient cattle. Out 
 toward the ramparts of ancient Rome we passed 
 the Baths of Caracalla. They were the most elab- 
 orate and luxurious of their day, being two hundred 
 and fifty yards long and half as wide, ornamented 
 with the best that art could furnish. Two of the 
 most famous statues extant were found here, the 
 Farnese Bull and the Farnese Hercules. A little 
 farther the Sebastian Gate lifted its scarred battle- 
 ments above the roadway. What history these tur- 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 63 
 
 rets have looked down upon! Their portals have 
 given passage to men of universal fame — Caesar 
 and Pompey, Cicero and Seneca, Paul and perhaps 
 Peter. Having passed the barrier, we were on the 
 Appian Way — most famous perhaps in the world. 
 It was begun some three hundred years before the 
 Christian era and gradually extended to the seaport 
 of Brundisium. It was the chief way of egress and 
 ingress to the city. Over it emperors passed on 
 their triumphal entries. Along its sides stood the 
 tombs of the great and opulent. It was the main 
 artery of Roman life. But now emperor and em- 
 pire are gone, the current of life has ebbed away, 
 and only ruins remain. Across the fields we could 
 see the broken arches of ancient aqueducts which 
 once brought water from the Alban mountains to 
 supply the city. And beneath the historic arches 
 Italian plowmen were turning the furrows with 
 stolid indifference. So does familiarity breed con- 
 tempt. 
 
 We stopped at the Catacombs of St. Calixtus, one 
 of those places of sepulture which honeycomb the 
 earth of this section, the burial places of the early 
 Christians. I^othing above ground indicates the 
 presence of the Catacombs except some modern 
 houses erected to serve the guardians of the place. 
 A monk in brown cassock and cord showed us 
 through a section of the tombs. Taking a lighted 
 taper and giving one to each of the party, he led the 
 way down a narrow flight of steps that dropped into 
 the earth. At once we were in Egyptian darkness, 
 
64 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 relieved only by the feeble flicker which our tapers 
 cast upon the gruesome walls. The voice of our 
 guide echoed weirdly through the sepulchral silence 
 of these invaded graves. As he held his taper aloft, 
 we could see the niches, tier on tier, hollowed into 
 the walls of the corridors for the reception of the 
 dead. In these niches the bodies were placed, and 
 marble slabs suitably inscribed closed the openings. 
 There are twelve miles of these passages. In time 
 of persecution the Christians took refuge here, and 
 here many of them suffered death at the hands of 
 their enemies, while not a few doubtless lost them- 
 selves in the mazes, and perished. Those who have 
 read ^^The Marble Faun" will recall the weird 
 picture which the author draws of Miriam wander- 
 ing in the Catacombs. Our guide pointed out the 
 tomb of the martyred St. Cecilia, containing an effigy 
 of the saint, and showed us the wasted mummies of 
 one or two early martyrs. But with these rare ex- 
 ceptions, the Catacombs are as empty as if Gabriel's 
 trump had sounded through the silent ways. Goths 
 and Vandals first sacked the Catacombs during the 
 siege of Eome in the early centuries, and afterward 
 the scattered bones of the saints were gathered and 
 deposited elsewhere. What undreamed changes a 
 thousand years can work. I^ero burned the Chris- 
 tians to light his orgies. His successors hunted 
 them to the death. But to-day Home is Christian, 
 and a statue of the ISTazarene's disciple crowns the 
 column which Trojan erected to perpetuate his own 
 glory. 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 65 
 
 Beside the Appian "Way stands a little churcli 
 founded upon legend. Over its portal are inscribed 
 the words ^^Domine quo vadis?'' Tradition sajs 
 that Peter, finding persecution too bitter in the 
 Eoman capital, fled from the city; but as he was 
 hastening along the way, Christ appeared. On the 
 saint's asking, ^^Domine quo vadis? — ^Master, 
 whither goest thou? — the Saviour replied that he 
 was on his way to Rome to endure persecution in the 
 apostle's stead. At this rebuke the fugitive turned 
 back to face his persecutors, and the Master 
 ascended again. The church w^as built to mark the 
 spot. We stopped and entered the place of wor- 
 ship. On the floor in front of the entrance is a 
 block of marble bearing the deep intaglio of two 
 feet. It is a copy of an original in San Sebastiano, 
 which original^ tradition says, is the stone from 
 which Christ ascended, the footprints being his last 
 upon earth. As we stood around the relic with no 
 too reverent curiosity, several of the faithful 
 turned in from the way, and kneeling kissed the 
 stone, crossing themselves and murmuring a morn- 
 ing prayer. 
 
 Turning back toward the city, we drove across 
 field to St. Paul's Without the Walls. By this time 
 the morning was well advanced, and that pervasive 
 silence which marks a summer noon was settling 
 over the land. The hot air quivered on the hills. 
 The birds had taken refuge in the hedges. A pedes- 
 trian sat in the shadow of a wall. An ox, over- 
 5 
 
66 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 come by heat, had fallen upon the way, and his 
 anxious owner was standing over him. Our drivers 
 ceased to urge their own steeds, and we jogged along 
 at a moderate gait. 
 
 Over the brow of a low hill we caught sight of the 
 great church, a rival of St. Peter's, sitting beside 
 the Tiber. The first impression is one of incon- 
 gruity. The cathedral seems out of place in the 
 landscape of a countryside, so far from anything of 
 similar proportions. But the visitor must remem- 
 ber that St. Paul's was not built as a place of wor- 
 ship for the people of its vicinity. It was built near 
 where tradition says St. Paul was beheaded, and is 
 a monument to the life and death of the great 
 apostle to the gentiles. It is a world shrine. To it 
 Eg}^t, England, and Russia have made their con- 
 tributions. You pass between the splendid granite 
 monoliths that bear up the portico on the Tiber 
 side, push back the padded curtain that closes the 
 entrance, and before you in the subdued light of the 
 sanctuary stretches the nave, one hundred and 
 thirty yards of marble floor polished like a mirror, 
 and on either side double aisles with double rows of 
 granite columns, eighty in number, above whose 
 capitals are the portraits of the popes in mosaic, a 
 long line from Peter to Leo XIII. The emptmess 
 and silence of the great basilica are oppressive. 
 We were alone in the vast expanse of marble 
 beauty, save for a monk who tended the altar and 
 a beggar who asked alms in the midst of this 
 splendor. 
 
WITH THE TOHEIST TIDE 67 
 
 Two miles and more througli the hills is the 
 Church of the Three Foimtains, hidden among the 
 eucalyptus trees. It marks the spot, says legend, 
 upon which St. Paul was executed. In it are pre- 
 served the stone pillar to which the apostle was 
 chained and the block on which his head was laid 
 for the axe. Here too are shown the three foun- 
 tains which sprang up when the martyr's head fell 
 to the earth and bounded away from the block. 
 You do not see the springs, to be sure, for the 
 attendant dips water from hidden sources with long 
 ladle, but many things must be taken on faith in 
 this world. The church is situated in a low, marshy 
 spot, made tenantable by the planting of eucalyptus 
 trees. We lingered under the pleasant shade, and 
 quenched our thirst at the fountain of cool water 
 that burst from the hillside. Looking out over the 
 ardent landscape, we could but wonder why the 
 Romans did not make way with their prisoner inside 
 the city that hot June day in the long ago. 
 
 Turning our faces once more toward the city, and 
 passing the spot where Peter and Paul took last 
 leave of each other, we came to the Ostian gate. 
 Just outside this gate is the Pyramid of Cestius; 
 but we had not come to see the Pyramid. Beyond 
 the gate we alighted and entered the Protestant 
 cemetery, which nestles close under the ancient ram- 
 parts amid stately cypress trees. Here are sleeping 
 some whose names the world has been imwilling to 
 forget. A marble slab marks the spot where Shel- 
 ley's heart was buried, and around it the violets are 
 
68 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 growing under the soft Italian sky. We plucked a 
 leaf for memory^s sake, and thought of the imperish- 
 able song which that heart gave to the world in the 
 few short years of its beating. How still it is now 
 under the shade of the trees. Just across the nar- 
 row walk is the resting-place of John Addington 
 Symonds, that cheerful spirit, who fought off death 
 till he had rendered a priceless service to the world 
 of letters. In a corner somewhat removed is the 
 grave of John Keats. The poor Italian sexton 
 showed the way, and thanked us for the proffered 
 penny. Little did he know what that spot means to 
 the lovers of English song. A modest monument 
 marks the last resting-place of the poet, and on it 
 are the well-known words, written by him who sleeps 
 under the sod, "Here lies one whose name was writ 
 in water.'' Beside him is his friend Severn. And 
 over their graves the pines are sobbing, while the 
 ivy keeps their memories green. Of the spot Shel- 
 ley said prophetically^ "It might make one in love 
 with death, to think that one should be buried in so 
 sweet a place." In this cemetery sleeps too Con- 
 stance Fenimore Woolson. Here they lie, far from 
 the lands which gave them birth. But it matters 
 little where the body rests; "To live in hearts we 
 leave behind is not to die.'' 
 
 Leaving the cemetery, we passed under the 
 shadow of the Palatine hill, where successive em- 
 perors had their palaces; where Cicero lived and 
 CataHne and Clodius and many a Roman Senator. 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 69 
 
 But the glory has departed from the famous hill, 
 and crumbling walls now cumber its slope. 
 
 Another day we went down into the Roman 
 Forum, just by the Palatine. We stood on the spot 
 from which Cicero hurled his oration against Cata- 
 line — and thereby unwittingly sinned against many 
 a modern schoolboy. We saw the spot where 
 Caesar fell. We walked in the house of the Vestal 
 Virgins. We passed over the site of Caesar's Ba- 
 silica, and saw the figures which the lazzaroni traced 
 in the still remaining pavement, playing at their 
 games till free corn should be distributed in the 
 streets. About the Forum were once temples to 
 Jove and Saturn and Concord and Castor. Eight 
 columns remain of the temple of Saturn and three 
 of the temple of Castor. All else is gone. The 
 very site of the Rostra has been with difficulty fij^ed. 
 One shuts one's eyes upon the waste places, while 
 imagination builds up again the teeming life which 
 animated them in the long ago. Is it possible that 
 men will some day mark the site of our Capitol by a 
 few crumbling walls and search in vain for traces 
 of the White House ? 
 
 Beside the Forum is the Mamertine prison — now 
 become a church. It is generally believed to be the 
 place where Paul was confined, and from which he 
 despatched the Epistles to Timothy. If so, he had 
 ample need of the cloak from Troas, for no ray of 
 light could find its way into that dungeon. There 
 is an upper and a lower dungeon, connected in early 
 times only by a manhole in the floor of the upper. 
 
TO WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 
 
 The prisoner was let down tlirougli this hole to await 
 the pleasure of his captors. Tradition, which flour- 
 ishes in ancient lands, says that both Peter and Paul 
 were confined here; and in support of the story 
 their fetters and the stone post to which they were 
 bound are shown in the lower dungeon. Here too 
 is the spring which leaped up at Peter's bidding 
 when the jailor was converted and water was needed 
 for the baptism. A stairway was cut to the lower 
 cell long after apostolic days; but the guide Avill 
 point out to you in the stone wall the intaglio of a 
 face, and tell you that it is where Peter struck his 
 head as he was being carried down. Surely he de- 
 served his symbolic name if this be true, hardheaded 
 man that he was. N^or are these the only names 
 that echo from the dark cells of the Mamertine. 
 Here perished the noble Gaul Vercingetorix, a sacri- 
 fice to just ambition and Caesar's power. This way 
 Jugurtha, the E^umidian king, passed from the stage 
 of action^ starved to death in utter darkness a hun- 
 dred years before the star of Bethlehem. Here the 
 confederates of Cataline met their fate. Here the 
 last defender of Jerusalem, Simon Bar Gioras, suf- 
 fered death while Titus was celebrating his triumph 
 on the Capitol above. And with them a great host 
 of those whose names have not survived the cen- 
 turies. The strata of history lie deep upon this 
 spot. When one stands in such a place, the dry 
 bones of the past are clothed with living flesh. 
 
 From here w^e climbed the steep ascent to the 
 Capitol, once the very pinnacle of the world. In 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 71 
 
 the center of the square is the splendid statue of 
 Marcus Aurelius. But the temple of Jupiter and 
 the other buildings which through successive ages 
 crowned this summit are no more. The very sites 
 are vanished. The visitor of to-day is drawn to the 
 Capitol by its art collection. This contains some of 
 the most precious sculpture extant — the Faun of 
 Praxiteles, from which Hawthorne got his concep- 
 tion of the "Marble Faun'' ; the Dying Gaul, a work 
 of great power; and the Venus of the Capitol. 
 
 We went to St. Peter's once, and then again to 
 see if we could comprehend its immensity. It is 
 scarcely possible to appreciate the size of the edifice, 
 so huge it is, and so intricate are the architectural 
 parts. One never sees it as a unit except at a dis- 
 tance too great for dimensions. There is a copper 
 ball above the dome, which we estimated from the 
 street to be about two feet in diameter. On climb- 
 ing to it we found that a man could stand upright 
 with three feet space above his head. It is an adage 
 that figures do not lie. Thomas Carlyle said that 
 nothing lies more than figures, unless it be facts. 
 Certainly in the case of St. Peter's this is true. The 
 cross over the high altar is ninety-five feet from the 
 floor. It does not look half the distance. The dome 
 has a pitch of three hundred and eight feet. Look- 
 ing up from within you would declare the figures 
 false. The church is so large and its walls so mas- 
 sive that changes of weather do not greatly affect 
 the temperature within. The day we visited it was 
 intensely hot; but the mercury stood below eighty 
 
72 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 within the portals. A cool draft of air was rushing 
 out of the door as if driven by a giant fan. 
 
 One can grow weary simply making the round of 
 the church. There are tombs and monuments in- 
 numerable to the popes, — Gregory of calendar 
 fame and the rest, — all in purest Italian marble, and 
 of heroic size. In one place are ten confessionals, 
 each devoted to the use of a separate language, so 
 that pilgrims from the ends of the earth may make 
 confession here in their several tongues. As we 
 passed among them penitents were seeking absolu- 
 tion. ^Not far away in the nave is the bronze statue 
 of St. Peter, one toe almost gone with the oscula- 
 tions of centuries. As we looked on, three aged 
 women came up, kissed the bronze, bowed their fore- 
 heads on it a moment, crossed themselves, and went 
 on their way, yielding place to a man of cultured 
 mien, who performed the same devotions. About 
 the high altar under Michael Angelo's dome the 
 ninety-five ever-burning lamps were sending up 
 their incense, and the intermittent chanting of the 
 priests in the choir was wafted through the forest of 
 mighty columns, ebbing out in vain endeavor to fill 
 the vast cathedral. 
 
 Leaving the church, we visited the galleries of the 
 Vatican, passing the rainbow-uniformed guard of 
 the Pope's possessions; for you must remember that 
 since the coming of Victor Emmanuel and United 
 Italy, the papal possessions are limited to St. Peter's 
 and the Vatican. And since that day no pope has 
 passed beyond these narrow limits of his temporal 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 73 
 
 power. A long flight of stone steps meandering 
 through the conglomerate pile of the Vatican brings 
 you at last to the Stanzas of Eaphael and the papal 
 collection. The world travels far to see a few square 
 yards of canvas consecrated by the touch of genius. 
 To only a few men in the flight of centuries is it 
 given to bring the world a new message. Such was 
 the service of this painter from Urbino, dead before 
 the blush of youth was off his cheek. And ever 
 since he laid down the brush artists have been in- 
 terpreting his message. In the Sistine Chapel are 
 Michael Angelo's marvelous frescoes. What a man- 
 ifold genius was this Elorentine, who after having 
 given up the brush for the chisel, suddenly took the 
 brush again in old age, and mounting to the scaffold, 
 threw across the Sistine ceiling the world's finest 
 frescoes. In the gallery of sculpture, to reach which 
 one makes almost a complete circuit of the church, 
 are the Laocoon and the Apollo Belvedere, by which 
 masterpieces the tourist tide flows steadily. 
 
 One of our rambles took us out beyond the 
 Tiber to the Janiculum Hill. It was a pleasant 
 morning. Day clouds drifted across the blue, and 
 zephyrs stirred the tree-tops. We drove leisurely 
 up the winding way, past statues and fountains, 
 to the crest of the hill. Beneath us was the 
 panorama of the city, St. Peter's to the left with the 
 park-crowned Pincio in the background, the Capi- 
 toline and Palatine to the right, the level Campagna 
 stretching away to the horizon, and through it all 
 Father Tiber flowing slowly to the sea. Beside us 
 
74 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 rose an heroic equestrian statue of Garibaldi, who 
 was to Italy what Bismarck was to Germany. Here 
 overlooking the capital city his country has erected 
 to his memory a monument that may be seen for 
 miles. One face of the pedestal bears a symbol of 
 America — Liberty supported by the winged Mer- 
 cury of commerce, and by Ceres bearing her sickle 
 and cornucopia. Coming down, we passed Tasso's 
 oak, under the branches of which the poet was wont 
 to sit in contemplation of the city, and where after- 
 ward Goethe loved to linger during his stay in 
 Rome. 
 
 Another ramble, through the Villa Borghese and 
 the Pincian park, brought new delights, and at its 
 conclusion an amusing experience. The cabman de- 
 manded more pay than the tariff justified. When 
 we offered him five and a half lire, he haughtily re- 
 fused it, and when we laid the money in his cab he 
 ran after us and returned it. We pocketed the 
 change, and told him he could call and get it at his 
 leisure. He climbed five flights of steps twice, the 
 last time bringing a policeman to adjust the differ- 
 ence; and finally got, in accordance with the offi- 
 cer's estimate, Rye cents less than he had been of- 
 fered at first. But the Italian hackman cannot exist 
 without excitement, and no doubt he was entirely 
 satisfied. 
 
 One can ramble for months in Home and see 
 something new every day. But the tourist must be 
 satisfied with visits to the most famous places if he 
 would see tlie treasures which Italy holds in her 
 other cities. 
 
CHAPTER YI 
 
 ZIGZAGGING TKROUGH ITALY 
 
 It was a beautiful morning when we took leave 
 of the Eternal City, en route for Pisa. The sun 
 was just rising over the distant hills as we ran out 
 along the Tiber, bade adieu to St. Paul's Without 
 the Walls, and took a last look at the majestic 
 dome of St. Peter's fading on the far horizon. 
 Surely no traveler ever left Rome without feeling 
 the incompleteness of his sojourn there, or without 
 the hope that some day he might be able to renew 
 his acquaintance with the city of the Caesars. One 
 leaves Rome with the purpose to study more thor- 
 oughly its wonderful history, and to come back one 
 of these days better able to appreciate the visible 
 vestiges of its great career. This is one of the re- 
 wards of travel — a desire for larger knowledge of 
 things. 
 
 Our route took us down the valley of the Tiber 
 almost to ancient Ostia, then turning north, it 
 skirted for hours the ever-changing coast of the 
 Mediterranean, whose waters that morning lay blue 
 as lapis lazuli under the Italian sky. Scarcely a 
 breath of air kissed the surface of the sea, and the 
 waves lapped the shore as lazily as though they, too, 
 had turned lazzaroni for the nonce. Wherever the 
 yellow shoals ran down beneath the waters there 
 
76 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 was a wonderful play of color, the deep blue of the 
 sea mingling with the light from the sands below, 
 and shading away iris-like into tints of emerald — 
 while the white crest of a wavelet trembled anon 
 like a pearl on the bosom of the sea. How steadily 
 the old earth held that Cleopatra cup in her hand 
 as she danced along her orbit among the stars. 
 
 We ran through a region of beautiful farm lands, 
 the fields rolling gently down to the very water's 
 edge. Here, too, they were ripe to the harvest, and 
 the reapers, men, women, and children, were gath- 
 ering the golden grain by handf uls with their quaint 
 reap hooks. It was a picture for Millet's brush — in 
 the background the shimmering blue waters, in the 
 foreground the yellow grain with the poppies be- 
 tween and the harvesters in their vari-colored garb. 
 The people are poor. Yet who can tell when a 
 Raphael may rise from among them to throw on 
 canvas these marvelous blendings of color, or a 
 Dante come to sing the song of a soul's deep sor- 
 rows. Eor the gifts of the gods, like the bolts of 
 Jove, fall in unexpected places. We left them at 
 their work with our blessings on them and their 
 country, the woman land, which Browning truly 
 says is loved by all male lands. They have their 
 work under their own sky, and we travelers have 
 ours in the great new world beyond the sunset, 
 whither we must return to the stern duties of life 
 when our season of sight-seeing is done. 
 
 l^oonday brought us to the little town of Pisa, 
 made famous by a tower that went wry and a man 
 
WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 77 
 
 that went right — the leaning campanile and Galileo 
 Galilei. It was in the cathedral here that Galileo 
 saw the swinging candelabrum, and conceived the 
 idea of measuring time by a pendulum. What deep 
 eyes Galileo and I^ewton had — through all ages men 
 had seen things swinging or falling, yet it remained 
 for these two men to see and apply the patent prin- 
 ciple of nature's object lesson. And for him who 
 has eyes deep enough she still has wonders to reveal. 
 We made our way on foot through the narrow 
 streets of the town, crossed the bridge that spans 
 the Arno, and came to the cathedral on the farther 
 edge of the place. We climbed the campanile, one 
 hundred and eighty-one feet of leaning marble, with 
 its stories of circling colonnades rising white against 
 the sky. ^N'orth of us the first sentinels of the Alps 
 were dimly visible through the haze. To the west 
 we could see the waters of the Mediterranean six 
 miles away. Boys that we were, we lay down among 
 the great bells that swing in the arches of the cam- 
 panile top, and fell asleep under the wooing of the 
 sea breeze. But we were roused by the tongues of 
 the bells before our siesta was done, and gladly 
 enough put more space between us and the clam- 
 orous bronze. Having got down, we made our way 
 through the beggars that besieged the door of the 
 cathedral, and stood under Galileo's lamp. We 
 passed thence to the baptistery, saw Pisano's famous 
 pulpit, which has preached more art than religion, 
 paid some soldos to hear the echo of the sexton's 
 voice tossed back and forth beneath the dome, and 
 
78 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 went out to purcliase a few souvenirs before our 
 train should leave. The campanile leans thirteen 
 feet from the perpendicular, its inclination probably 
 due to the settling of the foundation while the work 
 was in progress. Erom its leaning side Galileo 
 made his experiments. Besides this group of build- 
 ings, including the Campo Santo, there is little of 
 interest in Pisa for the transient tourist. The town, 
 once a power in the Italian peninsula and on the 
 Mediterranean, has now settled into a sleepy city of 
 some fifty thousand people, through which the 
 Arno flows softly, as if not to disturb the dreaming. 
 
 The late afternoon train took us to Florence, up 
 the Valley of the Arno. The road runs beside the 
 river all the way, with the foot-hills of the Ape- 
 nines falling back on either side. The lengthening- 
 shadows of evening lent a certain beauty to the land- 
 scape. Tall poplars by the riverside threw their 
 shadows across the soft meadows or found mellow 
 reflection from the surface of the water. Stately 
 cypress trees crowned the hills, and on the slopes 
 olive orchards gave a silver touch to the landscape. 
 As we neared Florence the scenes were enlivened by 
 bathers, who disported themselves in the river or 
 basked on the shoals. We reached our hotel on the 
 Piazza del Duomo as the shades of night were fall- 
 ing, and by the time we had refreshed ourselves with 
 some of Tuscany's vintage it was too late to do more 
 than mingle with the crowd upon the Mercato Vec- 
 chio, and listen to the music of the military band. 
 
 Florence is lovely for situation. To see it in its 
 
WITH THE TOITEIST TIDE 79 
 
 setting one must climb the heights of Eiesole. And 
 the very path by which you climb is rich in memo- 
 ries. Half way up is the ancient monastery of San 
 Domenico, the home of Era Giovanni, now known 
 to the world of art as Era Angelico. Here he lived 
 in obscurity till called down into the city to adorn 
 the cells of San Marco with those angel forms which 
 have made his name immortal. I^ot far away, half 
 hidden in the cypress trees, is the villa where Landor 
 spent many years. Beyond these historic spots, be- 
 yond the ruins of the old Roman fort and amphi- 
 theater, you come to the very summit of the hill, 
 commanding one of the loveliest panoramas in all 
 Italy. Away to the north the Apenines fall back 
 rank on rank. Across the broad valley to the south 
 rise the heights of San Miniato. To the west are 
 the hills of Lucca, through a gap of which flows the 
 river of Etruscan gold. In the very heart of this 
 '^^island valley of Avilion" lies Florence, shimmer- 
 ing in the sun. As far as the eye can reach the val- 
 ley is dotted with villas which peep out from their 
 slopes along the Arno. The slopes themselves are 
 touched with the silver of olive trees, and the broad 
 expanse of the valley lies green with the foliage of 
 orchards. Out of the midst of the city, like the 
 stamen from the heart of a lily, rises the Duomo, 
 and beside it Giotto's tower, the cathedral's cam- 
 panile. Within the circle of those hills have lived 
 Dante and Boccacio, Machiavelli and Michael An- 
 gelo, Galileo and Savonarola, Giotto and Raphael — 
 ,a galaxy of names such as few lands can boast. 
 
80 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 When we looked from our windows the first morn- 
 ing in Florence, it was upon that famous group of 
 buildings — the cathedral, the campanile, and the 
 Baptistery. Of these, when we were finally come 
 upon the Piazza, the "Shepherd's Tower" claimed 
 our first attention, rising in delicate beauty straight 
 up against the morning sky^ its marbles like the robe 
 of Aurora, the light and the dark with the pink be- 
 tween. This is Giotto's tower, built by the shepherd 
 boy whom one day six centuries ago Cimabue found 
 out on the Etruscan hills drawing one of his sheep 
 upon a stone, and brought home with him to become 
 a greater than himself, this Giotto, before Angelo 
 the master builder. ISTow, Giotto, when he designed 
 this structure, did not aspire to sky-scraping steeples, 
 but desired to build so that the tower should be in 
 harmony with its purpose, which purpose was to 
 bear the sacred chimes of the cathedral. And well 
 did the builder carry out his design, for the sacred- 
 ness of the tower is writ upon it in stone so clear 
 that he who runs may read. About the base, not 
 wholly beyond the reach of vandal hands, are twen- 
 ty-seven exquisite reliefs in marble, the story of the 
 Bible. The first and second represent the creation 
 of man and woman, "male and female created he 
 them"; and the third, their labor, "in the sweat of 
 thy face shalt thou eat bread"; the rest filling out 
 the sacred story. 
 
 So in the foundation of the tower was laid stone 
 by stone the wonderful story of man. In the panels 
 above, in lil^e manner^ are the seven beatitudes, the, 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 81 
 
 seven symbols of mercy, the seven elements of jus- 
 tice, and the seven sacraments; while higher still in 
 the niches are figures of patriarchs and prophets. 
 Above these rises the square tower in colors of white 
 and pink and black, its faces broken by pointed 
 windows, like pauses that make music of sound. 
 
 Where did the shepherd boy learn to mingle such 
 grace, beauty, and endurance? Eor you must re- 
 member as you look up at his tower that its founda- 
 tion was laid two hundred years before Columbus 
 set sail toward the sunset. Revolutions of Guelph 
 and Ghibelline have beat about its base, republics 
 have risen and fallen in its shadow, yet not one 
 stone has fallen, nor one flaw marred the beauty of 
 its walls. For more than half a millennium its 
 sweet-toned bells have wafted their music down over 
 the city, regardless of discord in the streets. 
 
 Beside it and even above it rises the cathedral, 
 the work of Arnolfo and Brunelleschi. It was this 
 dome of Brunelleschi which served Michael Angelo 
 as model when he was called to design a dome for 
 St. Peter's. "I shall build the sister larger," he 
 said, ^'but not more beautiful." And indeed the 
 dome of the Florence cathedral is second only to 
 that of St. Peter's. But the interior of the church 
 is cold and bare and uninviting. 
 
 In front of the cathedral is the Baptistery, San 
 
 Giovanni, an octagonal building of white and black 
 
 marble, so ancient that its age is unknown, and yet 
 
 in a perfect state of preservation. It probably 
 
 6 
 
82 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 dates from the sixth centiiry, and tradition says that 
 it superseded a temple to Mars upon the same spot. 
 "The Baptistery of Florence/' says Ruskin, "is the 
 last building raised on the earth by the descendants 
 of the workman taught by Daedalus; and the 
 Tower of Giotto is the loveliest of those raised on 
 earth under the inspiration of the men who lifted up 
 the tabernacle in the Avilderness. , Of living Greek 
 work there is none after the Florentine Baptistery; 
 of living Christian work, none so perfect as the 
 Tower of Giotto." This is the "bella Giovanni" of 
 which Dante sings, the place of his baptism, as it 
 has been of Florentine children since his day. Its 
 doors, when you draw near them in the rush and 
 bustle of the square, are worthy your attention. 
 That one especially which faces the cathedral is a 
 masterpiece. The ten panels of marvelous bas 
 relief which cover the double door all represent 
 Bible scenes. It was these doors that Michael 
 Angelo said "were worthy to be the gates of Para- 
 dise." Here they have stood for centuries, with 
 only an iron bar between them and the hackney 
 stand; and the shadow of the Florentine cabby falls 
 upon them as, all unconscious of their beauty, he 
 drives a bargain with the would-be customer. Nor 
 is the stranger always more appreciative, for as we 
 stood beside these "gates," a carriage of visitors 
 paused before them, but when the guide would have 
 explained, one of the company called out, "Drive on, 
 we'll take your word for it." 
 Beyond this central group of buildings you will 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 83 
 
 notice, if jou lift your eye, a great stern-faced 
 structure from which rises against the sky a square, 
 battlemented tower. It is the Palazzo Yecchio, the 
 senate house of the ancient Florentine Republic in 
 those early days when Venice and Genoa and Pisa 
 and Florence had each a government of its own. 
 What scenes of riot and crime that tower looked 
 down upon in the days of party feud! What 
 schemes for public and private preferment were 
 hatched within its walls ! 
 
 Here that despot Walter de Brienne was besieged 
 by the outraged citizens in 1342, and from it he was 
 banished when the wrath of the populace had been 
 wreaked upon his confederates. In the tower a 
 hundred and fifty years afterward Savonarola was 
 confined; from it he was led out to torture for con- 
 science' sake, and under its shadow his body was 
 burned in the public square when life had been 
 strangled out. IvTow that the Republic is gone and 
 the cause of Savonarola is history and Guelph and 
 Ghibelline are but names, the old palace has become 
 a museum where the footfall of the tourist alone 
 wakens the echoes. It is almost a desecration of 
 such spots to make of them mere tarrying places 
 on the highways of travel. N^ot many of those who 
 come and go through its portals know aught of the 
 history it has made. They look upon it with pass- 
 ing interest. 
 
 Near by is the Bargello, once the seat of the chief 
 criminal magistrate of the city, now become the 
 "E'ational Museum/' it too, like the Duomo and the 
 
84 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 Palazzo, the work of Arnolfo. What builders the 
 Florentines were in the tumultuous days of their 
 youth. But their palaces are empty now. You 
 may find in their chambers specimens of the work 
 of that departed life, as you may find mother-of- 
 pearl in the empty shell; but in both cases the 
 worker has laid down his tools. Here in the Bar- 
 gello you may see Donatello's Saint George and 
 John of Bologna's Winged Mercury and a varied 
 collection of art from other hands, Delia Robbia 
 among the rest; all come out of the Middle Ages. 
 Florence of to-day seems to content herself with the 
 works of her former sons. Her right hand has lost 
 its cunning, and the world turns aside to the ancient 
 city for the things she achieved in her youth. 
 
 But those achievements were well-nigh enough for 
 the life of one city, as you will feel when you turn 
 your steps — for you ought to do your sight-seeing on 
 foot in Florence — to another building near by the 
 Arno shore. It is Santa Croce Church, built some six 
 hundred years ago by Franciscan monks; known now 
 as the Westminster Abbey of Florence, where her 
 mightiest dead are buried. You pass the portal and 
 come first to a marble tomb which you recognize by 
 the bronze bust above it as that of Michael Angelo, 
 greatest of sculptors and architects. Above the 
 tomb are figures in heroic size by his pupils, repre- 
 senting architecture, painting, sculpture, and song, 
 in all of which the master excelled. The old man 
 died in Rome, and the Pope desired him to be buried 
 there, but the Florentines, jealous of their city's 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 85 
 
 fame, took away tlie body secretly and brought it 
 to rest here in the place of his nativity. 
 
 Over against this is the tomb of Galileo, with a 
 statue of the astronomer, telescope in hand, looking 
 steadfastly up to the heavens. The Florentines 
 honor him now whom in his day they were not wise 
 enough to understand. For when he proclaimed 
 that the earth moves about the sun, he was sternly 
 ordered to recant the heresy under pain of fire. 
 Tradition says that having recanted in the face of 
 inquisition, he muttered as he passed out, "But she 
 moves all the same." How long it has taken men 
 to learn that the facts of God are not affected by 
 the words of men! Galileo knew it, and Gamaliel 
 knew it of old. 
 
 Near these tombs is a monument to Dante, and on 
 the square before the church another of heroic size. 
 Him, too, the passionate Florentines drove out in 
 their partisan hate, and now they would honor. 
 Verily, we build the sepulchres of the prophets 
 which our fathers killed. But his ashes lie in quiet 
 Ravenna, which became to him a city of refuge 
 when his own city had cast him out; nor will Ba- 
 venna yield the precious dust to penitent Florence. 
 Beside the monument -to the poet is the tomb of 
 Machiavelli, greatest of Italian statesmen — 
 "greater than all eulogy,'^ says the Latin inscription. 
 
 One marvels how Florence could have wrought so 
 well in the serene spheres of art and science while 
 her streets resounded with internecine strife. Did 
 these old Florentines work, like the ancient 
 
86 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 Hebrews on the walls of Jerusalem, a sword in one 
 hand and a tool in the other? Or did they go 
 quietly about their work, as did Goethe and Schiller 
 in a later age, heedless of the strife which surged 
 about them? 
 
 Of all cities in the world Florence is the shrine 
 at which the lover of art fain tarries longest. Her 
 collection of paintings is unsurpassed. Besides her 
 two splendid galleries, the Uffizi and the Pitti, and 
 her Academy of Fine Arts, there are half a dozen 
 churches and monasteries whose art treasures would 
 distinguish any of our 'New World galleries. The 
 British government recently paid $375,000 for a 
 siQgle fair piece of Baphael's work. Reckoning by 
 that standard Florence is a multi-millionaire, for 
 her galleries contain, a score of Raphael's paintings, 
 among the best from his brush. Indeed, one can 
 hardly turn in the Uffizi or the Pitti without coming 
 upon a Titian or a Dolci or a Murillo or a Veronese 
 or a Correggio, or some work from a master hand. 
 
 Yet for all such a gallery offers, the time spent 
 there by the tourist often yields the poorest returns. 
 The traveler who comes to Florence without ever 
 having devoted an hour to the subject of art will 
 find only a wearisome repetition of colors on even 
 the walls of the Pitti palace. He walks through 
 five hundred years of art in an hour, and wonders 
 why it grows so irksome. Art demands time and 
 attention. It is not to be understood by the un- 
 trained eye; it is not to be mastered on a summer 
 day. One may study a single piece of art with una- 
 
"WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 87 
 
 bating pleasure for an entire morning, but to 
 attempt a gallery in tbat time is futile. And yet, 
 one morning when we were strolling through the 
 Academy, there passed us a company of sight-seers 
 who had already that day gone through the Uffizi 
 and the Pitti. What a marvel of composite im- 
 pression they must have carried away. It reminds 
 one of Jerome's confession that he got so accom- 
 plished in the "doing'' of picture galleries <that he 
 made a hundred yards in twenty-seven seconds. 
 Some of our own party congratulated themselves on 
 the fine weather; a shower might have driven them 
 into an art gallery, they said. 
 
 One must admit that there is a great sameness 
 in the subjects of Italian art. Madonnas, martyrs, 
 saints, and angels about sum up the list, with a 
 myth thrown in now and then by some daring spirit. 
 Saint Sebastian faces you at every turn, looking 
 ecstatically up to Heaven, quite heedless of the 
 arrows that bristle from his body almost as thick 
 as porcupine quills. And the pictures of the 
 J^ativity often appear comical to the irreverent eye. 
 The novice marvels that such crude conceptions 
 should be hung here for the admiration of men. 
 There, for instance, is one with the chubby babe 
 lying prone on its back in the middle of a grass-plot 
 robed in innocency, the mother and various other 
 females kneeling at a respectful distance, their 
 hands and eyes directed heavenward and impossible 
 expressions on their faces — the donkeys and demure 
 cows being the only members of that worshipful 
 
88 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 circle who pay the least attention to the child. 
 The whole thing is superlatively unnatural. But if 
 the spectator would appreciate the painting, he must 
 not judge it by the standards of to-day. He must 
 remember that this artist lived before the slogan of 
 "art for art's sake" had been sounded, and that his 
 aim was probably not to delight the eye, nor to ap- 
 peal to the aesthetic side of men; but rather to 
 teach that the birth at Bethlehem was so august 
 that in its presence woman's tenderness and 
 mother's love were sunk in reverence. Yonder too 
 is a three-storied picture of the last judgment, with 
 hell, earth, and heaven in ascending stages, the 
 blessed borne up by angel cohorts, and the damned 
 driven to the flames by winged devils with barbed 
 forks. A hideous, revolting scene altogether, with 
 poor perspective and worse proportion. But again 
 the critic must bear in mind that the painting came 
 out of an age which believed far more firmly than 
 does ours in the reality of all these things; the 
 artist's purpose was to preach a sermon rather than 
 to paint a picture. 
 
 The visitor to these Florentine galleries must 
 recollect that art is an expression of Hfe, and that 
 a history of art, such as the Uffizi gallery, is also in 
 a way the history of those centuries out of which it 
 has come. With this understanding, though one 
 may be ignorant of the technique of art, he may 
 spend many hours in the galleries of Florence, and 
 vdth ever-increasing admiration. He will under- 
 stand then the multiplied madonnas and martyrs. 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 89 
 
 He will see then how the church, by means of these 
 illuminated missals, instilled its teachings into the 
 minds of the masses — for well-nigh all Italian 
 painting of the Middle Ages was done in the shadow 
 of the church. He will be able then to read in the 
 deepening backgrounds of successive schools the 
 growing interest of men in the natural world about 
 them. 
 
 And besides all this, there will often come to the 
 wanderer in these halls the vision of forgotten pages 
 out of his own life history, as here and there the 
 chords of memory are touched. Yonder, for 
 instance, is "The Madonna of the Chair," a print of 
 which hung on the walls of mother's room in the 
 long ago, and there is "David," associated with a 
 much-thumbed book of schoolboy days. Here is 
 "Venus de Medici" her very self ^ with her hands so 
 awkwardly held, to whom we were first introduced 
 in the days of our Greek Mythology. And here is 
 the original little boy with the thorn in his 
 foot. They take us back over the sea of waters 
 and of time to the old home and the halo-circled 
 days. We dream before them for a moment, look- 
 ing through them to the departed years, and wake 
 up to pass on into the years when these days too 
 shall be halo-circled pictures hanging on memory's 
 walls. 
 
 And wandering through the galleries one often 
 finds unexpected lights thrown upon the individual 
 lives of the old masters. In the Ufiizi, for instance, 
 you see the finished work of men whose names are 
 
90 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 written high in the halls of fame, work so perfect 
 that it seems to have blossomed upon the canvas 
 without effort, like the beauty of the rose. But 
 down toward the end of the long corridor, if you will 
 take the trouble to find it, is a collection of sketches 
 by these masters, Michael Angelo, Titian, Raphael, 
 and the rest. And looking upon these studies in 
 pen and pencil, these chips from the master's work- 
 shop, you may learn the great lesson that labor is 
 the price which even genius must pay for profi- 
 ciency. There are countless figures which Raphael 
 drew and rejected in preparing his designs, labor 
 that had to be done before brush was touched to 
 canvas in execution of work which the world 
 admires to-day. What infinite toil lies behind 
 every painting that hangs on those walls! 
 
 But Florence is not all art and architecture. 
 Coming out of the Uffizi, you may stroll along the 
 Lungarno where Tito used to lounge in the days of 
 '^Romola,'' and where the Florentines of high and 
 low estate still delight to sun themselves. You may 
 cross Taddeo Gaddi's ancient bridge, the Ponte 
 Vecchio, and pause at leisure among the shops that 
 line it on either side — goldsmiths' shops they were 
 in the prosperous days of Cosimo I, now become 
 booths for gewgaws and fruits. You may pass on 
 to the house where Robert Browning and his wife 
 spent many happy years, the house of "Casa Guidi 
 Windows," Avith the Pitti Palace across the sloping 
 square, that palace which Lucca Pitti, a vain old 
 
WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 91 
 
 Florentine, so the story runs, ordered his architect 
 to build him here upon the heights, of such dimen- 
 sions that the palace of his rival Strozzi might be 
 set in its court — and was pauperized by his envy. 
 
 E'or should you fail to visit at some time the San 
 Lorenzo church, where, over the tombs of the 
 Medici, you will see the finest work from Michael 
 Angelo's chisel. And passing from there through 
 the Via Cavour, you will come to San Marco, 
 Savonarola's monastery, which, by virtue of this 
 monk's unquenchable zeal for righteousness, just 
 missed being the cradle of the Reformation. In 
 the Prior's cell are preserved a few sacred relics, his 
 crucifix and breviary, one of his sermons, his hair- 
 shirt, and a fragment from the pile on which his 
 body was burned that May day in 1498. 
 
 Then turning from the deeds of dead Florence, 
 you may loiter through the streets of the living city, 
 and lose yourself for the moment in their maze 
 while you drift with the sluggish tide or pause in an 
 eddy to watch it flow past. You may drop into a 
 restaurant at noon for a dish of macaroni fixed up 
 in true Italian style. You may drive various bar- 
 gains with shopkeepers for souvenirs, and always 
 carry away the feeling that the native got the best 
 of the bargain. You may take your excursions to 
 the heights of San Miniato and down the lovely 
 riverside park. It may be you will go further 
 afield to the convent of Vallombrosa nestling among 
 the great hills. 
 
92 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 And when tlie days of your sojourn have been 
 numbered, you will pack your knapsack, and turn 
 your back with reluctance upon the Lily of the 
 Arno, taking with you a memory of this Tuscan city 
 which will grow sweeter with the flight of years. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE ISLANB CITY 
 
 From Florence to Venice — from the citj of the 
 Medici to the city of the Doges. It is a highway of 
 tourist travel. And justly so, for the Lily of the 
 Arno and the Queen of the Adriatic are twin stars 
 in the heavens of Italian history, each incomplete 
 without the other, so like and yet so different; to 
 be taken together always if the traveler would un- 
 derstand them separate. 
 
 And the very way which binds them is in keep- 
 ing with these homes of art and history. It is a 
 panorama of scenic beauty, linked with names about 
 which are crystallized the stories of ages. Scarcely 
 is the valley of the Arno left behind, when you are 
 lost in the gorges of the Apenines. Up, up you 
 wind along the flanks of the ancient hills, ever 
 higher. The verdant valleys sink beneath you and 
 their rivers, shimmering like lines of light, slope 
 swiftly toward the plains. How quiet the valleys 
 lie there under the sun in the lap of the great moun- 
 tains, their solitude scarce disturbed by the 
 scream of the locomotive. You watch the gliding 
 landscape, till suddenly it is blotted out by the 
 Egyptian darkness of a tunnel. In a moment 
 another no less beautiful takes its place as you 
 emerge again. At one point the tunnels succeed 
 
94 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 each other so closely that the whole train is rarely 
 visible. One minute you are in the realm of gnome 
 and elf, the next you are in that of Ariel and the 
 spirits of the air, as the train rushes under the 
 mountains or leaps the chasms between. Crowning 
 a rocky height above you like an eagle's nest is the 
 lonely home of some brotherhood, the very ascent 
 to which would be penance enough for ordinary sins. 
 Ear down in the valley are the scattered huts of the 
 hardy mountaineer. And through the vista of the 
 hills you catch fleeting glimpse of the cities of the 
 plain. Panorama succeeds panorama, the shifted 
 scenes of a great stereoscope where E^ature herself 
 paints the slides. 
 
 So we climbed the slope of the Apenines on a 
 summer day. And so, when their crest was turned, 
 we glided down the other side along the lovely val- 
 ley of the Reno, passed out through the gap with its 
 sparkling waters, and came to Bologna as the slant 
 rays of the stooping sun began to project mountain 
 shadows across the northern plain. Half an hour 
 for refreshment in this historic city, and we were off 
 again, for the vision of Venice lured us — this time 
 athwart the level valley of the Po, with the hills 
 receding behind us. The sun was setting as the 
 pinnacles of Eerrara came into view, and as we 
 crossed the river the landscape was bathed in the 
 afterglow of sunset. Ancient Padua was wrapped 
 in the mantle of night as our train passed through 
 on its way to the island city of Italy. Einally 
 Mestre, the last station on the mainland, was left 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 95 
 
 behind, tlie train ran out upon tlie long viaduct, and 
 the lights of the distant city began to twinkle across 
 the dark waters. 
 
 We had crossed viaducts before, miles of them, 
 through monotonous wastes of water; commonplace 
 things they were, resting on vulgar piers of stone, 
 mere links in practical railroad lines. 'Not so with 
 this one. It is no convenience for commerce. It 
 is an ethereal thing, bridging the gulf between 
 reality and dreamland. It is -GiYe hundred years 
 long, for all you cross it in thirty minutes — one end 
 of it resting in the twentieth century and the other 
 in the fifteenth. From childhood we had cherished 
 a vision of Venice and her viaduct, but we never 
 thought of them as resting on anything material — 
 they were like the ISTew Jerusalem and Jacob's 
 ladder, such stuff as dreams are made of. And all 
 these years we had been looking forward to the 
 day when we might dream ourselves across tlie 
 sleepy lagoons into the mystic city. How we pored 
 over "Stones of Venice," as John Ruskin bore us on 
 the wings of imagination through the shadowy 
 aisles of St. Mark's Rest and down the long corri- 
 dors where the spirits of the Doges linger. What 
 happy hours we spent with Mr. Howells, studying 
 the wonderful lights and shades of "Venetian Life." 
 With Hopkinson Smith we had glided on noiseless 
 oar through entrancing "Gondola Days." With 
 Mrs. Oliphant we had drifted back to those distant 
 times when "The Makers of Venice" were building 
 up here on the shifting shoals of the Adriatic a 
 
96 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 mighty city. We had lived in Venice by anticipa- 
 tion, and got, so to speak, a bowing acquaintance 
 with her great men and their great deeds. But we 
 felt there was something wanting, for all the de- 
 scriptions of gifted pen. Our Venice lacked that 
 softness and color and glow and individuality which 
 come only to him who looks upon her with his own 
 eyes, who has seen the sun rise beyond the bay and 
 set beneath a lambent sky across the still lagoons, 
 who has watched the play of color on the marbles of 
 St. Mark's and the Doges' Palace, who has seen the 
 fishing boats turn home at evening through an 
 amber sea, who has mingled with the throng upon 
 the Piazza under a starlit sky, and drifted by night 
 through shadowy canals. The Venice of books is 
 like one of Turner's pictures with the colors left 
 out. All these years we had been looking at 
 reprints and sketches. I^ow we had come to see the 
 original in its subtle beauty. 
 
 With what eager feet we stepped from the train 
 and made our way through the crowd of the great 
 station. A dash of disappointment cooled our ardor 
 as a liveried collector, fresh from the twentieth 
 century, demanded our tickets at the gate, and the 
 same clamorous crowd of porters besieged us. 
 Finally^ with what dampened expectations we had 
 broken through their ranks, and were in the open 
 air. It was night. The stars twinkled overhead, 
 and before us halo-circled lights struggled through 
 the darkness, some of them dancing hither and 
 thither like will-o'-the-wisps. We paused and put 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 97 
 
 our luggage down on the pavement in bewilder- 
 ment. Where was the city? It was so still out 
 there in the semi-darkness. 'No roll of carriages 
 nor rush of electric cars nor clash of iron hoofs upon 
 the stone; only a noise out of the night as of the lazy 
 lapping of water. Our very nostrils got wind of a 
 new experience, for the damp air was laden with the 
 unmistakable odor of ebb-tides and salt and seaweed. 
 When our eyes were adjusted to the dark, we found 
 ourselves at the top of a long terrace of stone steps, 
 on the lowest of which water was washing, and 
 through the gloom we made out dimly the silhou- 
 ettes of gondolas riding like black swans upon the 
 soft-heaving water. One of them glided noiselessly 
 to the landing. We stepped into its yielding 
 bottom, while an aged oarsman with hooked stick 
 steadied the light craft to our service, holding out 
 his weather-beaten hat for a soldo. Our gondolier, 
 erect in the darkness behind us, bent to his oar. 
 The blade dipped noiselessly into the black water. 
 And we were taking our first gondola ride in 
 Venice. 
 
 Up the Grand Canal — the city's Broadway — ^we 
 passed, through a multitude of boats coming and 
 going as silently as our own. Marble palaces looked 
 down upon us from either side, the pallor of their 
 aged faces heightened by the soft light of the stars. 
 We were drifting through spirit-land, and these 
 were but the spectres of palaces, haunted by spirits 
 of the long-departed. Under the spell of Venice 
 7 
 
98 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 we had spanned the gulf of centuries. Here was 
 the Ca' d'Oro; and farther on the palaces of the 
 Contarini and Foscari, Doges of Venice in their day. 
 What intrigues were hatched behind those marble 
 doors ! What joys and sorrows found entrance 
 there ! For every lover of Venice knows the tragic 
 story of Doge Foscari, who, compelled by the Coun- 
 cil to pronounce sentence of banishment on his own 
 son, was found guilty of imbecility for shedding 
 tears, and deposed from his high office. Here in 
 this palace by the Grand Canal he died of broken 
 heart as the bells of San Marco announced the elec- 
 tion of his successor. And well-nigh every palace 
 beside these waters could tell its tragic story, were 
 the mute mouths of its marble statues gifted with 
 speech. 
 
 We passed under the wide span of the famous 
 Rialto, about which linger the ghosts of Shylock and 
 Portia, Antonio and his friend Bassanio. Then 
 suddenly the prow of our gondola turned about the 
 corner of an ancient palace, and we were lost in the 
 mazes of the side canals. Through the shadows of 
 houses that crowd the water-way, and under the 
 spectral arch of many a connecting bridge, we 
 glided. The swish of the gondolier's oar and the 
 lapping of water against walls and marble steps 
 served but to intensify the silence, which was 
 broken anon by the warning cry of the dusky oars- 
 man as he bent his prow about a corner or greeted a 
 fellow spectre on the noiseless way. And when we 
 had slipped through many a shadowy, spirit-haunted 
 
WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 99 
 
 aisle, our Charon brought his boat to rest beside the 
 Stygian shore, and we went up the damp stone steps 
 to dwell for a season in the city of our dreams. 
 
 Our moderate purse had forced us to turn from 
 the great hotels for lodging more in keeping with 
 our means — fortunately the delights of Venice do 
 not lie behind gilded doors. With the help of 
 Baedeker we had chosen the Deutsches Heim as a 
 moderate home, and had engaged our lodging in ad- 
 vance. The entrance, in a narrow way, is not 
 promising, and the winding three-story flight of 
 steps is even less so. But we were up at last, our 
 gondolier laboring after us with the luggage. Our 
 rooms were ready, and we were ready for our 
 rooms — it was just past noon when our train left 
 Florence, and the way had been fatiguing, for all its 
 beauty and interest. We entered and made a hasty 
 survey of our quarters. The tiled floor was polished. 
 The snowy bed was inviting with its canopy net — 
 and we were tempted to turn in at once, reserving 
 for the morrow any further acquaintance with the 
 island city. But a light through the curtained 
 windows attracted our attention, and we walked 
 across the room to take a peep from this eyrie out- 
 look. We put aside the curtains — and instantly 
 fatigue was forgotten. Before us lay altogether the 
 loveliest sight of Europe. The window opened 
 upon a balcony just beside the clock-tower of St. 
 Mark's. Before us, its angel-guarded arches on a 
 level with our windows, was the Church of San 
 Marco, touched into peculiar beauty at this hour by 
 
 LOFCi 
 
100 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 the mingled starlight and street-light, a forest of 
 graceful columns lifting upon their carved capitals 
 wave on wave of arches, from which the saints in 
 purest marble look down, and every wave inlaid 
 Avith mosaics of inexpressible beauty. Beyond the 
 church we caught first sight of the Doges' Palace, 
 its facade of marvelous beauty reflecting in soft 
 tones the light from the square below. And 
 farther yet, at the very bottom of the Piazzetta, two 
 columns stood up against the background of night, 
 on the capitals of which the winged lion of St. 
 Mark's and Saint Theodore stand guard at the gate- 
 way of Venice. Out between these gateless posts 
 we caught sight of shimmering waters and gondolas 
 coming and going. Beneath us was the Piazza of 
 St. Mark's, brilliant with a thousand lights and ani- 
 mate with a vast throng of people, who massed 
 about the band stand, or promenaded under the 
 colonnades, or regaled themselves at the sea of 
 tables before the restaurants, or joined the tide of 
 the Piazzetta. And around the festive scene the 
 facades of marble palaces, their lights and shadows 
 so softened by night as to make them seem pictures 
 painted on canvas walls. 
 
 Making a hasty toilet, we went do"wn to dip our 
 first taste of Venetian life from high tide of an 
 evening on St. Mark's Square. "We fell into the 
 circling current and drifted about the Piazza to the 
 music of a real Italian band. Dark-haired sig- 
 norinas looked out from under their lashes at us in 
 passing, and mademoiselles from beyond the Alps 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 101 
 
 coquetted with gaily uniformed officers in the free- 
 dom of the open air. It was a cosmopolitan crowd. 
 'Now a group passed talking in true American, and 
 now one speaking the German tongue. Greeks 
 were mingled with the throng, and dusky orientals 
 from the farther shores. Sailors too, whose ships 
 had put in here from the four corners of the globe. 
 We took seats at one of the tables before 
 Florian's — the Delmonico of Venice — and gave our 
 orders to the immaculate waiter, who speaks as 
 many tongues as he has fingers on a hand. While 
 we supped under a full night of stars, the gay 
 throng surged back and forth around us, and the air 
 was tremulous with music. This then was Ven- 
 ice — the romantic city, the dolce far niente Venice 
 of our dreams. Only, the half had never been told. 
 Time sped unheeded in this midsummer night's 
 dream, till the two bronze giants of the clock-tower 
 proclaimed the midnight hour. The crowd ebbed 
 out of the Piazza, and we climbed to our rooms to 
 dream over again these first hours of our stay in 
 Venice. 
 
 The next morning we were awakened by these 
 same giants, just as the level rays of the sun were 
 touching into fire the gilded globes on the pinnacles 
 of St. Mark's and kissing the marble lips of the 
 angels. We went down to take an early bath in the 
 soft air of this quasi-fairyland. The square was 
 almost deserted. On the Piazzetta under the 
 shadow of the Doges' Palace an artist was trying to 
 catch on canvas the sunrise tints of Venice, while 
 
102 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 a group of ragamuffins looked over Ms shoulder. 
 By tlie flagstaffs some tourists were feeding the 
 pigeons, which fluttered about the heads of their 
 passing patrons, or swept like an ashen cloud down 
 the broad expanse of the deserted square, or circled 
 in the sunlight about the pinnacles of the church, 
 or paused for a moment among the arches to preen 
 their iridescent plumage. The old vender of pop- 
 corn, as constant in his place as the bronze pedestals 
 of the flag-staffs and almost as ancient of mien, sat 
 with his basket of cornucopias ready to serve us as 
 long as our soldos and the appetites of the feathered 
 throng held out. Down beyond the columns of the 
 Piazzetta a few gondolas lay at their moorings, their 
 OAvners lounging on the quay or gossiping in groups 
 under the noble arches of the Liberia Vecchia. 
 
 But we turned from these to that central stone of 
 Venice, St. Mark's, rising in a vision of beauty out 
 of the level pavement of the square^ its multitudi- 
 nous tints of marble and porphyry and serpentine 
 mingling in the soft light of morning with the rich 
 colors of its mosaics; its arches mounting above 
 each other wave on wave; its four Greek horses 
 over the central portal, their necks arched in the 
 pride of strength and their nostrils distended; above 
 on a star-spangled field of blue the winged lion of 
 St. Mark — all this wealth of color and form framed 
 in by a filagree of palm-leaves and lilies and the 
 bending forms of angels; and over all, lifted high 
 against the azure background of sky, St. Mark him- 
 self, the aureole of apotheosis about his brow. 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 103 
 
 As we passed into the church — for now its bronze 
 portals were thrown open to the light of a new day 
 and to the morning worshiper — ^we read in illumi- 
 nated story in mosaics of the alcove arches the tra- 
 dition of St. Mark, how his body was rescued by 
 miracle from the land of the infidels, brought in 
 triumph across the sea, and received by worshipful 
 Venetians into their own city with solemn pageant. 
 Having got past the portal and the historic spot 
 where some seven centuries and more ago the fierce 
 Barbarossa was reconciled to the Pope kneeling here 
 upon the cold stones of St. Mark's rest, and our eyes 
 having become adjusted to the ^^dim, religious light'' 
 of the interior, we forgot the broken tiling of the 
 floor and the chilly air, in contemplation of the vision 
 of loveliness which dawned out of the semi-twilight. 
 Above there rose in mingled grace and strength 
 the vaults and arches and domes, a marvel of ham- 
 mered gold, for the ceiling of the cathedral is in- 
 laid with a solid mosaic of yellow glass. And into 
 this field of gold are wrought in mosaics of black 
 fragments of the sacred story, — ^not words, for this 
 work was done before the days of Gutenberg and 
 the printed page, but pictures, — a vast illuminated 
 manuscript which all could read, spread above the 
 worshiper. Here is the fourth chapter of Matthew, 
 the forty days in the wilderness, — the devil offering 
 stones to be made bread, the pinnacle of the temple, 
 the exceeding high mountain with the kingdoms of 
 the world, and after that the devil fleeing and angels 
 descending out of the golden sky. What child could 
 
104 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 not read in this wonderful picture-book the oft-told 
 story, while its mother bowed at the altar and 
 counted her rosary. Yonder, forming another line 
 of the illuminated page, is the triumphal entry into 
 Jerusalem, the Master upon the ass's colt, the people 
 spreading their garments in the way, while those 
 who follow and those who surge out of the city gates 
 cry hosanna ! — and the Pharisees look on with scowl- 
 ing faces. So, too, are written here the stories of 
 the Old Testament, the tablets of stone, the offering 
 of Abraham, the wrestling of Jacob, and the rest. 
 
 In and out beneath this intricate beauty the mod- 
 ern Venetian passes to his devotions, bows before 
 the altar all unconscious of this ^'holiness of 
 beauty," counts his rosary, murmurs his pater-nos- 
 ters, joins in the chanted Latin of the priests, and 
 when he has touched his fingers in the font, passes 
 out to a life as empty as his prayers. While we 
 lingered in the shadow of the arches an unkempt 
 woman entered, knelt upon the naked stone, and 
 covering her disheveled head mth her dirty shawl, 
 sought absolution for her sins. And when she had 
 dropped her copper coin into the treasury, she kissed 
 the foot of the bronze Christ, and her babe beside 
 her was lifted to dip its finger in the purifying 
 water and touch its lips to the common crucifijx. 
 The next moment they were lounging about the 
 pedestals of the marble columns without the door, 
 waiting to catch a chance centesimo. The tourist 
 with his red Baedeker passed unchallenged between 
 the worshiper and the altar; yea, for the compensa- 
 
WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 105 
 
 tion of half a lira he could enter the very holy of 
 holies. Guides from the square besieged us here in 
 the sanctuary, and offered to describe in an hour all 
 this art in stone and mosaic and pigment which for 
 six centuries the greatest masters had brought as 
 offerings to the altar of the church. How pitiful it 
 is ! The church which was built to consecrate the 
 resting-place of St. Mark, and upon which were lav- 
 ished centuries of devoted talent and wealth, is no 
 longer a place of worship, save to the few, but sim- 
 ply a museum of mosaics. 
 
 Beside San Marco stands the Ducal Palace, where 
 in the days of republican Venice the doge resided 
 and the Councils of State were held — the symbols 
 of temporal and spiritual power side by side here 
 on the city's square. We passed under the storied 
 arcades of sculptured marble, entered the gate beau- 
 tiful, the Porta della Carta, traversed the inner 
 court, and ascended the Scala dei Giganti, ^^the 
 finest open staircase in the world." At the head of 
 these stairs the doges were crowned in the presence 
 of the multitude assembled on the pavement below; 
 and here, according to tradition, upon this corona- 
 tion spot. Doge Faliero lost his head at the hands of 
 this same people when his treason had been uncov- 
 ered. We mounted the Golden Stair, and were in 
 the council chambers of the ancient republic. Here 
 is the Sala del Collegio, where diplomats of foreign 
 powers were presented to the Doge. Here is the 
 Senate Chamber, where the "Council of Kings" was 
 wont to assemble for its deliberations. And near by 
 
106 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 is the Chamber of the Council of Ten, that terrible 
 decemvirate, that Committee of Public Safety, who 
 "held authority over the other councils, and pri- 
 vately investigated and punished all state crimes" — 
 their methods hinted at by the Bocca di Leone^ the 
 Lion's Mouth in the wall, a sort of secret letter-box, 
 through whose narrow mouth slipped the fate of 
 many an unsuspecting citizen while he slept. What 
 dark deeds were wrought here in the name of jus- 
 tice and the public weal ! If you have a taste for un- 
 canny things, you may see the suffocating cells un- 
 der the leaden roof where political prisoners were 
 held, and in the niche of a wall the executioner's 
 block, and the Bridge of Sighs leading to the damp, 
 evil-smelling, rayless cells beyond, where the death 
 watch was kept till the silent waters of the canal 
 should close over the last act of the tragedy. 
 
 The lover of Venice can but compare her present 
 with her departed greatness. It is as if the Amazon 
 had turned back to her dolls. Once she sat here the 
 crowned queen of the Adriatic. Her fleets of mer- 
 chantmen whitened the inland sea and found their 
 way to the farthest haven. Her merchants were 
 princes — captains of industry in their day. She con- 
 trolled the trade of the Indies. Her ships of war 
 were a power on the Mediterranean and a warning to 
 her rivals. Her influence was felt throughout the 
 then western world. 
 
 It was a citizen of Venice, Marco Polo, who be- 
 came the first explorer. CatchiQg the spirit of his 
 city, he set out across the uncharted continent of 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 107 
 
 Asia, traveled the fabled realm of the great Khan, 
 and returned after many years to excite the minds 
 of his countrymen with those tales of marvel which 
 win our hearts to this latest day. It was this same 
 citizen of Venice who brought back to the western 
 world some six hundred years ago first vague news 
 of islands lying in the shoreless waters beyond the 
 land of the Mogul — the same islands that have 
 troubled Russia so grievously since. What a won- 
 derful story-teller this Marco must have been, and 
 how eagerly the Venetian youth must have gath- 
 ered about him to hear account of his wanderings — 
 for these were days when the earth was new. Look- 
 ing back from our age of globe-trotters, one almost 
 envies Marco and his fellows that flush of novelty 
 that made the stories glow. For what with kodak 
 and tourist chronicle the jungles of Africa, the 
 islands of the sea, and even the snow fields about 
 the poles have become commonplace. 
 
 But the sun of Venetian supremacy has long since 
 set. She thinks no more of war galleys, except on 
 the day of Italian assizes. Her fleets of trade have 
 sailed over the horizon rim for the last time. Her 
 merchant princes have given place to the keepers of 
 shops who offer mosaics and coral beads and post- 
 cards to the tourist. The descendants of Marco Polo 
 are content to linger about the Piazza or float in the 
 sluggish lagoons. Erom a world power Venice has 
 become a dreamy Italian city. 
 
 But for all her decadence in the world of com- 
 merce and diplomacy, the Island City still wields a 
 
108 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 power iiiiiqiie among the cities of tlie earth. She 
 holds a place undisputed in the realm of the beauti- 
 ful. And if you can claim citizenship in that realm, 
 you may still feel the sway of her sceptre. When 
 you have surrendered yourself to the loveliness of 
 St. Mark's and the Doges' Palace, when you have 
 reveled away many a morning there among marbles 
 and mosaics and immortal paintings — some day you 
 may take gondola at the foot of the Piazzetta for a 
 visit to other shrines. Gliding across the sunlit 
 water, the oar of your gondolier dripping liquid 
 diamonds at every stroke, you turn into the mouth 
 of the Grand Canal, pass the noble Church of the 
 Salute, and touch the western bank where the new 
 iron bridge spans the channel. Pass through the 
 group of children that are playing on the open 
 space, decline the service of guides, and enter the 
 building on the farther side. It is the Academy of 
 Fine Arts. Mount the double staircase that leads 
 up from the entrance, and you are in one of the 
 great galleries of mediaeval art. Dowti the long 
 corridor you catch sight of Titian's famous "As- 
 sumption," the Virgin borne up on a cloud of cher- 
 ubs, while the apostles look on in adoration. And 
 when you, too, have paid your homage, you may 
 pass on to Veronese's "Supper in the House of Levi" 
 and such works of Tintoretto and Carpaccio and 
 the rest as may be best to your liking, not forget- 
 ting the "Legend of Saint Ursula." And when you 
 have wandered at will through corridors and cabi- 
 nets full of paintings from a hundred gifted hands 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 109 
 
 and have come to ^^Tlie Presentation of the Virgin," 
 which Ruskin characterizes as ^^simply the most 
 stnpid and uninteresting picture ever painted by 
 Titian/' you may pass out through a side door to 
 your gondola. And now, if you are not already 
 weary with looking at pictures, have your oarsman 
 row you down the Canal past the palace where Rob- 
 ert Browning died — you will know it by the tablet 
 to his memory — and through the side canal to the 
 Scuola di San Rocco, ^^one of the three most pre- 
 cious buildings in Italy," according to Ruskin. It is 
 the sanctuary of Tintoretto, where ^^the little dyer," 
 as he was called in derision of his father's trade, 
 wrought for eighteen years, leaving behind him 
 pictures whose fame was to be fadeless. There 
 you will find the "Annunciation" and the "Cruci- 
 fixion" — among the greatest of all art — and with 
 them many other works from the same brush, — 
 hanging there in the dim light of the great halls, 
 their colors darkened by time and the damp touch 
 of the Venetian air, but their beauty and power 
 still unimpaired. You will linger long before 
 them there in the cool and quiet of Tintoretto's 
 retreat, to study the startled expression of the Vir- 
 gin as the awful announcement of her maternity is 
 m.ade to her by the angel messenger, to contemplate 
 the manifold pictures which the artist has blended 
 into his story of the Crucifixion. And when you have 
 left San Rocco with a promise to come back again, 
 you may drift at hazard through the cross canals, 
 visiting any of the ninety-nine churches of Venice 
 
110 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 that lie along the way, for every church of the Ve- 
 netian is a gallery of art. 
 
 Thus the days passed for us in the Island City 
 like the shifting scenes of a dream. We fell under 
 the dolce far niente spell of the city, and gave our- 
 selves up for hours together to idle dreaming while 
 the boatman drove his craft leisurely through the 
 lights and shadows of the sluggish water-ways. 
 While we lingered, the city put on her gala dress in 
 honor of the Festa del Redentore, which occurs on 
 the third Sunday in July. From lagoon and main- 
 land visitors poured in to be present at the great 
 annual festival. On Saturday evening preceding 
 the religious observance there was to be a secular 
 demonstration before the Church of the Redeemer 
 on the broad Guidecca Canal which separates the 
 island of that name from the city. A bridge of 
 boats had been thrown across the canal for the con- 
 venience of pedestrians, and over it as the evening 
 drew on a ceaseless stream of pleasure-seekers 
 poured back and forth between the Piazza and the 
 island. The water was alive with gondolas. When 
 the day had gone out in the west, and only the stars 
 and the rising moon shed their light upon the festal 
 scene, we went doAvn to the foot of the Piazzetta, en- 
 gaged the service of a stalwart young gondolier for 
 the evening, and set out across the bay to the festal 
 waters. It was a scene fit for Romeo and Juliet. 
 You would have thought a myriad iridescent fire- 
 flies were swarming in the summer night as the gon- 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 111 
 
 dolas glided through the gloom, their paper lanterns 
 dancing minuets with their reflection on the waters. 
 Every boat was headed toward one central point, the 
 brilliant Guidecca shore which gleamed through the 
 darkness across the star-spangled bay. The still 
 night air trembled with the ring of laughter and 
 with songs from various tongues. As we drew near 
 the illuminated shore we could make out words and 
 symbols written in points of light against the back- 
 ground of darkness. Then we were in the midst of 
 the festal scene. Craft of every land that could be 
 propelled by oar was there, and every one filled to 
 the gunwale with exuberant humanity. Here was 
 a family that had brought refreshments, and with 
 some friends was having a house party under the 
 open sky. Over yonder were gaily uniformed naval 
 officers come from the battleship at anchor in the 
 harbor. There was a crowd of bourgeois, men and 
 women, come from the lagoons in a clumsy old scow 
 of a boat, but just as happy as that select company 
 come from the Grand Canal with their own liveried 
 gondolier. In another boat a lover was basking in 
 the smiles of his dulcinea. And a bevy of fair 
 daughters of Columbia were reclining in their gon- 
 dola under the soft light of the lanterns. A great 
 float lit with a thousand tapers served as band-stand, 
 and from it strains of music were wafted over the 
 water. Suddenly in the midst of this merriment a 
 shout went up as a rocket shot across the sky. "With 
 one impulse every boat surged that way. Then for 
 the space of half an hour the sky was ablaze with 
 
112 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 pyroteclmic display, as if Vulcan had thrown against 
 the walls of heaven all the garnered sparks of his 
 anvil in challenge to Jove. Then the stars shone 
 down unrivaled once more, the band played out its 
 repertoire, and the throng melted away on the 
 waters. 
 
 But time passes, even in dreamy Venice, and the 
 hour of our departure was finally at hand. We 
 looked out upon St. Mark's and the Piazza for the 
 last time as the pigeons were flying down to their 
 morning meal and the level sun was lighting up 
 palace and pinnacle. Once more we passed down 
 the Grand Canal. As our train ran out upon the 
 long viaduct the white gulls at rest on the still la- 
 goon seemed suspended between two Italian skies. 
 Slowly the city melted back into the morning mists, 
 and the Venice of our dreams had become the 
 Venice of memory. 
 
CHAPTEK VIII 
 
 TO THE TOP OF THE WORLD 
 
 On boarding the train at Venice, we found the 
 second-class compartments, for which our tickets 
 called, all occupied. We took seats therefore in a 
 first-class compartment till our conductor should 
 come along to help us out. He did not put in his 
 appearance for more than an hour, and then in- 
 sisted on making us pay extra for first-class accom- 
 modation. This we flatly refused to do, despite the 
 swelling dignity of the uniform — it was no fault of 
 ours, we had asked for second-class, and could not 
 find it. There is nothing quite equal to the arro- 
 gant superiority of a European official, unless it be 
 the fabled jackdaw in peacock feathers. He fumed, 
 and we reiterated — all in French, except for the 
 American and Italian which boiled over now and 
 then in the course of controversy from excess of es- 
 caping steam. Not a soldo would we pay. "What ! 
 withstand the Italian railroad in the person of its 
 bedizened official ! He would keep our tickets then. 
 'Now, that would seem to an American the one thing 
 he ought to do under any circumstance. But in 
 Europe the conductor only examines the tickets; 
 they are taken up by the guard at the station where 
 you alight. It was important, therefore, for us to 
 8 
 
114 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 have the tickets in order to get through the station 
 ar Milan. We finally agreed to leave the matter to 
 the officials in that city. On reaching there, we 
 v^ent to the office of claims in the great station — the 
 American and the conductor. A man in uniform 
 mostly red looked over the desk as the conductor 
 gave his version of the affair, with interpolations 
 from the American by way of punctuation. The 
 official then asked if we refused to pay. To which 
 we replied in the affirmative. "Well," said he, "you 
 will have to give your name to the police, and the 
 Italian Government will sue you through its consul 
 in America.'' That was unexpected fame, and 
 cheaply bought at that. To be sued by a whole gov- 
 ernment, and for two dollars ! We readily assented 
 to that way of adjusting the difficulty, and the 
 blanks and police officer were forthcoming. Then 
 began the amusing part. The officer wanted to 
 know where and when we were born, what our 
 father's name was, where he resided, where we our- 
 selves were when we were at home. Our mind 
 lapsed into examinations for life insurance, and we 
 offered to tell what our grandparents died of, and 
 how often we had had the measles ; but those data did 
 not seem essential to the prospective suit. When 
 the blanks had been properly filled and witnebsed, we 
 received the tickets, and went on our way rejoicing. 
 So the tedium of travel is relieved by lively experi- 
 ences of the way. 
 
 The traveler stops at Milan for two things at 
 least — Da Vinci's "Last Supper" and the Cathe- 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 115 
 
 dral — two masterpieces of art in this, the most com- 
 mercial Italian city. Several centuries ago, while 
 Columbus was saiKng uncharted seas, Leonardo da 
 Vinci tarried a season here in the Lombard capital 
 under the tutelage of the Duke of Milan, and to 
 while away his time when not playing the flute at 
 court, he painted a picture for the Dominican monks 
 in the refectory of the little church, Santa Maria 
 delle Gracie. Time and the dampness of the wall 
 have almost obliterated the painter's work; yet 
 thousands turn aside yearly from the tourist tide to 
 pay their respects here to the fading masterpiece. 
 
 The Cathedral is one of the great churches of the 
 world. It is built of marble, roof and all, and 
 adorned with more than two thousand marble stat- 
 ues. The stone filagree work of the ceiling resem- 
 bles creamy lace as you view it from the nave of the 
 church. The largest stained glass windows in the 
 world are here, three of them, some sixty by twenty- 
 five feet. Each of them is divided into one hundred 
 and eight panels, every panel a picture in light from 
 the Bible — three hundred and twenty-four in all, 
 beginning with the dividing of light from darkness 
 and ending with the Ascension. The spectator 
 standing in the subdued light of the great church, 
 and looking up as the sunlight from without makes 
 them luminous, sees the sacred story unfolded upon 
 an illuminated scroll. 
 
 Having paid our devotions at these two shrines, 
 and gotten a bird's-eye view of the city, we set out by 
 early train for the top of the world. The St. 
 
116 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 Gothard road lays claim to some of the most beauti- 
 ful scenery of Europe, and some of the grandest. 
 It traverses the Piedmont, skirts Lake Como, runs 
 along the shores of Lugano lying like a mirror in 
 the mountains, and boldly plunges into the great 
 hills of Switzerland. It curves and recurves upon 
 itself as it climbs the rugged mountain sides, till 
 you can see it lying below you like the trail of a 
 great serpent. Then it plunges into the very bowels 
 of the granite hills. The longest tunnel in the 
 world, with one exception, is on this road, where it 
 passes under the St. Gothard Mountain, the back- 
 bone of the Lepontine Alps. 
 
 All the forenoon we climbed the southern slopes, 
 winding along the precipitous flanks of the giant 
 hills, higher and higher above the crystal waters of 
 the Ticino, which leaped and foamed among the 
 boulders on its way to the Italian lakes. Steadfastly 
 the road clung to the valley of the little river. Now 
 and then we caught sight of snow-fields lying about 
 the upper heights, and silver ribbons of water hang- 
 ing from precipices told of melting glaciers in the 
 fastnesses beyond. Over river and waterfall and 
 snow-crowned height poured the sunshine of a per- 
 fect day. At noon we sat down to lunch in the pala- 
 tial dining-car, with this changing panorama of min- 
 gled beauty and grandeur passing before our win- 
 dows. But just as lunch was served the train 
 plunged into the long timnel. Suddenly night had 
 descended upon us, and we were supping under elec- 
 tric lights. Think of eating with a mile of granite 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 117 
 
 mountain over your head. And what would the 
 gnomes and elfs have thought of such intrusion — if 
 thej had not long since been frightened away by the 
 thunder of dynamite. 
 
 It was fair and warm when we entered the moun- 
 tain on the southern side. When we came out on 
 the northern slope of the great watershed eight miles 
 beyond, it was cold and stormy. However, the 
 clouds broke away as we followed the winding Reuss. 
 And as we glided down toward the Swiss lakes the 
 sun lit up the distant mountain tops. We passed the 
 village of Altorf, where legend says Tell shot the 
 apple from his boy's head, and came to Eluellen by 
 the side of Lake Lucerne, where a steamer was wait- 
 ing to take us to the farther end of the lake, thirty 
 miles away. 
 
 Lake Lucerne nestles in the lap of the Bernese 
 Oberland, fourteen hundred feet above the sea, its 
 waters clear as crystal, fed by glaciers and melting 
 snows. It is in every sense the heart of Switzerland. 
 About it is gathered the wealth of her legend. It 
 was upon its shores and waves that William Tell 
 played his part in freeing the land from tyranny — 
 and to-day you may see upon its southern shore the 
 traditional Rutli where his comrades gathered by 
 night for covenant. It was its pleasant waters that 
 attracted ancient immigrants from out the sterile 
 north and induced them to take habitation in these 
 mountain valleys. To the north and west of it the 
 verdant hills melt away into fertile plains, while to 
 
118 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 the south and east tower, rim above rim, the giants 
 of the Alps. 
 
 It was in Lucerne, the busy little city at the west 
 end of the lake, that we established headquarters. 
 About its streets and on the waters of the lake we 
 spent our first days. We saw Thorwaldsen's famous 
 "Lion of Lucerne." We visited the Glacier Garden, 
 and saw the "glacier mills,'' huge pot-like holes some 
 ten or twenty feet across and as many deep, bored 
 into the solid rock during the age of ice. We passed 
 across the quaint old covered bridge, and studied 
 the still quainter paintings in its gabled roof. We 
 watched the swans and fish sporting where the 
 Keuss rushes in limpid current on its way to the 
 Ehine. We mingled Avith the cosmopolitan crowd 
 come hither from the ends of the earth for a sum- 
 mer holiday. 
 
 But the mountains wooed us, rising so majestic 
 across the lake, and at last we could resist them no 
 longer. Taking boat one morning at the quay, we 
 steamed out, and zigzagging from wharf to wharf 
 for tourist trafiic, came finally to shore where the 
 Aar runs down from the Sarner See to empty its 
 waters into the central lake. From this point one of 
 the most noted cogwheel roads in Switzerland leads 
 to the top of Mount Pilatus, seven thousand feet 
 above the sea. It is a marvel of engineering. Into 
 a bed of solid stone masonry the rails are anchored 
 with bolts of iron. Along the middle of the track 
 runs the cog-rail of wrought steel, the gradient of 
 which reaches forty-eight in places, and nowhere 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 119 
 
 sinks below nineteen degrees. Going up is almost 
 like climbing a rope hand over band. Across gorges, 
 through tunnels, and along the edge of dizzy preci- 
 pices the road runs with the same indifference, and 
 scales the impregnable walls of the mountain with 
 amazing confidence. 
 
 On this road we took the last stage of our journey 
 "to the top of the world." In ascending Pilatus 
 one traverses in two hours as many zones as would 
 be crossed in going from our sunny southern savan- 
 nahs to Arctic snows. We started in a semi-tropical 
 region where the vegetation in summer is luxurious. 
 On the moist lower slopes elder blossoms drooped 
 their heavy heads, dainty blue-bells swung lightly 
 in the breeze, the fireweed hung out its torch by the 
 wayside, the wild touch-me-not nodded to the pass- 
 er-by, and the yellow aster made a star-spangled 
 banner of the mountain side. The birch and the 
 maple lifted their crowns against the sky. But as 
 we climbed they all seemed to weary and drop be- 
 hind, yielding place to the hardy ox-eye daisy and 
 common clover and the red cedar. These, too, gave 
 out in their turn, and we came to where the pointed 
 fir droops its lichen-covered branches against the 
 weight of winter snows. These hardy children of 
 the upper slopes look like an army of soldiers as- 
 saulting a stronghold. Up the side of the mountain 
 they scramble, each one for himself, till they come 
 to a halt on the firing line where the avalanches 
 dispute the way. It is pathetic to see the remnant 
 of the front line holding their ground against all 
 
120 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 odds, like the old guard, scarred and depleted, but 
 unconquered still. When this battlefield was passed 
 we were in the undisputed realm of the snow. 
 Above us loomed the granite summit of the moun- 
 tain, bare as when it was first lifted out of the 
 bowels of the earth. Only here and there in the 
 sheltered places stunted cedars clung to the earth 
 like vines, conquered doubtless by the weight of 
 snow which lies upon them through the Alpine win- 
 ter. And where the melting snows had brought 
 down a deposit of soil, there were plots of grass 
 sprinkled with dwarf flowers. 
 
 The top of Pilatus offers perhaps the finest pan- 
 orama of the Alps to be seen from any accessible 
 spot. It was late afternoon when we reached the 
 hotel, which sits, so to speak^ in the saddle of the 
 mountain-top. Having secured rooms, we made 
 haste to climb the horn of the saddle, a peak of solid 
 stone rising like a tower some two hundred feet 
 above the final ridge. Above us then was a cloud- 
 flecked sky, and beneath us lay the world. A sea of 
 mountains rolled wave beyond wave to where snow- 
 clad peaks rose out of the horizon mists. There were 
 the Titlis and the Finsteraarhorn, the Wetterhorn 
 and the Silberhorn, and in the midst of them the 
 Jungfrau, majestic and radiant in her immaculate 
 robe. Clouds drifted across the sky so that as we 
 looked the great hills were now in sunshine and now 
 in shadow. Through the telescope one could exam- 
 ine at leisure the wonderful phenomena of the Alps. 
 There, for instance, some thirty miles away, lay a 
 
WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 121 
 
 great snowfield^ ending in a glacier below. Deep 
 crevasses were clearly visible in the surface of the 
 ice river, and from its lowest point a stream of 
 water, white like milk, leaped down the mountain- 
 side. Such is the birth of an Alpine river. The 
 stream we were watching ran down to the Reuss, 
 and into the Rhine, and on to the sea, to be taken to 
 the clouds again. So Nature does her work, lifting 
 up the waters, and pouring them upon the mountain- 
 tops, till the hills shall be level with the plains. 
 With poetic truth the laureate sang, 
 
 "The moanings of the homeless sea, 
 The sound of streams that swift or slow 
 Draw down Aeonian hills, and sow 
 The dust ot continents to be." 
 
 The telescope showed us, too, avalanches of stone 
 prized from their resting-place by the silent fingers 
 of the frost, and sent rushing down the mountain. 
 Eternal as the granite hills appear, they must finally 
 yield to these slow forces. Already the work is far 
 advanced in these newest mountains — for the Alps 
 are young, their shoulders not yet stooped with the 
 weight of years. Already about their feet is piled 
 high the debris which has been chiseled from their 
 crowns. Slowly the work goes on — you may stand all 
 day without seeing so much as one stone prized from 
 its resting-place. This is where a thousand years are 
 as a day — and then a day as a thousand years when 
 the avalanche descends. 
 
 We watched the sunset from Pilatus. There can 
 be few grander sights reserved for mortal eyes than 
 
122 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 sunset on a hundred miles of snowy mountains. 
 Slowly tlie fiery disk sank behind the serrate hori- 
 zon rim. Its rays lingered upon the summits long 
 after the light had faded from the quiet valleys; 
 but at last these, too, laid off their radiance, and 
 sank back one by one into the arms of night, the 
 drapery of their cloud-couch close drawn about 
 them. When the light had faded from the moun- 
 tains, we turned to watch the day go out in. the west. 
 And when the last hem of his golden robe had swept 
 through the portals where Hesperus stands guard, 
 we wrapped our cloaks about us, and went down 
 through the gathering gloom. But though the sun 
 was gone from our eyes, we knew that he still shone 
 upon our loved ones in western lands. So do love 
 and friendship broaden the borders of our world. 
 
 "The sun shall set, his light grow dim, 
 And nevermore may rise for me; 
 But some one that I love shall see 
 Him flame above the eastern rim." 
 
 We turned in early that night, despite the cheery 
 fire that burned inviting in the roomy lobby hearth, 
 for next morning w^e were to see sunrise from the 
 top of the Alps. It seemed scarcely ten minutes af- 
 ter we had fallen asleep when a great pounding on 
 the door advised us that it was time to get up. The 
 watch marked four. These mountains ought to be 
 handled by some labor union. They are entirely un- 
 reasonable in their demands upon old Sol, keeping 
 him at work seventeen hours out of every twenty- 
 four, Sundays included. But as no injunction could 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 123 
 
 be gotten out just then to stay proceedingSp there 
 was nothing to do but get up. We made a bold 
 start, shivered in the chill twilight, and crawled 
 back under cover. Those double blankets were as 
 comfortable as on a December morning. But a 
 printed placard on the wall requested the guests 
 ^^not to carry away the woolen bedclothes when 
 viewing the sunrise," so we had the alternative of 
 giving up the blankets or the sunrise. We had come 
 all the way up the mountain to see the latter, so we 
 made a partial toilet, buttoned our coats close about 
 us, and ventured out. Some hundred persons were 
 gathered on the summit, arrayed in all manner of 
 garb, shawls, raincoats, overcoats, and blankets (pre- 
 sumably their own). Some had foregone the morn- 
 ing toilet, some were collarless, some hatless, all 
 were shivering with cold. At last the great actor 
 appeared upon the stage, and took up his daily role, 
 all indifferent to this little audience that watched 
 him from a far-away gallery. When the first act 
 was over, we went down for refreshments. 
 
 After breakfast we clambered down the moun- 
 tain some three hundred feet below the hotel, and 
 indulged in a game of snowball as a novel sport for 
 July. Great banks of snow lay here in the gorges 
 under the warm sun, the remnants of many a vdnter 
 avalanche; while within a few feet the grass was 
 green and carpeted with Alpine flowers. We 
 counted eleven kinds of flowers in the space of a 
 man's handkerchief, modest little blossoms, cling- 
 ing close to the earth. While we gathered flowers 
 
124 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 hj the snoWj echoes of an Alp horn sounded across 
 the valley, and from the grassy slopes below came 
 the faint tinkling of bells like chimes from elfland. 
 
 Climbing across the mountain-side, we came upon 
 a typical mountaineer, blowing his long horn, the 
 one we had heard from the flower beds below. How 
 rich his German tongue was with local coloring — for 
 you must know that German is the native speech of 
 this region. He could roll an "r" all round the 
 mountain, and his gutturals were marvels of vocal 
 depth. He blew his horn till the echoes filled the 
 gorges. 'No doubt he was a lineal descendant of the 
 boy of the mountain to whom Mark Twain gave a 
 franc for "yodling,'' and then another to stop. As 
 we tarried by the bugler, two bright-eyed boys came 
 round the cliff from nowhere, and entered the con- 
 versation. On inquiry as to their health they as- 
 sured us it was perfect, that folks lived over a hun- 
 dred years here, in fact, some had to be thrown over 
 the mountain-side to get them out of the way. They 
 also informed us that in winter the people wrapped 
 up in skins and went into dens like bears. They 
 seemed to understand our humor, and always "went 
 us one better." Evidently we were not the first 
 tourists they had seen. But the day wore on, and 
 we were due that night in Lucerne to witness the 
 Schiller Eest, so we wished them pleasant dreams 
 next winter, and left them in their cloud-canopied 
 eyrie. 
 
 From the summit of Pilatus we saw the distant 
 snowfields and glaciers of the central Alps. A few 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 125 
 
 days afterward we packed our knapsacks and set out 
 to get acquainted with tliem face to face. The 
 Oberland Eailway skirts the western shore of Lake 
 Lucerne, passes the village of Alpnachstad nestling 
 by the mountain foot, runs by the waters of the Sar- 
 ner See^ and climbs the steep ascent of the Bernese 
 Oberland. The curious little engine struggles pain- 
 fully up the grades, pulling itself and its load along 
 by means of cogs. The valley drops below you till 
 the chalets look like tiny specks. Beside the track 
 is a sheer precipice, and across the valley the moun- 
 tain rises in a wall. But the valley itself is fertile 
 and verdant where the waters have brought down 
 the mountain-tops and spread them in life-giving 
 soil. In these retired places the Alpine shepherd has 
 found pasture for his flocks since first he claimed 
 the mountains for his own, and here he lives con- 
 tented under the shadow of the everlasting hills. 
 His tiled-roof home, weighted with stones against 
 the breath of winter blasts, forms a pretty contrast 
 with the surrounding green. 
 
 Slowly we crept up to the summit of the pass, and 
 stopped at the little station of Brunig to wait for the 
 second section of our train, which had been given to 
 another engine at the foot of the last grade. These 
 branch roads are never in a hurry. They run into 
 a station up in the fastnesses, and stop for half an 
 hour with no apparent reason. "Whether it is to af- 
 ford the tourist opportunity to enjoy the scenery or 
 the native a chance to enjoy his beer, we could never 
 quite decide. Finally our conductor called out "all 
 
126 AVITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 aboard" in three languages, and we began the de- 
 scent. Think of a conductor on a narrow gauge 
 speaking three languages. But you will find hotel 
 clerks and restaurant waiters all over the continent 
 with a smattering of languages — enough to serve 
 their purpose, if only they do not get off their beaten 
 track. 
 
 We passed down through a panorama of wonder- 
 ful beauty, and came to the shore of Lake Brienz. 
 A short ride across the lake and we were at Inter- 
 laken, so named because it lies between two lakes. 
 Interlaken subsists by virtue of the tourist. It is 
 all hotels. We walked out from the boat through a 
 double line of porters. The only two things Inter- 
 laken has to offer are mountain air and a view. As 
 we were all the picture of health, and as the clouds 
 threatened to shut out the view, we planned a visit 
 to the glacier. 
 
 The road to Grindelwald is cogwheel a great part 
 of the way. It runs up the gorge to where the 
 Black Lachinen from the Wetterhorn joins the 
 white Lachinen from the Jungf rau, takes the valley 
 of the former, and climbs toward the great glacier 
 that comes do^vn from the Schreckhoerner. It dodges 
 into tunnels here to avoid the avalanche, and is but- 
 tressed there against gravity. As we jolted along, a 
 native got aboard and took seat near us. We gath- 
 ered that he had traveled much — spent some months 
 on an Ohio farm. AVhen asked why he had not re- 
 mained in the 'New World, he pointed out of the win- 
 dow and uttered the fine old Grerman word '^Heim- 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 127 
 
 well." Outside, the cliff across the narrow valley 
 rose like a wall for a thousand feet, hung with silver 
 ribbons of falling water; and far above, when the 
 cloud rifts let the eye pass through, were the peaks 
 of eternal snow. We looked, and knew why it was 
 that the Swiss lad had come away from the land of 
 fortune. And you, too, reader, will know, if the 
 memories of your childhood are hung with pictures 
 of the great mountains. 
 
 Arrived at Grindelwald, there were yet three 
 miles of stony road between us and the foot of the 
 glacier — and it was raining. We had an umbrella 
 bought of a ISTeapolitan peddler one sunny day — a 
 most unmanageable piece of property. AYhen it was 
 down it refused to go up; and when it was up, it 
 refused to come down. Then again it would take a 
 sudden notion to shut up just when you were least 
 suspecting, and descend upon you like an extin- 
 guisher upon a candle. Determined to get the best 
 of it, we prized it up, wedged it in position^ and went 
 merrily on our way through the rain. But that um- 
 brella had been dyed in black ink, most of which it 
 succeeded in transferring to our clothes before we 
 were aware of its dark design, l^evertheless, push- 
 ing along on foot with what speed the way permit- 
 ted, we came to the last chalet about one o'clock. 
 In front of us, across the narrow valley, the ice 
 river sloped up through the clouds to the snowfields 
 that lie like ermine about the shoulders of the Horns 
 of Terror. 
 
 These frozen rivers move but slowly. Inch by 
 
128 WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 
 
 inch the ice is forced down the gorge by the weight 
 of the snow above, and as it reaches the valley it 
 melts, and the milky water flows away to the ocean, 
 free once more after centuries of bondage. I^ot far 
 from the lower terminus of the Grindelwald glacier 
 i.- a large stone inscribed to the memory of a cer- 
 tain Dr. Arnold Haller, who disappeared upon the 
 glacier some twenty-five years ago. A^ few days 
 after our visit the glacier yielded up a body that 
 was said to be his. The young men who had seen 
 him pass up the glacier were hoary with years when 
 the ice gave him up again. 
 
 And what mighty power there is in this creeping 
 ice. Where it descends into the valley are hills of 
 earth and stone, brought down from the heights and 
 dumped across the valley. Whatever falls into its 
 icy clutches must go with it, whether it be a thou- 
 sand tons of stone or the frail body of some luckless 
 climber. And the stones are turned to its service. 
 They are the plows and planes with which it fash- 
 ions and polishes its bed. Along the mountain- 
 side where the glacier once moved, the living rock 
 is worn as smooth as the surface of a polished floor, 
 with here and there deep furrows, where the glacier 
 has seized a boulder in its icy fingers and grooved 
 the granite mountain. 
 
 With the help of guide and rope and Alpine stock 
 and ice-axe, we managed to make some headway 
 upon the rugged back of the sluggish monster. In 
 climbing we came to a ^%lacier mill." The men of 
 the stone age must have gotten many a hint ivovx 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 129 
 
 Mother !N'ature. She used one stone to polish another, 
 and the primitive maiij passing that way, saw and ac- 
 cepted. Hence the smooth stone age. Between the 
 rough and the smooth stone — who can tell how many 
 centuries of human life lie hidden. Then ^N^ature 
 balanced one stone upon another, and pouring water 
 on the balanced stones, turned it on its pivot; and 
 behold ! the glacier mill — the first grist mill. 'Nsl- 
 ture takes out no patents, so the aboriginal man car- 
 ried away this suggestion too — luckily for us, who 
 else might still be munching acorns in hollow trees. 
 But it was as true in the glacial epoch as it is now, 
 that for want of corn mill-stones will grind each 
 other. And to-day you may find by the living gla- 
 cier or in the track of glaciers long departed, wells 
 sunk deep into the solid rock, where the turning 
 stones have buried themselves. 
 
 The formation of a glacier is worth notice in pass- 
 ing. Though it is the terminus of a snowfield, it is 
 itself transparent ice. At the foot of the Grinden- 
 wald glacier is a grotto which enterprising natives 
 dig into the ice every year for the delectation of 
 the tourist and the filling of their own purses. You 
 may penetrate the glacier thirty yards or more till 
 the ice is a hundred feet thick overhead; yet so 
 clear is it that you can read by the diffused sun- 
 light from above. 'Nor is this a case of the icicle 
 pendant from the snow-covered roof. The glacier 
 is not melted snow refrozen. "We recall a laboratory 
 experiment out of student days. An iron tube was 
 9 
 
130 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 filled with snow, a plunger was inserted, struck a 
 sharp blow with a hammer — and the result was a 
 rod of transparent ice. But here again Mother Na- 
 ture is the teacher. She fills a valley with snow, 
 hits it in her titanic way with a thousand million 
 tons of snow pressing steadily from above — and the 
 result is a glacier of crystal ice. 
 
 Hamerton has said that there are some things in 
 nature of which no adequate conception can be got- 
 ten without seeing them — notably the ocean, the 
 desert, flowing lava, and flowing ice. And yet you 
 do not see the ice flowing — only the marks of move- 
 ment. Where the frozen river bends round the 
 shoulder of a mountain or drops over a ledge, huge 
 crevasses open in the ice. And from the banks like 
 crevasses run out to the mid-stream, showing that in 
 the frozen as well as in the fluid river the current 
 lags along the shore. These crevasses make it ex- 
 tremely hazardous for the climber. They are fre- 
 quently bridged over and hidden by drifting snow, 
 becoming then treacherous pitfalls for the unwary. 
 And many a man and mountain creature, stepping 
 unwittingly upon this bridge, has been buried in a 
 frigid grave. 
 
 For two hours we climbed across the broken gla- 
 cier, along the brink of ice chasm, and over boulder- 
 strewn moraine, till we stood where the Mettenberg 
 divides the glacier, sending part of it do^vn the val- 
 ley of the Wetterhorn and part by the foot of the 
 Eiger. Before us the snowfield stretched up to the 
 clouds that veiled the Peaks of Terror. Around us 
 
WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 131 
 
 rose the sublimest mountains of the Oberland. Far 
 down in the valley we caught glimpses of the habita- 
 tions of men. About us was the silence that reigns 
 where the eagle soars. While we rested, the sun 
 broke through the mist for a moment, transforming 
 the heights beyond into dazzling glory. And when 
 the splendor had faded, we turned our faces toward 
 the plains. 
 
CHAPTEE IX 
 
 THE LAND OF THE KHINE 
 
 "He who does not know his way to the sea should 
 take a river for his guide/' said Plautus. And 
 though he know his way ever so well, the traveler 
 cannot do better than accept such guidance when he 
 comes to the river Rhine. It will take him through 
 some of Europe's most historic scenes; and if he 
 can but understand its language, will tell him stories 
 such as no cicerone ever dreamed. It is an ancient 
 guide, and in its long career has served such trav- 
 elers as Caesar and Charlemagne and Barbarossa and 
 Gustavus Adolphus and Napoleon. By its side have 
 wandered Schiller and Goethe and Heine and Mar- 
 tin Luther. It was under its guidance the storied 
 Siegfried set out in search of his bride in the mist- 
 veiled days of the Mbelungenlied. Since the time 
 when our ancient forefathers coming up the Danube 
 valley, poured into the land of the Rhine, the river 
 has played a conspicuous part in the affairs of men. 
 
 In point of size the Rhine is the third river of 
 Europe; but in wealth of history, legend, and scenic 
 loveliness it is easily first. It flows out of the halo- 
 circled hills of story, through the rugged mountains 
 of history, across the far-stretching plains of the 
 present. Its source is the top of the world, and its 
 home is the ocean. It springs from under Alpine 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 133 
 
 ice, and falls asleep in the warm meadows of the 
 l^etherlands. 'No river in all the world has a 
 more varied aspect or flows through more varied 
 scenes. "As the Rhine flows/' said Lord Lytton, "so 
 flows the national genius, by mountain and valley — ■ 
 the wildest solitude, the sudden spires of ancient 
 cities, the mouldering castle, the stately monastery, 
 the humble cot; grandeur and homeliness^ history 
 and superstition, truth and fable, succeeding one an- 
 other so as to blend into a whole." But he who 
 would hear the story of the famous river must stop 
 his ears for a time to the tumult of modern life, and 
 withdraw him from the rush of the tourist tide. 
 
 And how much better it is to submit to the guid- 
 ance of the river than to stem its current. Then you 
 are at one with your guide, and it grows upon you as 
 you go. It leads you subtly on through widening 
 vistas from revelation to revelation. You ride 
 through the river god's realm in his own triumphal 
 car, while the nymphs and sprites keep you com- 
 pany. There is ineffable lure in the rush of a 
 river. It is significant that our own Father of 
 Waters was first explored from its source to its 
 mouth. And no doubt good Father Marquette and 
 his adventurous countryman La Salle were led on to 
 fame by the charm of the flowing river as well as by 
 desire for discovery. Certainly romance will always 
 picture them drifting down the gentle slope of the 
 broad waters, past bosky Indian-haunted shores and 
 through sunny savannahs. 
 
 So we drifted down the course of Europe's most 
 
134 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 famous river, turning aside now and then for excur- 
 sion into tlie neighboring hills. We saw its birth in 
 the lap of the glacier, and watched the play of its 
 waters in their infancy. We saw it again where it 
 leaps over the Falls in exultant youth. Then again 
 we saw it in the soberness of mid-career, bearing on 
 its bosom the burdens of a people. And we watched 
 it as with slow, majestic movement it swept down to 
 its death in the ocean. And everywhere it is full of 
 charm, whether it be rushing over the boulders at 
 Schaffhausen, or breaking its way through the hills 
 of the Mederwald, or flowing through the plains of 
 the lowlands. 
 
 We arrived in Schaffhausen one day at noon, come 
 from the top of the world by way of Lucerne and 
 Zurich. You stop here to see the Falls of the Rhine, 
 which lie about a mile below the little town. We 
 tcok lodging at one of the modest hotels, and had 
 lunch before making explorations. As we sat at 
 table, the proprietor^ with that fine courtesy which 
 savored of the wayside inn, made his round through 
 the dining-hall saluting his guests and inquiring af- 
 ter their welfare. Luncheon over, we set out on a 
 tour of the town through its quaint narrow streets, 
 and soon came to the river. The current is swift as 
 a mill-race here, on its way to the Falls; and the 
 water is clear as crystal, filtered in the reservoir of 
 Lake Constance. In mid-stream a bath-house has 
 been erected by a swimming club, and as we came 
 up a company of some hundred boys were preparing 
 to take a plunge. It is an ideal place. The current 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 135 
 
 offers just enough resistance for a trial of wind and 
 muscle, while guards keep the swimmer from being 
 swept down by the stream. The eye could follow 
 every movement of the divers as they plunged into 
 the depths of the river. 
 
 We left the bathers to their sport, and took trol- 
 ley for the Falls, which are the most pretentious in 
 Europe. Their claim, however, must rest on beauty 
 and not grandeur, for they are tame beside Magara. 
 Our visit was timed for late afternoon, when the 
 western sun should be on the face of the Falls. 
 There are no rapids above, as at Magara; the river 
 slips down the sloping channel almost like liquid 
 glass, and then in three wild leaps clears the preci- 
 pice, and falls into the basin seventy feet below, a 
 hundred thousand cubic feet of foam flecked crystal 
 every second. In midstream, on the very edge of the 
 Falls, towers a huge rock, dividing the waters as 
 they rush over the precipice; and on the top of it is 
 an outlook for those who are bold enough to face the 
 seething waters at the foot of the Falls. We en- 
 gaged boat and oarsman, and pushed out into the 
 whirlpool. The little "maid of the mist" was tossed 
 on the churned waters like a storm-beaten leaf. The 
 billows dashed over our heads, and fell into the 
 water on the farther side. One false stroke of the 
 oar might have set us at the mercy of the mad river. 
 But thanks to a skilful oarsman and our stout water- 
 proofs, we came safe to the foot of the rock. In a 
 moment we were on its summit, with the river roar- 
 ing around us and leaping down the cataract beneath 
 
136 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 our feet. We were completely hemmed in by the 
 rushing water, here in the center of the Rhine Falls, 
 our faces w^ashed by the spray which the plunging 
 billows shook from their foamy manes, our ears 
 deafened beyond all comprehension by the multi- 
 tudinous noise of tumbling water. 
 
 We leaned over the edge of the rock and watched 
 the ever-changing phenomena. A column of mist 
 stood up a hundred feet out of the whirlpool, and the 
 sunbeams falling through it painted a rainbow upon 
 the brow of the cataract, which lingered till the sun 
 went down. There was a wonderful display of 
 colors in the falling water as the day drew to its 
 close — emerald and topaz and now and then a piece 
 of the bow of Iris — such colors as you see on the 
 brink of iSTiagara when the day is fair. One has a 
 sort of sympathy here with the fabled countryman 
 who wanted to wait till the river flowed past. You 
 cannot resist the feeling that the current will run 
 out, so great is the rush. But it goes on without 
 abating. The river was rushing just as wildly when 
 the men of the Stone Age speared trout at the foot 
 of the Falls; and should another stone age round 
 the cycle of human history, it will find the waters 
 rushing. 
 
 From Schaflhausen the Rhine runs due west as if 
 bent on seeing Paris. But at Basel, seventy miles 
 away, it suddenly decides to remain Teuton, and 
 turning due north, starts on its first long stretch to 
 the sea, gathering into its swelling bosom as it flows 
 the waters of Alsace, Lorraine, and Baden. Basel 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 137 
 
 and Strasburg are the most pretentious cities the 
 Ehine can boast in this period of its youth, though 
 almost every mile of its course is marked by some 
 historic spot. 
 
 But the traveler fain parts company with his 
 guide now and then for a day, to wander at his own 
 sweet will, with the understanding that they will 
 meet again at some appointed place. And so we 
 forewent the guidance of the river past these his- 
 toric scenes, promising to keep it more faithful com- 
 pany when we should meet again, and took train 
 through the picturesque Black Forest. This is a 
 great district of mountainous land lying here in the 
 broad bend of the Bhine, covered for the most part 
 with fir and cedar, whose evergreen foliage has no 
 doubt given name to this region. The Black Forest 
 is one of the most picturesque parts of the Father- 
 land. Its mountains are just rugged enough to lend 
 a sort of solemn beauty to the landscape, thereby of- 
 fering a pleasant variation from the majestic moun- 
 tains of the Oberland. Here mediaeval customs 
 have survived, and in these hills you may drop back 
 through the centuries as you mingle with a people 
 into the channels of whose life the tide of modern 
 times has scarcely yet begun to flow. The Emperor 
 encourages the people to hold to the ways of their 
 fathers and preserve the integrity of their provin- 
 cial life. But the coming of the Black Forest Hall- 
 way through the very heart of this region, and the 
 inevitable advent of the tourist, are beginning al- 
 ready to overcome even this influence; and the trav- 
 
138 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 eler of the next generation will look in vain for tlie 
 quaint people of the Black Forest, even as the trav- 
 eler of to-day looks in vain for William Tell and his 
 cross-bow in the land beyond the Rhine. 
 
 Our day's travel through this interesting region 
 brought us to the famous town of Heidelberg^ sit- 
 uated in the valley of the Neckar just above its junc- 
 tion with the Rhine. In passing through the coun- 
 try we often noticed towns lying apart from the line, 
 and wondered at this apparent divorce of vil- 
 lage and railroad, till we noticed that the towns were 
 beside streams, and remembered that the people and 
 the rivers of these ancient lands had entered into a 
 trades-union long before the advent of Stephenson 
 and his iron horse. In America the rivers were 
 there, but the white man and the iron horse took 
 possession of the country together. So the old and 
 the new land vary in their features. 
 
 Heidelberg was for five hundred years capital of 
 the Palatinate of the Rhine, and as such figured 
 prominently in the stormy story of the middle ages. 
 The tide of war swept over it time and again with 
 terrible devastation. It was besieged five times, 
 plundered three times, and reduced to ashes twice. 
 It is now a quiet provincial town in the duchy of 
 Eaden, famed for its castle and its university. The 
 latter is one of the oldest in Germany, having been 
 founded in 1386, a hundred years before Columbus 
 set sail. Its fame brings together every year stu- 
 dents from all parts of the world here upon the 
 banks of the I^eckar. They are conspicuous on the 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 139 
 
 streets by virtue of their gay corps caps, and the 
 sword marks on their faces, the precious trophies of 
 duels. You may still witness this lingering vestige 
 of a barbarous age if you are minded to walk across 
 the river to the "Mensur,'' where the contests are 
 held. The duel is entirely amicable, and without 
 danger to life. Vital parts of the body are pro- 
 tected, the sole aim of the combatant being to draw 
 blood from his opponent's face. The German stu- 
 dent prizes the wounds he receives in the contest 
 quite as highly as the American football player does 
 his scars. But these badges cannot be put away 
 with childish things, and so it comes about in Ger- 
 many, as it does everywhere^ that men bear through 
 life the marks of their early foolishness. 
 
 The castles of Heidelberg deserve renown. 
 "Next to the Alhambra of Granada,'' said Longfel- 
 low, "the castle of Heidelberg is the most magnifi- 
 cent ruin of the Middle Ages." Seven centuries 
 have passed since its foundation walls were laid — 
 centuries of storm and strife. The Thirty Years' 
 War surged about it again and again. The wars 
 of Louis XIV almost overwhelmed it. Yet it 
 stands to-day stately in its ruins. 
 
 Eor situation it is unsurpassed. It nestles on the 
 wooded slope of the Jettenbuhl. Behind it rise the 
 forest-crowned hills of the Giessberg and the Kaiser- 
 stuhl. Far beneath flows the ISTeckar through fer- 
 tile meadows shut in by walls of living green. The 
 ascent from the town is steep, so steep that modern 
 enterprise has seen fit to construct a funicular road 
 
140 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 for the convenience of the sightseer. But the wind- 
 ing way under overarching branches of gnarled 
 trees is a more fitting approach to the gray ruins. 
 And it impresses one, moreover, with the wisdom of 
 the old Counts Palatine; for in those days, when 
 siege guns were unknown, the steep ascent counted 
 for something in case of attack. 
 
 All the appointments of a feudal castle are still 
 visible. The great moat, forty or fifty feet wide 
 and as many deep, still surrounds the ruins, though 
 in it now are growing century-old oaks. You cross 
 the moat on a mole of earth where once the draw- 
 bridge hung, enter the giant gateway where the 
 portcullis hangs rusted in its sockets, pass the pon- 
 derous doors of the inner wall; and you have 
 stepped back into the Middle Ages. Round about 
 you rise the shattered walls of the ancient fortress, 
 from the niches of which look silently down the 
 martial heroes of those turbulent times. About the 
 turrets and embrasured battlements one easily 
 fancies knights flitting with noiseless armor. 
 Through court and hallway slip shadows of fair 
 ladies; you can almost hear the rustle of their robes. 
 The past becomes a reality once more for a moment 
 as you stand beside its tomb. The life which lies 
 buried under the debris of six centuries, once 
 more pours through the ancient ways. The knight 
 buckles on his armor at the call to arms, and sallies 
 forth amid the farewells of fair ladies and the flour- 
 ish of trumpet. The minstrel tunes the lyre to his 
 lay. Kniglit and maiden woo while the tourna- 
 
WITH THE TOHKIST TIDE 141 
 
 ments are run. The festal board is spread in the 
 spacious banquet hall, while wine and merriment 
 flow free. And even as you watch, some Sir Gala- 
 had sets forth in search of the Holy Grail. 
 
 The castle itself is a sort of chronicle, the several 
 parts having been built in successive centuries. 
 And they were built as if for all time. The walls 
 of the Thick Tower are twenty-three feet of solid 
 masonry — quite equal to the attack of the most 
 powerful modern gun. The magazine tower was 
 almost as massive, and its masonry was so firm that 
 when the French blew it up in 1689 it only split in 
 two; and the severed half of it lies to-day in the 
 moat below, a solid mass of masonry. Whatever 
 those old Electors did was of heroic proportions. In 
 one of the cellars is the Heidelberg Tun, an enor- 
 mous cask with a capacity of forty-nine thousand 
 gallons. On the top of this huge barrel, which is 
 reached by two flights of stairs, the Elector Theo- 
 dore and his court danced when the Tun was first 
 filled in 1751. Twice after that it was filled, and at 
 the festal board above the wine ran free as water, 
 pumped from the great reservoir as the toasts were 
 drunk. 
 
 But for more than two hundred years the frown- 
 ing palace has been untenanted, its walls shattered 
 by the shock of war, its rich ornament of figures 
 and frieze and filagree broken by ruthless hand and 
 marred by storm, its halls pillaged of their trophies 
 and its chambers robbed of their treasures. Those 
 who defended it so valiantly have passed out of its 
 
142 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 portals, and the Castle of Heidelberg remains a 
 crumbling witness on the highway of history. 
 
 When we had dreamed ourselves back down the 
 vista of centuries — and had waked again; when we 
 had lingered beside the soft-flowing river to watch 
 the children at play in its shallows, and had loitered 
 with the easy come and go of the people on the nar- 
 row streets; when we had drunk a full draught at 
 the fountain of inspiration which flows from Heidel- 
 berg and its castle, — like birds of passage we con- 
 tinued our journey, and alighted next at Frankfort- 
 on-the-Main. This is the famous Frankfort, the 
 ancient Free City, so conspicuous in the commercial 
 world of several centuries ago, and in which were 
 crowned a long line of emperors of that Holy 
 Koman Empire, which Voltaire said was so named 
 because it was neither holy nor Roman nor an em- 
 pire. But perhaps the greatest thing the city ever 
 did was to give to the world one of its four great 
 poets; for the Psalmist of old, in singing the praises 
 of his city, set down as chief thing that "this man 
 was born there." Frankfort was the birthplace of 
 Goethe. 
 
 The first place of interest, therefore, to which we 
 turned when we had found lodging, was the Goethe 
 House. If one must choose between paying his 
 devotions at the tomb of a great man and visiting the 
 scenes of his childhood, let him by all means choose 
 the latter. Let him see the things which went into 
 the making of that life, the rooms where the forma- 
 tive years were spent, the pictures, the books, the 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 143 
 
 playthings, the near and the distant view which day 
 after day greeted the eyes of the child. Let him 
 linger over these things rather than over the epi- 
 taph. And one may dwell to his heart's content 
 upon the scenes of Goethe's childhood. Eor in a 
 little street with a long name, Grosshirschgraben, 
 near the center of the town, stands the quaint house 
 where the greatest of Germans was born, much the 
 same within and without as it was in his day. If 
 you are minded to mount to the third story, under 
 the roof, the affable porter, who has served here a 
 quarter of a century and knows the Goethe legend 
 by heart, will show you the small back room where 
 the child was born, more dead than alive, as he tells 
 us long afterward in the story of his life, ^ear by 
 is the nursery with a rude pygmy theater which the 
 boy patched together out of goods boxes for the 
 puppet play with which he entertained his young 
 companions. His study and that of his father are 
 still shown, the books in place, his father's mostly 
 legal, the boy's mostly polite literature. And 
 through these things one gets a glimpse of the early 
 bent of the great German. In a corner of the study 
 b the desk at which he made his first serious effort 
 at authorship, "Goetz von Berlichingen," after his 
 first year in the University. He tells us that he 
 re-wrote the entire work; from which statement we 
 of lesser mould may take courage when our efforts 
 fail. Great men and small must pay in the same 
 coin at the counter of Fortune — the coin of labor. 
 Jlere at this same desk he began another work, 
 
144 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 which after sixty years he gave to the world as 
 "Faust." 
 
 On the walls of the horae are many pictures 
 representing Italian scenes and art, gathered by the 
 elder Goethe during his travels in that country. 
 They shed their quiet influence upon the boy day 
 after day as he went in and out, and that influence 
 is traceable through the man's whole life. It was 
 thirty-eight years before he could realize the cher- 
 ished visit to Mignon's land, but during all that time 
 he was preparing for it with a devotion and enthu- 
 siasm which made it an epoch in his life. 
 
 ^or must the mother of Goethe be forgotten in 
 summing up the early influences of his life. It is 
 almost without exception that great men have re- 
 markable mothers — whatever the fathers may be. 
 Frau Goethe must have been almost an ideal 
 mother. She was a brilliant woman, but her bril- 
 liancy illuminated her own home rather than social 
 coteries. She cared first of all for her household. 
 ]^or did she consider her duty done when the chil- 
 dren w^ere clothed and fed. She was a companion 
 to her boy, and through the touch of companionship 
 trained him. She would tell a story half through, 
 and leave it for the next time, when she led him to 
 repeat what she had told and to finish it in his own 
 way, thus training his memory and imagination. 
 Little wonder he became one of the most charming 
 story-tellers in all literature. 
 
 We tarried long about the haunts of the poet's 
 childhood. But surely it is worth while, if one can 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 145 
 
 get a glimpse of those things which went into the 
 making of so great a life. We visited the museum, 
 on the ground floor, where are to be seen sundry 
 relics, dropped on the wayside of life by their owner 
 as of no worth, but gathered here as priceless treas- 
 ures by a worshiping world — a jaunty hunting cap, 
 a letter worth fifteen hundred dollars, a lock of the 
 poet's hair and one of his friend Schiller's. 
 
 When our respects had been paid to the sacred 
 relics we bade adieu to the poet's home, and set out 
 toward the Roemer. As we were taking a near cut 
 through a narrow, questionable-looking street, we 
 heard a voice say, "I wouldn't go down dat way, 
 white-folks; you mought git hurt." We turned 
 instinctively, for our Southern ears knew that the 
 words were meant for us, and saw coming along the 
 street a real negro of the cottonfields, with a broad 
 smile on his face and a ragged coat on his back. 
 He had come over as a stowaway, and had gotten 
 stranded here. Evidently he was having a hard 
 time making his wants known to the German folk, 
 for he confessed himself penniless, and doubtless 
 could have lent a hearty amen to Dr. Johnson's 
 famous "yours impransus." We counted it well 
 worth a dime to hear there in the Erankfort streets 
 the voice of the cottonfields — it was like a message 
 from home — and we cheerfully transferred to him 
 some coin of the realm. 
 
 The Roemer, or Town Hall, is a quaint, historic 
 building. The Kaisersaal is perhaps the chief place 
 
 lO 
 
146 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 of interest to the sightseer. The floor, of inlaid 
 wood in various colors^ is polished till it reflects the 
 furniture. Entering, you step into felt slippers, and 
 slide around the hall looking at the portraits of em- 
 perors who sat upon the throne from the days of 
 Conrad I, in 912, to those of Franz II, in 1806, at 
 which latter date the "Holy Eoman Empire," long 
 since dead, was formally declared defunct. But 
 before its long decline it played a mighty part in the 
 history of Europe, counting among its emperors 
 Charlemagne and Barbarossa and Charles Y. 
 
 After one day, all too short, in the famous city, 
 we continued our journey to Mayence — renowned as 
 the birthplace of the printed book, — and renewed 
 acquaintance with our river guide. How majestic 
 he had grown in the interval of our absence, 
 swollen by the floods of the l^eckar and Main! 
 Here far away from his Alpine cradle, with the 
 strength of all the German hills gathered in his 
 bosom, he moves confidently down upon the moun- 
 tain ramparts that separate him from the sea. And 
 those ramparts! They are an ocean of motionless 
 billows, rolling away in a crescendo of beauty, their 
 slopes green to the summit with shimmering vine- 
 yards and undulating fields of grain, the earnest of 
 a harvest to be. 
 
 Taking ship at Mayence, we passed through this 
 profusion of beauty, and came to Bingen. What 
 schoolboy has not heard of "Bingen, fair Bingen on 
 the Rhine," and of the soldier of the legion that 
 "lay dying in Algiers"? But, alas! Algiers is 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 147 
 
 French, and Bingen is now German — the tragedy of 
 history. We climbed to the citadel, an ancient 
 castle dominating the city, and looked out. To the 
 south an undulating plain as far as the eye could 
 see. At our feet the ancient town asleep under its 
 red tiled roofs. To the west the broad waters of 
 the river losing themselves in the hills. On a 
 height across to the north a monument of victory, 
 commemorating the struggle of 1870, and the sol- 
 diers of the Rhineland who gave their lives upon the 
 battlefield. Beyond, the wooded plains of the 
 Niederwald. 
 
 Every hill that stoops to meet the river is clothed 
 with vines, the slopes so steep that walls are built 
 to buttress the terraces. The hillsides are hand- 
 fuls of earth held in place by the patient labor of 
 many generations. So closely do the terraces suc- 
 ceed each other that as one looks up from the river, 
 the slope seems a mass of masonry. The soil in 
 places is covered to a depth of three or four inches 
 with loose stones like chippings from a quarry — ^you 
 can thrust your hand among them. But beneath 
 this coat of mail the vine roots find ingredients 
 which in the warm sunshine are distilled into finest 
 wines. What strikes the American at first is the 
 prodigious amount of labor represented on those 
 slopes. But permanent work always pays, and that 
 is a lesson which America has yet to learn. The 
 walls are the heritage of centuries. The vintage is 
 every year. The people of the Khine have worked 
 for their children's children. 
 
148 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 Peaceful and happy lies the valley, as though its 
 quiet had never been disturbed by the shock of war. 
 One could imagine the course of history moving here 
 at an even tide, like the flow of the river, without 
 whirlpool or flood. But no fitter place than this 
 same quiet valley could be found for a monument 
 of strife. For fifteen hundred years, since first the 
 Frank and Roman joined in mortal struggle for 
 supremacy of the soil, the Rhine valley has echoed 
 to the din of war. Beneath vine and waving grain 
 and sloping sod sleep the countless legions of the 
 centuries. How deep the strata of history lie along 
 this valley. Scarcely had the Roman fixed himself 
 well in his hard-won possessions when hordes of Hun 
 and Vandal came like a black cloud out of the un- 
 known east, swept with devastating fury over the 
 land of the Rhine, and ushered in the weird twilight 
 of the Dark Ages. Half a millennium the gloom 
 hung over the land, till the age of chivalry and 
 feudalism began to dawn. What deeds were done 
 in those dim Ages unlit for us by pen of chronicler ! 
 A spear point, a broken shield long folded in the 
 earth, a mouldering skeleton, are all that remain to 
 tell us of these centuries. 
 
 But of the feudal age there remains many a mon- 
 ument beside the Rhine. From Bingen to Cologne 
 there is scarce a mountain summit but is crowned 
 with the ruins of a castle. This is the picturesque 
 Rhine, of which our poet might well have sung, 
 
 "The splendor falls on castle walls, 
 And snowy summits old in story." 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 149 
 
 And one could almost continue with the bard, 
 
 "Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying-, 
 Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying." 
 
 But the echoes of the bugles that blew about 
 those towers have been lost these many centuries in 
 the mountain gorges. The age which gave birth to 
 feudal life is numbered with the past. The once 
 princely palaces of the lords who dominated the 
 land of the Rhine have fallen into ruins, out of the 
 crumbling windows of which the ghost of the past 
 peers at you as through the eyeless sockets of a 
 bleaching skull. Here in these ancient highways 
 of human life one comes close to the garment of 
 history. Here by the tombs of the mighty one 
 feels the reality of the past. It is one thing to read 
 of the feudal system. It is another thing to walk 
 through the halls and upon the battlements where 
 feudalism dwelt; to step upon the drawbridge and 
 look down into the moat; to enter the keep in whose 
 donjon captives were left to pine away; to touch the 
 dented armor of horse and man, dented in the shock 
 of mortal combat; to stand beside the tombs of 
 those who wrote their names in bold sword strokes 
 upon the pages of history. 
 
 i^owhere in all the world are fact and fiction more 
 indissolubly blended than along the Rhine. Every 
 turn is haunted with tradition. By Bingen^ stand- 
 ing on a little island, is the Mouse Tower, so named, 
 says legend, because here a certain Bishop Hatto 
 was devoured by rats when he had refused his starv- 
 
150 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 ing people a sliare of his hoarded grain and had 
 burned up some who would have taken it by force. 
 Pursued by the grinning rodents, the Bishop fled 
 for safety to the island, only to be ferreted out in 
 his stronghold by the scourge of Providence, and 
 torn to pieces bit by bit. 
 
 Drifting down the river we came to the Lurlei 
 rock, grandest on the Rhine, made famous in music 
 and song by Mendelssohn and Heine. Here sat the 
 Syren in the evening glow, combing her golden hair 
 with a golden comb, while she sang a song which 
 lured the skippers to wreck on the rocks below. 
 Farther down are the twin castles of Sterrenberg 
 and Liebenstein, halo-circled with legend. Two 
 brothers fell in love with a foster sister. Heinrich 
 yielded the field to his brother, and went to the 
 Crusades. Conrad grew cold in the absence of 
 rivalry, went away, and returned with a foreign 
 bride. Heinrich would have slain him for his 
 perfidy, but the sister intervening, reconciled them, 
 and retired to a convent, leaving the brothers to live 
 amicably in neighboring castles. 
 
 Passing down this echo gallery of history, we cast 
 anchor for the night at the little village of Ober- 
 'lahnstein, where the river Lahn pours its waters into 
 Father Phine. The moonlight flooded mountain 
 and stream. Far above the town in the mist stood 
 a gray sentinel, the castle Lahneck. On the other 
 shore, crowning a wooded eminence, rose the noble 
 castle of Stolzenfels, restored to something of its 
 pristine beauty, and now become a summer resi- 
 
WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 151 
 
 dence of the Emperor. ^NText morning we climbed 
 to Lahneck, up the precipitous slope, through vine- 
 yards on either hand. The castle occupies a site 
 unsurpassed both for security and scenery. It 
 crowns the rocky point between two rivers. On the 
 one side flows the Rhine; on the other stretches the 
 Lahn valley. We entered the castle without chal- 
 lenge of sentry. The chains of the drawbridge 
 were rusted away, and the moat was filled with 
 flowers. 
 
 That day we passed Coblenz with Ehrenbreitstein 
 frowning down upon it from the farther shore. 
 The fortress has claimed a place in history since 
 first the adventurous Roman pitched his camp upon 
 the rock's ample brow. On its slope French and 
 German have struggled for supremacy. And 
 to-day it stands guard here over the German Rhine, 
 after Gibraltar one of the world's most impregnable 
 fortresses. As the day was waning toward evening, 
 we came to where the river breaks from among 
 the hillSj and starts on the last course of its career, 
 across the lowlands. To the north and falling back 
 from the water's edge are the Seven Mountains, the 
 farthest outposts of the hills. And upon the last 
 of these, standing guard at the gateway of the river, 
 is the stately ruin of the Drachenfels, its broken 
 battlements silhouetted against the sky. About it 
 legends cling like clouds. In a cave of the cliff 
 beneath the castle lived the fabled dragon, a terror 
 to all who passed, till Siegfried slew the monster 
 
152 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 and made himself invulnerable by batting in the 
 dragon's blood. 
 
 When we had watched the Drachenf els fade back 
 into the mists of distance, we turned and caught 
 sight of the twin spires of Cologne Cathedral dimly 
 visible in the haze ahead. And in due time we 
 landed in that city which, when it was but a Roman 
 settlement on the outskirts of the world, the Em- 
 peror Claudius named Colonia Agrippina in honor 
 of his wife. But this queen of the Rhine has long- 
 since forgotten her descent, and is now German to 
 the heart. The most conspicuous object of the 
 city is the cathedral, the finest specimen of Gothic 
 architecture in the world. Its towers rise five hun- 
 dred feet, and its length is four hundred. It was 
 six hundred years in building, and is a monument 
 first of all to the abiding faith of a people. Wars 
 might come, famine might fall upon the land, work- 
 men might lay down their chisels; but the work 
 went on, interrupted by the vicissitudes of time, 
 but not stopped. How many generations of work- 
 men succeeded each other on the scaffolding, father 
 yielding place to son in the sacred service. How 
 many a sacrifice of the widow's mite is sealed within 
 those walls. 
 
 Such was the land of the Rhine as we saw it on 
 a summer's holiday, a land rich in history and 
 legend, a land peerless in scenic loveliness — 
 
 "A blending- of all beauties; streams and dells, 
 
 Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, vine. 
 And chiefless castles breaking stern farewells 
 From gray but leafy walls where ruin dwells." 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 PARIS 
 
 We had been looking forward to the boulevards of 
 Paris ever since we left the canals of Venice. It 
 was with pleasant expectations, therefore, that we 
 boarded the through express at Cologne in the early 
 morning of the last day in July, and turned our 
 faces toward the French capital. Our route took 
 us by Aix-la-Chapelle, the capital, and burial place 
 of Charlemagne, through the bounds of Belgium, 
 into France. It was a pleasant journey, that run 
 from the Rhine to the Seine, for the train was one 
 of the finest on the continent, with corridor cars, 
 sumptuous dining saloons, and luxurious appoint- 
 ments. The passengers were a cosmopolitan crowd, 
 many of them bound for the great exposition then 
 open at Liege. The tedium of the run was broken 
 at the French border, where luggage had to pass in- 
 spection. Tobacco and matches are the contraband 
 of war on European borders. Knowing this, we 
 always traveled short on these commodities. We 
 were, therefore, soon done with, and had time to 
 watch our fellow-travelers. Every piece of lug- 
 gage, large and small, had to pass under the in- 
 spector's eye before it could receive its passport, a 
 chalk mark. But the examination was perfunctory 
 in most cases, the official asking only after the for- 
 
154 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 bidden articles. One man was relieved of some fine 
 cigars, against his vigorous protest. Another had 
 more matches than the government thought it safe 
 for him to travel with, and his load was lightened. 
 You may carry through about as many of these 
 articles as you can get into a vest pocket; that is, 
 about enough to keep a lover of the weed to the 
 end of the trip. The explanation is that the govern- 
 ment itself has a monopoly on these commodities. 
 
 When the sun was well down the western sky, the 
 spires of Paris began to appear upon the misty 
 horizon ahead, and in due time we drew into the 
 JSTorth station, and set foot on French soil. To be 
 in Paris! It was like realizing the scenes of 
 "Arabian Mghts." We took carriages, and drove 
 down across the city, past the triumphal arch of 
 Louis XIV, past JSTotre Dame, across the Seine, 
 slipping under its bridges; up through the Latin 
 Quarter, by the university, and do^vn the Boulevard 
 de Port Royal to our stopping place. We passed 
 the time of day with our cabman in his own ver- 
 nacular, and found that he had been doing business 
 in Paris for twenty-eight years — since long before 
 some of his passengers there were born. 'No 
 wonder he knew his city by heart — he had been 
 studying it nearly thirty years, and in that time 
 business had taken him doubtless into every alley 
 of the city. He was interesting and jovial withal, 
 spoke to every driver he passed on the streets, and 
 had a cheerful word for every one — a big-hearted 
 knight of the whip, who had come to know 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 155 
 
 humanity, touching it at so many angles every day. 
 And there are just five thousand of his brotherhood 
 driving their business in Paris to-day. 
 
 One would like to say something of our hostess in 
 the French capital — for it was a family pension at 
 which we stopped, and not a fashionable hotel — but 
 her fine modesty forbids. Her life had been spent 
 here, and she knew her Paris as the cabman knew 
 his. For years Americans had been almost con- 
 stant guests at her table; yet she was content to 
 speak her native tongue. She was consummate in 
 the difficult art of presiding at table; and it was a 
 proverb among her guests that she could divine your 
 needs, though she could not always understand your 
 speech. Michel the maid, grown gray in the service 
 of her mistress, seemed to imbibe some of the lat- 
 ter's gift, and presided beside your chair as effi- 
 ciently as the madame did at the head of the board. 
 The fare was such as one likes to revert to in epicu- 
 rean mood. 
 
 We were not slow to begin our sight-seeing. 
 Supper over, we turned out to see Paris by night. 
 I^ow, though slumming is as reprehensible abroad 
 as it is at home, the traveler who never does any 
 sight-seeing after nightfall misses much that is 
 worth while. It is one thing to see a city by day 
 and quite another to see it by night. There is one 
 city of the sunlight, and another of the electric 
 light. Being advised that life on the boulevards 
 would not be at its best till eleven in the evening, 
 we boarded a tram about ten o'clock, and started 
 
156 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 down to tlie Grand Boulevard, which is a broad busi- 
 ness avenue extending from the Place de la Eepub- 
 lique past the Grand Opera to the Church of the 
 Madeleine. Boarding a Paris street car is not so 
 easy as it might seem, especially in the evening 
 when all the city turns out for an airing. You 
 secure your number at a booth on the corner, and 
 await your turn. The car stops, the crowd rushes 
 up, the conductor calls out in fine running Erench 
 the numbers, getting his cue from the booth-keeper 
 as to his numerals. There may be fifty ahead of 
 yours, but you need not try to ^'butt in" after the 
 American fashion, for Erenchmen are versed in 
 ^^The Rights of Man.'' Perhaps one fifth of the 
 crowd find places, the tram is then "complete,'' for 
 a Paris tram is no omnibus with room always for 
 one more. The rest of the crowd wait or go on 
 foot. 
 
 The cars are usually double deckers, and the 
 upper deck is crowded of a summer evening, because 
 the view is better and the breeze fresher. We 
 finally managed to get upstairs seats, and so went 
 do^vn across the city under electric lights. A ride 
 of several miles brought us to the Grand Boulevard. 
 It is a river of light, a milky way across the starlit 
 expanse of the great city. And in that way a 
 stream of humanity pours back and forth till long 
 past the small hours of the morning, some in 
 tatters of poverty and some in flounces of silk, some 
 with pinched faces and some with the bloom of 
 youth, some with despair in their eyes and some 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 157 
 
 with joy, some in innocence and some under the 
 stamp of sin — for the Grand Boulevard brooks no 
 exclusiveness of caste. We alighted and joined the 
 throng. The restaurants were doing a driving 
 business, pavements filled to the curbstone with the 
 overflow of customers; and all in a flood of light. 
 Men and Avomen, old and young, from the ends of 
 the earth, sat and drank at the tables, and went on 
 their ways. Anything that was ever poured down 
 a human throat in the form of beverage was on tap, 
 from carbonated water to absinthe — no prohibition 
 there. 
 
 As we sat at the tables an old man with wizen 
 face came among them, hunting under them and 
 hooking out with his crooked cane the stumps of 
 cigars and cigarettes, for all the world like a starved 
 cur hunting crumbs. What he found he stuffed 
 into a pocket of his grimy coat. To what use he 
 turned the refuse only the goddess of poverty 
 knows. He was evidently a recognized habitue of 
 the boulevard, for one of the waiters gave him the 
 leavings of a wine glass, which he took into the 
 shadow and drank with apparent relish, then went 
 hobbling across the street to continue his search for 
 "ducks." Rarely will you find a more abject speci- 
 men of humanity than this gray bat of the boule- 
 vards, coming out of his attic hiding-place when the 
 shadows fall, and disappearing again with the ap- 
 proach of day. A poor starved fellow in thread- 
 bare coat came up to sell us some illustrated cards. 
 Surely it must be a precarious living he picks up 
 
158 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 thus among the tables. An aged woman, who 
 ought to have been in bed at that hour, was offering 
 an evening paper on the street corner, while a half - 
 grown boy went tearing down the boulevard shout- 
 ing his wares upon the midnight air. As we lin- 
 gered in the first hours of the coming day, some 
 enterprising paper turned its morning issue upon the 
 boulevard — and immediately the papers of the 
 evening were ancient history. Along the way men 
 were crying the attractions of dime museums and 
 gaiety shows. Up against a great building moving 
 pictures held the attention of a crowd^ ending in 
 advertisement of a drink. Students fom the Latin 
 Quarter with their amorettes paraded the streets, 
 pausing to watch some legerdemain or to gaze into 
 a shop window where diamonds and pearls sparkled 
 under electric light. Such was Paris as we saw it 
 on a summer night. 
 
 We set out one Sunday to see what the French 
 capital thought of the fourth commandment. The 
 shops were open for business, except a few on the 
 main streets. Across the closed shutters of these 
 was printed this peculiar sign, ^^closed on Sundays 
 and fete days." Evidently an exception in business 
 circles. Before one shop a carpenter was busy with 
 his saw, blocking the narrow sidewalk. "Next door 
 a woman was weighing out vegetables. A squad of 
 workmen were laying cobblestones in the street. 
 Another was fixing the sewer. 
 
 We made our way over to the Madeleine, the 
 most fashionable church in the city. It stands at 
 
WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 159 
 
 the intersection of two boulevards, an imposing pile 
 of Corinthian architecture, suggestive of a Greek 
 temple. Across the facade are the historic words, 
 "Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite," which cry of the 
 revolution even the places of worship have not 
 escaped. Dodging an automobile and a huge load 
 of furniture, we entered the great portals. The 
 crowd was flowing in at one door and out at another 
 as mass was celebrated. We secured seats at two 
 cents each per mass, payable in advance. A priest 
 mounted the pulpit which was glued nest-like to one 
 of the great columns; but the crowd within and the 
 trafiic without combined to drown all he said. We 
 joined the ebb-tide and passed out. 
 
 Next we went down into the old city between 
 Notre Dame and the Place de la Bastille to see what 
 the other extreme of society was doing with the day. 
 Women were hawking fruit there from handcarts, 
 while squalid children littered the sidewalks; 
 butchers and bakers were driving a brisk trade; 
 cafes were overflowing into the streets. The fourth 
 commandment might never have been given, for all 
 it affected life in these streets. One wonders what 
 per cent, of Parisians attend church on Sunday. 
 
 Finally, to see what last comment Paris had to 
 make upon this her way of life, her ^liberty, 
 equality, fraternity,'' we turned back to a little 
 building just behind Notre Dame, upon an island of 
 the Seine. It is the city morgue, where are 
 brought the bodies of those who have grown weary 
 of their "liberty," or against whom fraternal hands 
 
160 WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 
 
 have been raised, like Cain's against his brother. 
 Here at last they find "equality," lying side by side 
 upon the marble slabs, waiting for some one to tell 
 whose these were that yesterday flew so eagerly to 
 ills they knew not of. There were ^ye unfortu- 
 nates awaiting identification the day of our visit, 
 four men and one woman, propped up there behind 
 the glass to be gazed at by a gaping world. And 
 every year there pass this way some eight hundred. 
 
 "Poor men, God made, and all for that! 
 
 The reverence struck me; o'er each head 
 Religiously was hung its hat, 
 
 Each coat dripped by the owner's bed, 
 Sacred from touch: each had his berth, 
 
 His bounds, his proper place of rest. 
 Who last night tenanted on earth 
 
 Some arch, where twelve such slept abreast, — 
 Unless the plain asphalt seemed best." 
 
 After the horrors of the morgue, the serenity of 
 the great cathedral was welcome to us. ^N'otre 
 Dame is one of the world's famous churches. And 
 these ancient cathedrals are fit to give us pause as 
 we drift by them on the tourist tide, for few monu- 
 ments tell so aptly the story of the past. Study the 
 old cathedral. Look closely at the sculpture that 
 covers its face like a veil of gauze. There is in it 
 a significance beyond its beauty, a meaning beyond 
 art. It has its message for the artist and architect, 
 to be sure, but its lesson was not for them. In the 
 long ago, when there was no Bible in the home, no 
 missal in the pew, men went to worship, and took 
 home what they could of the service. Memory had 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 161 
 
 to bridge the gap of work-a-day life. But how were 
 the lessons of the church to be impressed upon the 
 worshippers so that they would not fade away in 
 the outside world? The answer to that question 
 was the cathedral of the early ages, built to assist 
 as object-lesson in the great school where the 
 teacher was the church, the pupils mankind, the 
 theme religion. 
 
 It was not solely a place for worship, it was a 
 part of worship. It was the Bible illustrated. The 
 worshiper, hastening to mass in the early hours, 
 might see in the morning light above him the lesson 
 of yesterday repeated in stone, the blessed Virgin, 
 the saints and angels, the descent of the spirit, the 
 solemn forms of patriarchs and kings. And those 
 other forms far up beneath the cornice, monsters, 
 hideous nightmares of the sculptor, projecting out 
 against the sky — what are they that seem struggling 
 wildly out from the walls of the church ? They are 
 demons fleeing from the power of righteousness; 
 the illustration, "^^And he gave them power over un- 
 clean spirits to cast them out." And so, moved by 
 these to serious thought, he passes in to worship in 
 the very shadow of the cross, for nave and transept 
 form a crucifix, to keep the people in remembrance. 
 And as he kneels in silent prayer, the light falling 
 through the great windows upon the upturned face 
 brings the same message, for the windows are scrolls 
 more gorgeously illumined than the silver codex of 
 Upsala. And when the eyes are become accus- 
 II 
 
162 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 tomed to the dim light of the holy place, he may 
 look up to the walls and vaults, and see the story told 
 once more in painting and fresco. 
 
 So, the cathedral was the people's Bible. It was 
 the primer of the ages, the picture-book of the un- 
 learned, where they saw illustrated the words their 
 teachers spoke. It was the great stone book. So 
 the people built and worshiped through the cen- 
 turies, till the advent of the printed book changed it 
 all. A little thing that seemed as it came from 
 Gutenberg's press, but the frail leaves of paper 
 bound together with a thread were to triumph over 
 the great stone book, and take its place. The day 
 that saw the birth of Gutenberg's Bible marked the 
 passing of ancient cathedrals. They are still 
 sacred as places of worship, but no longer in the 
 sense as of yore. The world visits them to-day, in 
 reverence, but it is as one who turns the pages of 
 a missal for memory's sake. The greajfc stone book 
 is sealed. 
 
 For seven centuries and a half !Notre Dame has 
 stood here beside the Seine looking down upon the 
 stream of history as it flowed beneath its towers. 
 It has watched the passing of king and kingdom, of 
 emperor and empire. War and revolution have left 
 their mark upon it. The venerable pile was 
 devoted to destruction in the unholy days of Terror, 
 but escaped with mutilation. . In turn it became a 
 ^Temple of Reason," a military depot^ a stable for 
 cavalry. It has suffered all things except earth- 
 quake. But no degradation could rob it of its 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 163 
 
 nobility. We climbed the worn spiral stair to its 
 towers. It was like climbing the ladder of history, 
 for when we came out upon the landing among the 
 gargoyles we had dropped back from modern Paris 
 to the age which Hugo depicts in his story of the 
 famous church, and to the Hunchback of Notre 
 Dame habiting here among these his counterparts 
 in stone; and looking over the balustrade, we could 
 see in fancy on the square below the life of 
 mediaeval Paris as the great Frenchman describes 
 it in his historic novel. While we lingered here 
 over the dead past dreaming among its vestiges, we 
 were roused out of our reverie by the advent of a 
 group of our countrymen, so boisterous and frivo- 
 lous of speech that one could well think of them 
 cracking questionable jokes over the flag-draped 
 tomb of N'apoleon. They had come here to the 
 very shrines of history with no knowledge of the 
 past, and therefore with no regard for its monu- 
 ments. They were bent solely on a summer picnic, 
 and had climbed the towers of Notre Dame in the 
 same idle spirit. Standing here with well-nigh a 
 thousand years of history beneath their feet, they 
 were all oblivious. And yet they will tell it 
 among their friends that they have seen Notre 
 Dame. Even so then, every kodak that has winked 
 its soulless eye upon this majestic pile has seen the 
 ancient cathedral. It takes more than a retina or 
 a sensitive film to see. We left them to their de- 
 lights, and descended again into Paris. 
 
 Another day we took boat down the Seine to the 
 
164 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 Champ de Mars. The river has its own life, with 
 its boats, its bath-houses, its bridges where history 
 has been made over night, its quays laden with 
 flowers and quaint book stalls, its idlers pretending 
 to angle in its murky waters or lounging without 
 pretense on its piers, its tragic stories. We landed 
 at the Pont d'lena, where the Champ abuts on the 
 river, and near where stands the Eiffel tower, 
 highest structure in the world — as yet. Having 
 paid our three francs each, we took passage for the 
 top, nearly a fifth of a mile above. Inclines and 
 elevators finally brought us to our destination. It 
 was Paris in miniature, for there among the clouds 
 was a glass pavilion fifty-four feet square, and 
 about it booths where refreshments, souvenirs, and 
 entertainments were offered the sight-seer. Post 
 cards are for sale here, and can be mailed from the 
 top of the tower with all assurance that they will 
 reach their destination, were it the uttermost part 
 of the earth. A score of men and women keep the 
 tower and booths, their lives spent for the most part 
 in this steel-girded eyrie. And here too certain 
 ambitious ones have inscribed their names on glass 
 and metal, fearful perhaps lest they might not else 
 be lifted up in the eyes of the world. A splendid 
 view of the city and surrounding country is offered 
 from the top of the tower, a landscape forty miles 
 in radius, almost the measure of a principality. 
 While we watched, a summer cloud passed over the 
 city, trailing its fringe of rain. The sunbeams 
 bursting out of the west caught the cloud as it re- 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 165 
 
 treated and painted a rainbow on its dark wrack, 
 one end of the arch resting on the Church of the 
 Sacred Heart and the heights of Montmartre, the 
 other resting across on E^otre Dame by the Seine — 
 and under the bow the homes of a million men. 
 
 E'ot far from the Champ is the Hotel des Inva- 
 lides, or Old Soldiers' Home, erected by Louis XIV 
 as an asylum for those who had worn themselves out 
 in his wars. And here under the majestic dome, a 
 fit resting-place for the great chieftain, lies all that 
 is mortal of Napoleon, brought hither in state from 
 the willows of St. Helena after a tardy twenty 
 years, in fulfilment of the soldier's last request, "I 
 desire that my ashes may rest by the banks of the 
 Seine, in the midst of that French people whom I 
 loved so well." And here his ashes rest in a mam- 
 moth sarcophagus of Siberian porphyry (O mockery 
 of the Fates !), the captured banners from many 
 fields draped over him, and round about the 
 pedestal the names of his victories written in stone. 
 How still he sleeps there after the fierce fever, l^o 
 more war's alarms for those ears that quickened at 
 the roar of Russia's guns and the booming of 
 Wagram and Austerlitz. They are dull now for- 
 ever. The pulsing of the titanic brain has ceased. 
 The hands have laid down their empire building and 
 are folded to rest. He hearkens no longer to the 
 beatings of the storm-lashed ocean of life. !Nor 
 does he heed the stream of humanity that all day 
 long flows past his resting-place, as with bared head 
 and mufiled step, posterity comes to do him rever- 
 
166 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 ence. How small the parallax of fame and empire 
 must seem when viewed from eternity. 
 
 One morning after shopping on the Rue de Rivoli 
 we went do^^m to the galleries of the Louvre. Our 
 last taste of art had been in Venice, and we felt 
 sufficiently recuperated from Italian excesses to try 
 the galleries once more. The Louvre is confusing 
 in the prodigality of its collection. You get lost 
 in the maze of masterpieces, and sit down in sheer 
 despair. The best way is to single out a few pieces, 
 or have them singled out for you, and confine your- 
 self to them. We did this, and were paying our 
 respects to Millet's "Gleaners," when a tourist 
 comet swept into view, bearing down across the 
 great hall in our direction, headed by a professional 
 guide who had probably been picked up at the en- 
 trance. We retired from the direct line of its orbit, 
 and watched it go past. The head halted before the 
 picture while the tail telescoped. The follow- 
 ing artistic introduction was made by the master 
 of ceremonies : 'This is the 'Gleaners.' " (The 
 name stood above the painting in large black letters.) 
 "It was painted by Millet." (The artist's name 
 occurred also just under the picture.) "He painted 
 another picture, called the 'Angelus,' which was sold 
 for a hundred thousand dollars. You might think 
 he was a rich man, but he died owing his butcher 
 and baker." And with that the comet moved on 
 to make acquaintance with other stars in the galaxy. 
 And perhaps it was as well, after all, for you recall 
 Tennyson's story of the man who insisted on dis- 
 
WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 167 
 
 cussing market quotations while he stood beside the 
 Venus of Milo. This last piece of art, with the 
 Winged Mke, the one armless, the other headless, 
 are the two pieces of sculpture which, above all 
 others^ it is worth the tourist's time to see. 
 
 But to the great world unwashed with the varnish 
 of culture, Paris is not the home of art and archi- 
 tecture, but rather the foster-mother of fashions. 
 The readers of "The Houseboat" will recall that 
 when Captain Kidd stole that wonderful vessel, and 
 found to his amazement that he had on his hands 
 the wives of the shadowy clubmen, he headed 
 straight for Paris in the fond hope that he might be 
 able to lose Mrs. l^oah and Xantippe and the rest on 
 the Rue de Rivoli. And certainly the shops of the 
 French capital are a paradise for woman, especially 
 if she has a long purse. But think of it ! a crowd 
 of seven men shopping in Paris with not a woman 
 among them. The "Magazins du Louvre" and the 
 "Bon Marche" are two of the largest department 
 stores in the world, and in them you can purchase 
 nearly anything the market affords. One can 
 hardly help spending his money for the bargains 
 that load the counters. We bought silk and gloves 
 and shirtwaist patterns all at a venture, wondering 
 the while whether they would suit when we had 
 them at home. It was interesting to watch the shop- 
 pers, and see women demolish the bargain counters 
 of silk. 
 
 We had many amusing experiences among the 
 shops. The keepers have a custom of putting up in 
 
168 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 their show windows the sign, '^English spoken here/' 
 which one of them is reputed to have explained as 
 meaning that the customer might feel free to use 
 that tongue if he so desired. At any rate we found, 
 to use modern parlance, that the article was not up 
 to advertisement. Two of our number stepped into 
 a shoe-shop bearing this sign, and asked to be 
 directed to the automobile races. "Certainly," 
 said the affable clerk. "Which would you prefer, 
 black or yellow?" Unable to make intelligent con- 
 nection with the shoe man, they next turned to a 
 restaurant with like sign, and put their question to 
 the waiter. "Have seats, gentlemen," said that 
 functionary. "Will you have ice-cream or lemon 
 squash?" In despair of seeing the races, they 
 told him to bring on the lemon squash, resolved 
 henceforth not to be counted with that evil genera- 
 tion "seeking after a sign." Indeed, shop-keepers, 
 guides, and hackmen pick up a few phrases of 
 English in order to catch the tourist trade. But 
 outside of their narrow beat they are as helpless as 
 the traveler who tries to speak French according to 
 Baedeker's "Manual of Conversation." 
 
 The rest of our time in the city was taken up 
 with visits to the Jardin des Plantes, the Champs 
 Elysees, and the Bois de Boulogne. The Jardin 
 contains one of the best Zoos in the world, and prob- 
 ably altogether the most complete collection of 
 stuffed and preserved specimens. There you may 
 see the largest and the smallest bird in existence; 
 also specimens of one or two kinds recently extinct. 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 169 
 
 The Mammoth is there, long since perished, but 
 preserved for us almost intact in nature's cold 
 storage, the Siberian ice field. The Okapi is there, 
 latest discovery of zoology. The life of the deep 
 sea is exhibited in rare specimens, creatures above 
 whose native haunts the ocean is heaped up three 
 or four miles. The condor and the eagle are there, 
 denizens of the upper deep. In the thoughtful 
 walk of half a day you may see in the Jardin speci- 
 mens of life from the tropics to the poles and from 
 the ocean bed to the mountain top. The gardens 
 and hothouses exhibit the flora of the globe. So the 
 Jardin des Plantes is a veritable epitome of life on 
 the earth. 
 
 When we had wearied of sight-seeing here, we 
 went across • town to see that other collection, the 
 wonderfully varied and interesting exhibit of the 
 genus homo which is open to visitors every afternoon 
 of summer from ^ye to eight on the Champs 
 Elysees and in the Bois. The tourist must by no 
 means miss this feature of the French capital. 
 There is nothing else quite like it. The Champs is 
 a broad shady avenue running from the garden of 
 the Tuileries to the Place de I'Etoile and the en- 
 trance to the Bois. Here society airs itself of a 
 summer afternoon. We had seen the boulevards by 
 night. 'Now we saw them by day. At night the 
 world was on foot. By day it was on wheels — 
 wheels of all sorts, from hired cabs to private auto- 
 mobiles. The new rich, the ^^yellow rich," the old 
 rich, and the once rich were there — and those who 
 
iro WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 made no pretension to riches of any kind. A recent 
 writer has said that you can divide society into 
 "those who have to sell their old family pictures, 
 those who have to buy their old family pictures, and 
 the lucky few wdio need neither buy nor sell, who 
 are neither going down nor bobbing up." And that 
 division may hold for the Champs Elysees. There 
 are faded dukes, and flushed bondholders; and 
 those whose riches sit lightly upon them because 
 they are "to the manner born.'' Here in a num- 
 bered cab sits a veritable "old gentleman of the 
 black stock," with the marks of gentility on his face 
 and the marks of poverty on his coat. Over yonder 
 in a private automobile is a woman who, if she were 
 in the old gentleman's place, would be taken for an 
 Irish servant. Here is a company driving quite as 
 leisurely as if no one else were on the Champs, and 
 there goes one forging ahead with all speed. The 
 one is out for recreation; the other for show. So 
 the broad stream pours along the avenue to the 
 Place de I'Etoile, and loses itself in the two thou- 
 sand acres of park beyond, till the sunlight has 
 faded from the summit of iN'apoleon's Arch of 
 Triumph. And to-morrow, with the regularity of 
 the tides, the stream will flow and ebb again. 
 
 One day we gave to Versailles. What a name to 
 conjure with in the days when Louis XIV was 
 dazzling Europe with the splendor of his court. 
 But how empty now; for well-nigh a century has 
 passed since the last weak scion of the Bourbon 
 stock was lifted upon the throne of his fathers by 
 
WITH THE TOURIST TIDE l7l 
 
 the hands of the allied powers after Waterloo, only 
 to leave it for an unwept grave in a few short years. 
 And since that time the palaces of the Bourbon kings 
 have been untenanted of royalty. Yet Versailles 
 has a charm by virtue of its very emptiness. One 
 likes to walk in its deserted halls and listen to the 
 echo that comes to him down the long corridor of 
 history; one likes to picture to himself the life that 
 used to fill the palaces and overflow into the park 
 beyond. It is worth while to meditate among the 
 chambered shells from which the tide has ebbed. 
 At least we thought so when we had spent a week in 
 the swirl and roar of Paris. 
 
 We set out, therefore, one morning to spend the 
 day where royalty flourished before the breath of 
 revolution blew upon it. Versailles is only fifteen 
 miles from Paris, and can be reached in a few 
 moments. Its claim to a place in history rests upon 
 a whim of Louis XIV. His predecessors had re- 
 sided at St. Germain, but the view from there in- 
 cluded St. Denis, the burial place of the kings. 
 Louis did not like to be reminded of the evanescence 
 of terrestrial glory, and so the royal residence was 
 transferred to Versailles. The star of France was 
 then in the ascendant, and Louis was determined 
 that it should not grow less under his reign. It was 
 proper, therefore, that French royalty should be 
 sumptuously housed, and he set about to build a 
 palace such as for magnificence the world had never 
 seen. How well he succeeded the visitor of to-day 
 may see. 
 
172 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 When the palace and park were finished the 
 treasury of the kingdom was poorer by a hundred 
 million dollars. The facade of the great building 
 as it faces the sunrise down the long vista of the 
 park measures six hundred and thirty yards, and is 
 broken by three hundred and seventy-five windows. 
 Its capacity is ten thousand inmates. And you will 
 understand why it was built so spacious when you 
 remember that the civil household of the king num- 
 bered no less than four thousand, besides two thou- 
 sand in the retinue of his relatives at court, and 
 nearly ten thousand in his military household, who 
 lived for the most part in the town. There were 
 nearly four hundred cooks in constant service at 
 court, and other servants in proportion. Thither 
 flocked the nobility of the kingdom to be in the lime- 
 light; for to be absent from Versailles was to be 
 forgotten. Here was the cradle of fashion, and 
 here it grew to proportions never realized before or 
 since. From the inner chambers went forth every 
 morning the orders of the day for the conduct of the 
 courtj rules written upon "tickets," from which our 
 own word "etiquette." 
 
 In the inmost chambers of the palace, and only to 
 be approached by special privilege, were the royal 
 apartments — the audience room and the bedroom 
 with its famous ante-chamber, this last the place 
 where the court awaited the rising and the going to 
 bed of the sovereign. Eor you must know that 
 royalty could not wrap the drapery of its couch 
 about it in privacy and lie down to pleasant dreams. 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 173 
 
 l)iit must needs be put to bed and tucked in accord- 
 ing to rules of "etiquette." "Ushers arrange the 
 crowd/' says the historian, describing the scene, 
 "while the king washes his hands and begins his 
 toilet. Two pages remove his slippers; the grand 
 master of the wardrobe takes his night shirt by the 
 right sleeve, the first valet of the wardrobe by the 
 left sleeve. They pull it off and hand it to a valet 
 to be carried away, while still another valet ap- 
 proaches with a shirt. This is the solemn moment, 
 the culminating point of the whole pompous 
 absurdity. The honor of presenting the shirt is 
 reserved for the sons and grandsons of France (i. e. 
 of the king, who regards himself as France), or in 
 their absence, for the princes of the royal blood, or 
 in their absence, for the grand chamberlain or the 
 first gentleman. When the king has taken his shirt, 
 the whole court is introduced in the fifth and last 
 entree, and the toilet proceeds." 
 
 How little the king and his courtiers in their arti- 
 ficial life thought of the common people by whose 
 labor they were fed and clothed. But a reckoning 
 time was coming, and in this very palace. I^ot in 
 the days of Louis the Grand, for he died peacefully 
 in his royal bed with his court about him, and was 
 gathered to his fathers after the longest reign in 
 history. His successor unwittingly predicted the 
 fate of the kingdom when he cried out in revelry, 
 "After us the deluge." And the deluge came, just 
 seventy-five years after Louis the Great laid down 
 his scepter. It roared through France and beat 
 
174 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 upon the palace walls of Versailles till the inmost 
 chambers were finally filled with its turbid waters. 
 When the king would not hear the cry of the com- 
 mon people for justice, they rose in their blind 
 might and went to Versailles. Ten thousand men 
 who had lived on black bread while the fruits of 
 their labor went to build palaces and feed a prole- 
 tariat nobility, and ten thousand women Avhose lives 
 for the most part were cast in the streets of Paris, 
 surged out along the highways that led to Ver- 
 sailles, overran the guards at the gates, and 
 mounted the stairway to the very chambers of the 
 queen. Then royalty fled from its splendid palace 
 while the corridors ran blood. The calendar 
 counted but a few months from that frightful day 
 till nobility was banished over the borders and the 
 heads of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette fell 
 under the guillotine in their own capital city. 
 
 So much for the history of Versailles. The palace 
 of the kings is open now to whosoever will, and the 
 chambers where king and courtier held levee under 
 strictest rules of etiquette are thronged day after 
 day by tourists who look and gape and laugh, and 
 pass on, scarce knowing, most of them, whence came 
 the palaces or who were the Bourbon kings. 
 
 At the Versailles station we found ourselves 
 once more in the tourist tide, for this was one 
 of the rare days when the fountains of the park 
 played, and Paris had turned out to see the 
 sight. Before reaching the great palace, however, 
 we turned aside to visit the Tennis Court, situated 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 175 
 
 in an alley of the town, not far from the entrance 
 to the joalace grounds, a building used once for the 
 game of that name, but become famous as the cradle 
 of the Revolution. Here the Third Estate convened 
 when they were denied their rights in the Estates 
 General during the fateful days of May, 1789. And 
 here, under the leadership of Mirabeau and others, 
 they resolved never to adjourn till they had given 
 France a new constitution. The Tennis Court 
 marks the first open clash of the King and his peo- 
 ple in that great conflict which was to see the King 
 beheaded and the people given over to the orgies 
 of The Terror. 
 
 Continuing our way to the square before the en- 
 trance to the grounds, we took lunch in the open 
 air under the trees, and regaled ourselves while a 
 street minstrel played "After the Ball" for our de- 
 lectation. We wondered if the Paris fashions are 
 as antiquated when they reach America as our 
 "latest'' songs are when they reach Paris. 
 
 The palace, like most abodes of past royalty, has 
 become a museum and picture gallery. Here and 
 there are to be seen vestiges of its former tenants — 
 the bed on which Louis the Great died and the clock 
 which ticked away his last hours; the tiny cham- 
 bers of Marie Antoinette, much as she left them 
 that day the mob thrust itself so rudely in. All 
 else is lost in the lethe of a museum. The "Hall of 
 Battles" is perhaps the most impressive part of the 
 art collection, its walls adorned with heroic paint- 
 ings of the martial victories of Erance from Charles 
 
176 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 Martel to Napoleon. But what mockery tlie Eates 
 sometimes carry in their tangled skein — it was in 
 this very hall that "William of Prnssia was pro- 
 claimed Emperor of Germany in 1870, after he had 
 captured the Erench Emperor and his army^ occu- 
 pied the capital, and exacted of the conquered peo- 
 ple as indemnity a prince's estate and a nation's for- 
 tune. 
 
 Out in front of the palace is the magnificent park 
 which the king laid out for the delectation of his 
 mistress. It stretches away to the sunrise over 
 countless acres, adorned with fountains and lakes, 
 cut by bosky avenues where marble statues lurk in 
 shady depths, as if the fauns and dryads had re- 
 turned to their ancient haunts once more. It 
 spreads into forests of noble trees where you come 
 unawares upon grottoes and trysting places such as 
 Pan and the nymphs must have delighted to visit 
 in mythological days. The fountains are supplied 
 mth water from a distance of six miles, and so great 
 is the volume that an hour's playing costs two thou- 
 sand dollars. It is a rare spectacle to see twenty 
 thousand persons in gala dress seated upon the 
 grassy slope that circles like an amphitheater about 
 the seventy-six fountains of the basin of E'eptune, 
 and to hear the shout from a thousand throats as 
 the waters leap up trembling white as snow against 
 the background of foliage and blue sky. 
 
 Across the forest are the Great Trianon and the 
 Little Trianon, two smaller palaces built by Louis 
 XIY and Louis XV respectively. In the latter 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 177 
 
 Marie Antoinette spent most of her time. The vis- 
 itor is shown her bed hung with gold-embroidered 
 tapestry and the piano she was wont to play. In the 
 wood near by is her "hamlet/' a group of some half- 
 dozen thatched roof cottages with an old water mill. 
 Here the Queen and her ladies used to come when 
 life in the palace grew too irksome, and here they 
 played at milkmaid and shepherdess to while away 
 the time — a pleasant variation no doubt from hav- 
 ing to dress in the presence of a whole court. 
 
 So we spent our days in Paris, dividing our time 
 between the living and the dead, between the city's 
 present and its past, gathering of its fact and its 
 fiction, watching its comedy and its tragedy — until 
 the days of our stay were run out. Then we turned 
 our faces toward the world's greatest city. 
 
 12 
 
CHAPTEK XI 
 
 ON ENGLISH SOIL 
 
 And now, after many happy days of camping on 
 the trail of history, the Continent lay behind us, its 
 shadowy shore-line swallowed up in the mists of the 
 stormy Channel. As we sat there upon the steamer 
 deck watching it recede across the widening gulf of 
 waters, gentle Memory took us by the hand and 
 turning led swiftly down the slope of years, l^o 
 longer were we travelers in foreign lands, but chil- 
 dren of the wayside school, untutored of any travel 
 beyond the country-side, eager for something of 
 that great world which lay beyond and building up 
 about the thumb-worn pages of our history and 
 geography that world as our fancy pictured it. And 
 what a world it was — more grotesque and wonder- 
 ful than any that Alice ever found in Wonder- 
 land, — ^where everything was different from our 
 v/orld, even the fruits and flowers and trees, where 
 men dressed in quaint fashion and spoke in the 
 speech of books, where even the routine of life was 
 tinged with romance and lifted into the realm of 
 story. Such was the Europe of our childish fancy. 
 And we fondly dreamed that should we ever have 
 the fortune to set foot upon its magic soil a revolu- 
 tion would mark the event in our lives, much as if 
 we had landed upon a distant planet. But now we 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 179 
 
 had come and looked upon this magic land, and 
 henceforward it was to be for us but a part and 
 parcel of the earth, its scenes terrestrial and its men 
 and women mortals like ourselves. 'No magic change 
 had marked in us our advent upon the Old World 
 shores, so gently, as we crossed the waters, had 
 fancy adjusted to itself the garb of fact. Our jour- 
 ney had meant for us at once a gain and loss. The 
 halo which had hung about the old world was gone 
 forever. That much we set down on the side of loss, 
 for is not realization always a sort of loss? Did we 
 not count it so when Santa Claus became a reality, 
 however beautiful his gifts were afterward? And 
 the spirit-haunted nooks of our childhood world, did 
 they not bear for us a value which vanished the mo- 
 ment the veil was brushed aside? And shall not 
 many of us feel a secret pang of loss when the last 
 ice-bound fjord has been charted and the last jungle 
 explored — when over the last foot of earth and 
 fathom of water shall wave the banner of fact, and 
 there shall not remain a single corner of the globe 
 that we may people at will with gnomes and elves 
 and dragons and sea-serpents and all the creatures 
 that never were? There are some values not con- 
 sidered in offices of realty nor in the fixing of as- 
 sizes, and yet they are values of great worth. There 
 are realms where the fancy may roam at its own 
 sweet will untrammeled by chain and compass — 
 Robinson Crusoe's Islands and Eorests of Arden, in 
 whose dells and wooded aisles our spirits may find 
 retreat from the burden and heat of a practical 
 
180 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 world. And shall we not count it a loss when sucli 
 a realm is forfeited to the stern rule of fact, and 
 the garish light has forever banished every flitting 
 spirit ? 
 
 So we mused as we saw the Europe of our dreams 
 give place to the real Europe. But one may "find 
 in loss a gain to match." There was a profit to be 
 set down, too, a great one. "We had lost the land of 
 fancy. We had found the land of history. Caesar 
 and Cicero, Raphael and Angelo, Savonarola and 
 Luther were no longer names adorning a chronicle, 
 but men who had lived and ^vrought among men. 
 We had walked in ways that had looked upon them, 
 we had come upon their very footprints on the sands 
 of time, we had learned to feel as well as to know 
 that these men and their fellow-workers had done 
 mighty things in their day. And thereby we had 
 learned to estimate more fully what labor and sacri- 
 fice and suffering were cast into the foundation 
 of that civilization whose fair upper stories we oc- 
 cupy in peace and prosperity to-day. We had come 
 into vital touch with the past, and felt it beneath us 
 as an integral part of our life. And that was a 
 great accomplishment — a profit which more than 
 met the loss. 
 
 But we were not yet done with the Old- World 
 story, for all its shores had dropped beneath our 
 horizon. We had read through with delight the 
 illustrated pages of its long biography, but ere the 
 end there was a luminous appendix, without which 
 the story would not be complete. Wise men, who 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 181 
 
 claim acquaintance with unrecorded things, tell us 
 that in the long ago there was no English Channel, 
 ■ but that the British Isles were the western pier of 
 Euro]3e. And for all the stormy waters that sep- 
 arate these shores to-day, the story of the Isles is in- 
 dissolubly bound with the story of the Old World 
 main. And in the island story^ which lay before us, 
 were to be found the same lights and shadows that 
 had touched the earlier chapters, revived perhaps by 
 a fling of the wild salt spray. 
 
 As we crossed the Channel a slight squall drove 
 us below decks, and when we came out again the 
 long waving line of the English coast lay before us, 
 with the hills swelling away in green billows be- 
 yond. Surely no traveler of Saxon stock can ap- 
 proach these shores without peculiar emotion. We 
 travel in continental lands, and make them ours by 
 conquest. But this land is ours through inheritance, 
 and we come to it as to our own. It is all the land 
 we children of the 'New World had before James- 
 town and Plymouth Rock. Its speech is ours. Its 
 history is ours. Its very names are echoed in our 
 western home — York and Richmond and Lancaster, 
 Surrey and Sussex and Essex, Cambridge and Ches- 
 ter and Lincoln. Its soil has nurtured the roots of 
 our family trees. Its stories have fed our childish 
 fancy. We approach it as children approach the 
 ancestral home whose tradition they have rever- 
 ently cherished. 
 
 A little cloud it was — these islands — ^which slowly 
 rose in the world's western sky long ago, no bigger 
 
182 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 tlian a man's hand. But that cloud has grown till 
 now there is not a land under the heavens upon 
 which its shadow does not fall. It was to these 
 shores the sturdy Angles and Danes and Saxons 
 came when the world was young, boldly crossing the 
 northern sea in their viking ships to find a home 
 and afterward to found an empire. On this island 
 stage it was that William the Conqueror played out 
 his mighty act, sword and buckler in hand; fol- 
 lowed in successive scenes of the drama by men 
 who helped to shape world destinies. Here the bat- 
 tle for freedom of body and of soul was slowly 
 fought and won. This little plot of sea-girt soil 
 gave birth to Chaucer and Shakespeare and Milton, 
 to ]^ewton and Darwin and Spencer, to Burke and 
 Pitt and Gladstone, and to a host whose names shine 
 well-nigh as bright in the galaxies of the great. A 
 Httle land, but a mighty people — earth's garden- 
 spot of souls. Such thoughts as these came surging 
 through our minds as we drew near to English lands, 
 and set foot upon the soil of our fathers. 
 
 How glad we were to hear once more our mother 
 tongue about us. It was welcome enough even in 
 the broad brogue of John Bull, after the jargon of 
 the continent. There is scarcely need yet of an 
 English-American dictionary, though the speech of 
 the two peoples is beginning to diverge at points — 
 for example, the Englishman carries his gums on his 
 feet, the American has his in his mouth; the 
 Britisher puts his luggage in the van, the American 
 puts his baggage in the baggage-car; the former 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 183 
 
 has shops and goes shopping, the latter has stores but 
 never goes storing; the English summer is followed 
 bj autumn, the American usually by fall; the Eng- 
 lishman asks for his letters, the American calls for 
 his mail; we have many decayed things in America, 
 but as yet no ^^decayed gentle-ladies." There is just 
 enough difference of speech withal to keep the trav- 
 eler alert. 
 
 Our port of entry was New Haven, and our road 
 to London through the counties of Sussex and Sur- 
 rey. The afternoon sun, breaking through the 
 clouds, lent to the landscape a soft radiance as we 
 passed along. In the foreground field and fence 
 sparkled with trembling raindrops. Beyond on the 
 gentle slopes of the Downs flocks and herds were 
 grazing. Fields of green were interspersed with 
 fields of golden stubble where the new-cut grain was 
 heaped in shocks. Across meadow and lea ran well- 
 kept roads shut in by trim hedges, and smart turn- 
 outs dotted the way. Here and there a cluster of 
 trees under the shadow of which cattle rested, and 
 a rare cottage nestling among the Downs. Order 
 and thrift marked the country-side. It has been 
 aptly said that England is the best groomed country 
 in the world. Certainly it looks like a park when 
 compared with America. It is the difference be- 
 tween a garden and a ranch. But how long it has 
 been since the Downs were rescued from the wil- 
 derness by Alfred and his yeomen ! Some day ours 
 shall be an old land, too, and if we are wise that 
 shall be a hale and beautiful old age. 
 
184 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 An hour's run through these rural scenes, and 
 the advent of factories told that we were nearing 
 the metropolis — for you must not forget that with 
 all her history and her thirty-two million people, 
 England is no larger in area than 'New York or 
 ISTorth Carolina. Our train halted on one of the 
 Thames bridges while the guards collected tickets, 
 and we were thus introduced to the famous river. 
 Inspection done, we drew into Victoria Station, and 
 were soon in the hackney's hands. A spin past 
 Buckingham Palace and Park, down Piccadilly by 
 Charing Cross and the British Museum, a fare and 
 a tip to the driver on Brunswick Square, and we 
 were under the roof of our London hostess — for 
 here again, being disciples of the simple life, we 
 chose the pension rather than the hotel, and had no 
 cause to regret it. The world's greatest city was 
 before us, and we were eager to set about its ex- 
 ploration. 
 
 "The proper way to see London is from the top 
 of a bus, sir," said Dr. Samuel Johnson. And surely 
 there is no higher authority on the way to see the 
 great city. At any rate, we accepted his advice, and 
 set out to explore England's capital from the top of 
 a bus. It is a cheap and handy way of sight-seeing, 
 two qualities which commend it at once to the 
 American. To get a bus you walk out into the 
 street and step on — a pleasant variation from our 
 Paris experience. There is a constant stream of 
 these conveyances on the principal ways, and the 
 conductors are hanging from the steps to solicit 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 185 
 
 your patronage. "Seat, sir ?" is the invitation that 
 strikes your ear through the bustle of the thorough- 
 fare, and it is reinforced by a smiling face. London 
 is a living witness that rudeness is not essential to 
 the effective handling of a public. We never saw 
 the least discourtesy or impatience to passengers on 
 the part of any public servant. 
 
 You want to get on top of the bus if the weather 
 is fair. Everybody rides on top in London, men 
 and women, young and old. At first it seemed to us 
 a curious place for a lady in theater dress, but we 
 soon grew accustomed to the sight of a belle and a 
 wash-woman side by side on the tip-top of a bus 
 drifting leisurely down the stream which flows 
 through London streets. Your fare is a penny, and 
 you ride as far as you please. Once seated, the 
 whole street is before you. As far as the eye can 
 reach that stream of vehicles is flowing on, most 
 of them, like your own, topheavy with humanity, 
 till it looks as if the street had a moving second 
 story. Only here and there the stream is blocked, 
 where a policeman raises his arm at a crossing to let 
 the counter current have its way for a season. And 
 how quickly that sign is heeded ! ^o matter how 
 great the crush, not a wheel crosses the invisible 
 line till the signal is given. The arm is raised and 
 the current stops; the arm falls, and the current 
 flows on. Such is law and order as practiced on the 
 streets of the world's most populous city. 
 
 And that city — how is the transient visitor to 
 get a conception of it as a whole ? It has a popula- 
 
186 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 tion of more than five million, and covers some 
 seventy-five thousand acres. Think of all the people 
 of Virginia, N'orth Carolina, and South Carolina 
 crowded together in one corner of a county, living 
 and doing business there, and you have some idea of 
 London. But they seem to get on wonderfully well 
 in their close quarters, better than we do with all 
 our elbow-room. 
 
 The visitor is impressed with the ease with which 
 the great city handles itself. We traveled about 
 London four days without so much as seeing a 
 street-car, though they are to be found in some 
 parts of the city. As for elevated roads, they are 
 not in Europe, so far as our experience went. What 
 a relief that must be to those who have lived in ISTew 
 York or Chicago, where the elevated runs over 
 the roof, the electric by the front door, and the 
 subway through the cellar. How are the crowds 
 handled then? By cabs and busses. London does 
 the largest business of any city in the world, and 
 her distances are perhaps the greatest. Yet there 
 is never any rush through her streets. If you are 
 going a short distance, you board a bus and pay 
 your penny, or call a cab and pay your shilling. If 
 you have a long way to go you drop down an ele- 
 vator to one of the underground roads, and shoot 
 through the darkness. But these lines are buried 
 deep enough not to disturb the city. We found 
 the train ninety-four feet below the surface one day 
 when we wanted to cross the city quickly. This 
 was the splendid new road which the Londoner call? 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 187 
 
 ^^the tube/' a double tunnel running under the city 
 from the Bank of England to Shepherd's Bush, with 
 trains every minute or two. As we were after see- 
 ing the city, however, and not after covering dis- 
 tance, we usually chose bus or cab instead of the 
 underground. 
 
 We spent eight days in the English capital, just 
 time enough to get a bird's-eye view of what is to 
 be seen there — some one has said that you have to 
 live in London to know it. 
 
 And even residence does not carry with it a 
 guarantee of acquaintanceship. A young man of 
 our acquaintance who had spent his entire life there 
 had never been in the South Kensington Museum 
 or the Crystal Palace. It is doubtful if many even 
 of the oldest citizens know the town. Lord Macau- 
 lay said that he had walked through every street of 
 the London of his day; but it would take a good 
 part of one's life to perform that feat now. 
 
 London is full of sights. The problem before 
 the tourist is what to see and what to leave unseen, 
 for even to touch all the places of interest in the 
 short space of a summer tour is out of the ques- 
 tion. Some of the things that Baedeker stars must 
 be passed over; but there are some that no vis- 
 itor can afford to neglect. One of these is the 
 Tower. Built first by William the Conqueror as a 
 royal residence, it was destined to play its part in 
 history as a prison of state rather than a residence 
 of kings. It is a symbol to-day of tragedy and 
 pathos. About its somber towers have hung more 
 
188 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 clouds of England's history than about any other 
 spot in the realm. To how many a brilliant life has 
 it marked the end as a dark punctuation. It was in 
 one of the towers that the young princess met their 
 mysterious fate at the hands of their uncle, Richard 
 III, in those days when the way to the English 
 throne was so often marked with blood. Here Sir 
 Thomas More and Sir Walter Raleigh met ignomin- 
 ious deaths at the block. Here Catherine Howard 
 and Anne Boleyn, two of England's queens, suffered 
 the same fate. From one of those inner windows 
 poor Lady Jane Grey, the nine days' queen, looked 
 out upon her husband as he passed to execution, and 
 then followed him. English, French and Scotch 
 kings have been imprisoned here. In the little 
 church, the prison cemetery, one comes upon many 
 historic names. "There is no sadder spot on earth 
 than this little cemetery," says Macaulay. "Death 
 is there associated, not, as in Westminster Abbey 
 and St. Paul's, with genius and virtue, — but with the 
 savage triumph of implacable enemies, with the in- 
 constancy, the ingratitude, the cowardice of friends, 
 with all the miseries of fallen greatness and of 
 blighted fame." 
 
 As if to relieve the somber story, there have been 
 set in one of the upper chambers the crown jewels 
 of the realm, the most gorgeous array of gold and 
 precious gems on earth, the symbols of success and 
 power, crowns and diadems and scepters that have 
 played their part in the pomp and circumstance of 
 the island story these five hundred years and more, 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 189 
 
 diamonds and rubies without number, any one of 
 which would command a king's ransom were it ever 
 to escape from its prison here — and round about 
 this royal hoard a squad of scarlet-liveried guards, 
 for one at least of these crowns has been stolen in 
 its time. 
 
 Another place which even the tourist of a day 
 must see is Westminster Abbey. The foundations 
 of this building too are laid deep in the soil of Eng- 
 lish story; indeed, no one can tell when first a 
 church was erected on this site, so long has it been 
 consecrated ground. The present structure dates 
 substantially from the reign of Henry III, and is 
 therefore seven centuries old. Our first visit was 
 on Sunday at the hour of morning worship — for the 
 stranger must remember that this 'is primarily a 
 place of worship and secondarily a place of sepul- 
 ture. The occasion was deeply impressive. The 
 ancient Abbey is filled with the monuments and 
 tombs of those who have helped to make England 
 great in the long course of history. Looking down 
 upon us from their marble pedestals, as we sat in 
 the pews, were Gladstone and his great opponent 
 Disraeli, and near them were Pitt and Peel; over 
 in the poets' corner lay Tennyson and Bro^vning and 
 Dryden; nor far from them sleep Darwin and E'ew- 
 ton; then those who have written their names with 
 the sword instead of the pen. Across in the chapels 
 rest the kings and queens of England, Elizabeth 
 and Mary Stuart sleeping peacefully under the same 
 roof "after life's fitful fever"; then the Henries 
 
190 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 and Edwards and Georges — most of the monuments 
 mutilated more or less during the storm that raged 
 round the Commonwealth. The Abbey is the Wal- 
 halla of English letters. And yet some of England's 
 most distinguished sons found sepulture elsewhere. 
 You look here in vain for the tombs of Shakespeare 
 and Milton, Byron and Shelley and Keats, Coleridge 
 and Wordsworth, Carlyle and Euskin. And many 
 lie entombed within the Abbey whose names have 
 been long buried under the dust of ages. So imper- 
 fect is the judgment which men pass upon their 
 fellows. 
 
 As we sat in the dim light of the great nave with 
 the heroes of the ages sleeping about us, the 
 preacher ascended to the sacred desk, and began the 
 service. The voices of the choir rose through the 
 heavy silence of the place, and melted away beneath 
 the pillared vaults. ^Never before had the ritual 
 of the English church seemed to us so solemn — 
 here amid this history made visible in stone, in the 
 shadow of Henry's and of Mary's tomb, it found its 
 fit setting. The text was appropriate : "And I saw 
 the dead, small and great, stand before God." 
 While he spoke of that final assembly, the sunlight 
 striking in through the high windows fell upon the 
 speaker and his audience, and touched the tombs of 
 the mighty into soft radiance. As we looked up at 
 the marble features of the great and around at the 
 mobile faces of the small who for one hour were 
 gathered in that presence, a new meaning was 
 breathed into the text. Though men may stand 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 191 
 
 together, then and now, there shall always be great 
 and small, even in the eyes of an All-Father. A 
 few dollars and days had brought that throng of 
 men beside the tomb of Gladstone, but to stand with 
 him, to see as he saw and feel as he felt, was not 
 given to them. "You shall not come nearer to a 
 man by getting into his house." 
 
 Surely there is no more fitting link in the chain 
 of travel after Westminster Abbey than Windsor 
 Castle — the one where English rank and royalty 
 come to birth and rule, the other where their dust 
 is sacredly inurned. Windsor is some twenty-five 
 miles by coach or train from London, and is 
 altogether the most imposing royal residence in the 
 world. A huge turreted and battlemented pile of 
 granite, it crowns an eminence overlooking the 
 Thames and a far stretch of England's fairest and 
 most famous country-side. It dates back to the 
 time of William the Conqueror, and has been a 
 home of rulers through all those centuries. As you 
 approach it, towering there against the sky, with the 
 little village of its name huddled at its feet, leave 
 guide-books with their data aside for the moment 
 and drop back to the ages out of which it came. 
 Think of it, not as the palace from which a gentle 
 queen looked out upon the longest and most peace- 
 ful reign of history, but as the castle from which 
 feudal lords looked out upon lands of uncertain 
 tenure, and from which they held sway by force of 
 marshaled men. As you come beneath its shadow, 
 the centuries roll back the scroll, and you look upon 
 
192 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 those early chapters that were written Avith the 
 sword's point dipped in blood. Here is the village 
 of vassals gathered under the protection of 
 castle walls. Above on the battlements armed 
 knights keep guard. Thither come the lesser lords 
 who hold the lands in fief, to pay their tribute and 
 homage to the chief, and thence the assembled yeo- 
 men sally forth with long-bow and spear to battle 
 against all claimants to the land. You can almost 
 hear the winding of the bugle float out upon the 
 waiting air. Thus in company with the past you 
 mount the way that leads to the ramparts above, 
 and look upon the landscape that stretches away to 
 the level horizon. It is dotted with prosperous vil- 
 lages that no longer need a beetling castle for pro- 
 tection, and scattered with fertile farms whose 
 tillers are no more servile vassals — a land of united, 
 sovereign people. And standing there between the 
 past and present of that "rough island story,'' you 
 may meditate with profit upon the marvelous pro- 
 gress which is its distinguishing mark. The stories 
 of Greece and Kome each fall within a millennium. 
 But fifteen hundred years have passed since the 
 first chapters of English history were made; and 
 so far yet are the feeble chapters of a nation's 
 decline from being recorded there that she still re- 
 mains "a power which has dotted over the surface 
 of the whole globe with her possessions and military 
 posts, whose morning drum-beat, following the sun, 
 and keeping company with the hours, circles the 
 earth with one continuous and unbroken strain of 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 193 
 
 earth with one continuous and unbroken strain of 
 the martial airs of England.'' Such may be "Wind- 
 sor's chief service to the visitor — to act as a vantage 
 ground from which he may look out over vast 
 stretches of history, and looking may get a larger, a 
 saner, a more tolerant view of the things that have 
 been done ; a happier and more hopeful view of the 
 things that yet remain. 
 
 And when the retrospect is ended, he may pass 
 into the Castle and walk through the halls where so 
 many of England's rulers have been nourished. 
 He may go down into St. George's Chapel and look 
 upon the tomb of Henry VIII, or stand beside the 
 spot where the headless body of Charles I was laid 
 at the end of a tragic act of history. Crossing over 
 to the vaults of Albert Chapel, he may find the 
 sepulchres of other kings, among them that George 
 whom Patrick Henry declared might profit by cer- 
 tain examples. And taking up the thread which 
 Atropos severed here at this tomb, he may follow 
 it back a little, if he will, as we wander through the 
 royal grounds. At the end of the Long Walk, 
 which stretches away through the Great Park to the 
 south of Windsor like a line of light, we shall come 
 upon an equestrian statue of this king in his 
 triumph; and hidden in secluded spot the retreat 
 where he found refuge in the days of his mental 
 darkness. So do the Fates spin out the thread even 
 of a royal life, and dye it bright or dark, and clip it. 
 
 The park itself is a charming place, its driveways 
 set on either side with noble oaks and elms, its paths 
 13 
 
194 AVITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 losing tliemselves among beeches and yew-trees 
 under whose broad branches herds of deer are feed- 
 ing. There are trees here that are older than the 
 story of Jamestown. And in the heart of this leafy 
 depth you may come upon Virginia water^ if you 
 wander so far — a lake set here like a mirror in 
 emerald. 
 
 So, through these quiet hours at "Windsor, the 
 thoughtful tourist will come closer to the springs of 
 English life. I^or yet is he done with this little 
 plot of countryside. Descending from the Castle 
 and crossing the bridge under which flows the 
 sparkling Thames, you come to Eton College, and 
 to one of the elements of England's strength. 
 Here her youth have been trained since half a cen- 
 tury before Columbus came upon a new world. 
 How deep the traditions of valor and nobility have 
 been laid these six hundred years ! Wellington and 
 Gladstone and Kingsley were tutored here. Upon 
 the walls are written in stone and bronze the names 
 of Eton's sons who have eminently served their 
 country in peace and in war. To live among such 
 memories were half an education in itself. 
 
 Erom Eton we drove across country three miles 
 to Stoke Poges to visit the tomb of Gray and the 
 churchyard made famous by the ^^Elegy." It was 
 afternoon as we drove along the quiet road that 
 leads through fields and under the broad-spreading 
 branches of ancient trees. The sunbeams struck 
 slant through the treetops, and the thrushes were 
 singing their vesper song. In a field by the road- 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 195 
 
 side a group of laborers were resting under the 
 shadow of a stack of grain. A hare crossed the 
 roadway and disappeared in the hedge. Scarce a 
 zephyr stirred the leaves, and nature seemed to be 
 in a sort of reverie. We drew rein in the forest 
 where a footpath turns off from the highway, and 
 alighting followed the path till we came to a turn- 
 style. From a cottage hid among the leaves a 
 young girl came out, and directed us, at the same 
 time offering for sale copies of the "Elegy." 
 Beyond we caught sight of the churchyard dotted 
 with ivy-covered stones, and in the background the 
 vine-clad church with the famous yew-tree beside it. 
 A few visitors were scattered among the graves as 
 we approached, but they soon retired, and left the 
 sacred spot to us. We passed with reverent step 
 among the graves where "the rude forefathers of 
 the hamlet sleep," and stood with uncovered head 
 beneath "that yew-tree's shade" "where heaves the 
 turf in many a mouldering heap." 'Near by the 
 church wall is the common grave of the poet and 
 his mother. 'No epitaph marks his resting-place, 
 but on the marble slab which covers them are the 
 mother's name and these words of tribute from the 
 son, "the careful, tender mother of many children, 
 one alone of whom had the misfortune to survive 
 her." A tablet on the church wall tells that the 
 poet too lies here. An imposing monument has 
 been erected in the park beyond^ but the "Country 
 Churchyard" will ever be the truest monument to 
 the memory of Thomas Gray. It alone can breathe 
 
196 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 the spirit of his life and works. Here are to be 
 found that perfect peace and repose, that reverent 
 melancholy, that reticence, and that spirit of silent 
 worship which marked his life. If the sins and 
 sorrows of society find reflection in Byron's 
 writings, if the romance of the Scotch landscape and 
 the serene beauty of the Lake Country are caught 
 in the works of Scott and of Wordsworth, certainly 
 the spirit of Stoke Poges churchyard is breathed 
 into the writings of Gray. So genius consecrates 
 a common plot of earth. 
 
 We lingered about the place as the shadows 
 lengthened. We entered the little chapel and saw 
 the pew in which the poet was wont to worship, as 
 also the pew which the descendants of William 
 Penn are used to occupy. And as we came out 
 again, the good woman who serves here as guardian 
 broke for us a sprig of the aged yew, which is laid 
 away in a copy of the ^^Elegy" for remembrance. 
 The sexton led us to a spot from which the great 
 tree could be seen in all its majesty, and as we stood 
 among the waving grass he told us the legends of 
 the place. And when the stooping sun had begun 
 to gather up his spent shafts, we turned our faces 
 homeward, feeling that henceforward we should be 
 at home in at least one spot of English letters. 
 
 'Next day we set for exploration of the Thames. 
 You would never know it here in London for the 
 limpid stream that reflects the towers of Windsor, 
 so sluggish and murky it is when it has bathed the 
 great city. It is a huge open sewer. Surely the 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 197 
 
 Alpheus could not have been more foul when it had 
 been turned through the Augean stables. But for 
 all that, it is one of London's chief highways, 
 and two lines of boats run on it night and 
 day to accommodate the travel. We took passage 
 at one of the upper piers, and steamed down the 
 black, ill-smelling little stream past Waterloo 
 Bridge and under London Bridge where the gory 
 heads of criminals iised to be aired on pikes, under 
 the shadow of the Tower^ beneath Tower Bridge, 
 and out into the waters where the shipping of the 
 world is done. The East India and the West India 
 docks lie beside the river here — whence the city 
 draws its commercial life. The stream is thronged 
 with craft coming from every quarter of the globe, 
 and from the cargoes that they bring there is 
 gathered in here an annual revenue of fifty million 
 dollars, almost as much as at all the other British 
 ports combined. Passing the docks we landed at a 
 pier that bears a world-famous name — Greenwich. 
 If you have forgotten, call back in memory to the 
 first school days and the maps on whose margin the 
 numbers read so many degrees from Greenwich. 
 This is the spot. We had almost expected to find 
 a dark line running through it with a zero hanging 
 to either end, but no visible mark serves to tell you 
 that you stand on the spot from which the world 
 takes its bearings, and where a stop-watch is daily 
 held upon Apollo and his fiery steeds as they race 
 upon their course around the earth. But on a 
 gentle hill that slopes away from the river stands 
 
198 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 the rojal observatory, where among other things 
 time is calculated for the watches of the kingdom 
 and telegraphed abroad at noon each day. You 
 may see the face of the clock that carries this tem- 
 poral burden on its hands, and set your own chro- 
 nometer in accordance. You may also see there 
 just how much a standard inch or foot or yard is in 
 the realm. 
 
 Returning to the city, we passed through the old 
 fish-market, Billingsgate, become proverbial for the 
 foul and vicious speech of its people — so do our words 
 betray us. 
 
 The collections of art and archaeology here will 
 always claim a share of the tourist's time, and they 
 well repay it. However many galleries one may 
 have seen on the continent, the London collections 
 cannot be passed by without loss. England has ap- 
 preciated the work of her masters enough to keep 
 it at home, and if you would see the best specimens 
 of English art you must go to English galleries. 
 
 We visited the British Museum time and again. 
 It is the finest collection of its kind ever gotten 
 together under one roof, representing everything 
 from the first printed Bible and the oldest manu- 
 scripts to the mummies of Egyptian kings. We 
 looked upon the shrunken face of a man who is 
 said to have lived seven thousand years before the 
 Christian era. What was the speech of that long 
 palsied tongue, and how did the world look to those 
 eyes? — for they beheld an age that was "ancient his- 
 tory to Noah. 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 199 
 
 One grows weary witli simply walking through 
 the collections of the Museum. The first room we 
 came upon was of great interest. It was the auto- 
 graph room. Side by side we saw letters from 
 Charles V, Peter the Great, Louis the Great, Fred- 
 erick the Great, and E'apoleon. Near them were 
 two signatures of Victoria; one at the age of four, 
 just the name stiffly marked on a piece of common 
 paper, the other when she had been fifty years 
 queen. There are letters from Luther and Galileo 
 and Angelo. The last letter Dickens ever wrote 
 is there; and one from John Keats a few months 
 before his untimely death. A letter from Browning 
 will bear quotation. He writes: "I can have little 
 doubt but that my writing has been in the main 
 too hard for many I should have been pleased to 
 communicate with; but I never designedly tried to 
 puzzle people, as some of my critics have supposed. 
 On the other hand, I never pretended to offer such 
 literature as should be a substitute for a cigar or a 
 game of dominoes to an idle man; so perhaps, on 
 the. whole, I get my deserts and something more — • 
 not a crowd, but a few I value more." 
 
 In another room you come upon the famous 
 Rosetta stone, found some hundred years ago near 
 the E-osetta mouth of the Nile — a rough block of 
 common stone, but more precious than any that was 
 ever polished on lapidary's wheel, for it holds the 
 key to almost the entire field of ancient history. 
 One of its faces bears a triple inscription in Greek 
 and in the learned and the popular character of 
 
200 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 ancient Egypt. Until by the aid of the Greek in- 
 scription Champollion decij)liered the Egyptian 
 characters and thus discovered the hieroglyphic lan- 
 guage, the scrolls of E'ebuchadnezzar, the tablets 
 of ancient Babylon, and the writings on the tombs of 
 Egypt were as so many scratches. ;N"ow they are 
 history. But time would fail to tell of all the 
 treasures that have been gathered here — the scat- 
 tered fragments of the ages which we diligently 
 piece together into an imperfect story of the past. 
 
 One of the most deKghtful of excursions is that to 
 Hampton Court, some ten miles up the Thames. 
 You can go by water or across country. We took 
 "the tube" one morning to Shepherd's bush, and 
 made the rest of the way by tram and bus. Every 
 mile of the road is full of interest. Eirst you come 
 to the royal gardens of Xew^ one of the most beau- 
 tiful open-air conservatories in the realm. Just 
 beyond is Twickenham, the home of Pope; and 
 across the river, Richmond with its splendid park, 
 once the abode of English royalty. Near by is the 
 villa of Horace Walpole. And a short ride through 
 field and hamlet brings you before the palace of 
 Hampton Court. English history has eddied more 
 than once about this palace. It was built by the 
 ill-starred Cardinal Wolsey, and filched from him 
 by Henry VIII under the guise of a voluntary 
 present. How truly the politic old prelate said 
 when he had fallen upon evil days, "Had I but 
 served my God with half the zeal I served my king, 
 He would not in mine age have left me naked to 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 201 
 
 Cromwell resided here, and here 
 upon occasion the kings and queens from Stuart to 
 Hanover made their home. William III lost his 
 life in the park, thrown from his horse. The 
 Hampton Court Conference, famous in ecclesiasti- 
 cal history, was held here in the reign of James I. 
 But Hampton Court has now been given over to 
 pensioners of the Crown. The grounds and park, 
 though not so extensive as those of Windsor, are 
 even more beautiful. The profusion of flowers, the 
 sward running away under ancient trees to where 
 the Thames flows by, make a setting that would 
 have rejoiced Watteau. In the Pond Garden the 
 visitor is shown under glass a royal grape vine 
 nearly a century and a half old, with great black 
 bunches of luscious grapes hanging amid the 
 foliage. This single vine furnishes for the royal 
 table half a ton of grapes each year. 
 
 Back in London once more, we drove across town 
 to the little chapel in City Koad where John Wesley 
 was wont to preach in the latter years of his life, 
 what time he was not preaching up and down the 
 land — this first great itinerant of modern times. 
 Next door to the chapel are the apartments he oc- 
 cupied, all the home this childless, worse than 
 widowed man could claim. You may see them to- 
 day — his bedroom and workroom, and the little 
 closet room he set aside for prayer. How suggestive 
 of his life, for his days were consumed in work and 
 prayer — this man who was altogether the greatest 
 
202 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 single spiritual force in England of the eighteenth 
 century. Here he labored for the last twelve years 
 of his life, and here at the ripe age of eighty- 
 eight he died with the harness on, having unwit- 
 tingly founded a great church. In the rear of 
 the chapel — the shrine of Methodism — is his grave, 
 the simple shaft which marks it bearing this in- 
 scription, ^This great light arose (by the singular 
 providence of God), to enlighten these nations." 
 Here under the open sky with a few of his faith- 
 ful followers about him lies this plain preacher, 
 who might fitly have found sepulture with kings 
 in Westminster. For, as one of his biogra- 
 phers has said: "That century was rich in names 
 the world calls great — great generals like Marlbor- 
 ough, great monarchs like Frederick, great statesmen 
 like Chatham and Burke, poets and critics like Pope 
 and Johnson and Lessing, writers who helped revolu- 
 tionize society like Voltaire and Rousseau; but run 
 over the whole list, and where among them all is 
 the man whose motives were so pure, whose life 
 was so unselfish, whose character was so spotless. 
 And where among them all is the man whose in- 
 fluence — social, moral, religious — was productive of 
 such vast good and of so little evil, as that exerted 
 by this plain man !" 
 
 So our days in London passed. And when our 
 time to go had come, we felt that we had had but 
 glimpses of the city, and that London was as yet to 
 us an unknown quantity. But time pressed, and 
 Scotland lay between us and our ship — Scotland 
 with its song and story. So we bade adieu to the 
 great city, and turned our faces to the north. 
 
CHAPTEE XII 
 
 COLLEGE ANU CATHEDRAL TOWERS 
 
 It has been said that Shakespeare's plays are the 
 best English history ever written. And the saying 
 is not far from true, after all, for though the plays 
 do not give dates and name individuals as the 
 chronicles do, they reflect the character of the 
 English people in its varied phases — without which 
 quality no chronicle can rightly be called history. 
 Romeo and Juliet represent the fire of the heart; 
 Macbeth, the vaulting ambition; Richard the 
 Third, the cruelty; King Lear, the scheming and 
 sorrow; The Tempest, the high idealism, that 
 have vitalized English chronicle in its long course. 
 The plays are the history of the people epitomized. 
 
 In just as true a sense one may read in the 
 college and cathedral towers of the Isle the history 
 of the people, in its broad and most essential 
 features. Take train from the English capital and 
 travel north by easy stages. Stop where a great 
 university, hoary with centuries but virile still, sits 
 in quiet dignity beside the Cam, pause again where 
 the towers of Ely find reflection in the placid Ouse 
 or Lincoln proudly shoulders up its majestic cathe- 
 dral or York is gathered under the shadow of its 
 noble Minster — and you have seen the embodiment 
 of the two great forces that have entered into the 
 
204 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 life of the English people to make them one of the 
 mightiest nations of the earth — ^learning and 
 religion. Here is the story of this island folk litho- 
 graphed in its larger lines, the story of consecrated 
 purpose and noble ideal and long endurance and 
 large sacrifice, the story of a nation's faith and 
 hope. 
 
 As you pause in the shadow of these towers and 
 look up at their lichen-covered walls marked by the 
 tooth of time, you can but marvel how wisely and 
 well this people builded in those turbulent ages 
 when nation-building seemed so often to go by 
 chance. An inspired writer has said that in the 
 building of life faith and knowledge must be 
 cemented together into the foundation walls. And 
 history testifies that this is true also of a nation's 
 life; the foundation must be of faith and knowl- 
 edge; all other is vain. The French rejected faith, 
 and proposed to build a nation on reason; but the 
 structure toppled into the chaos of revolution in the 
 same generation. Other nations have tried faith 
 without knowledge, but the great cathedrals rising 
 among a decadent people bear witness that this also 
 is vain. England has ever pointed with equal pride 
 to her schools and her churches. 
 
 It is noteworthy that her most ancient buildings 
 are homes of learning and houses of worship. Her 
 factories, her bourses, her banks are new. But her 
 schools and churches are gray with age. Even 
 while the battle for existence and integrity was 
 raging in the formative centuries of her career, she 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 205 
 
 deemed it time to establish schools for Iier youth. 
 So long, indeed, have there been universities upon 
 the Thames and the Cam that accredited chronicle 
 runneth not to the contrary. They have stood like 
 beacon lights shining through the gloom of cen- 
 turies. They were there when John Lackland 
 signed Magna Charta on Runnymede — some say 
 that Oxford dates from the days of Alfred. They 
 endured the Hundred Years' War and again the 
 war of the Roses. Dynasties succeeded each other 
 on the throne^ but the schools remained. Reforma- 
 tion and Commonwealth came and went, but the 
 springs of learning never ceased to flow. Oxford 
 and Cambridge have contributed their part to the 
 making of the nation, and often where the sword 
 has failed the pen of scholar and diplomat have won 
 signal victories for the English people. 
 
 We tarried a few hours at Cambridge, visiting 
 the spots made famous by her sons, and walking 
 under her stately elms. It is something to tarry 
 there even for a single hour. When ^N'apoleon 
 wished to inspire his soldiers to valorous deeds on 
 the hot sands of Egypt, he pointed to the pyramids, 
 and said, ^^Soldiers, forty centuries look down upon 
 you." And men have ever been inspired to nobler 
 acts by the memory of a worthy past. Such inspi- 
 ration must come to English youth who gather for 
 a season in the historic halls of Cambridge. As 
 they look up at her ivy-mantled towers, the long 
 vista of her splendid history must open before 
 them. And as they go about their daily tasks, 
 
206 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 surely they must be consciously "compassed about 
 with so great a cloud of witnesses." Prom a single 
 one of her score of colleges have come such men as 
 iJ^ewton, Bacon, Dryden, Macaulay, Byron, Thack- 
 eray, Tennyson; while another boasts the names of 
 Philip Sidney and Darwin and Milton. 
 
 The university consists of a number of colleges 
 grouped together in one section of the town. The 
 architecture of some is beautiful, of others ex- 
 tremely simple; but the ivy lends grace and beauty 
 to all. The courts are exquisite gardens of grass 
 and flowers. Behind the colleges flows the river 
 Cam, through banks of velvet sod, its waters shaded 
 by ancient trees. Beyond the river the grounds of 
 the several colleges stretch away beneath the 
 branches of noble oak and elm, the shaded sward 
 flecked with light where the sun strikes in between 
 the trees — an idyllic setting for a seat of learning. 
 
 After Cambridge, as one travels north, come 
 some of England's most famous cathedrals, Ely and 
 Peterboro and Lincoln and York and Durham. 
 The traveler who is interested in English life can not 
 afford to pass them by. As you look upon one of 
 these ancient consecrated piles or pass in through 
 the portals to its pillared nave, the flrst lesson it 
 should teach is one in English history, the funda- 
 mental truth of England's life — that ever since St. 
 Augustine came to bring to this sea-girt isle the 
 glad news of the gospel some thirteen centuries ago, 
 the English people have been religious and have 
 taken their religion seriously. Most of the spots on 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 207 
 
 which the cathedrals stand were consecrated to the 
 service of religion in those dim days unlit by 
 accepted history. And through the ages since, the 
 spots have been kept sacred to that service. Storms 
 may have swept away the edifice, flames may have 
 devoured it, enemies may have sacked and wrecked 
 it, time may have pulled it down, but always the 
 church rose again in due season^ like the phoenix, 
 out of its ashes. 
 
 If you have an eye to see and a mind to read, you 
 may trace the nation's story from age to age as it 
 stands written there in large dim lines in the great 
 stone books. To be sure the lines that were traced 
 in the troublous Saxon days, when the tide of con- 
 quest surged back and forth so fiercely in the 
 island realm, have been blotted out till naught re- 
 mains of that time but the rude foundation walls 
 deep buried beneath the earth — foundations of 
 churches that first stood upon these sites. But in 
 the very walls of the churches of to-day you may 
 see the handiwork of the ^Norman who came over 
 with the Conqueror in 1066. Here and there in the 
 most ancient parts of the building you come upon 
 the remains of this work, circular arches, low but 
 strong and sturdy — much like those hardy men who 
 built them — and stout columns to correspond. And 
 above these the work of their successors, pointed 
 arches, more airy and aspiring. And then the later 
 styles, lying one upon another in the pile, like the 
 time-worn leaves of some manuscript whose pages 
 had been inscribed by successive writers, each in a 
 
208 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 handwriting all his own. The cathedrals stand np 
 out of the past, like the Druid monuments of Stone- 
 henge, to witness to the unfailing spirit of religion 
 in the English people. 
 
 And what real devotion these churches represent ! 
 There are a score of cathedrals in England, all built, 
 practically as they now appear, from two to five 
 centuries ago — before the era of millionaires. And 
 yet they eclipse in size and costliness of structure 
 anything that has been done in the way of church 
 building to-day. There is not a church of the 'New 
 World, for all our boasted wealth and liberality, 
 that will favorably compare with any one of the old 
 English cathedrals. Their architecture is of the 
 noblest, their workmanship of the best. ISTo ex- 
 pense of time or talent was too dear for the builders 
 of these ancient shrines. Some idea of this devo- 
 tion may be gotten when it is remembered that for 
 fifteen years Edward the Confessor gave one tenth 
 of the national income to the building of Westmin- 
 ster Abbey. What sacrifice the building of these 
 great churches throughout the land must have de- 
 manded at the hands of the people. But the sacri- 
 fice was made, and the cathedrals stand to-day as a 
 witness. 
 
 The youngest of the great English cathedrals we 
 had already visited, St. Paul's, the soul of London. 
 And yet it is not so young, after all, for it dates 
 from the Great Eire of 1666, when its predecessor 
 was burned. It is the fifth largest church in 
 Christendom, being surpassed by St. Peter's, and 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 209 
 
 the cathedrals of Florence, Milan, and Seville. 
 But the effect of its proportions is lost upon the 
 spectator. Like St. Peter's, it is so hedged in by 
 other buildings that a near view of the whole is 
 impossible, and from a distance only the dome is 
 seen rising above the sky line of the city. Business 
 houses have intruded under the very eaves of the 
 noble building, as if the mercenary world begrudged 
 the church its plot of precious ground. You must 
 see St. Paul's in sections, and then piece together 
 the sections as best you can — always to the detri- 
 ment of Sir Christopher's conception. One could 
 wish that the great church might have crowned 
 some eminence from which it could be seen in its 
 grandeur. But the plot of ground down in the 
 heart of the old city had been too long a consecrated 
 spot to be given over when the great fire gave Wren 
 his chance of immortality. Since the days of 
 Eoman occupation there had been a house of wor- 
 ship there. Ethelbert had restored it after the 
 Saxon storm. And through the centuries churches 
 had succeeded each other. Here Wycliffe had been 
 cited for heresy, and Tyndale's 'New Testament had 
 been burned by over-zealous defenders of the faith. 
 'No choice of site remained for the builders. But 
 though St. Paul's sits among the roofs of London, it 
 maintains its noble bearing, like a bishop among the 
 pews. 
 
 From St. Paul's to Ely is a far call in history, 
 but only a few hours ride by rail. The little town 
 14 
 
210 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 sits quietly beside the river Ouse, much the same 
 as it has been these Rve hundred years; for even 
 the bold and revolutionary railroad pays its respects 
 at a distance and passes by on the outskirts of the 
 town. You alight in the suburbs and take foot, if 
 you are a good tourist, along the broad way that 
 rambles into the sleepy town. But scarcely have 
 you alighted when your eye falls upon the one and 
 sufficient monument of Ely — the cathedral. And 
 how different in situation from St. Paul's ! There 
 the cathedral struggles against obscuration in a 
 great city. Here it dominates a little village. Ely 
 cathedral crowns a gently sloping hill, the town 
 gathered about it, like a brood under the wings of 
 a mother. The lack of proportion between church 
 and town impresses the visitor^ and he wonders how 
 it came about that so splendid a pile of architecture 
 was reared in so insignificant a place. The expla- 
 nation comes when he remembers that a cathedral 
 is not representative of the town in which it is 
 located, but is the capitol, so to speak, of the diocese. 
 It is primarily the place where the bishop has his 
 chair or cathedra, and is representative of the whole 
 episcopal see. It may therefore be situated in a 
 great city or a small town, according to circum- 
 stance. 
 
 But Ely is not so insignificant as it seems to the 
 eye. It has played no inconspicuous part in the 
 story of the English people. Let us think of it as 
 it appeared in those early centuries when the fens 
 which stretch away from it to-day in level 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 211 
 
 meadows were treacherous marshes cut by broad 
 lagoons, and when the cathedral stood upon "the 
 isle of Ely." Those were the days of Saxon de- 
 cline and Norman ascendancy, and in the last days 
 of that unequal struggle the fens became the refuge 
 of Saxon bands. From here they sallied forth upon 
 occasion to make fitful stand against the advancing 
 foe. And here upon the isle of Ely, Hereward, 
 "Last of the English," took refuge with his fol- 
 lowers and defied the Norman, till William 
 appeared in person, and driving a causeway across 
 the fens made himself at last undisputed master of 
 the land. And after that the name of Ely appears 
 more than once in the annals of the land, her 
 bishops stepping forth from their cloistered mews 
 to take a hand in temporal things, for in those tem- 
 pestuous times the shepherd's crook full often gave 
 place to the sword in the hand of the mitred priest. 
 It was to Cox, bishop of this same Ely, that Eliza- 
 beth sent the brief but significant message : 
 "Proud Prelate, — You know what you were before 
 I made you what you are; if you do not immedi- 
 ately comply with my request, by God I will 
 unfrock you." And a century after this event 
 Cromwell, as Carlyle records it, appeared in the 
 cathedral "with a rabble at his heels," shouting out 
 to the preacher at the sacred desk, "leave off your 
 fooling and come down, sir." Great have been the 
 vicissitudes of the ancient fane. War has often 
 knocked rudely at its door. The fields about it 
 have been dyed by turns with Protestant and 
 
212 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 Catholic blood. Its very architecture is significant 
 of strife, for its towers suggest armed battlements 
 rather than peaceful shrines — and as if to accen- 
 tuate this suggestion there stands an ancient cannon 
 upon the green, its mouth directed toward these 
 towers. Pass round it to the south, and you come 
 upon all that remains of Ely's cloisters, a few 
 crumbling ruins that speak as eloquently of an age 
 of strife as do the tooth-marked bones of the fossil 
 dinosaur. 
 
 But the waters have long since receded from the 
 fens, and left them fertile meadows; and the 
 tumult of war has died out, let us hope forever, 
 from the towers of Ely. Certainly no scene is more 
 peaceful or soothing to the traveler's eye than this 
 ancient church rising out of its ample Close, sur- 
 rounded by a green sward set with stately trees, and 
 round about, a quiet village melting away into the 
 dreamy fields. 
 
 Coming up the main street, we found ourselves 
 at the west end of the cathedral under the battle- 
 mented towers. The sun was well past the 
 meridian^ beginning to drop down across the meads, 
 and day clouds trailed their shadows slowly across 
 the scene. Light and shadow followed each other 
 upon the face of the ancient church, bringing out 
 in varying shades the details of its noble front, and 
 tracing in softened lines its wealth of sculptured 
 stone. Swallows circled about the battlements. 
 A shopman stood in his door at the corner of the 
 Close. A few figures loitered along the farther 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 213 
 
 streets. 'No other sign of life about the place, 
 except the group of tourists who stood before the 
 cathedral. We passed in under the towers through 
 the Galilee porch — so named because it is farthest 
 from the altar, as Galilee was from the altar on 
 Mt. Zion — and stood within the cool shadows of the 
 interior. It was like passing from an August noon 
 to the twilight of an autumn day, so subdued had 
 the light and warmth become under the influence of 
 the mighty pile. Before us, when our eyes had 
 become adjusted to the change, stretched the great 
 church, nave and pillared aisle, transept and sculp- 
 tured choir — a mighty prostrate cross, at whose 
 feet we stood. Far away under the central tower a 
 group of chairs were huddled together, and as we 
 passed up the nave we discovered a sexton at work 
 in one of the side aisles. Coming to where transept 
 joins nave and choir, we were beneath Alan of 
 Walsingham's octagonal tower, "the only Gothic 
 dome in existence,'' says Ferguson in his History of 
 Architecture. It rises majestically from its eight 
 massive supporting pillars, crowned with a "lan- 
 tern" through whose windows the light is sifted 
 down into the shadows of the church — a fit center- 
 piece for so grand a pile. As we looked up, a cap- 
 tive bird flitted about the inner lantern, so high that 
 we took it at first for a butterfly. 
 
 Having paid our respects to this shrine with what 
 deliberateness time allowed, we took up our journey 
 again. Three hours' run brought us to Lincoln, one 
 of the oldest cities of England, a town of some 
 
214 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 sixty thousand souls, not unacquainted with the 
 hum of macliinery and the smoke of factory — a 
 bustling, up-to-date town, for all its antiquity. The 
 railway runs here boldly into the town, amid a maze 
 of tracks and a confusion of laboring machinery. 
 We arrived as the night was gathering, and when 
 we had found hostelry, sauntered out to see some- 
 thing of the town in silhouette. The streets are 
 steep, running up and down the precipitous sides of 
 the liill on which Lincoln is built. Passing up the 
 principal thoroughfare, we came shortly to the cathe- 
 dral — indeed, one has only to keep going up hill, 
 and he is sure to come to the church at last, for it 
 crowns the hilltop, and every incline ends before its 
 doors. Our first view of Lincoln Cathedral there- 
 forCj was under the stars. The great church stood 
 up against the background of night like a huge 
 spectre, its roof and towers outlined against the sky, 
 its windows dark and its aisles as silent as death. 
 Below it on the slopes of the hill the lights of the 
 city sparkled, and the quick ear might catch noises 
 of the street rising through the stillness of the 
 night. The great church seemed to brood like a 
 solemn spirit over the town. 
 
 Next morning we visited the cathedral again to 
 admire it more in detail. It is said to be the finest 
 church in England, taking it altogether, though it 
 is not the largest. It measures four hundred and 
 eighty feet in length and a scant half that reach 
 across the transept. If you approach by way of the 
 Exchequer Gate, you find yourself suddenly upon 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 215 
 
 the open space before the cathedral door, with the 
 broad facade rising like a high decorated wall 
 before you. The first appearance is entirely mis- 
 leading, for the facade is broader than the body of 
 the church, so much broader that on comparison it 
 seems almost a sham front — and Lincoln Cathedral 
 is surely noble enough to dispense with masks. 
 However, it is of great beauty in itself, and its 
 mixture of E^orman and English styles gives it pecu- 
 liar interest in the eye of the architect. But the 
 tourist fain leaves to others the pleasure of dissect- 
 ing the old cathedral joint by joint, and is content to 
 enjoy it for an hour in the varied expression of its 
 larger detail and in its entirety. 
 
 Lincoln Cathedral has a long story. And surely 
 no apology need be offered here to the reader of 
 these pages for frequent reference to the past. In 
 these old lands it is so much larger than the present 
 that one finds more freedom wandering there; and 
 moreover, as Dr. Johnson says, "Whatever with- 
 draws us from the power of our senses, whatever 
 makes the past, the distant, or the future predomi- 
 nate over the present, advances us in the dignity of 
 thinking beings." The first church to occupy this 
 site was erected by Remegius, the old Norman 
 bishop, about 1075; and though it was injured by 
 fire and wrecked by earthquake in the following 
 century, vestiges of this first structure are yet to be 
 seen incorporated in the present facade. When you 
 have feasted your eyes enough on this great stone 
 screen, you may pass in through any one of the 
 
216 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 three great Norman doorways, under the square 
 towers that reach far above the facade, down the 
 nave that stretches in long perspective beneath 
 shadowy vaults, till you stand in the center of the 
 church, under the square tower that rises in the 
 place where a dome would be. Turning your eye 
 toward the south, you look up to where the rose- 
 window called ^'The Bishop's Eye" fills all the 
 transept gable, letting in the light through its soft 
 stained glass as it has done these six hundred years; 
 across in the northern transept "The Dean's Eye" 
 looks do^vn upon you with mild benevolence. 
 
 What memories lurk about the place ! Here 
 wrought and died the good St. Hugh of Lincoln, 
 and here for a season was the abiding place of him 
 who is known to history as Cardinal Wolsey. In 
 the Close, when you have passed round the east end 
 of the church, is a bronze statue of the poet Tenny- 
 son, a son of Lincolnshire, his faithful dog beside 
 him, and in his hand a flower from "the crannied 
 wall." 
 
 We should have been glad to linger about the 
 spot, but time urged us, and we took up our wander- 
 ing once more. A pause was made at York to pay 
 a hurried visit to its Minster — no cathedral of 
 England is more deserving of deliberate study. 
 But the call of Scotland was in our ears, and we 
 were impatient to be among its hills. 
 
CHAPTEK XIII 
 
 THE LAND OF PURPLE HEATHER 
 
 Little wonder we Americans know more about 
 other lands than we do about our own. Think of 
 England and Scotland, with all their wealth of 
 scenery, history, and legend brought within the 
 compass of a single month's inexpensive travel, with 
 an ocean voyage thrown in at either end, and you 
 will understand how it is we go over seas to do our 
 sight-seeing. Who would drag across a continent 
 to find in half a dozen States what he can find in a 
 nut-shell at the other end of a delightful ocean voy- 
 age? Dr. Hale has somewhere excused such delin- 
 quencies of patriotism by saying that ^^in America, 
 wherever I go, the railroads make me pay so much, 
 and the hotels make me pay so much, and the steam- 
 boats, that just as I am ready for my grand tour in 
 America, some one says to me, ^Take a second-class 
 ticket with me for Hamburg'; and I do, and we 
 travel in Bohemia instead of going to Tacoma." 
 
 How short distances are upon the Isles, and how 
 full of interest. England is smaller than N^orth 
 Carolina, and Scotland less by a thousand square 
 miles than South Carolina. You may breakfast in 
 London and sup in Edinburgh if you have a mind 
 to. But who would want to do that? Certainly we 
 did not. We stopped off at Cambridge. We tar- 
 
218 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 ried at Ely. We saw Lincoln by day and night. 
 We paused by the way to see York Minster, looking 
 down upon the town, and its river Ouse slipping 
 toward the sea. There are two rivers of this name 
 in England, the other running past Ely — nothing 
 like travel for learning geography. Every square 
 mile of this country has made its contribution to his- 
 tory. Suddenly in the conversation of the coach or 
 on the trainman's lips you come upon names that 
 carry you back to the schooldays of yore. And more 
 specially does this seem true as you approach the 
 border — that land which, taken in all its history, is 
 little less than one intermittent battlefield. For here 
 among the Cheviot Hills was a "Mason and Dixon 
 line'' over which blood flowed freely for four hun- 
 dred stormy years. Halidon Hill and Flodden Field 
 and Solway Moss — here they are, the bloody steps 
 of Scotland's slow decline. What tragic stories hang 
 upon these names, stories of defeat and despair for 
 that people of the north in their struggle for na- 
 tional integrity. How many bones of noble knights 
 and no less noble yeomen are mouldering beneath 
 the sod of this borderland! But its billowing hills 
 lie fair and peaceful beneath the sun now that the 
 last echoes of strife have died away. 
 
 We left York early one afternoon, passed Durham 
 with its cathedral and ancient castle standing up 
 against the sky, changed cars at Newcastle — where 
 you may see one of Stephenson's first engines pre- 
 served as a curio in the great railway station — and 
 set out for Scotland. Skirting the Tyne we turned 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 219 
 
 north at Hexham — the same at which the star of 
 poor Henry the Sixth and his brave wife Margaret 
 set in the smoke of battle now more than four hun- 
 dred years ago — and headed across the rolling coun- 
 try of l^orthumberland for the Cheviot Hills. The 
 land was lovely to look upon as the mellow sunlight 
 of late afternoon fell over it, and we were lost in 
 landscape reverie, when the trainman suddenly 
 called out ^'Wall.'^ The name roused us and sent 
 us sinking once again into volumes of forgotten 
 lore; for across country here ran the great wall 
 which the Romans built from Solway Firth on the 
 one coast to the mouth of the Tyne on the other, in 
 vain endeavor to stay the tide of savage Picts who 
 poured down from the Highlands. Now Eomans, 
 Picts, and the wall alike are gone, save in name only. 
 At Newcastle some Scotchmen entered our car- 
 riage — as the English call a railway car — and were 
 able to tell us many things about the country 
 through which we ran. One of them, a canny old 
 man of three score years and more, declared that he 
 had been traveling this way since before the rail- 
 road came, and knew every acre of the land. He 
 could tell you who owned and who farmed these 
 hills — for you must remember as you travel through 
 the Isles, that the landlord and the farmer are rarely 
 one. He saluted the men at every station as per- 
 sonal friends, and spoke of the lands and their ten- 
 ants as a patriarch might of his clan. But men in 
 this little land may well come to know each other in 
 the space of sixty years. Our fellow-traveler was a 
 
220 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 grazer on his way to the Cheviot Hills to attend the 
 great lamb sales which are held here every year at 
 this season. His brogue was of the richest — it did 
 you good to hear him say ^^doon to Haik/' meaning 
 "down to Hawick." And he was just as eager to 
 have us know the moment when we crossed the his- 
 toric border as we were ourselves, tracing the in- 
 visible line for us across the hills. He pointed out 
 one of the residences of the Duke of ^N^orthimiber- 
 land as we passed through the estates of this great 
 landlord, and was quick to magnify the qualities of 
 "his Grace.'' 
 
 As we ran through the rolling country that bil- 
 lows away to the north in a crescendo of still waves, 
 the landscape changed from green to purple. We 
 had reached the land of purple heather, and the 
 hills were robed in royal color from crown to foot. 
 These hills form one of the world's famous pastures, 
 and on their slopes the Cheviot sheep are bred. The 
 forest has long since disappeared from flank and 
 summit, giving place to the heather, which has 
 climbed sturdily up over the bald crown of every 
 hill, thus lending a softness to the landscape with- 
 out destroying the boldness of a single outline. 
 There is a rare mingling of the stern and gentle in 
 these heather-covered hills. "These gray hills and 
 all this wild border country have beauties peculiar 
 to themselves," said Walter Scott one day to Wash- 
 ington Irving as they walked among the hills. "I 
 like the very nakedness of the land; it has some- 
 thing bold, and stern, and solitary about it. When 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 221 
 
 I have been for some time in the rich scenery about 
 Edinburgh, which is like ornamented garden land, I 
 begin to wish myself back again among my own 
 honest gray hills; and if I did not see the heather 
 at least once a year, I tJiinJc I should dieJ^ 
 
 The heather is a little evergreen shrub usually 
 less than a foot in height, which grows in clusters 
 Avith foliage much like the arhor vitae. Imagine 
 this landscape of somber, unbroken green veiled by 
 mists and shadowed by the low-hung leaden sky 
 which is so common to the north country, and you 
 shall have a picture of the "gray hills, bold, and 
 stern, and solitary,'' which the great minstrel of the 
 border loved so well. But when late summer has 
 come and the heather has burst into blossom, the 
 hills don for a season a covering of gorgeous purple. 
 Then Scotland becomes in verity the land of purple 
 heather. There is also a white heather, a sort of 
 albino among the plants, as rare as the four-leaf 
 clover, worn by the native as an amulet. One of 
 our fellow-travelers had a sprig of it on his coat; 
 and when we expressed interest in it, kindly gave us 
 the sprig. It rests now under glass with a picture 
 of Louis Stevenson as a memento of the land he 
 loved. 
 
 One must agree, with Scott that the hills of the 
 border are solitary, even at their best. They are 
 too rock-ribbed and rugged for the plow. Rarely do 
 you see a spot where "the stubborn glebe" has been 
 broken. Scattered flocks feed on the hillsides here 
 and there, watched by solitary shepherds. Stone 
 
222 WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 
 
 cottages hide under the lee of the hills. For the 
 rest, the landscape is as wild and untenanted as the 
 poet could desire. As our train rushed along we 
 saw heath fowl rise time after time and sail away 
 to cover on easy wing. JSTow and then a hare scur- 
 ried off through the grass and turned to watch us 
 from safe distance. A great hawk was scouring one 
 of the hillsides in search of quarry. The feathered 
 game is reserved for the landlord's pleasure. A 
 man may have tenanted a farm long enough to rear 
 a family on it, but he may not shoot a single one of 
 the grouse and quail that fly about his fields. And 
 as the landlord rarely comes, the birds are remark- 
 ably tame. It looked to us as if shooting grouse on 
 the Scotch moor would be as easy as killing guineas 
 in the house field. And yet we saw two hunters re- 
 turning across the hills with light bags. 
 
 As the day was dying in the west we ran in under 
 the shadow of the Eildon Hills, and came to Mel- 
 rose. "No better place for the traveler first to set 
 foot on Scotch soil, for no other place is more 
 steeped in all that makes Scotland charming. A 
 few minutes' walk through the winding streets of 
 the little town brought us to the King's Arms Hotel, 
 where we found warm welcome at the hands of the 
 jovial keeper of the inn. All there is of Melrose is 
 its Abbey. And who has not heard of that? Cer- 
 tainly no one who loves the poetry of Walter Scott. 
 And those who have read "The Lay of the Last Min- 
 strel" will remember these well-known lines, de- 
 scriptive of the abbey : 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 223 
 
 "The moon on the east oriel shone 
 Through slender shafts of shapely stone, 
 
 By foliag-ed tracery combined; 
 Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand 
 'Twixt poplars straight the ozier wand 
 
 In many a freakish knot had twined; 
 Then framed a spell when the work was done, 
 And changed the willow wreaths to stone." 
 
 We had looked forward to seeing the famous 
 ruins first under the magic of moonlight, but with 
 our arrival the clouds lowered and the rain began 
 to fall. There was no help for it. Good Johnny 
 Bower, the quondam keeper of the ruins and protege 
 of Scott, was long since gone, and with him the tal- 
 low candle on a pole with which he was wont to 
 show his visitors through the ruins on moonless 
 nights, to his own great satisfaction, declaring, ^^It 
 does na light up a' the Abbey at aince, to be sure, 
 but then you can shift it about and show the auld 
 ruin bit by bit, whiles the moon only shines on one 
 side." Johnny had followed his great master these 
 many years^ so we had to content ourselves as best 
 we might in the hotel, with the Abbey cloaked in 
 Stygian darkness around the corner. But the morn- 
 ing more than redeemed the night. The rain was 
 gone, and broken clouds scurried before the wind. 
 The sun, following the horizon in this high latitude, 
 was struggling with the mists, through which his 
 light sifted down like a luminous gossamer. Under 
 such promise of the skies we set out to see the Ab- 
 bey. Turning an angle of the street we came in 
 view of "the finest ruin in Scotland," the mists of 
 
224: WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 the morning just lifted from off its gable roofs. The 
 mellow lights and shadows of the shifting day fol- 
 lowed each other over the ruin, like the play of a 
 gentle smile on a withered face. The Abbey, built 
 of pinkish stone from the Eildon Hills, has grown 
 gray with the touch of time, and the rich traceries 
 of lichen emulate to-day on its walls the intricate 
 designs which monkish chisel wrought there so many 
 centuries ago. The roof is mostly gone, the walls 
 are broken down, the windows are open to the flight 
 of birds, only a skeleton of the famous Abbey re- 
 mains. But enough is preserved of outline and de- 
 tail to give suggestion of what was there at first. 
 Eew ruins are so rich in sculptured ornament as 
 Melrose Abbey. The broken walls still retain ex- 
 quisite gems in stone, capitals and arches and 
 frieze — the rose, the kale, the cross, the thistle suc- 
 ceeding one another in endless original design. On 
 the capital of one of the transept pillars was a per- 
 fect kale leaf in stone, and at the foot of the pillar a 
 leaf of the kale fresh plucked from the field and set 
 in a vase of water. 
 
 "Spreading herbs, and flowrets bright, 
 Glisten'd with the dew of night; 
 Nor herb, nor flowret, glisten'd there. 
 But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair." 
 
 The greensward of the Abbey yard stretches 
 around the ruin — an emerald field set with a shat- 
 tered opal. 
 
 The Abbey, like all historic buildings of the land, 
 has a checkered story. It was founded by David 11 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 225 
 
 in 1136; ruined by Edward II, of England, in 1322; 
 restored by Robert Bruce; burned by Richard II in 
 1385; damaged again by the English in 1525; and 
 finally laid in ruins about the time of the Common- 
 wealth. How fierce the religious hatred of those 
 centuries must have been, when even so fair and 
 stately an edifice was torn down because it had 
 served as shelter to a conquered enemy. But it still 
 holds sacred relics. Here rest the fierce Douglases, 
 asleep in the bosom of that land whose soil was so 
 often stained with their blood. Here lies Alexan- 
 der ^"^The Peaceful," who counted it enough to have 
 wrested Magna Charta from the hands of the Eng- 
 lish King. And here, too, says tradition, is the 
 grave of Michael Scott, the wizard, at whose magic 
 word the Eildon Hills were rent asunder — and what 
 fitter place could tradition choose for sepulchre of 
 this Merlin of the north than the shadowy, spirit- 
 haunted Abbey? And in the apse, under the oriel 
 window, is buried the heart of Robert Bruce. A 
 sprig of purple heather is kept fresh upon the spot. 
 So the ancient Abbey gathers in its palsied arms the 
 history, the poetry, the legend of the border; and 
 through the gateway of its arches the traveler may 
 most fittingly make his entry into the land of strife 
 and song and story. 
 
 After our visit to the Abbey we drove out to Ab- 
 
 botsford, the last home of Walter Scott, two miles 
 
 from Melrose. The way led over leas where the 
 
 cattle were grazing and through fields from which 
 
 15 
 
226 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 the harvest had just been gathered. A flock of 
 ravens circled over the shocks of grain and settled to 
 their feeding ground. A skylark poured out his liba- 
 tion of song from among the clouds. Two workmen 
 were pruning a hedge along the way. The broad 
 road wound up the hills, shut in by hedgerows as 
 smooth as a city street. We crossed a burn brim to 
 its velvet banks with the recent rain, turned the 
 crest of the hill beyond, passed into an open wood, 
 and came to first view of Abbotsford — so christened 
 by Sir Walter because through the shallows of the 
 river here the abbots of Melrose were wont to drive 
 their cattle from bank to bank. 
 
 It is an ideal site for a manor — and it was the 
 poet's chief desire to be kno^m as "the Laird of Ab- 
 botsford." Behind it the hills fall back in broken 
 billows, wooded or heather-grown. Before it the 
 Tweed slips "o'er stock and stone." Legend still 
 clings to the countryside. It appealed to the poet; 
 and from 1812 to 1826 it divided time with Edin- 
 burgh as the dwelling-place of Scotland's greatest 
 writer — after which time and until his death in 
 1832 it claimed him wholly. It is a monument at 
 once to his ambition and his financial ruin. About 
 it will ever cling the tenderest associations. One 
 loves to think of it as Washington Irving pictures it 
 in its golden days, with the poet welcoming his 
 guests to the boundless hospitality of its halls and 
 enlivening the hours with scintillations of an inex- 
 haustible humor, or walking among the neighboring 
 hills which his fancy touched with romance, or work- 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 227 
 
 ing prodigiously in his library through the morning 
 hours while the household slept. Here his great 
 literary labors were accomplished. And here, when 
 the financial storm had left him worse than penni- 
 less, he worked mightily and yet cheerfully until the 
 twilight of life was come and the evening bell had 
 marked the end of the long day's labor. What a 
 noble life that was in honor of which we visit Ab- 
 botsford. Unpretentious in the days of prosperity. 
 Undaunted in the days of adversity. "Adversity is 
 to me at least a tonic and a bracer/' he said when 
 ruin had come. And in that spirit he took up his 
 pen and set himself to discharge all obligations. "I 
 will involve no friend, either rich or poor. My own 
 right hand shall do it." And when his friends ex- 
 pressed doubt as to the results, "Time and I against 
 any two," he said cheerily, and turned to his work. 
 When incessant labor had exhausted the springs of 
 life, and the shadows had begun to fall prematurely, 
 they took him away to Italy. But a great longing 
 seized him in that foreign land, and "Let us to Ab- 
 botsford," he said. Thither they brought him in 
 obedience to his wish, and there, as the summer was 
 ebbing out, he passed away. "It was a beautiful 
 day, so warm that every window was wide open, and 
 so perfectly still, that the sound, of all others most 
 delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed 
 over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt 
 around the bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed 
 his eyes." Such in brief was the life of "The Laird 
 of Abbotsford." And the visitor to this shrine of 
 
228 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 Scottish story should come to it not only as the 
 home of a wonderful story-teller, but of a man gen- 
 tle and courageous and indomitable and pure in 
 heart. 
 
 It stands to-day as the poet left it, and the visitor 
 is impressed with the evidences every^vhere of Sir 
 Walter's love of his native land. Every ornament 
 of the house has a meaning and is touched with the 
 history or the tradition of Scotland. The decora- 
 tions are reproduced from Melrose Abbey. The 
 armory contains Rob Roy's sword. There are sou- 
 venirs of Scottish kings, and a lock of Mary Stuart's 
 hair. He loved his country and cherished its every 
 memory. It was from his heart he wrote the fa- 
 mous lines: 
 
 "Breathes there a man with soul so dead 
 Who never to himself hath said. 
 This is my own, my native land!" 
 
 The library contains many thousand volumes in 
 Latin and French, as Avell as English. Here is the 
 famous bust of the poet, and on the wall hangs a 
 life-size painting of young Sir Walter. The room 
 where the author worked opens out of the library. 
 It remains as he left it, the great armchair drawn up 
 to the desk, the books at hand. In the exit hall is 
 a case containing the last suit he ever wore, with his 
 boots. The place remains in the hands of the fam- 
 ily, and is now (1906) occupied by a great-grand- 
 daughter of the poet. But to the world the one 
 occupant of Abbotsford will ever be "the wizard of 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 229 
 
 the north/' and his spirit shall pervade for us the 
 place which is so redolent of his memory. 
 
 From Abbotsford we drove across country seven 
 miles to Dryburgh Abbey, where Scott and his fam- 
 ily are buried. It was a lovely countryside through 
 which we passed as our carriage wound down the 
 valley of the Tweed. The way carried us again by 
 the foot of the Eildon Hills, shining deep pink 
 against the subdued sky of a cloudy day. We 
 alighted some distance from the ruin, where a foot- 
 bridge is thrown across the Tweed, in a wild and 
 solitary spot — one is surprised to find such wildness 
 in an old and populated land. On a wooded height 
 beyond the river rises a huge figure of William Wal- 
 lace, carved in native pink stone. The sight took 
 us back to the days of youth when we lay under the 
 shade of the trees and followed the old warrior with 
 bated breath through the pages of ^^Scottish Chiefs.'' 
 A walk of twenty minutes across the foot-bridge and 
 under the trees brought us to the Abbey^ and a 
 shilling to the keeper gained us admission to the 
 ruins. 
 
 Dryburgh is in even a more advanced stage of 
 dilapidation than Melrose. Indeed, only a few sec- 
 tions of the walls are standing. As one looks upon 
 the ruins of these ancient abbeys, faint vestiges of 
 the old monastic system, it is as if, standing upon the 
 deck of an ocean liner, he should sight across the 
 waters the broken masts of some long-deserted dere- 
 lict. Once the Abbey of Dryburgh played its part 
 in the world's work. Once a brotherhood of monks 
 
230 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 found home here, doing penance and counting their 
 rosaries as the days passed By. The keeper will 
 point out to you in the grass-grown foundations the 
 library, the refectory, and the cells, where the long- 
 perished monastic life was nourished. But storms 
 have wrecked the ship and set it at the mercy of the 
 elements, its occupants long since gone. 
 
 Numerous spreading yew-trees stand round about 
 the vine-covered Abbey, some of them old enough 
 to have looked upon it when it was animate mtli 
 votaries. Withal, the ruin is picturesque enough, 
 and it is not strange that Walter Scott should choose 
 as liis last resting-place this spot where romance and 
 wild beauty garland the grave of Scotland's past 
 with ivy and immortelles. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE CITY OF THE SCOTS 
 
 'Not as if tliere were only one city in Scotland, 
 for as a matter of fact, when you come to count 
 souls, tliere are several places that may easily be 
 granted that rank. There is Dundee with its hun- 
 dred and seventy thousand people. There is Aber- 
 deen, no less important, sitting serenely where the 
 waters of the German ocean beat upon the base of 
 the Grampian Hills, as stable as the blocks of granite 
 which it contributes to the commerce of the world. 
 And then there is Glasgow by the mouth of the 
 Clyde, with almost a million souls, after London the 
 largest city in the kingdom and one of the most im- 
 portant of the world. These all are cities of Scot- 
 land. But when it comes to the life, the literature, 
 and the legend of the Scottish people, there is but 
 one city of the Scots — Edinburgh. For centuries 
 she was the capital of the nation; and though the 
 lawgiver has long since departed from her halls, she 
 is still supreme in the hearts of the people. 
 
 And not only is she first in the hearts of her own 
 people, but she has a charm for the stranger such as 
 no other city of the north. Lying there under the 
 bleak northern sky, beaten upon by blasts from the 
 German ocean, ermine-mantled with snows from the 
 Highlands, the sun stooping low upon her southern 
 
232 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 horizon bj day and the Great Bear swinging through 
 the zenith by night, — "one of the vilest climates 
 under heaven/' says Louis Stevenson, — ^Edinburgh 
 still draws the traveler with irresistible charnij for 
 she can boast more romance and story and pictur- 
 esqueness than any other city of the Isles. Even so 
 prosaic a thing as a railroad terminal, with its noise 
 and smoke and grime, is touched by the finger of 
 poesy when it enters this modern Athens; and the 
 traveler who would approach the city must enter 
 through the Waverley or the Caledonian Station. 
 
 It was through the former we gained entrance to 
 the capital of Caledonia, having prefaced our visit 
 with Melrose and Abbotsford. And, indeed, one 
 needs to preface a visit to Edinburgh with a good 
 deal of Scotch history and literature if he would 
 enter into the spirit of the famous city and under- 
 stand the things it has to tell. We took cabs at the 
 Waverley, and drove to Royal Circus, which is a 
 beautiful circular park of the Kew Town, where 
 Great King street expands its lungs to take in the 
 breezes from the Firth of Forth. Our way lay along 
 Princes street, one of the loveliest boulevards in the 
 world. To the right of us business houses were lined 
 up shoulder to shoulder by the curb, their windows 
 kaleidoscopic with tartans of the clans. To the left 
 lay Princes Street Gardens, a park nestling in the 
 hollow of the hills, where flowers grow in profusion, 
 and where the deeds of Scotland's sons are com- 
 memorated in stone. Here beside the great thor- 
 oughfare, in the heart of Midlothian, the people 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 233 
 
 have seen fit to testify their love of Walter Scott by 
 rearing to him a monument, a beautiful Gothic pile, 
 under the arches of which is a sitting figure of the 
 novelist with his faithful dog beside him. Here, too, 
 is a statue of David Livingstone, and one of John 
 Wilson, known to literature under the mask of 
 "Christopher North/' Near him stands Allan Ram- 
 say, the poet. Beyond the gardens rises the grim 
 Castle of Edinburgh, lifted high above the city on 
 its rock-ribbed cliff, from the flanks of which the 
 sinuous streets of the Old Town slope away toward 
 the Meadows or Arthur's Seat. 
 
 At Frederick street we turned north, crossed 
 George street, where stand monuments to Prince 
 Albert; Thomas Chalmers, the great preacher; 
 William Pitt, the statesman; George IV, and Mel- 
 ville; and came to our stopping place. Here in the 
 compass of two blocks you may see the homes of 
 Sidney Smith, and Sir James Simpson (discoverer of 
 chloroform), and "Christopher North," and Louis 
 Stevenson, and Walter Scott. How rich the city is 
 in traditions of famous men; and the end is not yet, 
 as we shall see when we walk through the streets of 
 the Old Town. Our hostess proved to be a relative 
 and former playmate of Stevenson, and so over the 
 teacups we had rare introduction to the life and 
 legend of the charming city through the pleasant 
 ways of reminiscence. 
 
 The most conspicuous landmark of the city, both 
 topographically and historically, is the Castle. It 
 lies over in the Old Town, a Gibraltar reduced. It 
 
234 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 crowns a huge rock that rises sheer out of the sur- 
 rounding plain some four hundred feet, practically 
 unscalable except on one of its sides. Coming from 
 Princes street, you pass along the Mound, which 
 connects the 'New and the Old Town across the Gar- 
 dens, leave the Bank of Scotland to your left, and 
 hold your course up the steep incline that slopes to 
 the ancient stronghold of the Scottish kings. Cross- 
 ing the drawbridge and clearing the portcullis, you 
 stand upon the parapet of the castle, overlooking 
 the city and surrounding country. At your feet 
 Edinburgh stretches over the low-lying hills. 
 Through the edge of it flows the water of Leith like 
 a ribbon. To the north, almost on the horizon, the 
 Firth of Forth shimmers in the sun, running out to 
 meet the sea. To the east rises Calton Hill, the 
 Acropolis of this northern Athens, its monuments 
 silhouetted against the sky; and beyond it a veil of 
 mist where the Firth is wedded to the stormy ocean. 
 Farther toward the south looms Arthur's Seat, a 
 rugged eminence where tradition says the king and 
 the knights of the Roundtable were wont to gather 
 before brave Arthur passed into that "fair island 
 valley of Avilion.'' To the south, in the far back- 
 ground, the Pentland Hills break away in purpling 
 billows. Over you the frowning battlements of the 
 citadel tower in a sort of gTim silence. 
 
 When at last the chill north wind has driven you 
 back from this splendid view — for the wind has an 
 edge to it here even on summer days — you enter the 
 ancient fortress. Its authentic history begins witli 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 235 
 
 Malcolm III in tlie eleventh century. And from 
 that tnne till James VI went to take the place of 
 Queen Bess beside the Thames, it watched over the 
 birth and destiny of Scotland's kings. And what 
 a stormy destiny that was upon which the grim 
 castle looked through successive generations one 
 may gather from this brief chronicle: "Rob- 
 ert III, second of the Stuarts, died of a broken 
 heart, caused by misfortune. James I, after spend- 
 ing most of his life in prison, was slain by the dag- 
 ger of an assassin. James II was killed by the 
 bursting of a cannon at Roxburgh. James III, 
 while resisting the rebellion of his son and successor, 
 fell a victim to a nameless murderer after his de- 
 feat at Sauchie Burn. James IV, the victorious 
 Absalom, died on Flodden Field, whither he had led 
 his army to disaster. James V died broken-hearted, 
 mourning over the disgrace and repulse of his forces 
 at Solway Moss. His daughter^ Mary, expired on 
 the scaffold.'' Such have been the sad tidings that 
 have come to the ancient fortress anon as her kings 
 came and went. The castled crag of Edinburgh has 
 stood in the middle stream of Scottish story since 
 those far-off inarticulate ages out of whose mists it 
 has risen into the light of accredited history. More 
 than once storms have swept bare the ancient rock, 
 but always it was crowned again with a stronghold. 
 The names of Malcolm and Donald and Bruce cling 
 to it still with the tenacity of legend. It was the 
 retreat of good Queen Margaret, mother of Scot- 
 tish kings, and on its windswept parapet you may 
 
236 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 see to-day the bleak stone chapel which bears her 
 name. As the crag stands prominent in every view 
 from the country round about, so the Castle of Ed- 
 inburgh stands prominent in every view of Scot- 
 land's history. 
 
 But the tragic story has long since been acted out 
 to its last scene, and you approach the Castle not 
 as the citadel of Scotland's power, but as the mauso- 
 leum where are preserved that power's mouldering 
 remains. Pass in through the tortuous way to the 
 inner court. Climb up as best you can the narrow 
 stair that leads to a low, ill-lighted room under the 
 roof, and you are in the presence of all that is left 
 of Scottish royalty. It is the crown room, where 
 the regalia of Scotland are kept. In a glass case are 
 exposed to view the ancient crown, with the sword 
 of state and the royal sceptre. What a pathetic 
 sight ! these emblems of a vanished glory. Round 
 about that modest diadem the storms have raged 
 since first it graced the brow of Robert Bruce six 
 hundred years ago. What schemes of state have 
 been spun about it. What battles fought for its 
 possession. What floods of human blood poured out 
 on its account. It was a storm center through all 
 the centuries till the union of Scotland and England 
 in the person of James VI. But now 'tis all past, 
 and the diadem which was long the coveted prize of 
 nations lies upon the shore of history where the ebb- 
 tide left it at last. Eor more than a hundred years 
 this crown, which graced the brow of Mary Stuart 
 and brought about her death, lay dust covered and 
 
WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 237 
 
 forgotten in a chest of this upper chamber, till the 
 patriotic zeal of Walter Scott brought it to light 
 once more. 
 
 E'ear by are the apartments of Mary Stuart, 
 where as queen she spent much of her time, and 
 where her son^ James VI, first saw the Kght, in a 
 little chamber which "would scarcely be occupied, 
 save under protest, by a housemaid in our days." 
 As she lay there with the innocent child at her 
 breast and looked out upon Edinburgh town, little 
 did she think that a day would come when the can- 
 non of this same child would be planted in the 
 streets of her capital city and trained upon her own 
 castle walls. But such was ever the fate of the 
 Stuarts. 
 
 Having made the round of the Castle — most of it 
 is now occupied as barracks and so closed to vis- 
 itors — you pass down the esplanade again to where 
 it merges into the Lawnmarket and High street, 
 running straight from the Castle to the palace of 
 Holyrood at the other end of the city. This was in 
 olden times the great artery of Edinburgh life. In- 
 deed, Edinburgh may well be said to have grown up 
 about this center. Let us think of this ancient way, 
 not as it appears to the eye of the tourist, hedged 
 in by tall reeky buildings, but as a broad crude road 
 running do^vn through broken fields from the strong- 
 hold to the forest, in whose leafy depth David I had 
 built the Abbey of Holyrood when, according to 
 story, he had been saved from the horns of a mad- 
 dened stag by the intervention of a miraculous cross 
 
238 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 upon this spot. Such was the nucleus around which 
 Edinburgh grew — a castle and an abbey, the sword 
 and the spirit — and these have been the moulding 
 influences in her whole career. 
 
 As we pass down the Lawmnarket, the mind turns 
 to these earlier times, and one likes to dream of the 
 spirited days when pageant and royal procession 
 were not uncommon here, for this way passed the 
 rulers of the realm as they went to worship in the 
 Abbey, and this way ambassadors passed to castle 
 and court. What a sight High street must have pre- 
 sented that day when it was thronged with the mul- 
 titude and every window of the tall buildings bulged 
 with life — all turned out to welcome back their 
 young Queen Mary from over the waters to her 
 capital city. Many epoch-marking scenes High 
 street has looked upon, as you will be reminded at 
 almost every step. At its very entrance stands St. 
 Giles' Church, the old cathedral where John Ivnox 
 preached and from the pulpit of which he hurled 
 philippics against what he took to be abuses and dan- 
 gers of the age. Erom here he arraigned this same 
 Queen Mary, and down this street he passed at her 
 summons to give account before her majesty in the 
 Palace of Holyrood for his words — the stern, un- 
 compromising, unflinching Eather of the Scotch 
 Reformation. One can picture the old street 
 pulsing with life that day as the crowd surged down 
 to the Palace gates and stood through the livelong 
 day with restless patience to hear the outcome of 
 the great preacher's trial, readv to receive him when 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 239 
 
 he should liave been vindicated, as in due time he 
 was. ~^0Y must one forget that other scene in this 
 same street, when after John Knox had appeared 
 for the last time in the church to which his life was 
 given, the people hurried out to offer a silent bene- 
 diction to the old man as he went through them 
 bowed with years and cares to his home. That 
 house you may see, standing out upon a corner of 
 this street like a watch tower, overlooking the come 
 and go of the people, as John Knox himself stood 
 all those stormy years a watchman over the life of 
 Edinburgh. Not far from St. Giles, in Parliament 
 Square, you may see a simple stone let into the pave- 
 ment, with these words inscribed upon it, "J. K. 
 1572," the letters almost worn away now by the 
 constant passing of hoofs and wheels. It marks the 
 resting place of John Knox, who was buried here in 
 the shadow of his church when a cemetery occupied 
 the ground. 
 
 Turning from the grave of the great Reformer, 
 you pass under the shadow of the City Cross, a sort 
 of secular pulpit raised here upon the edge of the 
 public square, from which proclamations of the 
 Crown were wont to be spread abroad — before the 
 days of the morning paper. Just beyond, as you 
 enter upon High street once more, is the figure of a 
 heart worked into the cobblestones to mark the site 
 of the old Tolbooth Prison. The prison itself, like 
 the Bastille of Paris, has long since disappeared 
 from the face of the earth and its very foundations 
 have beeii leveled for the passing of the busy crowd. 
 
240 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 The wind sweeps airily to-day over the spot where 
 in years agone many a debtor and criminal lay in 
 the darkness and squalor of dank prison cells. But 
 in its day the Tolbooth must have furnished many 
 an exciting scene in the life of High street, if one 
 may depend upon the chroniclers — scenes which 
 bring to us some meager comfort in this often law- 
 less land of ours. Eor it appears that on one occa- 
 sion when riot had broken out at a festival, a ring- 
 leader was arrested, thrown into the Tolbooth, and 
 condemned to be hanged on the public square. Pro- 
 tests and petitions were in vain to save the culprit's 
 neck, and the day of execution was come. Then it 
 was the mob took the law in its own hand, and set 
 out down High street, ^^and first they housed Alex- 
 ander Guthrie and the provost and baillies in the 
 said Alexander's writing booth, and syne came down 
 again to the Cross and dang down the gibbet and 
 brake it in pieces, and thereafter past to the Tol- 
 booth which was then steekit : and when they could 
 not apprehend the keys thereof they brought ham- 
 mers and dang up the said Tolbooth door perforce, 
 the provost, baillies, and others looking thereupon; 
 and when the said door was broken up ane part of 
 them passed in the same, and not only brought the 
 said cordwainer forth of the said Tolbooth, but also 
 all the remaining persons being thereintill : and this 
 done they passed up the Hie gate." So they settled 
 matters of law in those troublous days when Scot- 
 land was rent to the heart with religious dissension. 
 One may appropriately turn aside here from High 
 
WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 241 
 
 street to visit Greyfriars' Churcli, which lies hard 
 by upon the crest of one of the Old Town hills — 
 deserving attention not so much on account of the 
 church itself as of its cemetery, which is a sort of 
 graveyard of the Reformation, a common memorial 
 of the unquenchable zeal of that heroic age. Here 
 lies the ^^bluidy Mackenzie" of Covenanter days. 
 Here, too, are buried Ramsay the poet and Robert- 
 son the historian, as if to lend a gentle touch to the 
 sternness of the place. On one of the flat tomb- 
 stones the ^^Solemn Oath of the Covenant'' was 
 signed in 1638. Here forty years afterward twelve 
 hundred soldiers taken at Bothwell Brig were kept 
 five long months, ^^fed on bread and water, and 
 guarded, life for life, by vigilant marksmen,'' till 
 their doom should be fixed; many of them no doubt 
 meeting their doom here among the graves. The 
 dates on the stones run back through those terrible 
 years of religious persecution when Claverhouse and 
 his troopers hunted the Covenanters with tireless 
 zeal. Down in one corner of the yard is a monu- 
 ment to the eighteen thousand souls who in that 
 thirty years' struggle preferred death to recanta- 
 tion. And over them are inscribed these lines : 
 
 "Halt, passenger, take heed what you do see. 
 This tomb doth show for what some men did die. 
 Here lies the dust of those who stood 
 'Gainst perjury, resisting unto blood." 
 
 Such were the fierce and fearless men who have 
 written Scotland's story; written it in blood — their 
 i6 
 
242 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 own or that of their fellows — but written it, let us 
 believe, in all good conscience, believing that they 
 were doing God service. These were the times when 
 in the blood of martyrs was being sown the seed of 
 the church; for in all after years the sturdiness of 
 the Scotchman's faith and his zeal in things religious 
 have been well-nigh a proverb. 
 
 Returning from Greyfriars, we pass on down the 
 gentle slope of High street and Canongate toward 
 Holyrood Palace. The tall gable roofs and over- 
 hanging stories mark this part of the city as belong- 
 ing to a past age. N^or would the history of these 
 now dark and grimy buildings be without its trag- 
 edy. This was once the heart of Edinburgh life — a 
 sort of Eifth avenue in its day — about which was 
 gathered the best society of the city. Over many 
 a squalid door you may yet see the broken coat-of- 
 arms which once marked it as the home of noble 
 blood. Hither came Robert Burns, the young poet 
 of Scotland, fresh from the Ayrshire hills, to be re- 
 ceived as the darling of Edinburgh society. And it 
 was in one of these homes that "Walter Scott saw the 
 Ayrshire poet, having been admitted along with 
 other boys who were too young to join the company, 
 "in order that they might see this wonder of the 
 world." Afterward the boys of Canongate were to 
 look upon the passing of this lame boy with more 
 wonder than he ever looked upon Bobbie Burns, 
 for the Wizard of the E'orth loved to drive along 
 this way when fame had come to him. Dr. Johnson 
 and his Boswell were received here as guests. And 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 243 
 
 here the merrj club of "Christopher North" and 
 his literary co-laborers was wont to meet. 
 
 But that sparkling current of life has passed out 
 of the streets of the Old Town, leaving in its chan- 
 nel only dregs and stagnant pools. "The Bedouins 
 camp within Pharaoh's palace walls, and the old 
 warship is given over to the rats." High street and 
 Canongate are now the slums of Edinburgh. The 
 sluggish current which moves along the street, eddies 
 on either side into noxious pools where evil-smelling 
 closes offer shelter to the denizens. You turn from 
 the pavement into a low timnel, at the farther end 
 of which the sunlight is seen struggling feebly with 
 the shadows. Pass through, and you are in a sort 
 of cramped court paved with cobblestones and shut 
 in on all sides by grimy, window-broken walls that al- 
 most touch the sky. The close is a kind of ventila- 
 tor for surrounding tenements, down which the sun- 
 light may find its way for an hour, and where those 
 who look out of the windows may see above them 
 a patch of God's over-arching blue. As we entered 
 one of these closes, a woman stood in a doorway of 
 the somber tunnel, her hair unkempt about a disso- 
 lute face, a dingy shawl thrown about her shoulders, 
 her feet unshod — the embodiment of degradation. 
 In the faint sunlight of the close four boys were 
 pitching pennies for gain. The lower windows were 
 black and broken, stuffed here and there with cast- 
 off garments. From some of the upper ones wash 
 was exposed to the sun. One of the youngsters, see- 
 ing us, offered to point out where the elder Glad- 
 
244 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 stone and Robert Burns had dwelt for a season in 
 this same close — when its fortunes were brighter. 
 Thus too often does vice take up where virtue was 
 wont to house. 
 
 Passing Canongate Church, where are buried 
 Adam Smith and Dugald Stewart and Robert Fer- 
 g-usson, you are come at last to Holyrood. All that 
 remains of the Abbey is a few crumbling walls. 
 Upon the site was built Holyrood Palace. The Pal- 
 ace is known chiefly as the home of Mary Stuart, 
 though other sovereigns have resided there, and its 
 story is as tragic as that of the Queen of Scots. 
 Her apartments are preserved here much as they 
 were in her day, her bed with its drapery falling to 
 pieces from age, her looking-glass, some chairs. 
 Here the fair queen held court, and received am- 
 bassadors of other powers. Here John Knox with- 
 stood her till tears gave place to passionate words. 
 In the vestibule to her audience room is the blood- 
 stain where her infuriated husband slew Riccio be- 
 fore her very eyes, while she protested and threat- 
 ened in vain. 
 
 But Holyrood, like so many another royal resi- 
 dence, has been deserted of royalty these many 
 years, and has been turned into a museum. *^^The 
 Palace of Holyrood has been left aside in the growth 
 of Edinburgh,'' says Stevenson, ^^and stands gray 
 and silent in a workman's quarter and among brew- 
 eries and gas works. It is a house of many memo- 
 ries. Great people of yore, kings and queens, buf- 
 foons and grave ambassadors, played their stately 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 245 
 
 farce for centuries in Holyrood. Wars have been 
 plotted, dancing has lasted deep into the night, mur- 
 der has been done in its chambers. There Prince 
 Charli(:3 held his phantom levees, and in a very gal- 
 lant manner represented a fallen dynasty for some 
 hours, i^ow, all these things of clay are mingled 
 with the dust, the king's crown itself is shown for 
 sixpence to the vulgar; but the stone palace has out- 
 lived these changes." 
 
 And now finally, to get a last view of the City of 
 the Scots, pass down from the Palace by Queen 
 Mary's Bath, where tradition says she was wont to 
 dip in white wine to preserve her loveliness, climb 
 the steep slope that leads up to the High School, 
 pass Burns' s Monument sitting upon the hip of Cal- 
 ton Hill, clamber up the steps that are cut in the 
 side of the crag, and you stand upon the Acropolis 
 of this Athens of the E^orth. Its summit is a broken 
 park with rare trees scattered over sharply dipping 
 sward. An unfinished monument of the battle of 
 Waterloo crowns the hill, its columns outlined 
 against the sky suggesting the hill of Athens. On 
 one side of you is a tall monument to I^elson, more 
 like a light-house shaft upon the rocky eminence 
 than like a memorial stone. On the other side is a 
 dignified monument to Dugald Stewart. E'ear by 
 are the Koyal Observatories, old and new. Beneath 
 you lies the city. To the extreme left as you face 
 the sunset rises Arthur's Seat, with Holyrood sleep- 
 ing in its shadow. To the south the Old Town 
 spreads its dingy sea of gable roofs. Far across the 
 
246 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 city before you tlie dark bastions of the Castle are 
 printed on the western sky. Directly in front of 
 you the broad channel of Princes street divides the 
 Old Town from the New, running away to the sun- 
 set like an arrowy river. To the northwest the I^ew 
 Town stretches over its hills sloping to the Water 
 of Leith, and far beyond it the Forth Bridge lifts its 
 giant girders above the tree-tops. North of you is 
 the seaport of Leith, and away over its forest of 
 masts is the misty ocean, on whose chill breath the 
 gray fogs ride in. And while you wait, the chiming 
 of church bells or the echo of signal gun from 
 the Castle wafted across the gulf of air, testify to 
 the union still of temporal and spiritual power in 
 the City of the Scots. 
 
CHAPTEE XY 
 
 SCOTCH LANDS AND LETTERS 
 
 Traveling througli Scotland is like turning the 
 pages of her literature, so closely are her lands and 
 letters woven together. In no other part of the 
 world, except perhaps among the English lakes, have 
 the wayside names been so embalmed in the pages 
 of literature. Scarce a hill or hamlet here but is 
 preserved in some imperishable line, and every fur- 
 long of the road serves to stir a memory. The lover 
 of Scotch literature feels as if he had come into the 
 realm of story realized; for here are the very 
 ^^banks and braes o' bonny Doon," and the waters of 
 "sweet Afton" flowing gently among the green 
 braes. "Alloway's auld haunted kirk" still stands 
 by the roadside down which Tam fled from the 
 witches that weird night. You may yet look upon 
 the scenes where "Highland Mary" lingered and the 
 bonnie braes of Maxwelton where "Annie Laurie" 
 gave her promise. The moon still dances on Mo- 
 nan's rill; the sun still kindles his beacon on Ben 
 Voirlich's head; Ben Ledi's ridge yet rises against 
 the sky, and the Brigg of Turk spans the Teith as it 
 did that day when "the headmost horseman rode 
 alone" across the page of an immortal poem; and the 
 island where dwelt the Lady of the Lake is washed 
 to-day by waters that flow down from the Highlands. 
 
248 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 Lovers of story who have followed Rob Roy and 
 Jeanie Deans and Meg Merrilies and Bonny Prince 
 Charlie through the realms of romance, may foUow 
 them again through the streets of Edinburgh and 
 among the braes and through the fastnesses of the 
 Highlands. 
 
 The mountains and lakes, the hamlets and 
 streams, the castles, even the flowers of the wayside, 
 have been preserved for all time in the song and 
 story of Scotland's writers — no figment of fabled 
 names, but the broad land itself steeped in the all- 
 preserving element of genius. And who shall do 
 for our land what Scott and Burns have done for 
 theirs? Who shall spread the magic garment of 
 romance over our fair country ? Who shall so touch 
 the names of our wayside places, our rivers and 
 streams, our hills and hamlets, as to make them 
 household words in distant lands and among genera- 
 tions yet unborn? Who shall have such compelling 
 power of the pen as that men shall journey across 
 seas for the sake of these places ? 
 
 As one moves upon the smooth-flowing measures 
 of Scott and Burns, it seems as if the names were 
 moulded to the metre; till one turns to the map and 
 finds there these same names printed under the cold 
 meridians, or comes upon them in the highways and 
 byways of history. And our land is as rich in musi- 
 cal names, the liquid Indian names of mountain and 
 stream, as Scotland. Scattered here and there in 
 chronicle, or preserved by tradition, are inex- 
 haustible materials for romance- — deeds of daring. 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 249 
 
 passionate love^ wild warfare in a wild country, acts 
 of virtue and of vice, such as few countries have of- 
 fered to the minstrel or the story-teller. But the 
 pen which moulds these materials into perma- 
 nent literature wdll have to be wielded by one who, 
 like Scott and Burns, has been born of the soil and 
 who has drunk in from his mother's breast the his- 
 tory and tradition of his native land; who loves 
 its rocks and rills, its vales and templed hills; who 
 knows its people, their virtues and vices, and has a 
 deep and abiding sympathy with the folk. Such a 
 writer must incarnate the life of our country in its 
 varied history, and have the divine gift of express- 
 ing that life in its lights and shadows. "When such 
 a man shall come to any section he shall touch it 
 with "a light that never was on sea or land." Then 
 we shall have our Waverley novels, our Lady of the 
 Lake, our Cotter's Saturday !Night, our Ode to a 
 Mountain Daisy. Then we shall have a literature 
 that, whether it come from the IsTorth or the South, 
 shall be American, even as the writings of Burns 
 and Scott are English literature. As one of our 
 own Southern authors has said of the ideal Southern 
 writer: ^^He must be Southern and yet cosmopoli- 
 tan; he must be intensely local in feeling, but 
 utterly unprejudiced and unpartisan as to opinions, 
 tradition, and sentiment. Whenever we have a 
 genuine Southern literature, it will be American 
 and cosmopolitan as well. Only let it be the work 
 of genius, and it will take all sections by storm.'' 
 Such must be the measure of the man, from any 
 
250 "WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 section, who would take place in the rank of great 
 writers. 
 
 But until he come to make famous the common 
 places of our land, we faiQ travel to those places 
 that have been more fortunate. So it came about 
 that a company of Southerners found themselves in 
 the heart of Scotland — come hither to visit the 
 scenes they had known so well through the printed 
 page. 
 
 It was early morning of an August day when we 
 left Edinburgh for the Highlands by way of the 
 Caledonian Railroad. Do not think, however, that 
 we were going to see the land of "The Lady of the 
 Lake" from a car window. The enterprising world 
 has not gotten that far, as yet. You may climb the 
 Alps by steam. You can rush through the Black 
 Forest to the roar of the locomotive. You can view 
 the Rhine from a dining-car as you run. But the 
 sacred precincts of Loch Katrine have not been 
 desecrated by the advent of a railroad — though 
 Ruskin lamented that the steamboat had come to 
 trail its foul banner of smoke across the romantic 
 waters. 
 
 A few minutes' run from Edinburgh brought us 
 to the famous Eorth Bridge, which Eiffel, the 
 builder of the Paris tower, pronounced to be the 
 greatest construction of the world. It spans the 
 Firth of Forth ten miles above the city, its total 
 length being more than a mile and a half, its two 
 main spans each seventeen hundred feet, or a hun- 
 dred feet longer than that of Brooklyn Bridge. It 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 251 
 
 was seven years in building, and cost fifteen million 
 dollars. Its towers are three hundred and sixty feet 
 high, and the metal in it weighs fifty thousand tons. 
 So much for the cold facts which in this later day 
 have come to bridge the gulf of romance. Eor 
 about the stormy Firth legends hang as thick as the 
 mists of an autumn morning. Here where the 
 bridge now offers easy passage to the tourist was 
 once the ferry which Queen Margaret established 
 and maintained at expense of the state, that the 
 citizens of her realm might have contact with each 
 other despite the angry arm which old ocean threw 
 between them. Here was the connecting link be- 
 tween "the kingdom of Fife'' and the county of 
 Perth to the north, and the broad lands to the south. 
 This way Malcolm and Margaret were wont to 
 pass from their royal house at Dunfermline to the 
 Castle of Edinburgh — in the days when the Con- 
 queror was fighting the Saxons in the south. And 
 across this same ferry the body of the queen was 
 borne back in secret from Edinburgh Castle to find 
 burial in the Abbey of Dunfermline, when Tier hus- 
 band was dead, and the troops of Donald Bane lay 
 in siege at the gates of her capital. As the train 
 draws across the great bridge, and one looks down 
 upon the waters crawling far below, one can but 
 think how far the world has moved forward in some 
 things since those days. 
 
 Leaving the bridge and passing Dunfermline, we 
 came shortly to Stirling with its castle frowning 
 down upon it. Few places have witnessed the mak- 
 
252 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 ing of more history than has this little town of 
 twenty thousand souls. The castle has been occu- 
 pied by both English and Scottish royalty, in defi- 
 ance of each other. Two of Scotland's kings were 
 born here — James II aiid James V. It was occu- 
 pied by Eobert Bruce after his famous victory at 
 Bannockburn a few miles away. The Douglases 
 were frequent visitors here in the days of their as- 
 cendency. From the Castle rock are visible the 
 battlefield of Sauchieburn, Bannockburn, and Stir- 
 ling. 
 
 From here we came to Aberf oyle, the terminus of 
 the railway, and the beginning of a region more 
 romantic than '^the forest of Arden." For this is 
 the realm on which the noble stag looked down 
 
 "And pondered refuge from his toil, 
 By far Lochard or Aberfoyle." 
 
 It was noon when we reached here, and the clouds 
 which had been undecided all the morning, finally 
 voted wet. It was a disappointment, for we had 
 hoped to have fair skies for our trip through the 
 Scotch lakes. But the good traveler, like the good 
 sportsman, must learn to make the best of all 
 weathers, and be cheerful under all skies. We re- 
 called with some comfort the story of the traveler 
 who on such an occasion asked the driver, "Does it 
 always rain in Scotland ?" and was answered by 
 the canny native, "No, sir; sometimes it snow^s.'' 
 It might have been worse — which concession lets in 
 a ray of light upon the darkest scene. 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 253 
 
 At Aberfoyle there happened an incident which 
 gives insight into the sturdy native character. 
 Lunch over^ and the rain continuing, we had the 
 choice of putting up at the hostelry, getting 
 drenched, or buying rain coats — for wraps had been 
 shipped to Liverpool. We chose the last, and after 
 some trouble found specimens of the desired 
 article in a sort of general merchandise store such 
 as one sees at the cross-roads. We asked the mer- 
 chant if the coats would really turn water — the 
 cheapness at which they were offered made us sus- 
 picious. E'ow, an American salesman would likely 
 have assured a stranger that with such a coat he 
 might dive to Davy Jones's locker without danger 
 of wetting. E'ot so with this Scotchman. "They 
 were made for that j)urpose," he said, "and I think 
 they will; but I cannot say positively, as I have 
 never tried them." As a matter of fact, they 
 proved excellent coats in both Scotch and American 
 weather. 
 
 Armed, or rather clothed, with our purchase, we 
 mounted the tally-ho, and started across the hills for 
 the Trossachs and the lakes beyond. The road-. 
 were steep but superb, and our four stout horses 
 took us over the ground as fast as we cared to go 
 through such scenery. The heather covered hill 
 and valley, coming up to the very edge of the way, 
 and on the braes the sheep were feeding in purple 
 fields. As we proceeded, the clouds broke from 
 time to time, letting the light through upon the 
 landscape. To the left Ben Venue bathed his fur- 
 
254 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 rowed brow in the low-hanging clouds^ while his 
 flank and foot melted away into purple billows. To 
 our right, almost hidden among the hills, the misty 
 mirror of Loch Yennachar reflected the lowering 
 sky. And beyond the glen, when cloud rifts re- 
 vealed it, "rose Ben Ledi's ridge in air." Only too 
 often, as the roadway rose and fell with the undu- 
 lating hills, we were disappointed of some ex- 
 pected view by the lowering clouds. But what was 
 not revealed to the eye was made good by the im- 
 agination. And indeed we saw almost as much as 
 might have been offered on a more favorable day, 
 for the Scotch landscape is famous for the intensity 
 of its detailed beauty rather than for its far reaches. 
 Distances among the hills are short, and a day's 
 drive behind a sturdy team will bring you within 
 eye's reach of almost every celebrated spot of this 
 poetic region. The whole lake country was made 
 famous by one day's hunt in the poem; and Scott 
 was very careful that his descriptions should tally 
 with . fact, often traveling the reputed distance to 
 see whether it could be really accomplished. The 
 pack and quarry could easily cover in one day's run 
 every point from Monan's rill to "the deep Tros- 
 sachs' wildest nook." Moreover, a clouded sky is not 
 altogether unfavorable to seeing Scotch landscape to 
 advantage. The hills even of the Highlands are 
 comparatively low, and lowering clouds lend to them 
 proportions which they would surely lose under the 
 high-pitched vault of an Italian sky. The High- 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 255 
 
 lands would look mean under a heaven in whose airy 
 spaces the snow-crowned Alps find ample room. 
 
 So we journeyed into the lake country und 
 dampening but not altogether adverse conditions. 
 Rolling down the sharp decline of an outlying hill, 
 we came to the border of Loch Achray, a tiny lake 
 lying like a link between Katrine and Yennachar. 
 At the eastern end of this lakelet, spanning the 
 stream that drains the loch, is the brigg of Turk, 
 over which, according to Sir Walter, the hunter 
 urged his faltering steed in pursuit of the straining 
 quarry; and near by is the defile of the Trossachs, 
 in which the gallant gray breathed his last. From 
 Achray to Katrine is a few minutes' drive. Th^ 
 scenery, though not so wild as it was in the days of 
 Scott, is still wild enough to be romantic. The 
 sides of the hills are covered with birch and oak, 
 under the branches of which imagination could 
 easily picture "the antlered monarch of the waste" 
 springing from his heathery couch at the mouthing 
 of the pack. 
 
 When we had issued from the wood there lay be- 
 fore us a scene which may best be described by a 
 master's pen : 
 
 "One burnished sheet of living g-old, 
 Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled, 
 In all her length far winding lay, 
 With promontory, creek and bay, 
 And islands that, empurpled bright, 
 Floated amid the livelier light. 
 And mountains that like giants stand, 
 To sentinel enchanted land." 
 
256 WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 
 
 ^ot far from the east end of the lake lies Ellen's 
 Island, a mossy emerald in a field of broken blue. 
 It was from the wooded shore of this island the 
 Lady of the Lake set out in her shallop when she 
 heard the winding of the horn. And when she saw 
 the stranger emerge from the wood where she had 
 looked to see her father, 
 
 "The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar, 
 Pushed her slight shallop from the shore, 
 And when a space was gained between, 
 Closer she drew^ her bosom's screen; 
 (So forth the startled swan would swing, 
 So turn to plume his ruflaed wing.)" 
 
 We now took passage upon the little steamer 
 Sir Walter Scott, rounded the enchanted isle, the 
 waves from our steamer breaking upon its shore, 
 and sailed up Loch Katrine. The famous lake is 
 eight winding miles in length, a meager mile in 
 width at best, and eighty fathoms in its deepest 
 place. Its waters, clear from the Highlands, run to 
 the sea by way of Achray, Vennachar, the Teith 
 and Forth. And in these late prosaic days some of 
 it runs through dark mains to quench the thirst of 
 busy Glasgow, nearly forty miles away. As we 
 passed up the lake the clouds veiled and revealed 
 by turns the mountain tops, sweeping the heaving 
 bosom of the water anon with a silver fringe of 
 rain. 
 
 An hour brought us to Stronachlachar at the 
 farther end of the lake, where we called the coach 
 into service again for a five-mile drive to Invers- 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 267 
 
 naid on Locli Lomond. Our route lay along the 
 braes above the valley of the Arklet. Cattle were 
 pasturing in the meadows among the long lush 
 grass. Shepherds turned to watch us while their 
 sheep browsed in the heather. Loch Arklet lay 
 asleep in its rock-ribbed cradle. Arklet water mur- 
 mured among its banks or foamed over scattered 
 boulders as it ran to join the waters of Loch 
 Lomond, its own waters touched almost to amber 
 where it ran through hidden beds of peat. Mid- 
 way the pass a besom of rain swept the valley, 
 leaving every sprig of heather hung with pearls. 
 How fresh the landscape looked when the rain had 
 passed, like a child just from its bath with its ring- 
 lets dripping. And the denizens of the land seemed 
 to take the rain as a matter of course. The cattle 
 kept to their grazing and the shepherds to their 
 stands. It reminded one of an incident in the 
 friendship of Scott and Washington Irving, which 
 may best be told in the latter's words: "Two or 
 three times in the course of our walk there were 
 drizzling showers, which I supposed would put an 
 end to our ramble, but my companion trudged on 
 as unconcernedly as if it had been fine weather. At 
 length I asked whether we had not better seek some 
 shelter. True,' said Scott, ^I did not recollect that 
 you were not accustomed to our Scottish mists. 
 This is a lachrymose climate, evermore showering. 
 We, however, are children of the mist, and must 
 not mind a little whimpering of the clouds any 
 17 
 
258 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 more than a man must mind tlie weeping of an 
 hysterical wife. As you are not accustomed to be 
 wet through, as a matter of course, in a morning's 
 walk, we will bide a bit under the lee of this bank 
 till the shower is over.' " And therewith they 
 turned to the thicket, where under the protection of 
 a single tartan they bide the passing of the shower. 
 So we came to Inversnaid in the wake of the rain, 
 dampened in all except spirits — does one dare men- 
 tion spirits in Scotland on such a snell day? — at 
 least we heard one ruddy-faced native make mys- 
 terious mention to his comrade as we stood before 
 the hotel. The scenery about Inversnaid is more 
 rugged than that on Loch Katrine. Across the 
 shimmering lake Ben Voirlich lifts his head into 
 the sky. On his broad sides the sunshine and the 
 shadows played at hide and seek as the breaking 
 clouds scurried before the wind. Kepeatedly his 
 brow was veiled with mists, only to have the veil 
 torn away by the unseen hands of the Harpies. 
 [N'earby is a waterfall where the Arklet leaps over 
 a rocky ledge in its haste to join the play below. 
 
 "This fall of water that doth make 
 A murmtir near the silent lake," 
 
 as Wordsworth describes it in his tribute ^To a 
 Highland Girl at Inversneyde." 
 
 Taking boat at this poetic spot, we passed down 
 the lake under the shadow of Ben Lomond, wound 
 in and out among the green islands that dot the sur- 
 face of the water, and came to Balloch, the southern 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 259 
 
 end of the lake, as the sun was shooting his level 
 rays through cloud rifts low down the west. A 
 short run brought us to Glasgow as the shades of 
 evening settled over moor and highland. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE ENGLISH LAKES 
 
 One would travel far to find two cities more com- 
 pletely up-to-date in all that makes for commercial 
 life than Glasgow and Liverpool, the one the door- 
 way to Scotland, the other the port of England. 
 The tide of business surges into their docks from 
 every quarter of the world. Their streets are 
 thronged with bustling crowds. Black pennants of 
 smoke float across their sky from countless factory 
 stacks. Far into the night the noise of traffic roars 
 like a mighty current along their thoroughfares. 
 They are linked with every country through the 
 tentacles of trade. Glasgow is as different from 
 Edinburgh as morning is from evening. The one is 
 in the full flush of youth, with the day before it. 
 The other is touched with the soft afterglow of a 
 day far spent, and moves serenely in the conscious- 
 ness of deeds already done. Liverpool has the vim 
 of London without that dignity which lends balance 
 to the life of the latter city. 
 
 The distance between these two cities is just 
 that between 'New York and "Washington. But 
 there all likeness ends. The two American cities are 
 bound together by a country which is in keeping 
 with themselves, a region thick set with commercial 
 and manufacturing centers, and strewn with the 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 261 
 
 hideous output of an advertising age. The country 
 which lies between Glasgow and Liverpool savors so 
 little of modern life that it might well be hidden 
 away in the retirement of some undisturbed land. It 
 is almost as if one dropped suddenly out of the rush 
 and roar of to-day into the peace and quiet of the 
 ancient Vale of Tempo. For the traveler who 
 passes from the Scotch city to the English port 
 traverses those sections of either country that are 
 most deeply steeped in the legend of classic litera- 
 ture. His way leads through Ayrshire, the country 
 of the plow-man poet, by the birth place and burial 
 place of Thomas Carlyle, and through the English 
 lakes. And thanks to the good taste of the people, 
 he is not insulted by advertisements of pickles and 
 watches and whiskey, thrust upon his sight when he 
 would enjoy the beauties of the scenery. 
 
 Our summer travels were happily to end with a 
 trip through the most picturesque and classic region 
 of English soil. Time forbade a stop in the land of 
 Robert Burns. But surely no one except a con- 
 firmed globe-trotter would wish to exhaust the 
 world in a single summer. Why, we always liked 
 to leave about the old homestead some nook or dell 
 unexplored, as a possible asylum in case the world 
 became insufferably commonplace. So, in this case, 
 we made a virtue of necessity, and rejoiced to think 
 that if we should ever come this way again there 
 would be some novelties left to sharpen the edge of 
 interest. And Ayrshire remains to us a virgin land. 
 
 Having bought our last Scotch souvenirs, we 
 
262 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 boarded a southern train in the late morning, and 
 started for Wordsworth's land. The iron way has 
 tapped many a place whose name is preserved in the 
 amber of English letters. There is Mauchline, 
 where Burns met ^'Highland Mary." And near by 
 are 
 
 "Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 
 The castle o' Montgomery." 
 
 The echo of the locomotive reaches down into the 
 quiet valley where flows the bonnie Doon. The 
 railway passes along the valley of the Mth, on the 
 banks of which Burns spent three years pretending 
 to farm — 
 
 "To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, 
 Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd, 
 Though press'd wi' care and sunk in woe, 
 To thee I bring a heart unchanged." 
 
 On this river is Dumfries, where the poet spent the 
 last saddening years of his storm-tossed life, and 
 where he lies buried. Across the valley of Annan is 
 Ecclefechan, where sleeps the great Scotchman, 
 Carlyle. 
 
 Beside the border we passed Gretna Green, pro- 
 verbial for its runaway marriages. From there to 
 Keswick by way of Carlisle and Penrith was a mat- 
 ter of an hour or more, and we were in the famous 
 region of the English lakes. Kesmck is associated 
 with some of the most brilliant names in English 
 letters. Here upon the banks of the Greta as it 
 flows to join the Derwentwater is the house made 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 263 
 
 famous by Coleridge and Southey. It was the 
 home of the latter poet for thirty-five of his most 
 productive years; and across its threshold that 
 other poet-philosopher went in and out for many 
 years. The following words from the pen of Cole- 
 ridge may best serve to give a picture of the view: 
 "In front we have a giant camp — an encamped 
 army of tent-like mountains which, by an inverted 
 arch, gives a view of another vale. On our right 
 the lovely vale and the wedge-shaped lake of Bas- 
 senthwaite; and on our left Derwentwater and 
 Lodore full in view; and the fantastic mountains of 
 Borrowdale. Behind is the massy Skiddaw, smooth, 
 green, high, with two chasms and a tent-like ridge 
 in the larger." 
 
 Over these hills and by these waters the poets 
 wandered side by side or each alone with his medi- 
 tations. The names of Derwentwater and Skiddaw 
 claim a place in English song, and what school-boy 
 does not remember "how the water comes down at 
 Lodore"? One can picture the hearty form of 
 Southey against this background as he swung along 
 the winding pathway at his "four-mile gait," taking 
 his daily constitutional. To this shrine of letters 
 came visitors from every corner of the English- 
 speaking world. Among them that fiery young 
 spirit Shelley, shooting athwart the calm sky of 
 Keswick like a meteor from Mars; and the "Opium 
 Eater," dreaming away his days under the fatal 
 spell of the poppy plant, but kind and tender and 
 deep in the springs of his affection. Thither, too. 
 
264 WITH THE TOIJEIST TIDE 
 
 came that other child of the muses, Wordsworth, 
 trudging all the way from Grasmere "on his inde- 
 fatigable legs," to pull the latchstring of Greta 
 Hall, and spend a day in congenial company. What 
 a fine picture it must have made, the stalwart form 
 striding along the road of unbroken snow while the 
 great hills looked silently on from under their 
 ermine mantles. 
 
 The scenery of the Lake district is not sublime, 
 when compared with that of Switzerland. The 
 mountains are not great in height, Helvellyn, the 
 highest, being little more than three thousand feet; 
 nor are they rugged. They stoop with rounded 
 shoulders under the weight of geologic ages; but 
 their very age lends charm, for it has modified their 
 angles into pleasant curves and made their flanks 
 melt down gracefully to meet the vales. What the 
 hills have lost from their summits has been piled 
 at their feet in the slopes of verdant leas. And 
 from their laps the lakes reflect in softened lines 
 the faces of the hills. "These lakes and mountains 
 give me a deep joy for which I suspect nothing else 
 can compensate,'' said Southey, "and this is a feel- 
 ing which time strengthens instead of weakening.'' 
 
 The changing sky lends variety to the landscape, 
 as the clouds rise from beyond the mountains and 
 set sail across the gulf of air, or "sunbeam-proof, 
 hang like a roof, the mountains their columns be." 
 "Such clouds," said Wordsworth, "cleaving to their 
 stations, or lifting up suddenly their heads from 
 behind rocky barriers, or hurrying out of sight with 
 
WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 265 
 
 speed of the sharpest edge^ will often tempt an in- 
 habitant to congratulate himself on belonging to a 
 country of mists and clouds and storms, and make 
 him think of the blank sky of Egypt, and the ceru- 
 lean sky of Italy, as an unanimated and even a sad 
 spectacle." 
 
 The road from Keswick to Grasmere runs 
 through the heart of this picturesque region. After 
 winding among the heather-covered hills for three 
 miles, you turn the summit of the modest pass, 
 a low saddle in the hills. Before you lies a 
 long basin shut in all sides by serrate mountains, and 
 in its lap the beautiful Thirlmere Lake, three miles 
 long and as many furlongs across, its mirror surface 
 reflecting the peak of Helvellyn. Stone fences 
 hedge the road on either side, and sheep find pasture 
 on the slopes. It is a land of wild pastures, where 
 the soil is rarely disturbed by the plow. In one of 
 the meadows an old man and a young woman were 
 gathering a little harvest of hay, but no tillage was 
 visible anywhere. The road winds slowly down the 
 slopes toward the lake, and where it touches the 
 shore you come upon ISTagshead Inn, a roadside 
 hostelry which owes whatever of fame it boasts to 
 the passing of a poetic soul. Across the road is the 
 tiny church where Wordsworth turned in to wor- 
 ship on occasion — though most of his worship was 
 under the open sky. The lake furnishes water for 
 the city of Manchester, ninety-six miles away. 
 
 Skirting Thirlmere Lake its entire length, and 
 ascending the gentle slope of Dunmail Eaise, you 
 
266 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 come -upon another panorama, even wider and more 
 celebrated. To the east rises Rydal Fell, and be- 
 yond it Kirkstone Pass. To the south Coniston Old 
 Man towers above the heads of the nearer peaks. 
 To the west are the Cringle Crags and Langdale 
 Pikes. Before you the little village of Grasmere 
 nestles among its trees by the lake of like name. 
 And just beyond are Rydal Mount and Rydal 
 Water. As we passed down into this scenery the 
 mountain shadows were creeping out across the 
 valleys. A flock of truant sheep leaped over the 
 low wall of their pasture one after another, and 
 scurried away down the valley, pursued by a collie. 
 A tally-ho party of tourists passed us, on the way 
 to Keswick. Far down the road ahead of us a 
 single carriage held its easy way. Peace brooded 
 like a gentle spirit over the scene as the day drew 
 on to its close. 
 
 Here no sound of the iron horse disturbs the 
 quiet. Time has eddied among these hills, and in 
 this retreat the past yet lives. The coach makes its 
 trip to-day as it did when Wordsworth first jour- 
 neyed thither more than a century ago, and draws 
 up before the wayside hostelry with winding of the 
 horn. The course of life moves on among the 
 people here without apparent innovation, and one 
 is half inclined to think they must stand with open- 
 mouthed astonishment when the blaring automobile 
 disturbs their happy solitude. The houses are sub- 
 dued of color, and wear their age without decay. 
 The harmony of the scene is unbroken. 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 267 
 
 ]^or is there need of railway to bring this retired 
 nook within the world's acquaintanceship. It sits 
 serenely among its harboring mountains while we 
 come to it according to its own archaic ways^ — and 
 rejoice to come that way. For if there is one spot 
 above all others where the traveler needs to linger^ 
 it is the Lake Country — no place here for the hust- 
 ling locomotive. On every hill you need to pause, 
 and in every dale. It is as if one walked through 
 the rooms of a great house whose every ornament 
 and feature were associated with famous inmates. 
 So one must approach the Lake Country, for this 
 whole region was the home of a group of men whose 
 names went out from here to all the world. Here 
 they lived, Wordsworth and Southey and Cole- 
 ridge — lived among these hills and valleys and by 
 these lakes. For half a century Wordsworth walked 
 here, "and there is not in all that region a hillside 
 walk or winding valley which has not heard him 
 murmuring out his verses as they slowly rose from 
 his heart." Nor is there a peak nor stream nor 
 waterfall nor pool nor sloping sod in all that scene 
 which has not been commemorated in the poet's 
 verse. Perhaps there is not another region in all 
 the world so completely identified with the life of a 
 single man as this section is with Wordsworth. And 
 when his life was done, they fittingly laid him to 
 rest by the bank of the Rotha amid the scenes he 
 had loved and celebrated. 
 
 What must it have meant to spend half a century 
 of fertile life amid the same scenes, to see the sun 
 
268 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 rise over the same hills year by year^ to watch the 
 clouds of succeeding seasons drift over the same 
 crags, to hear the varied voice of the same brooks 
 as they murmured through mossy banks or laughed 
 in the boisterous revelry of summer torrent. He 
 was born not far from here, in Cumberland by the 
 sea. And with the exception of the years at Cam- 
 bridge and short sojourns in London and on the 
 Continent, his whole life was spent here in an area 
 not larger than a county. He drank at the springs 
 of learning when life was young. He tasted the 
 life of a great city. He traveled in other lands for 
 a season. And when the years of his apprentice- 
 ship were ended — the fruitful wander-years — he 
 came back to the quiet country-side of his birth, and 
 gave to it the gathered riches of a long life, so inter- 
 preting its beauties that these once unknown hills 
 and valleys have become known to all the world. A 
 splendid example to the youth of our own time who 
 would seek fame in a great metropolis. 
 
 Nor is it only these poets whose names are linked 
 with the English lakes. Thomas Arnold, the 
 famous head-master of Rugby, made his home here 
 for a season, as did Harriet Martineau. In the 
 churchyard at Grasmere, hard by the grave of 
 Wordsworth, is the resting-place of Hartley Cole- 
 ridge, son of a greater father. E'ear it is a memor- 
 ial to Arthur Hugh Clough, placed at the foot of 
 his mother's grave — for he lies in the cemetery at 
 Florence — with these words, "This remembrance in 
 his own country is placed on his mother's grave by 
 
WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 269 
 
 those to whom life was made happy by his presence 
 and his love." And over at Brantwood, in the 
 shadow of Coniston Old Man, John Rnskin waited 
 through the lingering twilight of his life and there 
 lies at rest. Walter Scott and DeQnincey enriched 
 the traditions of the place by their presence. 
 
 So here among these hills and by these lakes you 
 may turn page after page of English letters as you 
 linger on from Grasmere down past N^ab Scar and 
 Rydal Mount and Rydal Water and Ambleside to 
 Windermere, where the railroad reaches out its arms 
 to take you back again into the rush and hurly- 
 burly of to-day. 
 
CHAPTEE XVII 
 
 WESTWARD HO ! 
 
 What a long trail that was upon which we looked 
 back from the steamer's deck at Liverpool — the 
 winding way through city and country, along lake 
 and stream, by burning mountain and frozen river, 
 by verdant valley and snowy mountain-top. It 
 was two months since we had taken up that trail at 
 Naples. And what a wealth of experience had been 
 crowded into those months. But now the journey 
 lay in its full length behind us, the hardships of the 
 way softened by the mellow light of memory — and 
 our faces were set toward home. But between the 
 Old and the jN'ew World there is a world peculiar to 
 itself — the kingdom of Neptune. And its every 
 phase is full of interest. 
 
 Have you ever watched an ocean liner put out to 
 sea? It is always an event at the docks. No mat- 
 ter how many ships may come and go in the harbor, 
 when the ocean greyhound slips her leash and 
 turns her nose toward the deep, crowds throng the 
 piers, even the stolid stevedore stops to wave a fare- 
 well to the goodly ship, and the little craft salute 
 her ton voyage as she passes down among them on 
 her way to distant shores. There is such grace and 
 majesty about the movement of a great liner and 
 such suggestion of power, that she has a compelling 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 271 
 
 influence, and men who have been accustomed all 
 their lives to the come and go of vessels will stop to 
 watch her pass. 
 
 It is not strange, therefore, that when we reached 
 the dock the pier was black with people. There 
 must have been a thousand spectators present, 
 besides the passengers. When the steamer had 
 taken her berth, the gangways were placed. Then 
 for two hours there was a busy scene, as the passen- 
 gers came aboard and the stevedores brought the 
 luggage on. The cabin passengers all had to run 
 the gauntlet of the health officer, who reserved the 
 privilege of examining teeth, turning down eyelids, 
 or inspecting scalps. This over, we had the right of 
 way to our staterooms, and began to make ourselves 
 at home for the voyage. When all was ready, the 
 gong sounded along corridor and deck to warn visi- 
 tors — for there are no way-stations on this trip 
 where unwilling passengers may alight. Last fare- 
 wells were given by those whom the ocean would 
 soon divide^ the gangways were removed, and the 
 hawsers loosened. Then amid much blowing of 
 whistle two tugs picked up huge hawsers that hung 
 from stern and prow, and began pulling at them 
 like fices. The hull of the Oceanic inched away 
 from the pier, and we had left the shores of the 
 Old World. 
 
 A fog settled over the harbor as we passed out, 
 cutting off the distant view, and the supper gong 
 called us below. Every place was filled that 
 jiight — for the only time. 'Next morning found us 
 
272 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 in the outer harbor of Queenstown, where we were 
 to take on more passengers and some hundred tons 
 of mail — all brought out to us on lighters. Though 
 we stood some two miles from land, an Irish woman 
 and her son came out to us in boats, and drove a 
 brisk trade in silks, linens, and shawls while we 
 waited. She was a true daughter of Erin, and kept 
 the crowd in a roar with sallies of native wit. At 
 noon we weighed anchor, and steered for the open 
 sea, followed by a cloud of white gulls. In a few 
 hours Ts^e had passed Fastnet Kock, the last land of 
 the Old World, and from its lighthouse the message 
 had slipped under the ocean to 'New York that we 
 were on the high seas. 
 
 But we were not done with the Old World, for all 
 we were over the horizon rim. That night notice 
 was given out that communication had been estab- 
 lished with Crookhaven. ^tsTow Crookhaven was 
 hundreds of miles away on the coast of Ireland, and 
 hourly slipping down the circle of the earth behind 
 us as the knots slipped under our keel. Yet we sat 
 ther« on board our ship and talked to friends in 
 Europe with perfect ease, while the boisterous ocean 
 surged between. We had heard of talking at ran- 
 dom^ but the Marconigram more nearly approaches 
 that than anything we had ever seen. The only 
 visible appointment is a double wire running from 
 one mast-head to the other with two wires running 
 from it to the operator's room. There he sits and 
 ticks away, sending his message apparently to 
 wander on the wings of the fickle wind. Yet it 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 273 
 
 goes unerring to its destination. When we had 
 come over toward the Grand Banks, ISTew Found- 
 land was "picked up," and we began to talk with 
 America. What qualms Marconi might have saved 
 Columbus if he had only been born in time. 
 
 Our passage was a rough one, but pleasant withal. 
 There were recreations to suit the taste. If you 
 liked reading, there was a select library, represent- 
 ing the best American and English literature. If 
 you preferred "My Lady E'icotine," there was the 
 smoker where you might watch the curhng wreaths 
 to your heart's content, and besides have anything 
 you wanted from the cellars of Bacchus. There 
 were cards and checkers and chess and dominoes 
 with which to while away the hours. If you loved 
 music, there was a fine piano in the dining saloon — 
 and the band played every evening. If you wanted 
 to exercise your muscle, there were half a dozen 
 deck games at your service. And then there were 
 ^ve meals a day, all told, at which you could kill a 
 fair portion of ennui. Taken altogether, life on a 
 liner is tolerable enough — if you are not seasick. 
 
 Much depends upon the personnel of the com- 
 pany, for on shipboard you either have to stay "in 
 your room, or mingle with the crowd. In that re- 
 spect we were fortunate enough. The world's Bap- 
 tist convention at London had called a goodly num- 
 ber of that faith across the waters, and some of 
 them had shipped with us for return voyage. There 
 were enough D. D.'s aboard to stock a seminary. 
 i8 
 
274 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 But you would never have guessed it. They were 
 "jolly good fellows" of the finest sort. There were 
 those who could sing college songs with a gusto that 
 scarcely comported with gray locks, and could tell a 
 story with a zest that made it fairly glow. There 
 was a Methodist missionary returning home on vaca- 
 tion from ten years' service at Lucknow, having 
 braved the perils of fanaticism and the terrors of 
 the plague, a sturdy man who had lived long enough 
 to be tolerant of the slow stepping of true progress. 
 There was a sugar merchant going from Port Said 
 to his home in Honolulu. And there were ladies 
 who had seen the wide, wide world. Indeed, there 
 are few portions of the charted globe that might 
 not have been described by some one of that com- 
 pany as eye-witness. Thrown with such a crowd in 
 the easy companionship of steamer life, one could 
 not find the voyage monotonous. You touched the 
 whole world through your fellow-passengers. 
 
 And when conversation lagged, it was glorious to 
 curl up in a deck-chair, tuck yourself snugly into 
 wraps, and spend an hour with some romancer or 
 story-teller, while the old ship plowed the waves. 
 It^was so we met Hall Caine's "Prodigal Son." It 
 was so we wandered with Bret Harte's "Outcasts of 
 Poker Plat" and met once more "The Luck of Bear- 
 ing Camp." Even the jokes of Artemus "Ward lost 
 some of their staleness when dashed with the salt 
 spray. There is no place like a steamer's deck for 
 getting close to the heart of a book. Nothing calls 
 you from the reading, and there is just enough 
 
WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 275 
 
 noise to banish the oppressiveness of silence. There 
 is always breeze enough and to spare, but if you get 
 close up under the lee of the canvas wind-shield, 
 you may laugh at the antics of Aeolus and his tribe. 
 Whoever enjoys sitting on the sunny side of a hill 
 when the winter wind is blowing out of the north 
 will delight to sit on the lee side of a steamer deck 
 in mid-ocean when ISTeptune is roused. 
 
 And we needed to seek the lee on our homeward 
 voyage. Our outward voyage had been far down 
 toward the tropics where summer breezes blow. 
 But now we were up by Labrador under the breath 
 of Boreas. Winter wraps were scarcely enough to 
 ward off the cold, and the decks were often wet with 
 rain or fog. Though we were on the highway of 
 the seas, we hailed few ships, on account of the 
 thick weather. One day in mid-ocean we sighted 
 a tiny craft which in the distance looked hardly 
 bigger than a butterfly. It proved to be an Amer- 
 ican yacht returning from the race for the Kaiser's 
 cup. We veered from our course to ask if we could 
 serve her. She answered that all was well, and that 
 we might so report her at home. 
 
 Off the Banks of 'New Foundland we ran into a 
 full-grown hurricane, which held us in its clutches 
 six hours. The weather had been murky and 
 squally all day, with the sun now and then faintly 
 visible through thick clouds. Gusts of rain swept 
 the deck without warning, and the fog rose and fell 
 by turns on the face of the waters. It grew so dark 
 at times that the ship had to blow her minute horn. 
 
276 WITH THE TOUKIST TIDE 
 
 Ahead the sky got more ominous as the afternoon 
 waned, and at four o'clock the storm struck us. 
 The rain came in sheets, horizontal, till you could 
 scarce see a cable's length. The good ship rolled 
 and pitched so that even the sailors had to cling to 
 the rails. Deck-chairs careered like frightened 
 creatures as the vessel rolled from side to side. 
 You could feel the ship rise and sink as she re- 
 sponded to the ocean swell, and it was like the swift 
 rise and fall of an elevator. Some of the more 
 hysterical passengers thought it was all up with us, 
 and had to have the services of the doctor. A fair 
 number of the less nervous ones remained above 
 decks to watch the storm. It was an awful sight. 
 The huge hull would careen under the impact of the 
 wind until the deck was almost under water, and 
 then right itself, only to repeat the performance. 
 Keeping your feet was out of the question unless 
 you had hold of something stable. The storm 
 tossed at will that great vessel, which weighed sev- 
 enteen thousand tons and measured seven hundred 
 feet over all. At supper the dishes had to be 
 anchored to the table — but supper went begging 
 that night. We had planned to give a concert for 
 the benefit of sailors' orphans and widows, but it did 
 not come off at the scheduled time. One of the 
 ladies suggested that praying would doubtless be 
 more in place. 
 
 Mght descended while. the storm raged, and we 
 turned in to be rocked in the cradle of the deep. 
 l^ext morning all trace of the storm was gone. We 
 
WITH THE TOURIST TIDE 277 
 
 had run through to fair weather, and every hour 
 brought us nearer home. Only those who have 
 been away from home and country know what it 
 means to stand upon the prow as the vessel pushes 
 her nose through the waves, and watch for first 
 sight of the far-off shore. 'No outlook at the mast- 
 head of Columbus's caravel could have strained his 
 eyes more eagerly than we did for sight of that 
 shore. We watched the sun on the last day as he 
 dropped behind a cloud bank of the horizon, and 
 knew that he should set next for us behind our own 
 loved mountain-tops. Then we gave the postponed 
 concert, and at its close sang "My country, 'tis of 
 thee." 
 
 l^ext morning at daybreak we passed in by Sandy 
 Hook, and in due time came to rest in the outer 
 harbor. That morning the sun was to go into 
 eclipse. But the curtain did not rise upon the 
 august scene — not for us. It only seemed as if 
 twilight had been prolonged beyond its time. The 
 scene was memorable, nevertheless. Our ship lay 
 at rest on the waters. A veil of reeky mist hung 
 over the harbor, and a leaden pall formed a low- 
 hung sky. Through the gloom vessels could be seen 
 stealing like spectres athwart our bows and stern; 
 and out of the obscurity came that multitudinous 
 noise of the harbor. The pilot boat came alongside, 
 bringing us letters from home and news of the end- 
 ing of war between Japan and Russia — for the very 
 day before peace had been concluded by the envoys 
 
278 WITH THE TOUEIST TIDE 
 
 at Portsmouth, and we read the ^^extras'^ proclaim- 
 ing it. 
 
 So, after many days we were home again. Some 
 one has said that the most pleasant part of travel is 
 the home-coming. And he was not far from the 
 truth. It is splendid to travel afar and to gather 
 the riches of other lands. But it is even a finer 
 thing to have a home and country to which one can 
 come back with joyful heart. Pity the man who, 
 when vacation is ended, does not come back to his 
 work with new purpose. Pity the man who, when 
 his season of travel is over, does not come back 
 eager to take up the serious labors of life. 
 
 H 61" 7^ ii 
 
MAR 16 1907 
 

 
 
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