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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
BEN'S 
 
 TRAVELS, 
 
 
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 CHICAGO: 
 
 CO-OPERATIVE PRINTING ASSOCIATION. 
 
 1880. 
 
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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, 
 By Ben Goodkind, \y^ 
 In tlie Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 —4 — ^^ — 5— 
 
 TO THE READER. 
 
 Dear Eeader : After having gone through trials 
 innumerable, and after having overcome obstacles that 
 to me seemed insurmountable, 1 am at last enabled to 
 place my little volume before you. 
 
 Every person whom I know, and many I do not 
 know have advised me to discard literature, for two 
 good and sufficient reasons. Firstly, because I do not 
 know enough, and secondly, because I would never 
 earn enough at it to buy a dinner. Despite their able 
 arguments 1 clung to my own ideas however, and leav- 
 ing every one whom I knew, betook myself to solitude 
 and there studied incessantly. I endured the most 
 pinching penury and want. This course of action of 
 mine to my friends seemed so foolish and crack-brained 
 that they deemed me demented, and frequently hinted 
 at lunatic asylums, &c. I avoided them all though and 
 persevered in my resolution to become an author. I 
 knew I had the taste and inclination for literature, 
 and these I deemed sufficient reasons to justify me in 
 following out my aims. 1 felt convinced that I would 
 never be a successful merchant (my friends' opinion to 
 the contrary notwithstanding) because I never had a 
 taste for business. I have struggled hard against my 
 dislike for it, but in vain. 
 
 At first 1 concluded to devot.e myself to poetry en- 
 tirely and make my debut as an author of rhymes, but 
 I am convinced that the undertaking would be too 
 difficult. It is not an easy matter to win a fair degree 
 of success at prose writing, but at rhyming the chances 
 at the outset are ten to one against success. When 
 young I took a delight in rhyming and that feeling 
 has clung to me ever since. I love to express myself 
 
6 PREFACE. 
 
 in short, pithy sentences, and find that rhyme is ad- 
 mirably adapted to that purpose. I think that rhym- 
 ing is an easy matter when you determine beforehand 
 wliat you wish to say. At least I find it so. The first 
 consideration is to have an idea, the second considera- 
 tion to express it. The majority of my poems are 
 melancholy. I am sorry to say that melancholy has 
 become a confirmed trait of my character. Perhaps 
 other scenes and a little sunshine will change that 
 mood. 
 
 I am not at all sanguine as to my success at the 
 start. I do not expect to be as lucky as Byron, who 
 woke up one morning and found himself famous. 
 No ; I am content to win my way to success, if I win 
 it at all, slowly and gradually. 
 
 Much that I have written I have destroyed, not 
 deeming it worthy of notice. Several compositions 
 now contained in my book, one of which is the 
 "Ode to Melancholy," I also contemplated destroying, 
 yet, had I done so, my book would have been more 
 meager than it is, and it is meager enough now in all 
 truth. 
 
 There is no great merit in my sketch entitled "My 
 travels in Germany." The only merit I claim for it is 
 truth. Yours truly. 
 
 BEN. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 c~~fif "i 
 
 Page. 
 To the Reader 5 
 
 Martha 16 
 
 To the Weeping Willow 18 
 
 The Influence of Genius Upon Fame 19 
 
 Apostrophe to the Muse 21 
 
 Louise 24 
 
 All is Dead 25 
 
 Lines on Edgar Allan Poe 26 
 
 Ode to Melancholy 28 
 
 My Affinity 11 
 
 What Genius Is , 33 
 
 My Travels in Germany 42 
 
"^^^^IW^ 
 
 fr^s^" 
 
BEN'S POEMS. 
 
 MY AFFINITY. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 Explanation: Soon as the imagination begins to 
 ripen we all form to ourselves some beau ideal of the 
 fair spirit which we desire as our earthly minister, 
 and somewhat capriciously proportion our admiration 
 to living shapes according as the beau ideal of our 
 fancy is more or less approached. Beauty of a stamp 
 that is not familiar to our dreams may win our 
 homage, but it does not kindle an emotion that almost 
 seems to belong to memory itself. In this poem of 
 mine I have endeavored to- portray the beau ideal of 
 my fancy, yet such a vague, sfiadowy phantom of the 
 brain will not bear a too close transcription. 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 'Twas on a gloomy winter morn, 
 
 Just when day began to dawn, 
 
 That a maiden stood and gazed intent 
 
 Upon the cheerless firmament. 
 
 ISlie stood upon a lofty ledge 
 
 That uprose from the water's edge 
 
 Many hundred feet below — 
 
 Down there the northern sea did tlow, 
 
 Far, far away as one could see 
 
 All was vague immensity. 
 
 In the atmosphere dull gray 
 
 Great clouds scurried light away. 
 
 Those wayward children of the air 
 
 Swept impetuous here and there. 
 
 11 
 
12 BEI>J'8 POEMS. 
 
 Eroin north and south and east and west 
 They ever eager onward pressed. 
 In the distance down below 
 Ceaselessly the sea did flow, 
 Ceaselessly did it flow on 
 To where it met the horizon. 
 There the fast approaching day 
 Was creeping up the heaven gray. 
 Soon a fitful light was seen 
 (With a scarce developed sheen) 
 Ton a huge cloud's ragged edge — 
 'Twas Aurora's morning pledge. 
 Quick rose the wind loud to proclaim 
 That at last the morn had came. 
 Blythe and merry then it whistled, 
 And shrilly piped and deeply sizzled. 
 Then it 'gan to weep and wail, 
 And worked itself into a gale. 
 And now the cold green sea below, 
 Its mettle also fain would show. 
 It angrily began to roar. 
 And lashed the lonely, rocky shore. 
 Into the caverns waveworn, wild. 
 It surged with bold and mighty tide. ^ 
 The hollow caverns loud did groan 
 And boom as if with thunder tone. 
 The winds more loudly then would hiss 
 And yell as if with greater bliss. 
 The billows leapt the higher with rage 
 And deadliest warfare seemed to wage. 
 But now the lingering sun arose 
 And watched amused the silly foes. 
 Her face crimsoned o'er with glee 
 And beamed with much benignity. 
 High and higher she came dancing 
 Rendering nature bright — entrancing. 
 Her beams were scattered left and right 
 And flooded ev'rything with light. 
 She awoke the gray sea mew 
 Which screamed as o'er the wave it flew. 
 The gannet, curlew, pyot — all 
 Wakened to her morning call. 
 
BEWS POEMS. 13 
 
 The bold and rugged promontory 
 She clothed in a robe of glory. 
 She drove the gloom of night away, 
 And ushered in the full bright day. 
 
 While thus the maiden stood intent, 
 Gazing 'pon the firmament, 
 A wailing sound came from below — 
 A sound of utter human woe. 
 It came not from the yelling wind, 
 That still railed on with passion blind, 
 And beat against the promontory, 
 AVhich stood silent in its glory; 
 It came not from the booming cave. 
 Eternal lapped by ocean wave, 
 In whose recesses, hidden deep. 
 Creatures strange their vigil keep ; 
 Nor came it from the rocky shore, 
 Upon whose strand forevermore 
 The surging water spends its force 
 And sudden checks its headlong course. 
 It was an infant's moving wail, 
 Borne upward by the morning gale. 
 The child was to the waves a prey, 
 Which bore it to the sea away. 
 Its tiny arms were outstretched, 
 As if in an appeal wretched. 
 Its frame hither, thither tossed, 
 'Neath a mighty wave seemed lost. 
 The maiden from the ledge on high 
 Downward cast her pitying eye, 
 
 Whish ! ! something darted thro' the air. 
 Crash ! ! something struck the water there. 
 Something through the waves did glide 
 Deep into the sea caves wide. 
 The waters o'er it steamed and boiled 
 Bubbles formed and eddies whirled. 
 The tumult tho' soon being o'er 
 The waves rolled onward as before. 
 At length the deep its prey upheaving 
 
14 BEJS'S POEMS. 
 
 Two white arms quick 'gan cleaving 
 The mighty waters strong aside— 
 The girl had braved the ocean's tide. 
 From the dizzy, dangerous height, 
 (To look up even dazed the sight) 
 The girl had boldly downward leapt, 
 For pity in her heart had crept. 
 She gazed about then swam away 
 To where the helpless infant lay. 
 She nerved her arms so frail yet fair, 
 And gathered strength from sheer despair. 
 When down three times the child had went 
 She grasped it ; but its life was spent. 
 At all events though she would save 
 Its body from a watery grave. 
 Once more she braced those arms so fair 
 And gained the sliore by fortune rare. 
 The infant lay beside her dead — 
 All signs of life from it had fled. 
 ]Sro words her misery could tell — 
 ]N"o woe like her's is known in hell. 
 She hugged the child against her breast 
 And closer strained and closer prest. 
 She kissed its lips, its hands, its eyes. 
 The while half choked with sobs and sighs. 
 She laughed, she wept, she raved in turn, 
 . And in her eyes hot tears did burn. 
 But what availed her sorrow sore? — 
 The child breathed not one breath the more. 
 She regarded sad the waters wide, 
 And low and piteously then cried. 
 The mighty but yet cruel ocean 
 Heeded not her deep emotion. 
 No pity did its voice express— 
 What cared it for her distress ? 
 The wind still yelled unceasingly, 
 And seemed to mock her misery. 
 The sea birds swept all heedless by. 
 And had for her no pitying eye. 
 E'en the air, most piercing cold, 
 ISJ^ot one pang from her would withhold. 
 Pity, pity there was none 
 
BEN'S POEMS. 15 
 
 Erom anything beneath the sun. 
 
 The maiden's form was round and lithe, 
 And yielding as a willow wythe. 
 Each lirah appeared as if love set — 
 A glimpse of it would love beget. 
 Her thigh was full and fairly broad, 
 And with power seemed well stored. 
 . Her ankle was as thin as paper, 
 But broadened as it up did taper. 
 Her tiny feet were good to view, 
 And had a salmon fish's hue. 
 Her mouth was like a rosebed red. 
 In which only sweets are bred. 
 Her breath was fragrant as a flower 
 When moistened by a summer shower. 
 Her eyes were of a clear light blue — 
 Love suffused them through and through ; 
 In their depths flowed poetry 
 In unmeasured quantity. 
 When gazing 'pon their lovely sheen 
 They conjured uj) a summer dream 
 Where all is hope and joy and light 
 And unspeakable delight. 
 Their hue was sweet as wife's first child 
 Which 'pon her knee sits and doth smile, 
 And foolish crow and goo and gaa 
 And try to say "papa! mama!" 
 They were just as sweet as marriage jiight. 
 That time of most intense delight. 
 When waves of bliss rise higher and higher. 
 Then in a slippery sea expire. 
 Her voice was soft as music strains. 
 Whose thrilling, well-attuned refrains 
 Soothe the moonlit autumn night. 
 And call up mem'ries golden, bright. 
 'Twas clearer far than songs Tyrolean, 
 And softer far than harps ^olian. 
 But now her voice no joy did know^ 
 Her heart, alas ! had burst with woe. 
 She wailed. 'Twas like the gale 
 
16 BEJS'S POEMS. 
 
 That sobbing soughs o'er northern seas. 
 
 She moaned. I heard the winds arise 
 
 From the mighty ocean's tide. 
 
 They gathered from the sea caves pride, 
 
 And, mingling in a hollow heap. 
 
 They swept the air and pmed; 
 
 And did fret, lament, and weep. 
 
 Then gathering for a tornado sweep. 
 
 They moaned low and lower. 
 
 Then sunk. Suddenly howled, howled, howled, 
 
 And boomed, and boomed, and boomed, 
 
 And crashed, or ashed— collapsed. 
 
 MARTHA. 
 
 A SCOTTISH LOVE SKETOH. 
 
 I knew a Scottish Highland maiden 
 
 Whose waving auburn hair was laden 
 
 With smell of fragrant fresh-mo w^n hay, 
 
 Hereyes! dancing little elfs were they. 
 
 Her mouth was just a ripe red rose, 
 
 But far more luscious, goodness knows. 
 
 Upon her lips there sat love's dew 
 
 Begging the fond swain to woo. 
 
 No shape like hers was ever found. 
 
 It was so lithe, and firm and round. 
 
 Her carriage was so queenly — great, ^ 
 
 To see it would your sight elate. 
 
 Scarce sixteen years the lassie knew 
 
 And though innocent yet saucy too. 
 
 She had. Oh ! such a spirit 
 
 That e'en the wild winds might well fear it. 
 
 That spirit lofty and so bold, 
 
 Dared men to bend it or to mold. 
 
 Unto herself did Martha vow 
 
 Kever to man's will to bow. 
 
 She stubbornly resolved to rove, - 
 
 (Like deer on the Highland heights above) 
 
 In undisturbed felicity ; 
 
BEN'S POEMS. 17 
 
 Untrameled, wild, alone and free. 
 This lassie innocent, yet wild, 
 By worldly arts was undefiled. 
 She knew not fear, nor grief, regret. 
 And had no hopes to make her fret. 
 She cared not for the laddies braw — 
 " Would give no whustle for them a'." 
 Her confidence she would not share, 
 Not she indeed. " No ne'r! no ne'r!" 
 There came a lad, in years not old. 
 With pensive air, of pleasing mould— 
 A sentimental sort of creature, 
 With romance writ on ev'ry feature. 
 Insensibly a strong love chain 
 Ere long bound this confiding twain. 
 The lassie much did storm and frown. 
 But, sad to tell, love would not down. 
 Her mood, ever blithe and jolly. 
 Now gave way to melancholy. 
 Alas ! alas ! her spirit wild 
 Now was tame as any child. 
 She only cared for solitude 
 To there beguile her lonely mood. 
 From her heart, oppressed drear, 
 Ever rose the passive tear. 
 Continually she did pray 
 For death to carry her away. 
 Her face grew pinched, thin, and pale. 
 And her health began to fail. 
 She grew listless and supine, 
 And her eyes were red with cryin'. 
 Her pride! where to did it flee so fast? 
 She stood perplexed, amazed, aghast. 
 Her mind was sorely racked and riven, 
 And to consternation given. 
 Endless she did sigh and brood, 
 Till suddenly she changed her mood 
 And said: "This passion I will kill! 
 rilkillit, an'l will, Iwill!" 
 She secured each truant tear. 
 And. banished every sneaking fear. 
 She murdered ev'ry struggling sob, 
 
18 BEN'S POEMS. 
 
 And bade her heart less wildly throb. 
 She fierce suppressed those wicked sighs, 
 And dried her dancing elfin eyes. 
 Each and every harmless sniffle 
 Euthlessly she tried to stifle. 
 Though her heart felt much oppressed 
 And fluttered wild within her breast, 
 Yet Cupid stern was reprimanded. 
 , And to fly away commanded. 
 The Highland lassie wished to rove 
 Unfettered by the god of love. 
 
 TO THE WEEPING WILLOW. 
 
 1. 
 Willow, willow, wherefore weepest 
 
 Thou ever o'er the graves of men ? 
 Oh, how steadfastly thou keepest 
 
 Thy lonely vigil over them. 
 
 2. 
 
 The long years come and then they go. 
 And still thou stand'st untired by ; 
 
 Thou see'st nought but human woe, 
 And pain and grief and misery. 
 
 Is it therefore that thou droopest, 
 And weepest on forever more ; 
 
 Is it therefore that thou stoopest. 
 So sadly o'er the moldering corse ? 
 
 4. 
 
 Oh, willow, willow, cease your sighing 
 Tor souls that from this earth have fled ; 
 
 There is a pleasure sweet in dying — 
 For happy only are the dead. 
 
BEN'S POEMS. 19 
 
 5. 
 
 On this earth there is too much sorrow 
 
 For sensitive and loving hearts ; 
 They hope to-day, despair to-morrow, 
 
 And yet are made of finest parts. 
 
 6. 
 
 Yes, willow, willow, cease your sighing 
 
 For the unconscious happy dead ; 
 Life's poetry begins when dying. 
 
 When all earthly feeling 's fled. 
 
 THE INFLUENCE OP GENIUS UPON FAME. 
 
 In Truth is Fame the fickle goddess, 
 For she seldom smiles at will ; 
 
 Altho' to rule her very hard is — 
 Win her, she'll not treat you ill. 
 
 2. 
 
 Our goddess when in love is tender, 
 And knows well how to allure ; 
 
 To Genius doubtless she'll surrender, 
 If the FLAME in him is pure. 
 
 3. 
 
 But 'tis not the poetic dreamer 
 Who shall win her prized embrace ; 
 
 Kor shall the bard of odd demeanor 
 In her heart obtain a place. 
 
 4. 
 
 All at first will she receive, 
 (Oh but she's a sly coquette!) 
 
 Yet many of them she'll deceive, 
 Then their love will hate beget. 
 
20 BEN'S POEMS. 
 
 5. 
 
 Hosts of lovesick mortals woo her 
 
 In many curious ways ; 
 They all come rushing eager to her, 
 
 With their stories, poems, plays. 
 
 6. 
 
 To be in first they lively scramble. 
 And rude shove each other by ; 
 
 Their glaring eyeballs savage ramble 
 O'er the field of rivalry. 
 
 7. 
 
 The goddess to one bard says : " Friend, 
 I own I love your chiming lays ; 
 
 But alas! you've much to mend 
 Ere you'll earn my honest praise." 
 
 8. 
 
 Then bowing, scraping, comes another. 
 To whom she makes this love avow'l : 
 
 *' Your verse is sad enough, my brother, 
 To make e'en a dead dog howl." 
 
 9. 
 
 A third advances, sweetly smiling — 
 
 Full of confidence is he; 
 She says to him : " Your verse beguiling 
 
 Smells too much of pedantry." 
 
 10. 
 
 A fourth comes eager to the scratch — 
 
 A novelist from France ; 
 " Miss Fame," says he, " let's make a match; 
 
 With me life's a romance." 
 
 11. 
 
 The goddess says : " Notoriety, here, 
 
 (My sister) seeks a lover ; 
 Take her, oh my novelist dear — 
 
 Your affinity you'll discover." 
 
BEN'S POEMS. 21 
 
 12. 
 
 Thus the army comes, advancing. 
 
 To the goddess, one by one ; 
 At each one's merits quickly glancing, 
 
 To her gude man she doth come. 
 
 13. 
 
 She finds a bard whose beaming eye 
 
 Is full of Genius fire ; 
 She finds 'tis her afliinty— 
 
 The god of her desire. 
 
 14. 
 
 She calls him to her lofty throne, 
 
 And throws o'er him the laurel ; 
 The rest they make a rush for home. — 
 
 Good folks, pray heed the moral ! 
 
 AN APOSTROPHE TO THE MUSE. 
 
 1. 
 
 My own beloved steadfast Muse, 
 
 Oh pray forsake me not. 
 I feel unhappy ; don't refuse 
 
 To cheer my miserable lot. 
 
 2. 
 
 Why feels my heart so very sad r* 
 What, oh what can cheer me ? 
 
 In truth I am a luckless lad, 
 For joy comes not oft near me. 
 
 3. 
 
 My love for you folks deem most strange- 
 All tell me to forsake you; 
 
 But my devotion cannot change— 
 My Muse, I'll never shake you. 
 
22 BEIS'8 POEMS, 
 
 4. 
 
 I might have been a richer lad 
 
 Had I a taste for barter ; 
 Unhappily I never had 
 
 A bias in that quarter. 
 
 5. 
 
 And thus I'm doomed to live alone— 
 
 By no one e'en respected ; 
 Friends, companions I have none— 
 
 By kinfolks e'en neglected. 
 
 6. 
 
 Yet, oh yet I won't despair, 
 
 But stubborn struggle on ; 
 I'll never halt, I firm declare. 
 
 Till my destined task is done. 
 
 7. 
 
 Some friends grieve vy^hile others sneer, 
 And some deem me demented. 
 
 For those who grieve I have a tear — 
 Their grief, I much lament it. 
 
 But yet my fate I cannot change. 
 My taste I cannot alter ; 
 
 I love my task, however strange. 
 And must not, cannot falter. 
 
 9. 
 
 Ko! come joy or woe, sun or rain, 
 My conscience I'll obey ; 
 
 Come hunger, misery, or pain. 
 Its voice I cannot drive away. 
 
BBN'S POEMS. 23 
 
 10. 
 
 This is a dreary, heartless world — 
 
 Hope now, despair to-morrow ; 
 When for wisdom we have toiled 
 
 It doth bring us only sorrow. 
 
 11. 
 
 I'm quite sick of the hollow cant, 
 
 Called " worldly education ;" 
 To me it seems a comfort scant — 
 
 A sad congloQieration. 
 
 12. 
 
 Some men will swear by all things dear 
 
 They love you like a brother; 
 To say so they've an object clear — 
 
 Some selfish aim or other. 
 
 13. 
 Fair women call upon the fates 
 
 To witness how they love you ; 
 Soon you'd flee to Barbary States, 
 
 So that they can't reprove you. 
 
 14. 
 
 If you're rich then folks will flatter 
 
 And shamelessly deceive you ; 
 The more money that you scatter 
 
 The kinder they'll receive you. 
 
 15. 
 But when the shekels all are spent 
 
 Your best friends will desert you ; 
 It is too late now to repent — 
 
 Adversity hath virtue. 
 
 16. 
 Oft fame endeavors to allure 
 
 Fools to its treach'rous light. 
 Did fame ever yet secure 
 
 A man from hate or spite ? 
 
24 BEN'S POEMS. 
 
 17. 
 
 Some patient mortals learn to rhyme, 
 And thus seek gold or glory ; 
 
 It is in truth a waste of time — 
 Youth, wait until you're hoary. 
 
 18. 
 
 The best of rhymes are only words 
 That flow with music measure; 
 
 Their harmony to some affords 
 Perhaps an hour's pleasure. 
 
 19. 
 
 Put good sense into tuneful verse, 
 
 Or put it into story ; 
 Then you've a chance — to put it terse — 
 
 To capture sneers or glory, 
 
 20. 
 
 But now, my wearied, tortured Muse, 
 I'll cease this rambling strain ; 
 
 Its incoherence, pray, excuse— 
 I'll not offend again. 
 
 LOUISE. 
 
 I knew a girl in by-gone time. 
 
 Who came from Albion's foggy clime. 
 
 To know her was to know but joy, 
 
 She was so fairy-like and coy. 
 
 Her voice was clearer than a flute. 
 
 And tender as a soft-stringed lu^e. 
 
 When she laughed the merry strain. 
 
 Made the welkin ring again. 
 
 The laughter's strain at nrst was soft, 
 
 Then it rippled up aloft. 
 
 And trill, and trill and trilled away, 
 
 Sweet as music e'er could play. 
 
 Her eyes were of that clear, deep blue 
 
BEN'S POEMS. 25 
 
 Which one in arctic skies can view, 
 Her hands were shapely small and white — 
 Her form, love rounded, graceful, slight. 
 Her ankle, tapering and trim. 
 Would lure a pious man to sin. 
 In short, she was a lovely flower, 
 Whose proper place was in the bower. 
 Though we may never meet again, 
 Louise, thy image I'll retain. 
 
 AX.L. IS DEAD! 
 
 1. 
 
 The wind is mournfully crying— 
 The trees are bending and sighing — 
 The dreary winter is dying — 
 
 All is dead ! dead ! dead ! 
 
 2. 
 
 What are the winter winds saying? 
 And why so turbulent playing? 
 Are they for the summer praying?— 
 V 'All is dead ! dead ! dead ! 
 
 \ 3. 
 
 Through the bushes, sadly swushing, 
 The blasts are frantic'ly rushing — 
 Their groans and cries never hushing; 
 All is dead! dead! dead! 
 
 4. 
 Dried leaves are hurriedly sweeping. 
 And o'er the ground crisp leaping; 
 A dull monotone keeping : — 
 
 All is dead ! dead ! dead ! 
 
 5. 
 The long gaunt trees are moaning. 
 And soft and dismally groaning — 
 Like bees sustainedly droning : — 
 All is dead ! dead ! dead ! 
 
26 BEN'S POEMS, 
 
 6. 
 
 The thaw on the ground is lying, 
 And mists o'er the hills are hieing — 
 Gray clouds through the air are flying. 
 All is dead ! dead ! dead ! 
 
 Yet a breath of spring e'en now dwells in the air- 
 'Tis hope piercing through an age of despair. ; 
 But this breath doth only more sadly declare: — 
 All is dead ! dead ! dead ! 
 
 8. 
 
 Yet soon will the spring come bounding along, 
 When nature again with beauty will throng ; 
 Then no more shall be heard the dreary song: — 
 All is dead ! dead ! dead ! 
 
 LINES ON BDG-AR ALLEN POB. 
 
 Poor Poe, though you now lie lowly. 
 Yet lives your Muse so melancholy. 
 When alive your heart was tender. 
 But drear as nature in December, 
 Yours was, in truth, a sorry lot. 
 One not to be so soon forgot. 
 The world to you was most unkind, 
 And to your merits stubborn^blind. 
 By no one was you understood, 
 (Indeed who can know Genius' mood ?) 
 So, 'stead of smiles you got a frown. 
 And sneers instead of laurel crown. 
 Y'ou was wretched, hungry, cold, 
 And suffered agonies untold. 
 But no one gave your wants attention. 
 Since your strait you would not mention. 
 Alas! though poor, yet you was proud, 
 And never spoke your hap aloud. 
 Since no one would your worth discern, 
 
BEN'S POEMS. 27 
 
 So no one's favor could you earn. 
 Then you grew gloomy and despairing ; 
 Desperate— for notiiing caring. 
 You took to drink to drown your woes, 
 And soon the grave o'er you did close. 
 
 Whoe'er has seen the Arctic clime, 
 Where nature's solitudes sublime- 
 Where earth is ghostly, grisly, weird- 
 Where men's hearts can ne'er be cheered ? 
 The landscape there is dreary— grim ; 
 And the skies are leaden— dim. 
 Yet there the winds, though keen, are pure, 
 And sweep o'er mountain and the moor 
 With wild and melancholy wailing— 
 To wake sadness never failing. 
 Snow covers all that vast bleak space. 
 And hides the verdure's ev'ry trace. 
 Yet 'neath those snows so crystalline 
 
 Slumber fires of devouring kind, 
 Whose flames arisen, having sway, 
 Burn and eat the hapless clay. 
 
 Poor Poe! thy Muse was just as chaste 
 As snows upon the Arctic waste. 
 The melancholy ^N'orthern sky, 
 Like thy music, makes us sigh. 
 Unconsciously thy notes complain 
 In a weird, unearthly strain. 
 
 Yet sleep thou soft, our own dear Poe ; 
 For thou art safe from ev'ry woe. 
 Not one more pang nor one more care 
 Shall e'er again fall to thy share. 
 Though on earth thy task is ended— 
 Though thy clay with clay is blended— 
 Yet now thy long-neglected name 
 Is written in the Book of Fame. 
 
28 BEJS'S POEMS. 
 
 ODE TO MELANOHOLY. 
 
 Thou seem'st to love me Goddess holy, 
 Calm and peaceful Melancholy ! 
 Why dost thou so often woo me, 
 Giving to me pleasure gloomy ? 
 I have parted from my mother, 
 
 From my father, sister, brother. 
 
 Altho' relatives surround me. 
 
 Their attentions serve to wound me. 
 
 I'm now of age, thank God, and free ; 
 
 I care for none, none care for me. 
 
 My lot's my own, and I do choose 
 
 To dedicate it to the Muse. 
 
 Though all do sneer and tell me nay, 
 
 I do not care, I'll have my way. 
 
 My muse till now, was doomed to languish. 
 
 And my soul thus filled with anguish. 
 
 But freely now shall I express 
 
 The thoughts that i did long repress. 
 
 Alas ! my boyhood days are fled, 
 
 And manhood's followed in their stead. 
 
 My youthful hopes were all vain dreams; — 
 
 My very nature altered seems. 
 
 When young, I thought the heavens blue. 
 
 Encompassed nought but what was true. 
 
 What people said would I believe, 
 
 And ne'er imagined, they'd deceive. 
 
 To me, life seemed a rosy dream, 
 
 A neverchanging happy scene. 
 
 All things on high, and here below. 
 
 Were parts, I thought, of one gay show. 
 
 That dream has vanished, sad to tell. 
 
 And what then was heaven now is hell. 
 
 I find that friendship's but a name— 
 
 A romance bright, but oh ! how vain ! 
 
 Sweet love, alas! is but a blind, 
 
 A lure to trick a foolish mind. 
 
 Men will lie and cheat for gain 
 
BEJS'S FOEMIS, 29 
 
 Without the faintest blush of shame ; 
 The fairest women oft lack virtue, 
 And try their utmost to pervert you. 
 
 Few poets seek the laurel crown — 
 They crave but riches or renown. 
 Patriotism's an illusion ; 
 Politics a sad delusion. 
 Men love their country less than gain, 
 And placemen seek but power or fame; 
 He who is subtlest to deceive. 
 The greatest success will achieve. 
 He who can trick with mien most bold, 
 In men's regard gains lirmest hold. 
 But why continue this recital ? , 
 It can bring one no requital. 
 
 ISTo mortal will I love again ; 
 
 Por in my heart the Muse shall reign. 
 
 Beauty's charms no more shall sway me — 
 
 At least in this my heart' 11 obey me. 
 
 My dream of friendship, too, is o'er ; 
 
 I once had friends — they're mine no more. 
 
 I've tried these friends, and found them wanting— 
 
 Their friendship's ghost my soul is haunting. 
 
 I'll walk alone o'er life's broad main, 
 
 Not sharing joy nor sharing pain ; 
 
 I'll bear my burdens all alone, 
 
 And none shall ever hear me groan. 
 
 I own that once I did love fame, 
 
 And prized the glory of a name. 
 
 But what is fame ? A gilded toy— 
 
 A plaything for a foolish boy. 
 
 Pame brings envy, malice, hate. 
 
 Are its rewards then adequate ? 
 
 On nothing do I now set store — 
 
 Ambition dwells in me no more. 
 
 Men's pursuits seem little, vain ; 
 
 And their existence— what's its aim? 
 
 Soon they'll die and be forgotten 
 
 Mayhap ere their corpse is rotten. 
 
30 BEN'S POEMS. 
 
 Come, I'll be joyous, heedless, gay. 
 And lightly thus pass life away. 
 Why hold the Muse in close subjection, 
 And numb my mind with deep reflection? 
 Why not strive to be in fashion, 
 And follow trifles with a passion ? 
 Life then doth seem a pleasant play, 
 Continuing from day to day. 
 Yet, no! I scorn the fickle throng. 
 Which can't distinguish right from wrong. 
 It fawns and waits upon the great; 
 The poor, though, it doth cordial hate. 
 Misfortunes claims it don't allow- 
 To success only doth it bow. 
 How could I wear a smiling mood. 
 When tears would do me far more good ? 
 Let those who will fawn and flatter, 
 I am made of blunter matter. 
 I do not heed public opinion. 
 And ne'er will bow to its dominion. 
 A straw for fashion's sick decrees ! 
 I follow not the other geese. 
 Yet I do not despise mankind, 
 For.'mid the bad much good I find; 
 But I'll keep hidden in my shell 
 And watch the world around me well, 
 I'll cease wishing, hoping, sighing. 
 And only when I find I'm dying, 
 Will I call old Nick, and then, 
 I'll howl once more, and gasp Amen ! 
 
 
_^^^^^. 
 
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 MWW^\\WTOTO\W\* WW 
 
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 ■^"^ 
 
 ^^"^^"^^^ 
 
ESSAY. 
 
 ■WHAT GENIUS IS. 
 
 Dr. Johnson says : " The true genius is a mind of 
 large general powers accidentally determined to some 
 particular direction." 
 
 This is an excellent general definition, yet not 
 quite comprehensive enough. 
 
 Genius, according to my humble judgement, is 
 neither more nor less than great good sense. Great 
 good sense is an intellectual attribute— the result of a 
 just equilibrium of all our faculties, spiritual and 
 moral. It is a natural endowment and therefore op- 
 posed to everything artificial, circumstantial, or ac- 
 quired. Furthermore, it is an altogether different 
 quality from the mere sagacity of a lawyer or the 
 shrewdness of a politician. It is in fact, the consen- 
 trated essence of many combined qualities. 
 
 Genius is not learning. Learning or knowledge is 
 acquired, but genius (as beforesaid) is a natural en- 
 dowment, or in other words, the gift of nature. Kot 
 all men of genius were educated. Improbable as it 
 may seem, there have been men of genius who could 
 neither read nor write. These men had a habit of rea- 
 soning more justly, and consequently of divining better 
 than thousands of their fellow men^ and therein lay 
 the secret of their superiority. On the other hand a 
 person may be ever so learned, but that does not render 
 him a genius. Genius is a strangely wonderful thing, 
 and is understood only by the happy possessor him- 
 self. The vast majority of mankind has not the 
 faintest conception what it is. Learned men know no 
 more about it than do uneducated people. It is an 
 enigma to all but the initiated. Sir Bulwer Lytton 
 says: 
 
 ' Genius, the Pythean of the Beautiful, 
 Leaves its large truths a riddle to the dull. 
 From eyes profane a vail the iris screens. 
 And fools on fools still asks what Hamlet means. 
 
 33 
 
34 ESSAY. 
 
 Wordsworth says : 
 
 Time, place, and action with pains may be wrought ; 
 But genius must born, and never can be taught. 
 
 The multitude, not understanding what genius is, has 
 no faith in its existence ; and hence it is that men of 
 genius are ever compelled to suffer the world's deri- 
 sion and abuse. Columbus, Galileo, Shakespeare, and 
 in fact all men of greatest genius, were derided and 
 abused from the mere fact of not being understood. 
 There are men of mighty genius living to-day who 
 have the same difficulties to contend against that Co- 
 lumbus and Galileo and Shakespeare have contended 
 against before them. There are writers, musicians, 
 sculptors, painters, actors, etc., living to-day, who are 
 more or less endowed with the divine afflatus; yet 
 they are so calumniated, vilified, and belittled by their 
 fellow men that they lose all courage, and give up 
 their undertakings in despair. The way they bear 
 their trials, though, is a true test of their worth. If 
 they have true genius, no obstacles, however great, 
 will make them halt in their career, because the race- 
 horse spirit of emulation urges them on against their 
 will. They cannot halt, because a certain something, 
 independent of their will, irresistibly impels them on- 
 ward. But men of second-rate ability have not the 
 true mettle, and when crossed in their career grow 
 sulky and bad-teoipered, and lose all ambition to win 
 the goal. They believe success to be a game of chance, 
 and then curse their ill-luck. They are short-sighted, 
 though. Success is never won by chance. Genius 
 wins success only by overcoming superhuman obsta- 
 cles. Men of true genius bear their trials bravely, be- 
 cause they understand why humanity puts so many 
 obstacles in their path. They perceive it is done from 
 ignorance. I sincerely believe it to be the decree of a 
 wise Providence that men of genius should bear the 
 sticks, stones, and unhealthy eggs of non-appreciation, 
 so that they may become purified and greater in the 
 end. What ■ atter days of cruel toil, nights of de- 
 spondency, sickness, want, and all manner of suffer- 
 ing, when a glorious reward is to be gained at last ? 
 
ESSAY. 35 
 
 To possess humanity's regard, affection, aj^^e and even 
 veneration forever— this is genius' reward. A sweeter 
 reward no man can have. 
 
 The powers of a man of genius are general, and not 
 confined to a particular sphere of action. He regards 
 all matters, whether they relate to the sciences, arts, 
 religions, business, or events in every-day life, with 
 great good sense. He takes a common-sense view of 
 everything. 
 
 There is a vast difference between him and a man 
 of capacity or ability. A man of capacity or ability 
 may become great by promulgating thoughts that he 
 has acquired by study or observation, but a genius 
 needs only to disclose his own original thought (ac- 
 quired without effort) to win universal appreciation. 
 A man of ability follows rules and precedents but a 
 genius generally creates his own rules and laws. 
 The former is an imitator, the latter is original. The 
 laws and rules of any pursuit may be acquired by ob- 
 servation or study, and any man of ordinary capacity 
 who possesses the qualities of speculation and ab- 
 straction may achieve good results by showing 
 superior aptitude in that which he undertakes. Great 
 praise is due to any man who by industry and study 
 produces results to benefit the many. Yet such men 
 though praiseworthy, are not to be compared to men 
 of genius, because they are not capable of producing 
 as great results. Since men of genius reason deeper, 
 they can perceive results clearer, and, therefore, 
 generally advance new ideas or make fresh disco ver- 
 ries. Men of ability, though, generally confine them- 
 selves to elaborating old truths. 
 
 A man of genius though not entirely dependent 
 upon art for success is materially benefitted by it. 
 Art implies a disposition of mind to use artificial 
 means to attain an end. Genius discovers the thought 
 and art dresses it in becoming raiment. To achieve 
 the highest results both are very much dependent 
 upon each other. 
 
 Men of genius never know that the divine afflatus 
 lives within them, till it is revealed to turn by others 
 or by a chance circumstance. An author, for instance, 
 
36 ESSAY. 
 
 delineates the character of a man of genius in his book 
 which bears a close resemblance to the reader's own. 
 The reader finds that the person portrayed in the book 
 has the same habits of thought and conduct that he 
 has, and that he is in fact a perfect counterpart of 
 himself ; he sees his own soul reflected as in a mirror. 
 Thus he learns to know himself. The chrysalis of his 
 genius remained undeveloped in its shell till an accid- 
 ental ray of light gave it warmth and being. An un- 
 defined feeling told him that he was born to soar, yet 
 he knew not how. At last there came the ray of light 
 which awoke him to life and action, and then his 
 genius took wing and soared to heaven freely, boldly 
 and confidently. 
 
 Men of genius were born to lead their fellow men. 
 They are the prophets of humanity, and are second 
 only to that mysterious worker, that men call God. 
 
 
« A If «J»M« 
 
 "o^-T 
 
 "50" 
 
TRAVELS. 
 
 MY TRAVELS IN GERMANY. 
 
 It was in the smiling month of May, of the year 
 1868, when my father, mother, six brothers and sisters, 
 and our nurse embarked on the North German Lloyd 
 steamship " Deutschland," for Bremen. I was but a 
 small boy then, 13 years of age, and the thought of 
 making a trip to Europe made me feel mighty as an 
 Emperor. How I swaggered and bragged, and put on 
 heaps of airs to show my importance to the other 
 small boys, I will not now stop to relate. Suffice it to 
 say I felt good all over. 
 
 We embarked on the " Deutschland," as beforesaid. I 
 strode up and down the deck of the stately vessel and 
 studied her anatomy intently. After a thorough in- 
 vestigation I concluded that I would love to live on 
 her forever. I remarked as much to my father, who 
 only smiled at my simplicity. I asked a sailor, who 
 was coiling a rope on the steerage deck, why there 
 was so many cords tied to the mast aloft. Was it to 
 keep tlie masts from falling overboard ? The sailor 
 grinned at me, and said, " Of course !" 
 
 Soon the vessel slowly glided out from her pier. At 
 first I thought it was the pier that was deserting us, 
 but, as the vessel swung out into the river, I found 
 that the pier had not budged. I stood on deck holding 
 my hat in one hand and a handkerchief in the other 
 waving them both to our friends on the pier and 
 shouting " good-bye ! good-bye! hooray! hooray!" At 
 last our friends' faces were no longer to be dis- 
 tinguished in the crowd, and I turned to gaze upon the 
 scenery of New York Bay. The day was fair— a 
 fairer one never dawned — and everything was corre- 
 spondingly lovely The environs of New York never 
 seemed more beautiful, though they are always beauti- 
 
 39 
 
40 TRAVELS. 
 
 ful and interesting. We passed Castle Garden, Gov- 
 ernor's Island, Brooklyn, Bay Ridge, Fort Hamilton, 
 and Fort Riclimond, and then our noble vessel, grace- 
 fully gliding through the narrow^s, passed Coney 
 Island and Staten Island. Ere long Sandy Hook, the 
 last point of land was passed, and then the broad and 
 heaving ocean lay before us. What a glorious specta- 
 cle it was! Grand! noble! magnificent! The vessel 
 began to heave a little now, and I began to feel "kind 
 of funny," so I told my father. Ere long I began to 
 feel funnier still, for things did not seem half as lovely 
 as before. I experienced sea sickness now for the 
 first tiaie. I did not like it all. I howled with fear, 
 and wished I had never seen the plaguey mean ship. 
 It was the ship's fault that I was sick, I thought, 
 because she could have been made to stop rolling. 
 I wasn't the only one in our family, though, who was 
 sea-sick, and that thought was a great comfort to me. 
 Soon as the last point of land faded from view my 
 mother grew frightftned at the prospect of endless sky 
 and \YSitGY, and hastened to her cabin with all speed. 
 She cast herself upon the bed, and, in spite of all 
 arguments and entreaties, would not stir from it till 
 she was assured, after ten days, that the coast of 
 England was in sight. When she saw the land fade 
 away far in the distance, and naught about us but 
 sky and water, the thouglit came to my mother that 
 if anything happened to the ship we would be miles 
 and miles away from help. The thought was terrible, 
 and now to heighten her misery came sea-sickness 
 beside. My mother was a much-abused lady then 
 there was no doubt of it. Had the ocean withheld its 
 tortures she might have overcome other ills, but old 
 Keptune cares for nobody, not even for my mother. 
 Our nurse, when she first stepped on board, felt de- 
 lighted as myself with the ship, but, alas ! her rapture, 
 like mine, soon gave way to misery. When the vessel 
 began heaving, she pressed her hand against her stom- 
 ach and said, "Oh ! oh !" in heart melting tones. Ere long 
 she wished herself dead, or that she had never seen 
 us because then she would never have been on this 
 horrid old tub of a boat. My father felt not the least 
 
TRAVELS. 41 
 
 twinge of sea-sickness, nor did any of my younger 
 brothers and sisters. That I, the oldest of them all, 
 should be sick, did not seem right to me. After a few 
 days had passed, I felt all right again. Most of the 
 time was passed on deck, where sea auoits, novel 
 reading, and sight-seeing were indulged in. After 
 ten days had passed a dim haze was seen by us upon 
 the extreme verge of the horizon, and this the captain 
 assured us was land. Once more I took my hat in hand 
 and cried hooray till I grew hoarse. With that 
 glimpse of land my gay spirits returned to me. The 
 outlines of a rock-bound coast soon burst upon my 
 admiring vision. It was the coast of England. Any 
 land would have been welcome to me then, but a 
 FOREIGN land was doubly welcome. "Hip, hip, 
 hooray!" cried I enthusiastically, and flung my hat to 
 the breeze, which nearly carried it overboard. 
 
 In due course of time we anchored off Cowes, Isle of 
 Wight. A breeze from shore was wafted to us laden 
 with the smell of grass and flowers. It was salubri- 
 ous. It quickened my pulses and braced my nerves, 
 and I strode up and down the deck feeling strong as a 
 lion. We anchored off Cowes for the night. The 
 night came on quickly, and the stars came forth one 
 by one. Thers was no moon. The reed-covered shore 
 was but a biscuit-toss away, and it loomed up black in 
 the gloaming. Narrow black-painted boats, carrying 
 a green light at the bow and a yellow one at the stern, 
 gracef ull , glided past our vessel. Not far from us the 
 hulls of schooners and lighters could dimly be dis- 
 cerned. On shore, lights were seen in every direction. 
 Taken as a whole, the scene was a romantic one. It 
 conjured up old Venice to my imagination, and I won- 
 dered whether that famous city of the sea could pre- 
 sent a scene half so entrancing as this. I did not 
 retire to bed that night, but remained on deck to sur- 
 feit myself with the sights. All was so novel and in- 
 teresting to me that I could not sleep. Old Sol arose 
 next morning smiling and blushing, and presented new 
 pictures. Tall, bright-green blades of sea-grass, that 
 lined the shore, were wet with huge dewdrops, and as 
 the sunrays touched them they reflected all the colors 
 
42 TRAVELS. 
 
 of the rainbow. And upon the good Queen's marine 
 palace at Cowes, the Osborne House, Old Sol boldly 
 cast his rays. First he burnished one window, then 
 he took the same liberty with another, and another, 
 and another, till every one of the many windows be- 
 came flashing, dazzling mirrors of light. It was, in 
 truth, a gorgeous spectacle. 
 
 As the morning wore on we hove up our anchor 
 again, and steamed for Bremerhaven, our destination. 
 Having arrived there, a tug came alongside to tow the 
 *' Deutschland" to her pier. The awkward Germans 
 on board the tug seemed sorely distressed how to heave 
 a rope on board our vessel. They ran back and forth 
 aimlessly, like cockroaches in distress. Finally, they 
 gathered in assembly upon the bow of their boat, to 
 determine definitely upon a proper course of action. 
 They decided to tie a small line to a large line, and 
 then to toss the small line on board our ship. Their 
 tact, shrewdness, and skill rendered them successful 
 in the end, and we applauded them in a becoming 
 manner. They did not acknowledge our civility, how- 
 ever. 
 
 Bremerhaven now claimed our attention. The town 
 — a seaport — is old, battered, and time-stained. The 
 houses are rickety and crickety and black, dirty and 
 seedy-looking. Their roofs are huge and slanting as 
 a young mountain. And then they cling to each other 
 with deepest aifection. Should one of these dirty- 
 looking time pets withdraw his loving support from 
 his neighbor, what a fall there then would be. What 
 boards, and beams, and -gables and spires, and nooks 
 and crannies, and dirt and grime would at last take a 
 tumble ! What a sad contemplation that would be for 
 the townspeople. If that event was to happen, then 
 new houses would have to be built, and new houses 
 mean change and cleanliness, evils, alas ! to which the 
 conservative people of Bremerhaven are not accus- 
 tomed. 
 
 As we set foot on shore we found a railroad train 
 waiting to convey us to Bremen. I was much amused 
 to see the little twopenny engine and the old-fashioned 
 stage-coach cars that composed the train. The cars 
 
TRAVELS. 43 
 
 soon moved away from the depot and clatter, 
 clatter, clattered toward Bremen. In due time 
 we arrived at that city. "Jiminy Gripes! what a 
 strange place it is! " thought I. We engaged a fiacre 
 (or a couple of them I think) and were hurried to the 
 Hotel de I'Europe, where the family soon was made 
 comfortable. 
 
 Then my father, brother, and myself started out for 
 a stroll. The streets were narrow and quaint-looking. 
 There were numerous shops over which signs, bearing 
 terrible hard names to pronounce, were creaking and 
 groaning in the wind. Strange looking people wear- 
 ing strange garments and using strange language were 
 met with everywhere. 1 did not hear a single word of 
 English spoken. Everyone— from the dirty faced street 
 arab to the staid and sober merchant — spoke German. 
 1 was more than surprise 1— I was astonished. "Here is 
 something to tell the ]^ew York boys when I see 
 them," thought I. Ere long I discovered something 
 that nearly left me breathless with interest and de- 
 light. It was a windmill, something that I had read 
 much about but never seen. And here it was with its 
 four black stilt-like legs, its black, fat little body and 
 its four huge arms continually sawing the air. I im- 
 portuned my father to lead us into it. In those days 
 my father granted my lightest wish, so into the wind- 
 mill we went. The miller, though surprised that any 
 one should feel interested in so common a thing as a 
 mill, received us courteously. He led us about the 
 structure and took much pains to explain everything 
 connected therewith to us. The mill room was low 
 and rather confined, yet to me it seemed so cosy and 
 homelife that I would have loved to live in it forever. 
 We mounted a stairway and found ourselves close to 
 the roof. Through an aperture the huge fans or arms 
 could be seen tossing upward outside the building. 
 There was an incessant creak, creak of the fans and a 
 hum, hum, hum below stairs. After having satisfied 
 oar curiosity we thanked the miller for his attention 
 and departed. 
 
 We next wended our way to a Eathskeller! A 
 liathskeller is a vault or series of vaults where beer 
 
44 TRAVELS. 
 
 and a variety of good things can be had for the mere 
 payment thereof. These vaults are much like the 
 underground passages of a convent or dungeon. They 
 are paved with flagstones, and contain massive pillars. 
 Successive rows of arches reach into the dim distance. 
 Upon these arches are graven or inscribed legends 
 fjom mythology or witty verses from the German lit- 
 erature. We ordered "drei portion" bread, butter, 
 cheese, and beer. The beer which was served in stone 
 jugs was sparkling and delicious as the morning dew. 
 I emptied my jug without winking and smacked my 
 lips with satisfaction. My father said I would be- 
 come a first-class Dutchman in time. I burst into 
 loud and prolonged laughter. My father thought that 
 I was laughing at his remark, but I was not. The 
 fumes of the beer had mounted to my brain and made 
 me feel queer. All eyes were turned upon me, but I 
 gazed intently at the inscriptions upon the arches, and 
 thus the good-natured assemblage present deemed 
 them the cause of my merriment. I laughed louder 
 and louder, and the people present were no doubt grat- 
 ified to think that I could apprec ate ancient jokes. 
 Not till long afterward did the elfects of the beer 
 wear off. I was glad when we emerged from the 
 vault to the bright daylight again. 
 ii^^Our stroll was continued. We did not walk far 
 when we came upon the market-place of the town. 
 Here was another surprise for me. Instead of being 
 under cover, the market was held in the open street, a 
 large square being devoted to that purpose. Baskets 
 containing wares of all kinds were placed on the side- 
 walks, in the roadway, and in all manner of convenient 
 and inconvenient places. Each^basket was presided 
 over by an enterprising dame. Fruits, vegetables, but- 
 ter, cheese, milk, eggs, bologna sausages, live fishes in 
 tubs of water, smoked meats, live geese, chickens, ducks, 
 etc., were here in profusion,' _ The market women were 
 bargaining noisily, and kept up a ceaseless chatter and 
 squabbling, in which the geese and other fowl joined. 
 It was, in truth, an animated scene. I purchased two 
 grotes worth of cherries from one of the market la- 
 dies, and, beside the cherries, received a most bewitch- 
 
TRAVEL'S. 45 
 
 iiig smile from her. The smile alone was worth two 
 grotes. The lady did not make any extra charge for 
 it, however. I'liere was a lady here who presided over 
 a basket containing a cuiious kind of cheese. I was 
 not long in scraping an acquaintance with her. The 
 lady's name was Maria something, and the cheese's 
 name was handkase. I tasted the cheese and found it 
 heavenly. "Dutchmen know what is good, anyway!" 
 said I to myself. Our family remained an entire week 
 at Bremen, and thus I had many an opportunity to 
 court the handkase lady's society. She always received 
 me with a pleasant word of welcome. I thought con- 
 siderable of her— looked upon her, in fact, as an old 
 friend. She told me she made these handkase herself, 
 and then my regard for her was boundless. Bremen 
 held not her equal. Upon the last day of our stay at 
 Bremen, I came to her and said : " Madam, our family 
 leaves for Frankfort-on-the-Main to-day, where my 
 brother and myself are to be put at school. I may 
 never see you again, so please give me your best hand- 
 kase !" She gave me the cheese, then hurriedly car- 
 ried the corner of a dirty apron to her eye and drew 
 several prolonged snuffles through her nose. She was 
 crying, 1 thought. I tried to comfort her. "Please 
 don't cry, madam. I'll come to Bremen some day or 
 other and see you again ; see if 1 don't!" The effect of 
 this little speech was electric upon her. She took the 
 apron from her eye and not a trace of emotion was vis- 
 ible upon her countenance. She gave me the last 
 handkase, placed her huge paw in mine and said 
 "adieu!" 
 
 Old dame, when I meet thee. 
 After many years. 
 How shall I greet thee ? 
 
 I shall greet thee with the same affection as of 
 yore. Count on me ! 
 
 The ride from Bremen to Frankfort-on-Main, in the 
 railroad cars, was an interesting one. I will stop to 
 relate an incident of it. Our family took possession of 
 a second-class coupe, in which there was a solitary 
 passenger, who looked upon our intrusion as an inva- 
 sion of his rights. This solitary passenger was a stout 
 
46 TRAVELS. 
 
 middle aged merchant bound for Frankfort. We 
 children were very noisy, so he squeezed himself into 
 a corner far from us as possible Notwithstanding 
 OUR noise, and notwithstanding the rackety-clackety 
 noise of the train, he soon fell asleep and snored 
 loudly. Above his head was a rack which contained 
 our portable language. Among our effects was a bas- 
 ket of peaches which the younger children clamored 
 for. I mounted upon an arm of the seat and took the 
 basket from the rack. Unfortunately I slipped and 
 brought the basket of peaches down with stunning 
 force upon the stout gentleman's uncovered head. 
 He shot up like a rocket and exclaimed: "Kreuz, Ge- 
 witter, Donner, Wetter was ist das ?,' He glared at 
 me and rubbed his head vigorously. My parents apol- 
 ogized for my awkwarduess. and used their best efforts 
 to mollify him. He accepted the apology and was 
 easily appeased, but his actions when struck had been 
 so comical that every now and again I burst into un- 
 controllable fits of laughter. I was reprimanded, yet 
 I could not control my merximent. As we neared 
 Frankfort, however, my merriment subsided. My 
 brother and I were to be put to school here for three 
 years. Our parents were to leave us at Frankfort, 
 and after seeing sights on the continent were to re- 
 turn to New York, our home. The idea did not please 
 me at all. I asked my father what would become of 
 us if we were left alone among these savage foreign- 
 ers. My father replied: "I do not know, I am sure!" 
 This answer was far from consoling, and my mind 
 grew troubled. A dark cloud of appreliension 
 settled over me, and all my gay spirits tied. Not even 
 the many interesting sights we saw as we entered 
 Frankfort, could rouse me. After our family had 
 been made cozy at an hotel in Frankfort, my father, 
 mother, brother and myself rode to the school in a 
 fiacre. The school-house which was situated on the 
 Bruckhofstrasse, was a plain three-story granite build- 
 ing. In my then frame of mood it seemed to me 
 grim and ominous looking. We ascended a long flight 
 of stone steps, and were ushered by a servant into a 
 cozy reception-room. Mr. and Mrs. Blank, the propri- 
 
TRAVELS. 4n 
 
 etors of the boarding-school (at Frankfort -called a 
 pension) were there to meet us. Mr. Blank (his real 
 nanie I omit) was rather a short, thickset gentleman 
 having a close-clipped, ruddy beard, a frank and pleas- 
 \^? countenance and wore gold-rimmed spectacles. 
 At that time (the year 1868) he was about 40 years 
 ot age. Mrs. Blank was also below the medium 
 size, having brown hair that was smoothed back 
 from her forehead, penetrating gray eyes, and heavv 
 jaw; around her waist was tied a bunch of keys and a 
 pair ot scissors which gave her a housewifely appear- 
 ance. Mr. Blank and his wife received us kindly 
 Arrangements for our board, tuition, &c., were soori 
 completed. After a prolonged chat our parents rose 
 to depart. We received a few necessary hints, such as 
 to behave well, to obey Mr. and Mrs. Blank in every- 
 thing to be diligent in our studies, to write home re- 
 gularly &c., &c., and then our parents kissed us adieu 
 and with the rest of the family that evening set off 
 tor Pans. The dread event had come to pass then • 
 we were left to the tender mercies of savage foreigners' 
 A storm was gathering in my breast. After our par- 
 ents had departed Mr. Blank in person conducted us to 
 the room my brother and 1 were to occupy. The room 
 was furnished with two beds, two chairs, one wash- 
 ing basin, and a bureau. There were forty pensioners 
 in the school beside my brother and I. Mr. Blank left 
 us. I felt homesick, sad and dispirited. I threw my- 
 self upon the bed and then the storm which had long 
 been pent up, burst in all its fury. I yelled as though 
 I was being murdered. My brother felt calm and un- 
 ruffled as though he liad been at school in Frankfort 
 all his life. He told me to stop yelling. I yelled 
 i^.V.4.®^.*^.^^ before. Mr. Blank rushed up in alarm. 
 What ails you, my lad ?" asked he. " I don't want to 
 stay m this nasty old school, I want to go to Paris 
 with my parents," sobbed I. " Console yourself, my ' 
 lad, said Mr. Blank, " you will go to Paris some fine 
 day with all the boys here to see the sights. This did 
 not comfort me much and I bawled loud as ever. Soon 
 1 heard eager voices whispering to each other outside 
 the door. A delegation of students were there inter- 
 
48 TRAVELS. 
 
 estecl to know whether I was being thrashed so soon. 
 One student remarked: "What a yell that was: I 
 wonder do all the New York Indians yell like that ?" 
 My brother heard the remark and it riled him. He 
 stepped out into the corridor and demanded to know 
 who passed that remark. The students did not un- 
 derstand my brother who spoke in English (he could 
 not speak a Word of German) therefore none answered 
 him. My brother misinterpreted their silence and 
 scowled at them to show his contempt for their sup- 
 posed cowardice. One of the students asked my 
 brother in broken English ; "for why you make so ?" 
 imitating his scowl. My brother who thought the 
 student was deriding him planted a blow on his ear by 
 way of answer. There was a lively scene then. All 
 the students gesticulated excitedly and shouted to 
 their comrade: "Druf Albert! Druf!" (At him Al- 
 bert! At him!) Albert did not know whether all 
 American chaps carried pistols and bowie knives so he 
 hesitated. My brother remarked to him in a confident 
 manner: "I can thrash a ddzen Dutchmen like you!" 
 Fortunately Albert did not understand the remark 
 or he might have been more frightened than h« was. 
 The other students urged him on to the slaughter. 
 Albert gritted his teeth and sailed into the fray. He 
 bit, scratched, kicked and poked my brother in the ribs 
 with his thumbs. My brother struck right out from 
 the shoulder. At last Albeit received a blow in the 
 eye that made him see little green blazes and it sick- 
 ened him. He slunk away utterly discomfited. The 
 other students set up a howl of commiseration and 
 intended to fall upon my brother in a body, but he 
 wisely ran into our room, and told Mr. Blank, who 
 stepped into the corridor and dispersed the angry 
 crowd. 
 
 There were young men from many countries in the 
 pension. There were about a dozen Americans, 
 English, French, Italian, and German lads; also one 
 Wallachian. Many took private lessons at home in 
 the pension, while others attended preparatory schools 
 and universities. I took private lessons at home, but 
 my brother attended a preparatory school sweetly 
 
TRAVELS. 49 
 
 called the Philantropina. There were several quaint 
 characters among the students, one of whom I will 
 stop to describe. The lad I have reference to came 
 from Manchester, England, and his front name was 
 Ted. We nicknamed him " Spleenisher Englander " 
 (spleenetic Englishman) because he was so soft. He 
 would believe anything that was told him. Many 
 were the tricks that were played upon him. One 
 nights several students chalked "their faces, wrapped 
 long sheets around their bodies, rubbed sulphur upon 
 their foreheads, and, with long-bladed knives gleam- 
 ing in their hands, stalked into Ted's room. The 
 coverlet was roughly pulled off him, and he w^as given 
 a sounding thwack with a stick upon a very delicate 
 spot. He jumped up in a hurry, but when he saw the 
 ghostly tigures standing by his bedside erect and 
 silent, he hastily pulled the clothes over himself and 
 gave a blood curdling shriek. The ghosts tried to 
 pull the coverlet from him again, but Ted clung to it 
 desperately. A pitcher of water was thrown over 
 him, whereupon he set up a series of shrieks 
 that could have been heard blocks away. The ghosts 
 lied precipitately then, stumbling over each other in 
 their eagerness to get away before Mr. Blank caught 
 them. This was one of the tricks played upon him. 
 One day Ted told a comrade that he had broken his 
 lorgrette (like most Englishmen he sported an eye- 
 glass) and that he accidentally swallowed a large 
 piece of glass. Immediately his comrade, who was a 
 wag, assumed a serious air, and told Ted that swallow- 
 ing a piece of glass was a highly dangerous thing to 
 do. ''Suppose that glass should work itself to your 
 heart, Ted, why you will be dead in less than an 
 hour." Ted grew frightened. " Tell me what shall I 
 do, Siegfried," said he to the wag distressedly. 
 Siegfried, after thinking a moment or two, said: 
 " If you faithfully promise to do as I say I'll rid you 
 of that glass." Ted faithfully promised to do what 
 he was bidden. " Get a large bottle of cod liver oil 
 over at the druggist's, and no matter whether your 
 liver comes up or not drink it all, else you will be a 
 dead lad in less than no time. Ted bought the oil 
 
50 TRAVELS. 
 
 and brought it to Siegfried. Ted tested it and 
 shuddered. " Ugh ! I cawn't go that," said he. " You 
 must," persisted Siegfried. Ted held his nostrils shut 
 so as not to smell the vile stuff, and drank the entire 
 contents of the bottle. A delegation of students called 
 upon him next morning in his room, where he lay- 
 sick in bed, and asked him how he felt. " Very bad," 
 said the poor fellow. "But is the glass up ?" anxiously 
 inquired his fellow students with long drawn faces. "I 
 cawn't say, you know, I did not stop to see !" It took 
 him several days to get over the effects of that bottle. 
 
 There were some other droll characters in the school 
 beside Ted, but I will not stop to describe them. My 
 brother and I found the students to be a jolly set 
 when we came to understand their ways and habits. 
 
 Each Sunday in the year, the younger students took 
 a walk with Mr. Blank to some place of interest near 
 Frankfort. Whenever it rained on a Sunday, we ad- 
 journed to some cafe in the suburbs of the town, where 
 we drank beer, ate cakes, and listened to the sweet 
 strains of a band of music. In fine weather we walked 
 to the woods near Frankfort, gathering nuts, playing 
 games, and amusing ourselves generally. Once each 
 year Mr. Blank and as many students as chose, made 
 tours of some length. Some of the tours lasted a day 
 or two, others an entire week. Among the places vis- 
 ited were Baden Baden, Wiesbaden, Homburg, Cologne, 
 the Rhine, Switzerland, etc. I will describe one of 
 these tours. 
 
 The first tour ^lat my brother and I made in com- 
 pany witli the students, was to Wiesbaden and Hom- 
 burg. 
 
 We all arose long before daylight on the day of the 
 tour, and felt happy as clam at high tide. We swal- 
 lowed our coifee and brodchen (rolls) in hot haste, 
 slung our knapsacks— botanisirbuchsen, we called 
 them — upon our backs, and were soon ready to depart. 
 The command to depart ere long was given, and we 
 hurried through the dark, deserted streets of Frank- 
 fort to the Bahnhof (railroad station), where we were 
 to take the cars for Wiesbaden. We entered the sta- 
 tion and made a rush for the cars. There was much 
 
TRAVELS. . 51 
 
 struggling among us for reserved seats in the ears— 
 the seats nearest the \^indows. As the cars moved 
 away from the station our " hochs" (hurrahs) were 
 deafening to hear. We had to vent our enthusiasm 
 some way. After about an hour's ride we reached 
 Wiesbaden. Though the day had not yet dawned, we 
 overran the town like a horde of wild Arabs, shout- 
 ing, whooping, and yelling. Wiesbaden, though a 
 small, is a picturesque town, nestling at the base of 
 verdure-clad mountains. The scenery around it is 
 charming. The town was dark and silent, its inhabi- 
 tants being wrapped in si umber. When we had gained 
 the town limits and just as we were about to ascend 
 the mountain, we came upon a number of saddle-don- 
 keys reclining on the sward. Their drivers lay 
 stretched out at fall length, wrapped up in blankets, 
 not far away from them. We roused the drivers 
 and tried to make some arrangement with them about 
 hiring all their donkeys for a ride up the mountain. 
 After much gesticulating, shouting, and bargaining, 
 we came to satisfactory terms. The donkeys were 
 called up from the places where they were reclining. 
 They seemed unwilling to be disturbed from their rest 
 so early. There were not enough donkeys for all of us 
 so it was agreed among us to take turns. We h ad 
 some difficulty in mounting the brutes. They w ere 
 ugly and refractory, and needed to be coaxed. We 
 coaxed them with canes, switches, and umbrellas, but 
 they seemed insensible to such cajoling. Their dri- 
 vers whacked them unmercifully and shouted " hi ! hi I 
 hi!" but they heeded the drivers as little as they did 
 us. I had mounted a big mule and his nasty nature 
 awoke my ire. I broke my cane upon his back but he 
 only playfully w^hisked his tail. 1 yelled at him, pet- 
 ted him, coaxed him, but he was oblivious to every- 
 thing. I then stuck a pin into him and he rose upon 
 his hind legs and gave vent to a series of brays that 
 struck terror into my heart, I slid off his back in a 
 hurry and could not be induced to mount him again. 
 Ted was one of the would-be riders. He bestrode a 
 diminutive donkey— scarcely big as himself— but the 
 animal was stubborn as a mule. Ted twisted his tail, 
 
52 TRAVELS. 
 
 pinched his ear, and poked him in the ribs with his 
 umbrella, but produced no other effect than to make 
 him hee-haw. The unmounted students watched his 
 proceedings with much interest. Without speaking a 
 word they all innocently gathered around his donkey. 
 Suddenly a shower of blows fell upon the brute and 
 made it rear. A lit cigarette was then placed under 
 its tail. It gave a loud snort and a jump and then tore 
 up the mountain side in a frantic manner. Ted clung 
 to it in terror, but dropped his eye-glass. " Mein zwic- 
 ker! mein zwicker!" (My eye-glass! my eye-glass!) 
 he shouted frantically. The donkey did not care a 
 cent for him or his eye-glass, but continued in its mad 
 career. 
 
 The rest of the caravan now had started and fol- 
 lowed Ted's donkey up the mountain leisurely. The 
 day had not fully dawned, and a stiff breeze was blow- 
 ing. Away far up we could see huge clouds gallivant- 
 ing around the mountain top. Soon we reached the 
 top where we waited for the walkers of our party to 
 arrive. Ted had reached the summit long before us. 
 "Well, Ted, is the donkey alive yet?" was asked. 
 " Blarst the bloody donkey," said he, " I thought sure 
 he'd break my neck coming up !" After a little our 
 entire party had assembled. A chapel, patterned after 
 the Greek style, was built on the mountain top. A 
 lovelier and at the same time a wilder spot could not 
 have been selected for it. There was no other build- 
 ing within miles of it. We rang up the chapel ward- 
 ten, who admitted us into the building. The chapel 
 was built of finest marble and had many deep-set, 
 high, variegated glass windows. The golden sunbeams 
 illumined the stained glass and cast many hues— 
 orange, green, p^irple, yellow, white, and red — upon a 
 marble figure representing her grace the Grand Duch- 
 ess Van der Blinkenhoven Van der Blankensteim (I 
 forgot her last name), of Kurhessen. Her grace's ef- 
 figy was reclining at full length on a raised marble 
 bier. As a work of art, it possessed much merit. 
 Some of the students were excellent art critics — in 
 their own minds — and critically examined the Duchess. 
 One critic remarked, " Sie ist hubsch zum kissen" (she 
 
, TRA VEL8. 53 
 
 is lovely enough to kiss). Another said: "Her feat- 
 ures are faultless, with the exception of that wart on 
 her chin," which proved to be a fly. Ted said she was 
 "pawfectly grand." After all had sufficiently ogled 
 the duchess and inspected the chapel to their hearts' 
 content, we departed. Those who had not ridden the 
 donkeys before, now had their turn. Going down was 
 far more exciting than coming up. The donkeys 
 scampered down the mountain side at a lively rate, 
 and their riders bounced up and down upon their backs 
 like India rubber balls. One tall and lanky German 
 lad was flung headlong over his donkey's head and 
 was gathered up more dead than alive. When picked 
 up, he asked in a dazed manner, " Wo bin ich ?" (where 
 am I ?), to which a would-be wag replied : "Auf dein 
 hinterviertel " (upon your hindquarters), whereupon 
 the lanky lad showed his teeth and looked fight. Even 
 when town was reached the donkeys would not stop, 
 but galloped through the streets at the top of their 
 speed. A crowd of street boys ran after them, shout- 
 ing, whooping and yelling. This maddened the don- 
 keys. They charged through every street in the town, 
 one following the other, and would not halt till com- 
 pelled to from sheer exhaustion. None of the students 
 were ever after anxious to go donkey riding. 
 
 After we had all assembled again it was unani- 
 mously decided that breakfast ought to be the next 
 event on the programme. Accordingly we all repaired 
 to the nearest inn where an ample repast was soon 
 spread before us. Wliat with appetites sharpened by 
 the bracing mountain air, and what with the lively 
 exercise we had taken we felt hungry enough to have 
 devoured all the provisions in Wiesbaden. Our good 
 natured host and his assistants had all they could do 
 to attend to our wants. 
 
 Breakfast being over we took a short rest and then 
 strolled through the town leisurely to see what we 
 could see. Wiesbaden is one of the watering places of 
 Germany and strangers flock here from far and near 
 to drink the health-giving waters and for recupera- 
 tion generally. It was then the height of the season. 
 It was now about 10 o'clock a. m., and the streets were 
 
54 TRAVELS. 
 
 full of people. People from all nations were here to 
 be met with. There were Englishmen, Frenchmen, 
 Austrians, Spaniards, Americans. Italians, Turks, &c., 
 &c. It was an aristocratic and well-dressed crowd, too, 
 with little or none of the riff-ralf element. 
 
 We wended our way to the Kur Gardens. Such a 
 grand sight we students never saw before. The gar- 
 dens are scarcely less lovely than the famous Ver- 
 sailles Gardens. Both nature and art have combined 
 to render them beautiful. Lordly elms, larches, 
 beeches, chestnut and cedar trees studded the gardens 
 and afforded a grateful shade. Then there were well- 
 graveled walks that led to every direction. Parterres 
 of flowers, laid out with much skill and taste, charmed 
 the eye, and the many-colored sweet-smelling flowers 
 almost intoxicated the senses with their perfume. 
 Fountains that threw up jets of water more than 100 
 feet high were plentiful. Under a cluster of trees a 
 handsome pavilion was built; in it a band of music 
 was in the habit of playing twice each day, at 10 A. M. 
 and 4 P. M. In every direction well-dressed ladies, 
 gentlemen, and children were promenading. Princes, 
 Dukes, Counts, Barons, Generals, Colonels, Ministers, 
 Statesmen, and other high-toned personages, were plen- 
 tiful as bedbugs in a boarding-house. Fat dowagers 
 were taking an airing in company with their pet 
 poodles. English mammas, attired in elegant morn- 
 ing costumes, and surrounded by flaxen-haired, chub- 
 by-faced, prattling children, wei'e leisurely walking 
 about. Then there were Austrian matrons, with com- 
 plexions fresh and blooming as a red rose. French 
 ladies you could see, attired in that simple yet elegant 
 manner that they so well know how to excel in. They 
 were elegant, refined, and courtly in their manners, 
 and were gayly chatting and laughing. What deli- 
 cious nothings issued from those ruby lips, and what 
 espeglerie, grace, wit, and sentiment they possessed! 
 Ye lovely dames of France, I kiss the tips of your fin- 
 gers with admiration ! Dusky, dark-eyed ladies from 
 Spain and Italy could be seen and heard conversing in 
 those rich, soft, and flowing accents so very like music. 
 They called forth visions of their own sunny lands, 
 
T RAVE LIS. 55 
 
 where all is poetry, music, sunliglit, sentiment, and 
 luxurious delight. There were bravely accoutred 
 officers from all nations here, too, upon whose breasts 
 gleamed medals and decorations innumerable, and 
 who fraternized in the most familiar manner. 
 
 In the grounds were cafes, restaurants, and refresh- 
 ment pavillions, which were thronged with people. 
 People were seated at the tables eating ices, drinking 
 light wines, and feasting generally. The jingle of 
 glasses, the clatter of plates, the rattle of knives and 
 forks, the drinking and gormandising, the laughter and 
 conversation reminded one forcibly of the boulevards 
 of Paris. To carry out the illusion, active French 
 waiters, arrayed in black frock coats, white ties, and 
 spotless linen, moved about among the throng with 
 well laden trays, and now and then gave vent to a 
 sacre God damn between their teeth when some one 
 jostled them too rudely. Soon we entered the gaming 
 halls, which were then at the height of their iniquitous 
 glory. The halls— there were several of them— were 
 frescoed, bepainted, and bedizened. Costly, elaborate 
 wrought chandeliers depended from the ceilings, sup- 
 porting amber hued globes, within which were low 
 burning lights that diffused a golden glow throughout 
 the apartment. The furniture was rich and sumptu- 
 ous, so rich and sumptuous that I was afraid to sit 
 down on one of the sofas for fear of committing 
 sacrilege. Fine paintings relieved the monotony of 
 bare walls, and statuary occupied the niches. The 
 balmy morning air stole in through the open windows 
 and mingled with the soft perfumes pervading the 
 apartments. The floors were of high polished illumin- 
 ated woods, and in their center stood the gaming 
 tables. Distinguished looking ladies and gentlemen 
 were already, so early in the morning, engaged in the 
 various games of chance. Many a titled profligate 
 was seated at these tables a perfect slave to the 
 passion of gambling. Nor were profligates of the 
 gentler sex lacking to complete the high-toned de- 
 pravity of the scene. Some of the latter were as 
 inveterate gamblers as the former. Many spectators 
 stood around the tables engaged in watching 
 
56 TEA VELS. 
 
 the proceedings. Conversation was not allowed, and 
 the silence was only broken by the click click of the 
 roulette wheel, the croupier's calls of the game, and 
 the clink clink clink of gold and silver. In one hall 
 roulette was played, in another rouge et noir, in still 
 another vingt el un, etc. The faces of the players 
 betrayed not a single emotion. Whether they lost or 
 won their faces wore its calm impertubable expres- 
 sion. Their self-control was wonderful. A beautiful 
 lady player particularly engaged my attention. I 
 watched her as she gradually lost thousands of 
 thalers. First her huge piles of gold and silver were 
 swept in, then bank note upon bank note till 
 not a sou remained. The lady gracefully arose 
 then, without a trace of emotion being visible 
 in her lovely countenance, and walked away, 
 whereupon her chair was immediately occupied 
 by another noble patron of the art. I cannot 
 describe my feelings while witnessing this scene. 
 The lady's beauty had dazzled me, her wealth had 
 awed me, and her command over herself won my ad- 
 miration, and when she staked her last bank note I 
 held my breath in suspense. When it was swept 
 away I groaned and would have fallen A disgust for 
 gamblers of whatever sex then possessed me. Those 
 play halls have long since been abolished by a, decree 
 of Kaiser Wilhelm. A sensible old Kaiser that. 
 
 The next place we traveled to was Homburg. At 
 Homburg there was a castle of ye ancient days, a 
 something which I had long been pining for to see. I 
 had read Anna EadclifCe's " Mysteries of Udolpho," 
 and other high-wrought, glowing romances, till my 
 fancy was worked up to a high pitch of interest. 
 When I stood within the time-honored walls of that 
 Homburg castle, my enthusiasm knew no bounds. I 
 felt awe-stricken, and my flesh began to creep. Each 
 individual hair stood on end and to express myself in 
 one word I felt " alloverish ! " I felt capable then and 
 there of writing a romance than which even Miss 
 Anna Kadcliffe never wrote a more thrilling one. 
 
 We first inspected the long and venerable castle 
 hall. It was a vast apartment full of old armor, 
 
TRAVELS. m 
 
 weapons, and the like. The casements, which were 
 lofty, reaching to the ceiling almost, and were open to 
 admit fresh air. Without could be seen lordly elms, 
 and chestnut trees, that were softly soughing and 
 swirring in the gentle summer breeze. They roused 
 my fancy and I thought they were whispering to each 
 other about the deeds of daring performed by the 
 castle owners in ages gone by. They conjured up vis- 
 ions of courtly knights and lovely dames, and trouba- 
 dours, and roystering soldiers. We passed through 
 other halls, apartments, rooms, and, also, dungeons. I 
 was charmed and delighted with everything. It was 
 many a long day before the effects of the visit to the 
 castle was effaced from my brain. 
 
 I have omitted many things in this sketch. I have 
 described little of our school-life, little of Frankfort, 
 itself, and little of anything in fact. I may make 
 amends in the future, perhaps. My sketch, such as it 
 is, is done.