Schöne Aussicht: A Journal of Our Trip Abroad

by Louise Spilker

THE VOW

As far back, it is said, as the twelfth century, there has been a Passion Play performed in the little village, but towards the close of the sixteenth century the wars that wasted Germany left but little time to the dwellers of these remote highlands for dramatic representation. They played dreadful havoc with their homes and fortunes. Among these unfortunates were the Bavarians of the Tyrol, and as an after consequence of the wide-wasting Thirty Years’ War, a great pestilence broke out in the villages surrounding Ober-Ammergau. Whole families were swept off. In one village two married couples were left alive; a visitation somewhat similar to our “Black Death.” While village after village fell a prey to its ravages, the people of Ober-Ammergau remained untouched, and enforced a vigorous quarantine against all the outside world. As always happens, one person, Casper Schuchler, broke through the sanitary regulations. This good man, who was working in the plague-stricken village of Eschenlohe, felt an uncontrollable desire to return to his wife and children, who were living in Ober-Ammergau. The terrible retribution followed. In two days he was dead, and the plague, which he had brought with him, spread with such fatal haste from house to house that in thirty-three days eighty-four other villagers had perished, all sanitary measures having failed. Unless the plague were stayed, there would soon not be enough to bury the dead. They assembled to discuss their desperate plight. It was said, “It was as men looking into the hollow eye-sockets of death.” They cried aloud to God, they would repent their sins, and in token of their penitence, and as a sign of gratitude for their deliverance, if they were delivered, they would every ten years perform this Passion Play. From that hour it ceased; those who were already smitten with the plague recovered. There were no more victims of the pestilence. It is said that not since “Moses lifted up the brazen serpent in the wilderness” has there been so signal a deliverance from mortal illness on such simple terms. Thus it was that the Passion Play became a fixed institution in Ober-Ammergau, and has been performed with few variations, due to wars, ever since. The performance of the Passion Play, like the angel with the drawn sword which stands at the summit of the castle of San Angelo, is the pious recognition of a miraculous interposition for the stay of the pestilence. But for Casper Schuchler it would have gone the way of all other Passion plays. He sinned and suffered, but out of his sin and sorrow has come the Passion Play, the one solitary survivor of what was at one time a great instrument of religious teaching almost throughout Europe. As we returned to the village in the quiet of the evening, we were awe-stricken by the perfectly blue, cloudless sky over-reaching these sacred hills. The crowd of that day had departed; all was peace; the whole dramatic troupe were pursuing the even tenor of their ordinary lives. Most of the best players were wood-carvers, others peasants or local tradesmen, who were named Matthew, Luke, and John from their cradles, imitating the lives of these characters from their birth up. Their royal robes, or rabbinical costumes, were laid aside, and they would go about their work as ordinary mortals. But what a revelation, when you consider the latent capacity—musical, dramatical, intellectual—that a single mountain village can furnish under capable guidance! Just think,—tinkers, tailors, bakers, and ploughmen being able to produce such a play! It proves mankind is not lacking in native capacity. With a guided, active brain, patient love, and careful education, and the stimulus and inspiration of a great idea, nothing seems impossible.

We were driven in “Ein Spänner” (one-horse carriage) to Linderhof Palace by a young Tyrolese, with a little chicken feather in his Alpine hat. Knowing that all villagers were going through the Passion Play, I asked why he was not there. He said “he was not born in Ober-Ammergau, therefore could not take part in the play.” He said this in German, and seemed quite pleased that we could understand. On our return trip from Linderhof he pointed out Prince Leopold in his carriage, with advance-guard. The roadway was quite narrow at this place, so we took a good look at him. He was quite gray,—the successor of the mad King Ludwig. They gallantly raised their chapeaux, but we impolite Americans were so intense in our desire to see nobility, that we in turn forgot our breeding. All along the various waysides pious souls have erected shrines. The contours and outlines of those splendid mountains were as graceful as mobile waves: some rugged and sharp crags hidden by the clouds—so high; others clearly defined in color against the sky. If there was anything inharmonious, the atmosphere—that friendly veil—toned all down into a repose of matchless beauty. The atmosphere here seems to act as a drapery, dipped in dyes of the gods. You can’t account for the prismatic coloring, often seen but never told, by pen or pencil or brush; not just plain, simple, thin sunshine, but a royal profusion of a golden substance; a sort of transforming quality,—a vesture of splendor. Amidst this beauty rests the palace of the late mad king, which seems golden from the covering of the exterior to the exquisite golden interior. Even the waters of its fountains and lakes spraying through figures of gold. This palace, no larger than a metropolitan club-house, contains everything in the way of art that an abnormal imagination, backed by the coffers of a kingdom, could suggest and buy. The beautiful marble statue of the young king stands in front of the palace on a marble elevation, with a beautiful marble peristyle for a background. The ermine on the royal robe is so perfectly executed in marble as to cause a desire to run one’s fingers through the fur of same.

“Schloss Linderhof” we have all possibly heard more about than the average castle. It shows the characteristic as well as wilful extravagance of their late king, Ludwig II., for whom it was erected. It is a fine edifice in rococo style. The interior displays a magnificence of ornament and a wealth of color and gold which render it too ornate for the taste of some; but to me it was ideal, both as to size, decorations, and appointment.

The grotto is certainly worth mention. It is made in the side of a mountain, and the walk lies under a shaded arbor of continuous beauty. The entrance to the cave is one huge swinging rock, cut out of a mountainside, and hung on a pivot, so as to open and close itself. Within were the stalactites of the grotto, with their beautiful masses, out of which twinkled myriads of electric lights. On an artificial lake was an improvised stage with perfect appointments, where the King and his friends viewed the grand opera from his golden barge that Cleopatra could never have rivalled. Just outside of this grandeur, which no human soul inhabited, was a road-house, where the jolly mountaineers and tourists were eating and drinking, no doubt happier than the king and all his grandeur had ever been.

It is indeed a strange fate that seems to pursue King Leopold’s family: one sensational climax after another; brought to death through violence in tragedies so unsavory that it has been found preferable to leave them enveloped with a veil of mystery. Surely a strange curse seems to rest upon the reigning house of Belgium. The curtain is constantly ringing down on Europe’s royal life tragedies; dethroned, widowed by assassin, bereaved, and victims of all the fates and furies of Greek mythology; and now Victoria, Empress Frederick of Germany. Surely there has been little of late in royal and imperial annals to inspire common people with envy of the exalted personages born to the purple, and certainly will cause nobody to long for a crown.

We have now seen the German Alps,—the best time to see them is before visiting Switzerland,—and still have the pleasure before us of the loveliness of the Swiss Alpine heights.

CHAPTER IX
SWITZERLAND

THEY tell you over here that the Alps have the robust beauty of the Alleghanies combined with the scenic grandeur of the Rockies; but there is not the slightest duplicate of the Rocky Mountains that we discovered. Surely nothing could exceed in loveliness Lucerne. As we wound down the hillside near the foot of the lake, backed by precipitous mountains running away to where their peaks lift up their snows, we saw below us, and around a beautifully colored bay, Lucerne. It was showery, as it often is, the day we went to Lucerne, but we soon found that it only added to our excited expectation. We enter, among real hills and enormous tunnels, the longest I ever passed through, sweet little valleys; Swiss cottages nestle in the hillside, showing little else but the enormous roofs that come nearly to the ground, giving the cottages such a picturesque look; when suddenly, shining through showers, appeared the Alps, like molten silver in the early light, the clouds drifting over them, now hiding, now disclosing, the enchanting heights. Almost every tourist stops at Lucerne, as it possesses direct communication with all parts of Europe. Lying in the very heart of Switzerland, it enables travellers to get to all important spots with comparative ease. It is situated in a most picturesque spot, at the head of the lake of the four Cantons, which here pours out its clear crystal waters through the rushing Reuss. This river has such a current tumbling right through the main street that I experienced a great solicitude for the inhabitants, for fear it would get out of its banks into the buildings that line its very edge. I finally subsided, as no one else seemed anxious. The town itself is severed by the emerald waters of the bridge-spanned Reuss. We walked through and over several of them. The quaint old “Kapell Brücke,” roofed with wood and built across the river in a slanting line to avoid the great pressure of the waters, is interesting. It has curious old paintings on its arches throughout its length, and readable German script. The further end of the bridge opens on to “Schwanen Platz,” a fashionable promenade of the place, and it is loved for its shady avenues of chestnut trees and its splendid view of the lake and the Alps. As our stay was short, we took a cog-wheel to one of its mountain resorts, which opened to our view the many indescribable charms of Lucerne and its splendid lake of irregular form. This magnificent lake runs its gulfs up among the mountains, which are traversed by steamers. By sitting down at one of the many “Schöne Aussichts” we had a sweeping view of the city below and its beautiful environments. We could enjoy its architecture, which embraced pure Renaissance in its Rathhaus, its “Kirche” in simple Gothic, its Jesuit Church in baroque, its multitude of Swiss cottages; and, above all, an exceedingly fine view of the near ranges of the Alps. This embraced the crags of Pilatus and Rigikuln; beyond them were the immortal snows of the higher Alps.

We were told here to defer our shopping until we went to Zurich, but a short distance away, situated on a lake to which it has given its name. We found it to be a busy, industrial city of 160,000 inhabitants, where all merchandise could be had cheaper than in any city in Europe. It had a prosperous appearance throughout.

Consul Gifford, stationed at Basel, says that Switzerland’s trade figures are especially noteworthy. This diminutive republic, about half as large as the State of Maine, swallowed up in our big Texas, is commercially the most highly developed part of the world. These remarkable results, attained by a country without seaports, without coal or iron, in fact, without any considerable quantity of raw material for its manufactures, are truly wonderful.

CHAPTER X
PARIS

THE question most frequently asked upon one’s return from Continental Europe is, “Which city did you enjoy the more, Paris or London?” I could say which I enjoyed the more, but that would not be just to Paris; for, with the continued sight-seeing of months prior to our arrival at Paris, we, in a limited time, could not see Paris; then add to its innumerable charms and interests the Exposition of 1900, and it would be more honest to say what we did not see than to relate what we really saw; which, to tell the truth, was little, compared to its wealth of treasures and sights unseen. You are not there long until you realize that the cities disagree morally and physically. The disagreeable English Channel may cause the ill feeling between the two coasts. When we were taken for English people by the less observing public servants, we received scarcely civil attention; the contrast was quite marked when we were known as Americans, a fact apparently hard to disguise, it seems. The contrast between these two countries, lying so close together, could not be greater than between different continents, and the contrast between their capitals is even more decided. They cannot be called rivals, for each is so great in its own way. As we came into Paris from Lucerne it was early in the morning, before fashion’s hour. The country showed the highest state of cultivation; in fact, the whole of Europe appears as a beautifully kept park. We noticed attractive roads leading everywhere through France—magnificent distances, with artistically formed shade trees, as trim and clean as though they adorned a delightful park, when they are, to all appearances, mere public highways. The French foliage is thin and a little sparse, the grass light in color, their landscape resembling our own in spring tone; a striking contrast to the massive English trees, which have a look of solidity in substance and color; the grass thick and as green as emerald. Their vegetable wealth seems as if it were tropical in luxuriance, hardened and solidified by northern influences. We had been told we had made a mistake by seeing the Continent first and England later, but I don’t agree, and felt again we could congratulate ourselves, as we did, in seeing the Rhenish provinces before the Swiss Alps. A striking contrast in the habits of the people is shown in their eating and drinking. Paris is brilliant with cafés, and the whole world seems to be out in one grand dress parade, sipping wine, coffee, and, very often, absinthe. They have what is known as the “absinthe hour,” when almost everyone you meet seems to be under its influence or some other.

Every American on his maiden trip to Europe turns his mind in friendly delight and expectation to Paris with almost childlike confidence. “See Paris and die,” causes many Americans to approach it with no lukewarm feeling. If you do not rave over it, something is the matter with you, not Paris; but with us it was, as in exaggerated expectations, more in the anticipation.

My chief regret being no time to realize my fondest hopes, as I must confess, my expectations were more joyous and confiding concerning Paris than any other spot. The rush of the Exposition caused the first disappointment, all hotel rates far in advance. It was in our everlasting search for an abiding-place that we discovered the size of Paris and its smells, where garlic fought for supremacy over other less desirable odors, resembling very closely the odors of the far East Side of New York. Then add to this the terrors of their language. We had stumbled through Germany with our German with American accent, but were sadly “up against it” here. Laboring under these disadvantages we could save neither time, money, nor energy; for the most of the last-named article was exhausted in our effort to make them understand where we wanted to go, and how.

We were centred in the most fashionable part of the city—Hotel Deux Monde, on Avenue de l’Opera, which is midway between the Palais Royal and the Louvre. We have frequently stood on this and other avenues for one half-hour waiting for an omnibus to stop: they pay no attention to the flourishing of an umbrella. Finally, wishing to reach some remote district, you call a carriage to your assistance out of the thousands anxiously waiting the job, when every cab-driver for squares starts after you, and you can imagine yourself added to the long list of unclaimed dead, who, I imagine, receive about as much attention as one of the many horses you see lying dead during a short ride. On the other hand, we could be driven in state almost anywhere for, say, thirty cents apiece, and only three dollars for a seat at grand opera, which you pay five for in New York. Or you can visit the Louvre, and feast your eyes without hindrance upon treasures which kings cannot buy. You can drive in the Bois or walk up the Champs Élysées—that magnificent avenue—nowhere else is the eye more delighted with life and color. At the fashionable hour of the day, the Champs Élysées its entire length is crowded with people. There could not have been less than ten miles of spectators in triple rows who took their place to watch the turnout of fashion and rank; vehicles of every description, splendid horses, and magnificent liveries. Any place else but Paris would be a jam. Whenever the sun shines all Paris is out, no matter what part of the city you happen to be in. At the entrance to the Exposition a sight greets your overstrained optics that opens them wide. We enter the Rue de Rivoli, with its Corinthian colonnade—the longest in the world. Here an opportunity is afforded to peep in on the original Redfern. We passed on to the Place de la Concorde, the largest and most beautiful in Paris, the memorable spot where Louis XVI. was beheaded. In the centre rises the obelisk, between two majestic fountains, whose springing jets, a quivering pillow of water, matched the stone shaft of Egypt. As you look down the avenue you have the dancing column of water, the obelisk, the Arc de Triomphe, all in a line, and the trees and the golden sunset beyond. At this point (the Arc de Triomphe) twelve beautiful avenues meet, which I could name if I called in the assistance of a guide-book. On the top of this edifice a splendid view is obtained. The Champs Élysées, with its myriads of gas-lights, is a unique sight. It is right here that we sat down one evening and discussed whether we would visit the Exposition, with its great pyrotechnic display, or sit and watch the people enjoying themselves in their own characteristic way. We chose the latter.

When you compare the delicious cooking of the French with that of the Germans (which becomes quite monotonous after many weeks), it is in favor of the French, if you don’t know exactly what it is, with its odds and ends. You realize a great deal for your money in variety and quantity, and it seems to satisfy your hunger. None of it is as good as our own home cooking, no matter what the epicurean may say to the contrary. One of the pleasant things of Paris is the exquisite gentlewomanhood that is shown you everywhere in the shopping district: no matter how tired they may be, the customer never sees it. A tact and delicious gaiety shown by the saleswomen called forth my lasting gratitude. Then, too, you “kinda” like Paris, when for fifty cents you can buy the glove you must pay two dollars for in our land of great industries. These and many other things make you repel the idea that we excel in everything. Far from it. Paris is wide awake when more puritanical cities are fast asleep. They seem not to want to be rushed to bed, nor hurried out in the morning. It is all less a moral affair with them than a physical and mental one; they move slowly, go to bed late, and consume equally as much time getting up. The crowded midnight streets, with their loud and singing parties driving by at every hour, affects one, if you have often heard it. The streets at eight o’clock in the morning have such a blank look that you think they have all left on a holiday. We had seen so much in Germany, where everything was bedecked and bepainted, that the Exposition had not the charm that it should have had, simply because it was a repetition on a larger scale of what we had been feasting on for weeks; even a thought of a palace, or the faintest hint of a museum or art gallery, caused a panic in our “household.” There is truly such a thing as having too much of a good thing. My chief delight was to visit the most fashionable shopping districts, and cut out art entirely. Although the whole city seems to be given over to fashion (and upon good authority I hear that these originators and designers of fashion make some change every six weeks in some part of the feminine wardrobe) as a means of filling its coffers, yet there is always one particular part or street that is the most exclusive, and where the most exclusive things are made and sold. The Rue de la Paix seems to be the headquarters for the most fashionable dressmaking and millinery. I think it was on this street that at least six hats were being trimmed for my inspection, which I never inspected. They are so willing and anxious to trim one exclusively for you, that, rather than disappoint them, I assented. “English spoken here,” as you see quite often in their shops, means this—“Do you speak English?”—“Yas, a leedle,” and here it ends. I visited Felix, the greatest of all designers, whose fame and work is enjoyed by the royalty of Europe, and extends as far as some of the Sultan’s favorites and a few of the Mikado’s court. He is on Rue de Honore. We learned when in company at Wiesbaden with the ex-President of the Argentine Republic and his wife and daughter for several weeks, that South American belles are among some of his most extravagant patrons, and it is certainly true, if they were fair representatives. Paquin’s is one of the most imposing places, as so many modistes have little shops or a corner of a shop that has no resemblance to our business establishments. With or without ostentation, Paris can justly lay claim to being the capital of the world of dress.

The Exposition suffered only by comparison with our Fair of 1893, on account of the crowded condition of the buildings, and the necessary absence of the landscape beauty, which so greatly enhanced our Chicago Fair. The United States building (as has been frequently remarked), was especially unfortunate in this respect. The very best view of it, from the Alexandria Bridge was entirely shut off by the Turkish building, which stood directly in its way. The thing that I thought the most unattractive, was the treatment or color-scheme of the mural decoration on its portal; an unfortunate cold, slate-blue tone, as I remember it, against the severe white building made it lack warmth, and repelled rather than invited. The German and British buildings were much more imposing and artistic; especially is this true of their interiors, as both countries have priceless art treasures to draw upon. Valuable tapestries were hung upon their walls, and the best in their national museums were transferred to their buildings. Of course we had no such fund to draw upon. The part of the Exposition that impressed us most strongly was the two Art Palaces, which are to be permanent buildings, and are well worth a visit to the Exposition. No words could express the beauty and grandeur of these Art Palaces and the treasures they contained. We experienced deep gratification as we lingered near the statuary of MacMonnies and St. Gaudens, whose “grand prix” were as numerous as on the paintings in the United States exhibit. In front of this beautiful palace we listened to the harmonious strains of the national French air, which seemed to touch the heart of every born Frenchman, who not only uncovered his head, but arose to his feet and joined loudly and feelingly in his national hymn. As the last strain died away, leaving a pleasant and happy feeling with all, I was both glad and thankful for this privilege, and had a greater respect for the Frenchman.

Whistler’s paintings at the Exposition are dreams of color; it is said “they are the pink of Fragonard, the brown of Rembrandt, the amber of Titian, the gray of Whistler”; that undefinable gray called “the gray of mist and of distance,” is made of all the shades—a little white, a little blue, a little green. He is called the “symphonist of half tints,” the “musician of the rainbow.” “No other painter has understood as well the mysterious relations of painting to music—seven colors, as there are seven notes—and the way to play them with what might be named the sharps and flats of the prism. Even as a symphony made in D or a Sonata in A, Whistler’s pictures are orchestrated according to a tone.” “The Lady with the Iris,” for example: the mauve flower placed in the hand of the woman is a note signifying that the portrait is a colored polyphony of lilacs and violets. The Luxembourg has Whistler’s greatest work,—the portrait of his mother. A French art critic says concerning the picture: “What a bold and novel line is the one of that long body, hardly perceptible in its black gown! What a psychological penetration is in the face! The mind of the sitter colors with the pink of a sunset her cheeks that age has made pale. The whites of the picture—the white of the lace bonnet, the white of the handkerchief held in the hand with the gesture of a communicant—are infinitely chaste. Does not old age bring me back to initial purity? The deep black of the drapery, studded with small flowers, is significant. Behind it the entire life of the woman palpitates but disappears. To make an accord of those whites and blacks—the gray that adheres to the walls floats in a mist, extends the softness, makes uniform its tint of pale ashes, as if it were the ashes of years fled from a material heart.” Whistler and Poe, it is said, are the greatest men of genius in Art that America has produced. The figures that they have created have the same haunting effect—apparitions emerging from the twilight of backgrounds. They are enigmatic personages. One does not know if they are entering life or going out of it.

CHAPTER XI
LONDON

WE dreaded, as every one does, the crossing of the Channel. It has no friends in the world; even veteran sailors will call it “the nastiest bit of water in the world.” We not only crossed it, but sailed up through its length into the North Sea, and found it about as peaceable as any, and a very much slandered bit of water. The hatred is so strong between the people that line its shores, it is not to be wondered at if it is sometimes disagreeable, just to be agreeable. Our household was greatly disturbed while crossing the Channel, and although the day was cold enough for one to be snugly wrapped away in a rug, yet nothing but a stand near the guard rail, as far front in the bow as possible, where the cold wind hit the hardest, would satisfy. The fish saw rather a pale, wan face as it occasionally fed them. After taking a train for Charing Cross, London, we wound our way through numberless railway tracks, sometimes over a road and sometimes under one, now through a tunnel, then past the chimney pots, as we came into the pale light and thickened industry of London town. Even the ’bus drivers tell you how disagreeable London is at times, when everybody falls hopelessly into the dumps. By the way, they are a coterie of highly informed gentlemen on whatever you wish to know, and take a keen delight in pointing out objects of interest. Be sure and take a seat beside the driver on one of these “double-decker omnibuses,” even if you do have the sensation of colliding or rather taking a header on the horses’ backs.

We were domiciled at Hotel Windsor, Westminster, where we had an opportunity of passing the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey whenever we went down town, which meant Trafalgar Square, the centre of the universe, it seems.

They can all rave about French cooking, but give me the substantial English meal,—“a dinner off the joint, sir,”—with what belongs to it, and a waiter to whom you can make known any other wants, and eating once more is a fascinating theme.

The gigantic London of the present day was once a small town on the banks of the Thames; in its expansion it has absorbed the more aristocratic city of Westminster and some eighty-five villages on both sides of the river. This fact, coupled with its great age and the undulating character of the district upon which it has grown, has rendered it very irregular in appearance. Crooked roads, narrow streets, gloomy slums, are some of the characteristics of the British metropolis. This condition of affairs was very much verified as we left the handsome Tower Bridge and walked through the fish market, with its numerous smells—a terribly congested spot—in order to visit the Tower, historically the most interesting building in London, or in the whole of England. To the east of it stands the old Roman wall. Tradition states that a fortress was erected on this site by Julius Cæsar, but the present structure, though part of it is Saxon, dates in the main from the days of William the Conqueror—and has been the scene of many tragedies. On this same trip we visited the Monument which was raised in commemoration of the big fire, and is near London Bridge. I have no pleasant memory of this climb, as, country-like, we climbed up its spiral stairway hundreds of feet to its top, where other foolish people have trod. I suppose we would have mounted Eiffel Tower if it had been possible. I didn’t know who looked and felt the silliest. We are that silly pot of flame on its summit. I asked what this meant, and was told: “The architect’s (Sir Christopher Wren’s) intention was to erect the statue of Charles II. on the summit, but he was overruled by some inferior judgment.” If they had allowed his designs to be carried out, London would have been the handsomest city in the world, as he is responsible for London’s most beautiful edifices, including St. Paul’s Cathedral, the finest and most famous edifice in London. They say that St. Peter’s of Rome is finer still; how can it be possible? It is a Renaissance structure of similar lines to St. Paul’s of Rome. Its beautiful exterior, although spoiled by London’s smoke, is exceedingly grand. The dome forms a far-famed whispering gallery, and a handsome marble pulpit; beautiful carvings by Grinling Gibbons, and a reredos which has given rise to much heart-burning. The ceiling of the choir and aspe has within recent years been decorated with rich mosaics by Mr. Richmond, R.A. But the most interesting parts of the building are the tombs of Nelson, Wellington, Wren, John Howard, Dr. Johnson, and others, and presidents of the Royal Academy; the last occupying a spot which is styled “Painters’ Corner.” As we took our seats under the nave, scarcely knowing what spot or corner on which to indulge our eyes longest, one by one dropped down into the pews with bowed head, for a word of silent prayer at our side; some no doubt beset with the trials of such a gigantic city, others lured hesitatingly from their pleasures—doubting, questioning at strife with self—while others came, throbbing with life and inspiration and ungratified aspirations, all hoping, fearing, but possibly desiring rest or peace. Did they find it? Soon the choir voices responded to the organ, and the vox humana stop was such a wonderful imitation that we sat mastered by the spell; but it was not in tricks of imitation that the organ was so wonderful, as in its compass—its power of revealing. We realized for the first time that we were in the midst of Vespers, a delightful surprise. I thought as we sat spell-bound under the influence of the music, what influences of earth and heaven, what meetings and warrings of aspiring souls, what struggles and contending passion and agony of endeavor and resistance had these silent sentimentals in marble been witness to! I wondered how many more surviving ones they would watch over, as they climbed the steep and rocky way, with the world and self to conquer, before their souls could attain the serene summit, amid a burst of triumph from a fuller orchestra than had ever yet been heard—the last Alpine storm and trial over, clouds rolled by, and the sunshine perpetual. As we left its sacred portals, the sweet evening hymn floated through the peaceful air. We went out into the busy street, crowded and motley, awed and a little comforted, proceeding in silence for some time.

Each day in passing Westminster Abbey in our sight-seeing, we would naturally turn to it. The exterior of this ancient building shows the ravages of time, and particularly smoke. It was founded in the seventh century, was destroyed by the Danes, and rebuilt by Edward the Conqueror. As you know, from that day to this it has seen the coronation of the English sovereigns, many of whom lie buried in it, but that awakened no particular interest in me; my eyes involuntarily wandered to the monuments of the mighty men—a host of warriors, statesmen, poets, and artists who rested beneath its stones. Statues of many of them fill the edifice, dividing or perpetually disturbing the awe-inspiring beauty of the interior. The building consists of a nave, flanked with aisles, a transept, and a fine choir. In the southern transept, facing the beautiful rose window, with its splendid tints and shades, lies the Poets’ Corner, containing the remains of many authors, marked by their busts. Between the Abbey and the river rises Westminster Hall, the old Parliament House—the greatest monument of English liberty. As one stands and views the handsome exterior of the west front of the Abbey, with its tall and stately towers, the entire edifice embellished with the richest tracery, and the morning sun bathing its rich old stone, which has stood in the storms for ages, it seems to tower away into heaven—a mass of carving and sculpture. Then as he views the interior, the old saints and martyrs who have stood there for ages (as they have stood in their lifetime, with patient waiting), he feels as though he were in the best society of his lifetime. A great company, a mighty host, in attitudes of grace and pomp, as well as those of praise and worship. There they were, ranks on ranks, silent in stone. It required little fancy to feel that they had lived, and as we passed out of the holy sepulchre I looked back at the long procession which had such an irresistible influence, and tried to learn a lesson from their impressive patience as they awaited the Golden Day.

The Thames, the national highway of the greatest city in the world, seems to London what the elevated railway is to New York—its little steamers arriving at its numerous piers on almost as good schedule time (five-minute service) as our own trains.

London is not a Venice, but London’s busy river turns and turns again, and turns up at points least expected, and is crossed many times by some of the finest bridges in the world. London Bridge! The very centre of civilization, with the exception, perhaps, of Calcutta. There is not another city in the world whose bridge is trodden by so many feet as is London Bridge. At nine o’clock on a summer morning you see it at its busiest, and it is an interesting study to note the gradual improvement that each succeeding half hour brings in the worldly appearance of its motley crowd, which flocks to its occupation or its business.

“Proud and lowly, beggar and lord,

Over the bridge they go;

Hurry along, sorrow and song,

All is vanity ’neath the sun.

Velvet and rags, so the world wags,

Until the river no more shall run.”

We started to the beautiful Kew Gardens one fine day from Charing Cross pier, which is the very centre of hotel life in London—all streets and roads and omnibus lines emanate from Charing Cross. This is one of the most historically interesting reaches of the Thames. Along this channel have passed the Briton in his coracle, the Roman in his warship, the Anglo-Saxon and the Dane in their galleys—the Norman, the Tudor, and the Stuart in their resplendent barges. Youth, beauty, and gallantry, genius and learning, the courtier and the soldier, the prelate and the poet, the merchant and the ’prentice, have taken their pleasures on these waters through a succession of ages that form no mean portion of the world’s history. Patriots and traitors have gone this way to their death in the sullen tower, kings and princes have proceeded by this silver path in bridal pomp or to festal banquets.

We steamed up the river, with every step of its banks replete with history, every step having been painted on canvas or commemorated in song from time immemorial, and not only still retains its charms, but has even added to them.

“O veil of bliss! O softly swelling hills,

Heavens! What a goodly prospect spreads around,

Of hills and dales, and woods and lawns.”

We got off at the pier of Kew Gardens, where thousands land for a visit each day to this beautiful spot. No one can afford to miss this place, even if you are not entertained by the Duchess while there. There’s not such a park anywhere. What splendid trees it has! The horse-chestnut, a rich mass from its base—whose branches rest on the ground, as those of so many trees do here—to its highest dome. Hawthorns, and a variety that sweep its turf, which is an emerald green, and so deep that you walk with a grateful sense of drawing life from its wonderful depths. On this beautiful turf the boys are playing cricket in great numbers, and the children are getting as intimate with this sweet-smelling earth as their nurses will allow. The beauty of the green is heightened by the masses of color from flowers in a state of perfection; the whole effect is one of luxury and solidity that we encounter nowhere else, and it was with regret that we harkened to the evening call, which was musical in its way, to quit the garden.

The Thames is beautiful here. While waiting for the boat, which was delayed by low tide, we entered a little cottage (which gave notice of hospitality), and looked out over the beautiful green of a churchyard, where one of England’s greatest painters, Gainsborough, lies in repose. He is still in the minds and hearts of not only his own people, but is appreciated by our American millionaire, Pierpont Morgan, to the extent of $150,000, the sum expended for the lost gem—the “Duchess of Devonshire.” Truly, these people are surrounded by history, tradition, and romance five or six centuries old.