As to the doll-world into which I have recently been permitted to penetrate, all language, even aided by a generous use of exclamation-points, fails to express its wondrous charm. A doll kindergarten, with desks and models and blackboards, had a competent, amiable, and elderly doll-instructress with spectacles. The younger members were occupied with toys and diversions that would not fatigue their infant minds, while the older ones pored over their books. They had white pinafores, flaxen hair, plump cheeks. I think they were all alive.

Then there were dolls who looked as if they lay on the sofa all day and read French novels, and dolls that looked as if they were up with the birds, hard-working, merry, and wise,—elegant, aristocratic countess dolls, with trunks of fine raiment; and jolly little peasant dolls, with long yellow braids hanging down their backs, and stout shoes, and a general look of having trudged in from the Black Forest to see the great city-world at Christmas. Such variety of expression, so many phases of doll-nature,—for nature they have in Germany! And in front of two especially alluring windows, where bright lights streamed upon fanciful decorations, toys, and a wonderful world of dolls, was always a great group of children. Once, in the early evening, they fairly blockaded the pavement and reached far into the street, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, not talking much, merely devouring those enchanted windows with their eager eyes; some wishing, some not daring to wish, but worshipping only, like pale, rapt devotees. And we others, who labor under the disadvantage of being “grown up,” looked at the pretty doll-world within the windows and the lovely child-world without, and wished that old Christmas might bring to each of us the doll we want, and never, never let us know that it is stuffed with sawdust.

[pg!239]

HAMBURG AGAIN.

It seems almost like having been in two places at once to be able to tell from observation a Christmas Tale of Two Cities. First there was Stuttgart, where the sun was pouring down warm and summerish on the hills around the city, and where we were borne away on the glad tide that went sweeping along towards Christmas under the fairest skies that ever smiled on saint or sinner in mid-winter, until it grew so near the time we almost heard the Christmas bells. And then there was Hamburg, to which place—having consigned ourselves to the tender mercies of a sleeping coupé—we went rushing off through the night, and found the dear, glad Christmas just going to happen there, too, and the great Northern city seemed very noisy and bold and out-in-the-world after Stuttgart, nestled so snugly among its hills.

Hamburg has, however, its quiet spots, if you seek them under the great elms in the suburbs, or among the quaint streets in the oldest portions of the city. One of the very stillest places is a paved court by St. George's Church, where the little, old houses of one story all look towards three great crosses in an octagonal enclosure, on which Christ and the two thieves hang, and Mary and John stand weeping below. It has always been still there when we have passed through, though close to the busy streets. It is a place with a history, I am sure. Indeed, what place is not? But it is reticent and knows how to keep its secrets. Perhaps Dickens might have made something out of the grave, small houses that have been staring at the crosses so many long years.

A very good place for moralizing, too, is down by the Elbe, where the great ships from all quarters of the earth lie, and you hear Dutch and Danish sailors talking, and don't understand a word. There commerce seems a mighty thing, and the world grows appallingly great, and you feel of as much importance in it as the small cat who sits meditatively licking her paws down on the tug-boat just below you.

But this was to be more or less about Christmas. Christmas in general is something about which there is nothing to say, because it sings its own songs without words in all our hearts; but a story of one particular Christmas may not be amiss here, since it tells of a pretty and graceful welcome which Germans knew how to give to a wanderer,—a welcome in which tones of tenderness were underlying the merriment, and delicate consideration shaped the whole plan.

In a room radiant, not with one Christmas-tree, but with five,—a whole one for each person being the generous allowance,—stood a lordly fir, glistening with long icicles of glass, resplendent with ornaments of scarlet and gold and white. The stars and stripes floated proudly from its top; unmistakable cherries of that delectable substance, Marzipan, hung in profusion from its branches; and at its base stood the Father of his Country. George, on this occasion, was a doll of inexpressibly fascinating mien, arrayed in a violet velvet coat, white satin waistcoat and knee-breeches, lace ruffles, silver buckles, white wig, and three-cornered hat, and wearing that dignified, imperturbable Washingtonian expression of countenance which one would not have believed could be produced on a foreign shore. He held no hatchet in his hand, but graciously extended a document heavily sealed and tied with red, white, and blue ribbons.

This document was written in elegant and impressive English. A very big and fierce-looking American eagle hovered over the page, which was also adorned by the arms of the German Empire and of Hamburg. The purport of the document was that George Washington, first President of the United States, did herewith present his compliments to a certain wandering daughter of America, wishing her, on the part of her country, family, and friends,