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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
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Afoot and Awheel 
 In Europe 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. MARY S. LOCKWOOD 
 
 Colored Frontispiece 
 
 and 
 Sixteen Half-tones 
 
 GARDEN CITY NEW YORK 
 
 THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS 
 
 1916 
 
.L)6 
 
 Copyright, 1916, by 
 
 Mary S. Lockwood 
 
 All rights reserved, including thai of 
 
 translation into foreign languages, 
 
 including the Scandinavian 
 
 <tl 
 
 i I 
 
 MR 29 1916 
 
 ©CIA428301 
 
PREFACE 
 
 IT was May, 1910, the year of the Passion Play 
 at Oberammergau, that found a quartette of ex- 
 pectant travellers, of whom the writer of this 
 chronicle was one, on the deck of the steamer Celtic in 
 New York Harbor, ready to sail over seas. Some 
 shadows they had left behind them: some solace and 
 much joy they hoped to find among the new scenes of 
 the Old World — a hope, the record of whose fulfilment 
 is told in the pages of this book. 
 
 The good-byes had been said, the quartette hastened 
 to their staterooms, made themselves busy arranging 
 their tokens of love and friendship that loving friends had 
 sent to the ship with their good-byes, so as not to see 
 the fading forms of the loved ones left behind, and the 
 good ship left her moorings and made her way out to sea. 
 
 The days passed as most days do on shipboard, 
 watching the changing lights and shadows that played 
 over the deep blue sea, noting the peaceful rise and 
 fall of the horizon, veritably being rocked in the cradle 
 of the deep. 
 
 Between the sunlight, shadows, and sea there came 
 a res tf ulness of the spirit that followed us through our 
 seven months' travels in Europe, and also on our home- 
 ward course, until our hearts leaped for joy when our 
 eyes fell upon Old Glory in New York Harbor. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Preface v 
 
 Ireland 3 
 
 Blarney Castle 5 
 
 Glengariff 9 
 
 Killarney 10 
 
 The Patron or Cross-roads Dance 12 
 
 Limerick 14 
 
 Dublin 17 
 
 Giant's Causeway 21 
 
 Scotland 27 
 
 Melrose Abbey 52 
 
 Abbotsford 54 
 
 Dryburgh 55 
 
 England 61 
 
 York 64 
 
 London 65 
 
 Automobiling Through England 68 
 
 Stratford on Avon 71 
 
 Holland 79 
 
 Munich 85 
 
 The Bavarian Royal Castles of Ludwig. Gberammergau 88 
 
 The Passion Play 96 
 
 Innsbruck and the Austrian Tyrol and Dolomites . 109 
 
 Lake Constance and Its Environment 119 
 
 The Lake Dwellers 121 
 
 The Lion of Lucerne 122 
 
 The Chateaux of the Loire 129 
 
 Blois 131 
 
 vii 
 
Vlll CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Chambord 134 
 
 Chaumont 135 
 
 Chenonceaux 136 
 
 Araboise 138 
 
 Chinon 141 
 
 Azay-le-Rideau 142 
 
 Langeais 144 
 
 Luynes 146 
 
 Usse 147 
 
 Loches 147 
 
 Versailles 150 
 
 The Gardens of Versailles 151 
 
 En Route to Spain 152 
 
 Lourdes 156 
 
 Spain 161 
 
 San Sebastian 166 
 
 Madrid 172 
 
 TheEscorial 180 
 
 Toledo 185 
 
 The Cathedral 193 
 
 TheAlhambra 206 
 
 The Hall of the Abencerrages 211 
 
 The Hall of the Sisters 212 
 
 Washington Irving's Rooms 212 
 
 The Generalife 215 
 
 The Cathedral 216 
 
 Algeciras and Tangier 220 
 
 Gibraltar 229 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 The Jungfrau Frontispiece in color 
 
 HALF-TONES 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 Mary S. Lockwood 8 ^ 
 
 The Book of Kells 18 v 
 
 The Honeycombs, Giant's Causeway 22 
 
 Edinburgh Castle 46 S 
 
 Windsor Castle 72 
 
 The House in the Woods 80 y 
 
 Neuschwanstein 88 : 
 
 The Dolomites 110 ^ 
 
 Isola Bella. Lake Maggiore 112 * 
 
 Saussure Monument. Chamonix 114 
 
 On Way to Bath. Aix-les-Bains 116 
 
 Home of Albrecht Diirer 118 
 
 The Lion of Lucerne 122 
 
 Lafayette's Grave, Paris 132 
 
 The Cid's Coffer 170 
 
 Market Place— Tangier 218 
 
IRELAND 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 IRELAND 
 
 IT WAS a crisp morning, May 8, 1910, that the 
 Cedrics engines stopped their vibrations. We 
 were in Queenstown Harbor — 2:30 a. m. The 
 transfer was easily made to the lighter, and after an 
 hour's ride up the harbor we were landed at Queens- 
 town. It was four o'clock, but as light as day. After 
 a scrutiny of all our "kits, cats, sacks, and dogs" by 
 the customs master, we walked to the Queen's Hotel, a 
 few rods away, for breakfast. We must needs wait 
 until ten o'clock for a train for Cork. 
 
 Queenstown was the point where Queen Victoria 
 touched her foot to land in Ireland; this was on her 
 visit in 1849; since that time the Cove of Cork has been 
 known as Queenstown. The town has a magnificent 
 situation, facing one of the most beautiful harbors in 
 the world, surrounded by picturesque scenery. It is 
 built on walled terraces, which look like the Palisades; 
 they surely are unique, and look everlasting. 
 
 We walked up the hill to the Cathedral of the Diocese 
 of Cloyne, a very imposing structure, around which 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 the town rises, tier upon tier; these streets are lined 
 with beautiful villas and old mansions, which were the 
 first objects to open our eyes to the other side of old 
 Ireland. 
 
 Our train pulled out on the minute — our first experi- 
 ence in the old-world compartment car. The small 
 pocket engine gives one signal only, a sweetly subdued, 
 lady-like little whistle, and we are moving beside lordly 
 estates. The first things that strike the eye are the 
 stone walls stretching out for miles, vine-covered and 
 thrown into high lights by the golden gorse and wall 
 flower in full blossom, taking the place of the sunlight, 
 which seemed to be spasmodic in Ireland. 
 
 Before we had reached Cork we had solved the 
 mystery of the name " Green Isle." Its green fields and 
 blossoming meadows were a delight to the eye. 
 
 At eleven o'clock we were comfortably settled in our 
 rooms at the Imperial Hotel; at two o'clock we had 
 really entered the role of a tourist in Ireland: we were 
 being tucked into a jaunting car for Blarney Castle 
 by the "Head Waiter," which name was neatly em- 
 broidered on the lapel of his coat. His royal highness 
 while tucking the robe snugly around me remarked in 
 blarney fashion: "I must tuck you in well, for good 
 people are scarce." "Oh, yes," I answered, "that is 
 why I came to Cork." He beamed and touched his 
 foretop, and "I have only started for Blarney Castle." 
 Our ride in a jaunting car in Cork was the realization 
 
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IRELAND 
 
 of an anticipated pleasure, but far beyond our expecta- 
 tion as to comfort and ease. 
 
 Blarney Castle 
 
 Our eight-mile drive was a delight as we wound our 
 way over the beautiful roads along the River Lee into 
 the enchanting grounds that surround Blarney Castle, 
 a region of meadowland, woodland, and stream, the 
 meadows bright with blossoms. We made our way 
 up to the castle, every stone bearing the mark of the 
 centuries; we ascended the famous donjon tower, 
 climbed a hundred and twenty -eight narrow stone steps 
 to the top; but we drew the line at kissing the talismanic 
 Blarney Stone, for reasons best known to those who 
 are on the spot. The term "Blarney" is supposed to 
 have originated in the dealings of Elizabeth's govern- 
 ment with the then Lord of Blarney, a figure of speech 
 meaning "smooth, meaningless, flattering Irish speech," 
 designed to put a person or audience in good humor. 
 This stone forms the sill of one of the battlements of the 
 castle and was injured during a siege in Cromwell's 
 time, and was clamped with iron to secure the parapet 
 above. It has been immortalized by Father Prout 
 (Rev. Francis Mahony): 
 
 " There is a stone, that whoever kisses, 
 Oh, he never misses to grow eloquent. 
 
 A clever spouter he'll turn out, or 
 An out-and-outer to be let alone." 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 The view from the top of the castle is superb, and 
 we looked upon the same scenes that have enchanted 
 the lords of creation since the days of Dermat Mc- 
 Carthy, King of South Munster. 
 
 On our return we were taken through many of the 
 principal streets and alleys, wide and narrow, in the 
 city of Cork. We were greatly impressed with the 
 cleanliness and the comfortable, good-looking homes. 
 In every sense, Cork was a surprise. The business 
 houses were solid, finely proportioned buildings on firm 
 foundations; stone walls, stone underpinnings, stone 
 houses everywhere; nothing looked slipshod or neg- 
 lected. We surely must look further for the down- 
 trodden of old Ireland. 
 
 We alighted at St. Ann's Church, built in 1722, 
 which, as is well known, is remarkable for its Campanile 
 tower, containing the historic bells, and we had the 
 pleasure of listening to the ringing of the "Bells of 
 Shandon that sound so grand on the pleasant waters of 
 the River Lee." The old sexton, who looked to be 
 contemporary with the early church, was full of apolo- 
 gies (this was May 9th) that "the late turn up" (mean- 
 ing the death of King Edward) would prevent his play- 
 ing the "Bells of Shandon." We agreed it was a sad 
 "turn up," but he said he could play a hymn on all but 
 the one "dead bell" — the dead bell he tolled every 
 half -hour for thirty seconds from twelve to nine o'clock 
 until May 20th, the days of official mourning. We 
 
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IRELAND 
 
 acquiesced in the old sexton's offer, for it seemed to us a 
 hymn was most appropriate to play on church chimes, 
 and really supposed that that was what we were there 
 for; but the old sexton's regret was that he could not 
 play Father Prout's "Bells of Shandon," with which 
 we had been familiar from childhood. 
 
 In the morning G. and I wandered through the mar- 
 ket; in the outer space we found women here and there 
 keeping vigil, making a sale, when they could, of little 
 piles of cast-off clothing, old rags, shoes, pots, and 
 kettles that were in their last days; it was difficult to 
 conceive who would be the purchasers and for what 
 purpose. We came up to one woman, wrinkled beyond 
 her years, with her little pile of nothings for sale. She 
 began to tell us of her grief over the death of the King. 
 "Had it not been for good King Edward — 'God bless 
 his name' — we should not have had the seventy years' 
 pension, for to the old in Ireland as lives in the lanes 
 and alleys, he was the good man who thought of them 
 with a pension of five shillings a week, which means 
 comfort and plenty in their old age; now I fear all will 
 be changed, and I wants a year of being seventy, more's 
 the pity, for I would have had my five shillings a week 
 and no worry for shelter or food. Now, I'm just sixty- 
 nine and our good King is dead! He was the one who 
 thought of us and methinks felt sorry for us. I know," 
 she went on, "a shoemaker and his wife who now draw 
 their ten shillings a week — a shilling pays for their 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 room, a sixpence for their heat, and they have the rest 
 for food and clothes, and they are happy, thanks be 
 to the Lord and the King." "And will be," said G., 
 "if they do not spend it for drink." "Yes," said the 
 market vender with a twinkle in her eye, "an' sure, 
 sir, some of 'em has to be in the fashion!" G. slipped 
 a piece of silver into her hand, and we told her their 
 new King was a good man and the new Queen Mary was 
 a good woman, and all the women had her to look to. 
 "Thanks be to the Good Lord, a good woman can do 
 wonders," said she, and a sweet smile came into her 
 pleasant blue eyes. G. slipped a piece of money into 
 a baby's hand who had not yet learned its meaning, but 
 was being carried in the arms of its mother as she par- 
 celled out her little nothings for sale. We bade good- 
 bye to our new acquaintance in the corn market of 
 Cork, hoping that when she reaches seventy she will 
 be remembered by the new King, for surely her faith 
 in all good legislation is in the King! 
 
 As we walked on in a misty rain, we noticed number- 
 less happy -faced children who were being watched over 
 by their mothers at their daily tasks. Beside us was 
 running a little five-year-old boy with cheeks so red you 
 were tempted to try your handkerchief to see if it would 
 not rub off; he would look into our faces and smile, 
 but ask or make a sign for money — not he. G. could 
 not withstand the pleasure of slipping a bit into his 
 hand; the joy on his face is pleasant to remember and 
 
 [81 
 
Copyright, 1915, by C. W. Van Wayuer, Washington, D. C. 
 
 MARY S. LOCKWOOD 
 
IRELAND 
 
 leaves a bright spot in our memory of the market at 
 Cork. 
 
 Glengariff 
 
 May 11th we took the train at noon for Ban try, en 
 route to Glengariff, one of the fascinating spots of 
 Ireland, which will in coming time be the tourists' de- 
 light. It is situated on Bantry Bay. When we ar- 
 rived at Bantry the steamers had not yet begun to 
 cross the lake. We took a coach and four, drove around 
 the lake — a most delightful two hours' drive — every 
 turn of the wheels bringing us to some new fascinating 
 view. Roches' hotel was our destination: here every 
 modern comfort was found. In front of us was beau- 
 tiful land-locked Glengariff Bay, with woods down to 
 the water's edge; across the bay rose lofty rocky moun- 
 tains in broken and irregular outlines, but in interesting 
 contrast to the verdant valley in front of us, and the 
 wondrously beautiful glen which abounds in evergreens 
 and flowering shrubs : the yew, the holly, the arbutus, the 
 rhododendron, the graceful mountain ash, and the 
 rushing waterfalls; the bay with its numerous and 
 varied islands, some rocky, others fringed with eternal 
 green, and beautiful bypaths that lead into loneliness 
 and silence. The ruin of the old Cromwell bridge is in 
 sight which tells its tale of woe for Ireland in the days 
 grown hoary. The walk or ride to the beautiful shoot- 
 ing lodge of Lord Bantry and many excursions of inter- 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 est filled the days of our stay at beautiful Glengariff 
 with charm. 
 
 KlLLARNEY 
 
 We left Glengariff for Killarney on the first motor 
 tourist car that ever ran over the Prince of Wales 
 Route, the road winding through glens and lofty moun- 
 tain solitudes. Our escort was one member of the 
 English firm of manufacturers of the electric motors 
 to be used on this route. We wound our way through 
 the hills, which gradually put on the aspect of moun- 
 tains; the scenery grew grander, wilder, more forbidding, 
 yet entrancing. Up, up, we climbed until the little 
 sprinkle that fell upon us as we entered the coach at 
 Glengariff became a heavy shower; the clouds gathered 
 in the mountain fastnesses, the rugged, ragged moun- 
 tains were draped in mist and fog. A wild charm fell 
 over the scene, then followed the sharp, jerky lightning, 
 sometimes from clouds overhead and then from those 
 beneath us, accompanied by roaring thunder, rever- 
 berating from peak to peak, rolling down the battle- 
 ments, gorge answering gorge until lost in the depths 
 below. At last we came to pretty little Kenmore, 
 looking so peaceful, so restful, after our wild ride, an 
 experience we liked for once, but would not have it 
 repeated were we consulted. 
 
 Kenmore is one of the rest places provided by the 
 Southern Railway Company; it has a lovely landscape, 
 
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IRELAND 
 
 enchanting water and mountain view, but we hurried 
 on to Parknasella, evidently intended as one of the 
 show resorts of the railroad. A half -hour of rest and 
 tea and toast in a most charming hotel came as a solace 
 to travellers who had had somewhat of a strenuous ride 
 over the mountains. 
 
 From Parknasella we had one more range to cross; 
 the highest mountain, Quartantala, is in this range. 
 When we had reached the top our expert chauffeur 
 carefully began to drop down the mountain, every five 
 rods a turn, but every turn a new scene of surprise, 
 until we struck the first Lake of Killarney. Down, 
 down we dropped — beautiful trees, and flowers, and 
 lovely mountain views — until we came to Middle Lake. 
 We were leaving mountains behind us, but there were 
 more in front of us, and at our side was Mancerton 
 Carrantaal, one of the highest, which carries on its 
 height the "Devil's Punch Bowl." They all seemed so 
 near, and had almost become our friends, in this wild, 
 weird, Rip Van Winkle mountain ride. At last we 
 landed on the Lower Lake at beautiful, restful Lake 
 House, Killarney. We had seen the Lakes of Killarney 
 in all their picturesque setting! The bosom of the 
 lakes is covered with islands; the mountains that sur- 
 round them are covered with luxuriant verdure and 
 shrubbery in variety of coloring; there is a tender grace 
 of bush and tree and water set in this framework of 
 hills and mountains; one moment the mist covering 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 them with a velvety sheen hiding their bold faces, and 
 while you look they peep out at you again in the clear 
 sunshine. The wild deer that have ventured to the mar- 
 gin of the lake to drink hear your acclamations and leap 
 back into the arbutus thicket — and so the days pass at 
 the Lakes of Killarney. 
 
 One of the many excursions is up the hill by the side 
 of the River Loe. You come to the celebrated "Kate 
 Kearney cottage." She was a famous beauty, cele- 
 brated in song: 
 
 "Oh, should you ever meet this Kate Kearney 
 Who lives on the banks of Killarney, 
 Beware of her smile, for many a wile 
 Lies hid in the smile of Kate Kearney." 
 
 There are some sombre-looking cabins with small 
 patches of cultivated ground here and there. The 
 village of Killarney is not large, but is well built; 
 every street is lined with the inevitable stone walls 
 covered with greenery and decorated with large shade 
 trees. 
 
 The Patron or Cross-roads Dance 
 
 I told my companions that I had heard of the Sunday 
 cross-roads dance. We inquired of our driver, and 
 were told that "it had not as yet begun for the summer," 
 but the next night, Saturday, word was sent to us that 
 
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IRELAND 
 
 the first dance of the season would begin the next day 
 at four o'clock, at the cross-roads four miles away. We 
 drove up into the hills, and found the lads and lassies 
 gathering; we could see them coming from all directions. 
 At the cross-roads a platform fifty feet long had been 
 laid at the side of the road on the hill. Sixteen couples 
 took their places for the first "jig," formed like our 
 quadrille. The music was an accordion, but so deftly 
 played that you felt like marking time yourself. We 
 soon saw by the perfect time, step, and poetry of 
 motion of the dancers why their winter evenings had 
 been spent in practising for the summer's recreation. 
 We were told that this was all they had. We were 
 forcibly impressed with the earnest, kind faces of the 
 young men, and the joyous light in the faces of the 
 girls. With studied precision, but with ease and grace, 
 they went through the varied changes. We asked our 
 driver the name of the festival, which lasts all summer, 
 every Sunday from four o'clock in the evening until 
 bedtime. He said it was called the "Pat Turn" dance. 
 I said that it must mean the "pat" of the foot, and the 
 "turn" of the heel, for I can still hear the gentle marking 
 of time by the pat of the foot and see the graceful turns 
 on the heel, but we learned the real name was Patron, 
 meaning "cross-roads dance." 
 
 G. bought out the orange vender for the dancers and 
 tipped the musicians, and when we drove down the hill 
 after a delightful hour it was amid the waving of hand- 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 kerchiefs and clapping of hands by the merry dancers 
 as long as we were in sight. 
 
 Limerick 
 
 Our ride from Killarney to Limerick was through 
 more or less fertile fields. We began to see the result 
 of the new law: that a majority of tenants on a domain 
 can by vote compel the lord of each domain to divide 
 into severalty such portions as the tenants wish to 
 purchase. In many cases the government steps in and 
 at the request of the owner of such plots puts up a well- 
 appointed house of concrete, sanitary and comfortable, 
 at one shilling per week rent. All the way to Limerick 
 we looked in vain for the pigstys and huts of the peas- 
 antry; the only reminder was a postal card where Brid- 
 get is carrying a squealing pig in her arms and saying 
 "he gives her more trouble than all her ten children." 
 Here and there are well-kept kitchen gardens, every 
 row of lettuce, peas, beans, etc., drawn to a line, and 
 not a weed in sight. 
 
 ,We found ourselves settled in the old capital of wes- 
 tern Ireland, which is situated on the historic Shannon 
 River. I will say in passing, if the traveller wants an 
 American cup of coffee he will find it, with all the break- 
 fast accompaniments, at the Royal Hotel. We made an 
 early start the next morning for our object-lesson in the 
 study of historic old Limerick. 
 
 It will be remembered that it was first known as a 
 
 [14] 
 
IRELAND 
 
 Danish city, as it was first plundered by the Danes in 812, 
 and was made one of their principal maritime stations, 
 and they surrounded it with walls and towers. For 
 nearly a hundred years they held sway, until Brian 
 Boru assumed control over Minister and expelled the 
 Danes from Scattery Island and reduced Limerick. 
 Turlogh, King of Munster, received homage here and 
 made Limerick the seat of royalty in 1106. From this 
 time it continued to be the seat of royalty, the residence 
 of kings of North Munster, until the conquest by the 
 English; but the invasions, the withdrawals of native 
 princes, was carried on for years — sometimes held by 
 one side and then by the other. It seems to have been 
 like the rest of Ireland: dissensions within and wars 
 without. In 1195 the English again gained possession 
 of the city. There is still standing a strong fortress 
 erected by King John. Edward Bruce was joined by 
 his brother King Robert Bruce in the spring of 1316, 
 ravaging as they went, dragging to destruction the 
 Norman power in Ireland. 
 
 During the reign of Elizabeth, Limerick is described 
 as a place substantially built with walls extending 
 around a circuit of nine miles. Many of these ruins 
 are still visible, even to the wall where the English 
 made their entrance into the city — that part of Limerick 
 known as the English City. 
 
 The great episode in the history of Limerick took 
 place during the wars of William and James, when 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 events occurred that fastened on it the name of the 
 city of the "violated treaty." This treaty was ratified 
 October 3, 1691, and signed on a large stone or boulder 
 near Thoinond bridge, within sight of both armies. 
 The ninth article of this treaty, which provided that 
 the Catholics should enjoy the same privileges of their 
 religion as they enjoyed in the reign of Charles II, was 
 not ratified by Parliament. 
 
 After the French invasion it was found that the entire 
 city was a scene of desolation and misery. In 1760 
 Limerick was declared to be no longer a fortress, and 
 the dismantling of defences was begun. 
 
 The Shannon rolls through the heart of the city, and 
 is crossed by five stone bridges; the streets are broad and 
 well paved. The famous "treaty stone" is at the west 
 end of Thomond bridge. Opposite the cathedral is the 
 monument of the Great Sarsfield, erected in 1881. 
 King John's Castle is one of the finest Norman fortresses 
 in the kingdom and looks as though the tooth of time 
 had made no impression upon it or the towers ; but that 
 cannot be said of any other structure on the English 
 side. The high, massive stone walls of these immense 
 old structures are being razed, and the old town seems 
 to be little else than a stone quarry for the newer city 
 of Limerick. 
 
 We left Limerick with the impression that had been 
 gaining on us daily by her broken battlements, ruined 
 towers and castles visible everywhere, that this has 
 
 [16] 
 
IRELAND 
 
 been the stamping ground for conflict through the ages. 
 And yet, who is there that does not admire the Irish 
 love for freedom and of the "Green Isle?" We can 
 in spirit know what Fanny Parnell carried in her heart 
 when she wrote "After Death": 
 
 "Oh, the tramp of feet victorious 
 
 I should hear them mid the shamrocks and the mosses, 
 And my heart should toss within the shroud as a captive tosses. 
 
 Let me join with you, the jubilant procession, 
 
 Let me chant with you her story; 
 Then, contented I shall go back to the shamrocks, 
 
 Now my eyes have seen her glory ! " 
 
 With Boucicault we would say, "This is a chord in the 
 old harp which every Irishman wears in his breast 
 twanged to a minor key.'* 
 
 We left Limerick, her contented looking people, her 
 red-cheeked, happy-faced children, for Dublin, still in 
 search of the downtrodden of Ireland ! 
 
 Dublin 
 
 A pleasant four hours' ride from Limerick brought us 
 to Dublin, and to the well-appointed Shelbourne Hotel, 
 facing Stephen's Green Park. Before the day was over 
 we had driven around Phoenix Park, as our driver said, 
 "a park with a blot on it," for here Lord Cavendish, the 
 Chief Secretary, and Mr. Burke, Under Secretary, were 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUKOPE 
 
 assassinated May 8, 1882. In the long drive we passed 
 through the most attractive streets, long stretches of 
 lawn, flower displays with some trees, but nothing of 
 special note in scenery or surroundings; we also drove 
 by the viceregal residence, the summer home of the 
 Lord Lieutenant, now the home of Lady and Lord 
 Aberdeen, the home and domain of the Chief Secretary, 
 and we saw that Dublin had a spacious, beautiful breath- 
 ing spot, where children and those of older growth 
 could drink in God's sunshine. 
 
 We spent some time at the National Museum, and 
 were especially interested in the Irish antiquities, also 
 in the Tara Brooch and other gold ornaments of early 
 Christian times. The brooch is of exquisite workman- 
 ship, and if naught else is left of Tara Hall except the hill 
 on which it stood, this one relic tells the story of the past. 
 
 The Bank of Dublin came in for its share of our time. 
 Formerly it was Parliament House, the room or cham- 
 ber of the House of Lords remaining just as it was when 
 the Lords sat around the long table in council; not a 
 picture, not a chair, has been changed. But what a 
 change since the days when Ireland sat in her own 
 council ! 
 
 The charm of one day was our visit to the marvellous 
 library of the University of Dublin, where the gracious 
 attendant showed us the "Book of Kells," considered 
 one of the most wonderful books in the world. It is 
 twelve hundred years old ; the coloring of the marvellous 
 
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IRELAND 
 
 illuminations and the hand printing have not faded. 
 This book covers the four Gospels, Matthew, Mark, 
 Luke, and John. This alone tells the story of the work 
 of the monks of Tara Hill: not one stone is left upon 
 another to mark the spot of the old monastery wherein 
 dwelt the master illuminators. Here, too, we saw the 
 "Harp that hung in Tara's Hall," but no Tara Hall 
 exists to-day except in song and story, but a silver 
 thread reaches back through time from this old harp 
 and the "Book of Kells," and we have but to touch a 
 button when the silent messages they bring up from a 
 forgotten past opens the floodgates of memory, and we 
 wish we might wander through the magic halls and 
 silent cloisters just for a day. So much has come to us 
 of old Ireland through its love songs and its romances, 
 and we walk the old land overfilled with the spirit of its 
 past, and we love it. 
 
 There are two charming drives the traveller should 
 not miss. One of these we took by boarding the train 
 and riding to Kingstown ; from there we took a jaunting 
 car to Brag. This is the most ideal drive to be found 
 in Ireland. It was our first view of the Irish Sea; six 
 vessels of the fleet lay at anchor — had come into port 
 to be present at the funeral ceremonies of King Edward. 
 How quickly my mind went back to the scattered fleet 
 of the Armada as they made their escape up the coast of 
 Ireland. What changes have come over the Green 
 Isle! For eight miles one rides on a cliff road above 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 the sea, every turn a new vision of delight, and on into 
 the fascinating scenery of Wicklow County. 
 
 The other trip is to the Hill of Howth, due north but 
 along the coast in view of the beautiful harbor. The 
 fascinating violet-blue water, the little island in the 
 harbor with its mountain rift, which is known as the 
 "Ireland's Eye," the wonderful views to be seen in the 
 walks around the point, the attractive little hotel and 
 the enjoyable little lunch, have left living pictures in our 
 mind of our day at the Hill of Howth. The old castle, 
 the invariable accompaniment of Irish scenery, was not 
 yet open to visitors. 
 
 The public buildings of Dublin are of great archi- 
 tectural beauty. Its clean streets are a delight. Its 
 squares are interesting as containing the monuments 
 erected commemorative of her great men. Especially 
 interesting is the Nelson Pillar, and the monument to 
 Father Mathew, the "Apostle of Temperance," by Miss 
 Redmond. 
 
 Many of the homes in the older parts of the city, once 
 the dwelling-places of rank and fashion, are now tene- 
 ment houses. Edmund Burke was born at 12 Arran 
 Street, Thomas Moore at 12 Aungier Street, Mrs. Jame- 
 son at 56 Golden Lane, Richard Brinsley Butler Sheri- 
 dan at 12 Dorset Street, and the Duke of Wellington at 
 24 Upper Mission Street; Mrs. Hemans died at 21 
 Dawson Street, and so on along the line of great men 
 and women the record is carefully kept. 
 
 [20] 
 
IRELAND 
 
 We reluctantly bade good-bye to beautiful Dublin, 
 for the Giant's Causeway lured us on. 
 
 Giant's Causeway 
 
 En route from Dublin we took in Belfast, the great 
 seat of industry in Ireland, by its wealth and enterprise 
 one of the old country's most interesting cities. The 
 drives over the city and its beautiful surroundings are 
 filled with interest. The wonderful shipbuilding plants, 
 where some of the largest liners in the world are built; 
 its numerous linen factories, whose fabrics are known 
 throughout Christendom; its public buildings, art gal- 
 leries, museums of antiquities, the theological colleges, 
 and many educational establishments — these could not 
 hold us for long, for we were bound for the world's great 
 wonder, the Giant's Causeway. 
 
 We took the Midland Railway, through Antrim, 
 Ballymena, Ballymoney, Drogheda, which brought us 
 to the battlefield of the Boyne, where James and William 
 contended, which ended in the "treaty of Limerick," 
 of which we have written. This is in County Antrim, 
 where the ancestors of President McKinley lived. 
 
 Portrush stands on the borderland to the Causeway. 
 At last we had struck a spot with no history, as we are 
 told its annals neither blur nor illumine the page of the 
 historian. It is glory enough for this pretty little 
 seaside resort that the traveller to the Causeway must 
 first find his way to Portrush; there to change from the 
 
 [21] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 railway to a tram. But in passing we must remind 
 the reader that it was the birthplace of Dr. Adam 
 Clarke, the distinguished Bible commentator and ori- 
 ental scholar. 
 
 The electric tramway, opened in 1883, that runs to 
 the Giant's Causeway eight miles away, was the first 
 in the United Kingdom. En route we passed a lofty 
 and curious formation of limestone in which the action 
 of the waves had worn caves, peaks, wells, and fantastic 
 shapes. Farther on we passed the gray walls of Dun- 
 leith Castle. It is told us that Thackeray sixty years 
 ago said it looked "as if some old, old princess of old, 
 old fairy times were dragon-guarded within," and we 
 know that some of the guns of one of the ships of the 
 Armada that was battered to pieces on this coast did 
 duty in Dunleith Castle. 
 
 Up the little hill we climbed to Kane's Royal Hotel as 
 the sun was shedding its good-night rays across the 
 Atlantic. Before we retired arrangements were made 
 for our guide and an early entrance to the inner circle 
 of Nature's masterpiece. At eight o'clock we had 
 breakfast and were on our winding way. It is a short 
 walk before you enter the Causeway; seemingly you are 
 walking over a regularly laid flagging of accurately cut 
 stone. The beauty and order of arrangement of the 
 pillars which form the pavement are the main attrac- 
 tions; they number about 40,000, from fifteen to eigh- 
 teen inches in diameter; the majority of these pillars 
 
 [22] 
 

IRELAND 
 
 are six-sided; there are only three with nine sides, one 
 with eight sides, and one with three sides. The old 
 guide kindly took me by the hand and said : 
 
 "I will be the guide for your feet while your eyes can 
 see the wonders!" 
 
 And so, he led, first to the Giant's well of sparkling 
 water, of which we drank; then we could sit in the 
 wishing chair and "our wish would come true." The 
 chair is composed of pillars: one forms the seat, one 
 on each side the arms, and another the back. These 
 columns are in sections or in drums, one above another, 
 not monoliths, and where they join, one is concave, the 
 other convex, and so they exactly fit into each other, 
 every little indentation having its counterpart; we were 
 not much surprised when the guide told us that he once 
 conducted two of the greatest scientists in Europe over 
 the Causeway, one declaring that it must be the handi- 
 work of man, the other affirming as strongly that it was 
 alone the work of Dame Nature. 
 
 It derives its name from a popular tradition that it 
 was erected by giants as a commencement of a causeway 
 across the sea to Scotland. Yes, undoubtedly it was 
 built by the giant forces of nature, and stands there as 
 the most curious assemblage and the greatest enigma 
 of basaltic columns in the world, in pleasing disorder 
 like the ruins of temples or huge honeycombs. The 
 causeway of basalt is said to be one of successive lava 
 floors, but why here alone in all the world except for a 
 
 [23] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 scattering show on the Scotland side it should take this 
 form of crystallization, echo answereth not. 
 
 Farther east we come to the "Giant's Organ," con- 
 sisting of sixty columns, some forty feet high, yet of 
 the same drum formation, and of the "Giant's Loom" 
 set against the bank of rock, and the Giant's Amphi- 
 theatre, considered the most beautiful in the world, 
 consisting of a series of ledges backed by columns of 
 basalt about three hundred and fifty feet high. And 
 then there is beautiful Pleaskin Head and Bengere 
 Head, many of these columns 150 feet high, five feet 
 broad, but not jointed like the others. 
 
 On our return we passed through the Giant's Gate- 
 way, which gives an excellent example of the basaltic for- 
 mation. The ocean was beating a tattoo against the 
 old Causeway, and to its soothing accents we walked 
 back to our hotel, and were told by our faithful guide 
 that we had walked six miles, but we were not fatigued. 
 What better proof do we want that when the heart and 
 soul are filled the body knows not weariness? 
 
 We took our train for Portrush and Lame, where we 
 were to take the steamer across the Irish Sea to Ayr and 
 fair Scotland. Our Irish holiday was almost over, so 
 full of beautiful experiences that we would not have 
 missed, and old Ireland stands out to-day in memory 
 under a bright sky with the poetic charm that belongs 
 to all mystery, and we shall not forget her if Scotland 
 be forty times as fair. 
 
SCOTLAND 
 
SCOTLAND 
 
 OUR trip across the Irish channel was calm and 
 delightful. Landing at the little harbor, we 
 took the train for Ayr, which we reached at 
 11:30 p. m. The early morning found us astir in the 
 "Land of Burns." Our attention was first attracted to 
 a statue of Burns on the village common, unveiled in 
 1891. The poet is represented as standing facing the 
 place of his birth, two miles away, in an attitude of 
 deep contemplation. We took a train for the "Banks 
 and braes of Bonnie Doon." Not many rods south of 
 the road is the "Auld Brig" crossing Doon's classic 
 stream, along which Tarn o' Shanter was pursued by the 
 witches, his gray mare Meg leaving her tail in her final 
 clutch on the Keystone. The date of the building 
 of this bridge is uncertain, but it is of great age, its 
 authentic history going back 500 years. It was to 
 have been taken down when the new bridge was built 
 in 1816, but sufficient money to preserve it was 
 subscribed in response to the "Petition of the Auld 
 Brig O' Doon in arrest of judgment." Burns gave 
 this marvellous prophecy of the destiny of the new 
 
 [27] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 bridge, the poet imagining the two bridges having a 
 colloquy. 
 
 " Conceited Gouk ! puffed up with windy pride, 
 This many a year I've stood the wind and tide, 
 An' tho' wi crazy eild I'm sair for fain 
 I'll be a brig — when ye're a shapeless Cairn." 
 
 The prophecy did not fail, for in years the searching 
 waters of the Ayr loosened the foundations of the new 
 bridge and by the aid of dynamite it became a shapeless 
 cairn. A new bridge has now taken its place. 
 
 Near the Bridge o' Doon is the monument, a graceful 
 cenotaph, erected in 1820; in the interior is a marble 
 bust of Burns. In a small building near this monument 
 are the original far-famed figures of Tarn o' Shanter 
 and Souter Johnny chiselled out of solid blocks of free- 
 stone. On our return we passed the "Kirk of Alio way " ; 
 the inscription on the old bell is 1657; the woodwork 
 long ago was removed and turned into fancy articles. 
 In the churchyard near the gate is the grave of Burns' 
 father. The old sexton with much pride gave a call to 
 his friends the robins, and one flew down from a tree 
 and lighted on his arm. Nobody else can make them 
 obey the call, but the old sexton through the years has 
 made them not only neighbors but friends, and they 
 sit on his arm and sing to him. 
 
 On our way we next came to the "Burns' Cottage," 
 built by Williams Burns, Robert's father, 1756. The 
 
 [28] 
 
SCOTLAND 
 
 house consists of two rooms. In the kitchen is the bed 
 in which Burns was born, 1759. Adjoining these rooms 
 is the barn, and under the same roof. William Burns 
 sold the cottage in 1766 when Robert was seven years 
 old. The cottage was afterward occupied as a public 
 house and came to be known as Burns' Cottage. It 
 has now become the mecca for tourists, 56,%56 visiting 
 it in 1906. Many relics of Burns' Dumfries home are 
 now installed in the cottage and add greatly to the inter- 
 est. But to understand the compelling charm of this 
 place one must go back and be wafted away to the moor- 
 lands of mist, to the ballads and wailes that have made 
 of its woodlands and dales a picture of rest. 
 
 The new line of railroad that opens up to the traveller 
 the beauties of the Garrick Coast brings them into close 
 touch with all historical and romantic associations. 
 It is many centuries since the Celtic settlers, who had a 
 large share in opening up the dark places of the earth, 
 found their way to this region on the Ayr, and there are 
 proofs that the wandering heralds of the Cross from 
 Iona at a very early period brought their Christian 
 faith into these parts; but one fact is authentic: that 
 William the Lion, who then lived in his castle in Ayr, 
 granted the town a royal charter, which is the oldest 
 charter of its class in Scotland. This was between 
 1202 and 1207. After that history "thickens and 
 bristles" with interest; from the days of Wallace and 
 Bruce down to the revolution of 1688, Ayr was promi- 
 
 [29] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 nent in Scottish history, and with the days of Robert 
 Burns Ayr became a mecca for lovers of Scottish ro- 
 mance and history. 
 
 The days that followed our sojourn in the Land of 
 Burns and his "Highland Mary" found us in Glasgow. 
 This city has long been known as the centre of industry 
 and commercialism, but later it is becoming known 
 that the west coast of Scotland, the most interesting 
 part of the country, is best reached from this point: 
 as we found when we had to come back to go to the 
 Trossachs, and Loch Lomond, the Stirling region, the 
 haunts of Rob Roy, the Falls of Clyde, the Firth of 
 Clyde, the Kyles of Bute, Crinans Canal to Oban. 
 
 We began in the interesting city of Glasgow, with her 
 ancient history and monuments, then her cathedral — 
 and behind the cathedral lies the city's great Necrop- 
 olis, the city of the dead; then down High Street to 
 the scenes of Wallace's famous fight; past the Tolbooth, 
 where Rob Boy met Bailie Nichol Jarvie; and on 
 through Salt Market, where Cromwell and the Duke of 
 York and the Bailie mentioned stopped, where Prince 
 Charles Edward held his last review, to Cathcart, 
 where a stone marks the knoll from which, on a day in 
 May, 1568, Queen Mary witnessed the overthrow of 
 her last army at Langside — on the battlefield itself a 
 monument marks the scene — and then on to the art 
 galleries, the university, and, above all, the docks. 
 Some nine millions have been spent on these docks. 
 
 [30] 
 
SCOTLAND 
 
 We listen and hear the clang of hammer and steel and 
 see an array of skeleton ships; both banks of the Clyde 
 are covered with famous shipbuilding yards. 
 
 May 25th, at nine o'clock in the morning, we took 
 the train at Queen Station for Loch Lomond and the 
 Trossachs. Soon we were passing the Clyde, passing 
 Dumbarton Castle, on to Ballach, where we took the 
 steamer which carries the tourist down to Inversnaid. 
 Here is where Wordsworth saw the Highland lass that 
 he has immortalized : 
 
 "What joy to hear thee, and to see; 
 Thy elder brother I would be, 
 Thy father, anything, to thee." 
 
 We were sailing along the bonny, bonny banks of Lake 
 Lomond. When we reached the wharf at the end of the 
 lake the stage was waiting to carry the passengers over 
 the pass five miles away. Up, up, the coach goes, the 
 waters rushing by making beautiful cascades, the pine- 
 covered hills, the mountains beyond, and Ben Lomond 
 in the background making new pictures; Rob Roy's 
 cave, just at our side, the hiding-place of Robert Bruce. 
 After an exhilarating ride of two hours we reached 
 Stronachlachar, where we lunched and boarded the 
 steamer Sir Walter Scott. This beautiful Lake Katrine, 
 the gem of Scottish lakes, is only eight miles long and 
 one mile broad, but it is the lake of romance, song, and 
 story, and we were soon under the magic spell of Scott's 
 
 [31] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 pen and "The Lady of the Lake." Steep cliffs and 
 beautiful woods entrance you until you come to Ellen's 
 Island, where lived the Lady of the Lake. The steamer 
 stopped and we could almost hear King James' horn 
 and see Ellen Douglas in her skiff answering to the sup- 
 posed call of her father, and we felt quite sure this 
 masterpiece in literature was what opened the eyes of the 
 world to the beauty of the Trossachs and Loch Katrine, 
 and that it is the romance of these regions that draws 
 thousands into this beautiful district to see the lakes, 
 the island, the mountains where these deeds of chivalry 
 and of love have been supposed to exist. 
 
 At the end of the lake we entered the Trossachs ! We 
 were in the land of the Clan Macgregor, a district over- 
 hung by high mountains, where they had their strong- 
 hold; their hills were in sight of Stirling Castle and the 
 City of Glasgow. The famous Rob Roy Macgregor 
 was a chieftain of this clan. The stage again carried 
 us over mountain and glade — you are immediately 
 surrounded by an ingathering of wildness and grandeur 
 and solitude — white birch trees grace the roadway, the 
 hills are clad in heather, bold cliffs stand out on all sides. 
 
 "And mountains, that like giants stand, 
 To sentinel enchanted land, 
 High on the south, huge Ben Venue 
 
 Down on the lake in masses threw 
 Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurl'd, 
 The fragments of an earlier world." 
 [32] 
 
SCOTLAND 
 
 We were in the Trossachs. A two hours' ride brought 
 us to the last hill, when the road led down the steep 
 ascent into the valley, and Aberfoyle lay at our feet. 
 "What a bonny setting," said a Scotchman at our side. 
 We were now amid the scenes where Sir Walter Scott 
 got his color for his novel "Rob Roy." In due time our 
 holiday in the Trossachs was over and we were bent for 
 Glasgow. 
 
 We took the train in the early morning of May 28th 
 for the Scottish Highlands and Islands, quietly running 
 along the Clyde until we reached the Firth, where we 
 boarded the steamer Columba. Farther on down the 
 Firth the beautiful sea panorama includes many places 
 familiar in history. The town of Largo is where the 
 Norse Hakon was overthrown in 1263. We passed 
 the wooded shores of Bute, and at Mount Stuart can 
 be seen the splendid seat of the Marquis of Bute, 
 descendant of King Robert II. Here we discovered 
 that instead of going steadily on to Oban, our objective 
 point for that day, the Columba would stop at Rothe- 
 say, much to our delight, as it was one point we were 
 glad to make. The season for through boats did not 
 begin until June 1st. As our steamer entered Rothesay 
 Bay it was beautiful to behold, with its terraced green 
 slopes and crescent shore. We chose for our home, over 
 Sunday, Glenburn Hydropathic Hotel, which is situated 
 on the slope of the wooded ridge ; it commands a magnifi- 
 cent view of the bay, the full length of Loch Striven, 
 
 [33] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 the entrance to the Kyles of Bute, and the stately moun- 
 tains of Argyle, and is not an hour's walk from Mount 
 Stuart, the residence of the Marquis of Bute. 
 
 The great actor Kean, when on a visit there, inscribed 
 on the summer house, 
 
 "How glorious from the loopholes of retreat 
 To look on such a world." 
 
 Our days at Glenburn were restful and inspiring, and 
 notwithstanding the torrents of rain that accompanied 
 us to the wharf, as it had been our companion much of 
 the time in Scotland, until we began to look upon it as 
 a friend that sticketh closer than a brother, Rothesay 
 was still beautiful. 
 
 An Englishman rode to the wharf with us. Of course, 
 the never-failing topic, "the weather," broke the ice 
 for conversation. He said when in Scotland once he 
 asked a Scotchman if it always rained in Scotland. 
 "Nae," he answered, "sometimes it snaes." 
 When we sailed away Mrs. Craik's song came to 
 mind: 
 
 " It's a bonny bay at morning, 
 And bonnier at the noon; 
 But bonniest when the sun drops, 
 And red comes up the moon; 
 When the mist creep ov'r the Cumbraes, 
 And Arran's peaks are grey, 
 And the great black hills like sleeping kings 
 Sit grand round Rothesay Bay." 
 [34] 
 
SCOTLAND 
 
 Soon our steamer entered the winding narrows of the 
 Kyles of Bute. In some places we were so near shore on 
 either side that we could almost pick flowers off the 
 banks, and our way seemed filled with the mountains 
 ahead. Gently we turned, the steamer bore away, and 
 we left the Maids of Bute in their homes on the moun- 
 tainside, and made for Tarbet, the headquarters of Lake 
 Fyne fisheries. 
 
 Here our English friend left us to go to Islay. The 
 Columba ended her voyage at Ardraishag pier. Here 
 we drove through the village and changed for the little 
 steamer Linnet, to enter the Crinan Canal; this con- 
 nects Lake Fyne with Lock Crinan, to avoid the cir- 
 cuitous passage round the Mull of Kintyre. This 
 canal, nine miles long, has fifteen locks; the first series 
 of nine locks within one mile gives the passengers a 
 chance to walk through this most entrancing scenery. 
 In descending to the lower level, which begins with the 
 eighth lock, we were nearing Bellanock Bay, and shortly 
 we arrived at Crinan, the western terminus of the canal. 
 A short walk brought us to the pier, where another 
 steamer was waiting, with steam up. The fascination 
 in this changing panorama can hardly be expressed. 
 Fifteen minutes after leaving Crinan the steamer 
 passed between the points of Craignish and the Island 
 Garbreisha, or Great Door, where the tides rush through 
 with great force. Beyond Craignish point we got a 
 good view of the straits between Jura and Scarba; on 
 
 [35] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 for a few miles lie the Isles of the Sea, and the steamer 
 beat against the broad Atlantic. To the left lies Mull, 
 with its bold cliffs and lofty mountains; a few miles 
 beyond lies Iona. 
 
 In sailing through these land-locked islands we found 
 everything land-locked but old ocean, and we realized 
 more what she could do than in crossing from New 
 York to Queenstown. It brought to our party no 
 discomfort, and the delight of the trip was beyond com- 
 pare. 
 
 As the sun was leaving we entered the beautiful 
 harbor of Oban, where it has often been asserted her 
 sunsets are the finest that can be seen, and it was our 
 good fortune that it was a propitious time for us. No 
 pen can adequately describe the glorious prospect, the 
 fairy -like scene that glows in radiant hues over the blue 
 and purple peaks of Mull beyond the golden waters. 
 Nowhere do sunset and evening star paint sea and shore 
 and sky above in such glowing pageantry. 
 
 For the last three days we had been coming over this 
 royal route that has been known through time. Over 
 this route came Alexander II, and the Norse Hakon; 
 James IV, James V, and Robert Bruce and Bonnie 
 Prince Charlie sailed these waters long in advance 
 of their descendants; and Queen Victoria and His 
 Majesty King Edward, in other days when the passions 
 of men had found an estop and peace was on the face 
 of the waters. 
 
 [36] 
 
SCOTLAND 
 
 The Station Hotel, complete in all its appointments, 
 was our home while we made acquaintance with this 
 attractive place and its environments. Its old castles, 
 beautiful walks and drives into the Highlands of Scot- 
 land filled our days with satisfaction. 
 
 Dunollic Castle was in our way when we walked the 
 beautiful esplanade to the sandy beach bay. This 
 castle was the ancient stronghold of the Lords of 
 Lome. 
 
 Again in our trip out into the Highlands we came upon 
 Dunstaffnage Castle. It is supposed to have been of 
 Pictish origin, the first people that history gives any 
 account of, but supposed to be identical with the an- 
 cient Caledonians. Their name signifies "painted." 
 In the early days of history they wore no clothes and 
 their bodies were painted. It is not known whether 
 they were of Celtic or Teutonic descent. No country 
 that we remember has ever been discovered, for invari- 
 ably some one was there to welcome the discoverer. 
 In this half -fabulous period of Scottish history thirty- 
 eight Pictish kings are enumerated from 451 to 853. 
 A part of these had become partially civilized under 
 the Romans, and after their withdrawal formed a union 
 and a kingdom familiarly known as Strath-Clyde. 
 During this period the Saxons arrived in Scotland, in 
 449. They eventually conquered and settled the low- 
 lands. One of their leaders, Edward, founded Edin- 
 burgh (Edwinburg). About fifty years after this the 
 
 [37] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 Scots from Ireland, a Celtic tribe, settled on the west 
 coast and established a kingdom, beginning with the 
 reign of Fergus, one of their chiefs, and continuing 
 under a series of kings until the reign of Kenneth Mc- 
 Alpin in 836, when the Scotch Irish became the domi- 
 nant race in the land, which now began to be called 
 Scotland. During this reign the Picts disappeared as a 
 people, it being usually believed they were amalgamated 
 and absorbed by the Scots. It was during the Pictish 
 period that the natives in the sixth century were con- 
 verted to Christianity by St. Columba and other mis- 
 sionaries from Ireland. 
 
 Dunstaffnage Castle, on the wooded peninsula of 
 Loch Etive, carries one back to the days when it was 
 the Scottish capitol and held the "stone of destiny," 
 which now has its place under the coronation chair at 
 Westminster. It was brought from Ireland by Fergus, 
 who deposited it first at Iona and then at Dunstaffnage. 
 Its resting-place there being no longer safe on account 
 of the Norwegians, it was brought by Kenneth II to 
 Scone, and Edward I carried it to Westminster Abbey, 
 where it rests under the chair in which the Kings of 
 the British Empire have been crowned. 
 
 There is an old rhymish proverb which runs like this : 
 
 "Unless the fates are faithless grown 
 And prophet's voice be vain, 
 Where'er is found this sacred stone, 
 The Scottish race shall reign." 
 [38] 
 
SCOTLAND 
 
 Sir Walter Scott asserts that there were Scots who 
 hailed the accomplishment of this prophecy at the ac- 
 cession of James VI to the crown of England. 
 
 Dunstaffnage lost its national import when Kenneth 
 MacAlpine removed to Forteviot, but Robert the Bruce 
 took possession of it after his victory over Macdougall 
 of Lome. The castle and its domains were granted in 
 1436 to Campbell of Loch Awe, and it is said to be the 
 Ardenvohr of Scott's "Legend of Montrose." When 
 we recall that Flora Macdonald was imprisoned here 
 for her part in helping the escape of Prince Charles 
 Edward a few centuries later, and that Colkilto Mac- 
 donald was hanged here, and a few more glimpses of 
 history from legend and story, we wonder how it would 
 have been if this "Stone of Destiny," said to have been 
 Jacob's pillow, had never been removed to the Corona- 
 tion Chair at Westminster Abbey. 
 
 Our days were filled with the dreams and legends of 
 other days, brought in with every breeze of the " High- 
 lands," and when we boarded the steamer that was to 
 carry us out of beautiful Oban Bay it was with this 
 refrain in our hearts : 
 
 " Fair Oban is a dainty place 
 In distant or in nigh lands, 
 No town delights the tourist race 
 Like Oban in the Highlands." 
 
 It was in the early morning that we boarded the 
 steamer that was to take us out of the bay at Oban 
 
 [39] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 farther on into the western Highlands of Scotland. 
 Again we found ourselves carried along through a region 
 filled with the beautiful legends of bygone centuries. 
 Every stretch of water or mountainside brought back 
 the memory of some love tale, some clan feud between 
 Macgregors, Macdonalds, or Campbells; every view had 
 its traditions of song and story; every turn of the wheel 
 opened the landscape of history full, rich, reminiscent; 
 but in every little hamlet where the steamer stopped we 
 found the life of to-day; and that means the days of 
 strife, feuds, and wars have given way to the march of 
 civilization, and with it has come industry, peace, hap- 
 piness. 
 
 On the way to Loch Leven we passed old ruins; some 
 of them, it is said, have historic backing in Ossian's 
 poems; for the time has long since passed when it is 
 questioned whether there was a Celtic bard since 
 Macpherson journeyed through the Highlands and 
 gathered several volumes of Gaelic manuscripts by 
 Ossian, the son of Fingal, who was one of the most 
 famous of the Celtic legendary heroes. At this time, 
 the second and third centuries, the highlanders were 
 in bad repute with the rest of Great Britain on account 
 of their rebellion, and it was some time before these 
 poems met with any reception. In 1762 "Fingal," 
 in 1763 "Temora," with five minor poems, were trans- 
 lated into English prose. These produced a profound 
 sensation. The poems were translated into most of the 
 
 [40] 
 
SCOTLAND 
 
 languages of Europe. Among their admirers the names 
 of Goethe, Schiller, and Napoleon are mentioned. In 
 England Doctor Johnson questioned their authenticity, 
 as Gaelic was a barbarous language, but proof was too 
 positive for even Doctor Johnson to combat, and the 
 poems of Ossian came into the world to live and to 
 almost make sacred this part of the Highlands where 
 he was born and lived and wove histories into poetry. 
 While we were living over the days of Ossian our little 
 steamer had glided into the bay and up to the pier at 
 Ballachulish, where we landed to take the drive which 
 is considered one of the most famous in Scotland, 
 through the historic Pass of Glencoe. 
 
 A comfortable coach awaited the arrival of the 
 steamer. The drive took us through Ballachulish 
 village and the world-renowned slate works and quar- 
 ries. As the road approached Glencoe we got a glimpse 
 of the ruins of old Inverness, the seat of the Macdonald 
 chief. The terrible night of the massacre of the clans- 
 men, 1692, by the ruthless soldiers of William III, in- 
 stigated by Breadalbane — a dark stain on William III 
 — was brought to mind as we passed the ruins of these 
 homes. After having been received with warm welcome 
 by this Highland chief and royally entertained, they 
 repaid all civilities by rising up in the night and slaying 
 every man, woman, and child. A tall cross marks the 
 memory of those who fell. 
 
 But the scenery of the glen is most beautiful. On 
 
 [41] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 one side of the glen a long black indentation many feet 
 above the road is the mouth of "Ossian's Cave." It is 
 said to have been Ossian's refuge when composing his 
 "songs of the times of old." We were about three hours 
 in making the trip, and returned to the steamer, glad we 
 had taken the drive so full of history and marvellous 
 scenery, but more glad to close our eyes for a time and 
 try to forget the wickedness that has been in the calm 
 and sweetness of the present, while the staunch little 
 steamer carries us by historic spots, landed estates, 
 and Highland towns, until we glide into the quiet 
 port of Fort William at the foot of the Caledonian 
 Canal. 
 
 The following day we began our trip through the 
 canal. This canal was surveyed by James Watt in 
 1773 as a means of opening up the Highlands in 1803. 
 The famous engineer Telford finally surveyed it again. 
 It was opened from sea to sea in 1822 at a total cost of 
 a million sterling. Through difficulties for a time it was 
 abandoned, but the construction was improved and 
 the canal was reopened in 1847. They found great 
 difficulty in completing the canal in some sections ow- 
 ing to rapid streams that would flow into the locks, but 
 some Goethals came along who did not know the word 
 fail, who constructed culverts to convey these waters 
 under the canal to the river. The level of the loch was 
 raised twelve feet. The distance from the east coast 
 to the west coast is sixty-two miles; twenty-four miles 
 
 [42] 
 
SCOTLAND 
 
 of this is canal, and thirty-eight miles natural waters, 
 Loch Lochy, Loch Oich, and Loch Ness. The locks are 
 each 160 feet long, 38 feet wide; the depth of water is 
 from 17 to 18 feet, and vessels of a thousand tons burden 
 can pass through. The master minds of those days 
 saw the great advantage of uniting the east and west 
 shores of a continent by building a waterway over the 
 great highway, binding one shore to the other. Did 
 Scotland build this for the benefit of Scotland and the 
 Scots, or was she so magnanimous that it was the world 
 at large she had in mind? Tradition says it was to 
 stop emigration. 
 
 In making this trip which landed us at Muirtown, the 
 landing place for Inverness, we had spent a day which 
 we shall never forget — the sylvan beauty of these shores, 
 the picturesque ruins, the memories of legend and his- 
 tory made tangible by looking upon the waste places 
 where the old feuds brought the clans of the Macdon- 
 alds of Glengary and the Mackenzies of Ross-shire into 
 combat; where Prince Charles Edward was belted and 
 plaided in full pursuit of Sir John Cope, and all the 
 rest of it, until we fall to wondering if they ever knew 
 days of rest and peacefulness. And then we remem- 
 bered that there came the years of peace. Queen Vic- 
 toria resided at Inverlochy Castle in the fall of 1873 
 for some time; King Edward sometimes went on 
 hunting expeditions in these glens in the Highlands, 
 and then we know that old Ben Nevis, the king among 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 mountains in this region, has been a silent witness to 
 the days of peace as well as conflict. 
 
 Our carriage soon took us to our stopping-place, the 
 Station Hotel. We were in the old capital of the High- 
 lands; we found that we were two degrees and a half 
 higher in latitude than at the Causeway. The evening, 
 with the sun going down, brought a charm over the 
 scene that at once dispelled all weariness or fatigue. 
 We were in old Inverness with her mantle of history 
 surrounding her, and the battlefield of Culloden only 
 four miles away, with all the pathetic memories of the 
 last days of the Stuarts. There we saw the great 
 Cumberland stone from which the Duke of Cumberland 
 directed the battle. The old "well of the dead" is 
 still there, into which, it is told, many dying men crept 
 to quench their thirst during the night that followed 
 the battle. The green trenches among the heather are 
 still visible in which the Highland dead were buried, 
 according to their tartans, it is said. 
 
 The capital of the Highlands is marvellously beautiful 
 for situation; in fact, so many places on this trip are 
 pictured with river, firth, woodland, and valley, each 
 carrying its page of history, that we might feel with 
 Shirley Brooks that, if there were many places like 
 them, people would be in fearful danger of forgetting 
 that they ought to be miserable. The swift-running 
 River Ness divides the town: the waters sweep along 
 with such a swift current that no craft is seen on its 
 
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SCOTLAND 
 
 clear waters. The town is old enough to be highly 
 respectable; according to records, it was built in the 
 first century b. c. On the elevated plateau to the 
 east of the town, known as "The Crown," there was 
 once a fortified castle, said to have been razed to the 
 ground by Malcolm Canmore in 1075. This was the 
 traditionary castle of Macbeth, where some think the 
 great traveller, Lord Bacon, got hold of his hand-downs 
 for Shakespeare. 
 
 The old town was erected into a royal burgh by David 
 I. Its charter dates back to William the Lion. Robert 
 Bruce, James I, James IV, Mary Queen of Scots, and 
 the late Queen Victoria have been visitors to this High- 
 land capital. Oliver Cromwell left his mark on Inver- 
 ness in a citadel. There is a striking monument well 
 worth studying of Flora Macdonald in one of the squares. 
 It will be remembered that while she was on a visit to 
 Uist she helped Charles Edward Stuart, who was a 
 wanderer after the defeat at Culloden, to don woman's 
 attire and escape with her to Skye. Her stepfather 
 commanded one of the militia parties in the service of 
 the government, and gave her a passport for herself 
 and for "Betty Bourke, a stout Irish woman," and 
 they reached Skye in safety. In time it was found out; 
 she was arrested, put in prison, but the authorities 
 were glad to soon release her, and now her memory is 
 honored in the fair city of the Highlands. 
 
 In Inverness we have looked upon her public build- 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 ings, her castles, her river islands, her homes, and now 
 we must turn our feet toward Edinburgh. 
 
 Our holiday in the Highlands, so full of fruitful ex- 
 periences we would not have missed, is at an end, but 
 all that is so beautiful that we leave behind is photo- 
 graphed on the brain, and will in coming days pass 
 before us in moving pictures. We leave the fascinating 
 waters of Clyde, Kyles of Butte, Oban Bay, charming 
 Crinnan Canal, Loch Lime, Loch Levin, and historic 
 Caledonian Canal, which has brought rest and a charm 
 into busy lives, and take the more prosaic steam cars 
 through interesting country to Edinburgh. Our first 
 duty we felt, the next morning after our arrival, 
 was to drive to the old castle, by far the most remark- 
 able building in the city. It began with the early 
 history of Scotland. It is said that the daughters 
 of the Pictish kings resided there before their marriage. 
 The small room is shown where Mary Queen of Scots 
 gave birth to James VI, and the window from which 
 they were let down the dizzy height by ropes. We 
 could but contrast this room with the luxuries of late 
 years, which have become, not luxuries, but necessities, 
 and we — well, just wonder. Much of the history 
 made between these gray walls was recalled by the 
 guide who conducted us through. His twinkling eye 
 when he was getting ready to fire off some of his dry 
 wit gave such a charm to his story that we shall 
 not soon forget the old storied castle and its genial 
 
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 attendant. The palace of Holy rood is at the east 
 end of the city and was the ancient residence of the 
 Scottish kings. A part of this home was built by 
 James V, and here lived Queen Mary, and here was 
 the scene of Rizzio's murder. Adjoining are the ruins 
 of Holyrood, founded by David I in 1128. A reality 
 of those days comes over you while you are looking upon 
 the very spot where these tragedies were enacted that 
 reading history cannot give; but the homes, the sur- 
 roundings of those whose names are a household word, 
 brought an intense interest — the names of those who 
 filled their mission in life in far different walks from 
 those which royalty has trod. 
 
 The changes time has wrought are so marked that 
 we have only to take the two cities, Glasgow and 
 Edinburgh, to read the story. Long before Edinburgh 
 was founded, Glasgow was a thriving town; it was a 
 bishop's seat and place of consequence. To-day the 
 world flocks to Edinburgh for the antique history of a 
 romantic past, and Glasgow hums and swirls and is 
 known over the world by her energetic life. 
 
 We landed at the Prince Station of the Caledonian 
 Railway. Our hotel was commodious and in every 
 respect comfortable, and we felt that we should be 
 quite averse to exchanging our apartments for those 
 Queen Mary lived in at Holyrood or those in which 
 the Stuart kings spent their uneasy lives in Edinburgh 
 Castle. Our days were spent in placing the public 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 institutions and local habitations of great men of their 
 day. In George Street we found the Assembly Rooms 
 where, at an historical banquet in 1827, Sir Walter Scott 
 confessed himself to be the author of Waverley Novels. 
 The upper window of a tenement house looking down 
 from the corner of St. James Square marks the room 
 occupied by Robert Burns while he wrote his famous 
 letter, "Clarinda," and also by Henry Irving when he 
 first trod the stage for the Scottish people. 
 
 On to the east rises Calton Hill and the attempt to 
 honor the battle of Waterloo by a national monument 
 in Athenic style. Nelson, Dugald Stuart, and other 
 notables also have their attempts, more or less mon- 
 strous, which ought to put other countries we know 
 in the position of not being lonesome. Down the 
 steep north side of the hill is the place where Bothwell 
 wove the spell over Queen Mary by the dexterity 
 with which he handled his mettled steed. Calton 
 Cemetery holds the dust of Constable, Scott's publisher, 
 and of Hume the historian, and this is but a step from 
 Holy rood. The house opposite is pom ted out where 
 Mary bathed in white wine before going to meet her 
 lover, and over whose roof the assassin of Rizzio escaped. 
 
 Here in Edinburgh we see the Holyrood Chapel, 
 which has been richly endowed: here was the wedding 
 of Mary and Darnley, the coronation of Charles I. In 
 the vaults lie the remains of James II, James V, and 
 other personages of royalty; and Holyrood has been 
 
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bCOTLAND 
 
 the asylum for centuries of such personages as the Duke 
 of Lancaster, father of Henry IV, the Duke of York, 
 afterward James II, Charles X, and many other un- 
 fortunates. 
 
 The one work of art that stands over and above all 
 others is the Gothic monument to Sir Walter Scott, 
 located in beautiful Prince Street; a marble statue of 
 Sir Walter is in the centre. It has niches for the rep- 
 resentations of the principal characters in his books. 
 When we go to the site where he was born, and at 25 
 George Square, where his father lived in his boyhood, 
 when we recall his weak physique through his younger 
 years, his lameness through life, and remember what 
 he overcame, that he made for himself a name above 
 reproach and one endowed by his nation — a household 
 word for all nations — we feel the great incentive it 
 might be to the disheartened to press forward, putting 
 obstacles under their feet and thereby reach the goal. 
 
 Here is the Cathedral of St. Giles. The poet bishop 
 Gavin Douglas preached here, when Jenny Geddes flung 
 her stool at the Dean of Edinburgh's head, and thus 
 began the movement which cost the head of Charles I. 
 There is the long ascent of the Canon gate crowded 
 with memories. At the foot of High Street lived John 
 Knox. Edinburgh for a time had but one parish; John 
 Knox was the minister, and the parish church was the 
 St. Giles. The world knows the ups and downs of this 
 great preacher. In front of Parliament House, now 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL EN EUROPE 
 
 the Supreme Court, under the causeway, lie the remains 
 of the great reformer, and the chapter is not half told. 
 
 One of the many excursions out of Edinburgh is to 
 Cramend Brig. En route, every mile is crowded with 
 incident and story, which usually your driver is ready to 
 recount, but the best is of Cramend Brig itself. It is an 
 old, old story, but when you hear it on the spot it 
 comes back with renewed and vital interest. The 
 story goes: As James V was returning incognito and 
 alone from one of his sundry outings for romance or 
 pleasure, for which, we are told, he was famous, he was 
 murderously set upon by a troup of gypsy vagabonds. 
 Notwithstanding his noted dexterity in self-defence, 
 he was on the point of being overcome when a laborer 
 who had been threshing corn in a barn near by sallied 
 out with his flail and used it with such skill that the 
 gypsies fled. He then invited James to his cottage, 
 brought a basin of water and a towel that he might 
 wash his face and hands clear of the blood and dust, 
 and set before him a portion of the supper of sheepshead 
 of which the family were about to partake. Further, 
 for fear the company should renew the attack, he accom- 
 panied the traveller a part of the way to Edinburgh. 
 On the road James took occasion to ask the name and 
 business of his deliverer, and discovered him to be one 
 Jock Howieson, a bondsman on the King's farm near by, 
 "And have you no wish to do better for yourself? " 
 To which Howieson replied that, at the greatest 
 
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SCOTLAND 
 
 stretch of his desires, he had sometimes wished he 
 might have been the possessor of the farm on which he 
 worked. But here he turned the talk by asking his 
 companion who he himself might be. James replied 
 that he was a poor man, the Guidman of Ballangeich, 
 holding a small post at court. As Howieson seemed 
 interested, James said if he would come to a certain 
 postern on the following Sunday and inquire for Bal- 
 langeich he would be happy to show him something of 
 the place. Of course, such an opportunity could not 
 be lost, so on Sunday Jock, in his best attire, knocked 
 at the appointed door. He inquired for Ballangeich, 
 and his new-made friend presently appeared, and, keep- 
 ing his promise, showed Jock through all the splendors 
 of the place. Presently he asked him if he would not 
 like to see the King. Howieson said he would be glad 
 to if it would bring no trouble on Ballangeich himself. 
 Jock inquired cautiously how he should know King 
 James. James replied: 
 
 "The King alone will wear his bonnet, all the others 
 will be uncovered." 
 
 He then opened a door and led the way into the 
 crowded hall, Jock keeping close behind. Howieson 
 stared with both eyes, but presently pulled the sleeve 
 of his guide. 
 
 "I — I dinna see the King," he said. 
 
 "I told you," answered James, "he would be the 
 only man wearing a bonnet." 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 "Weel," said Howieson, "that maun be either you or 
 me, fer nobody but us has a bonnet on." 
 
 Thereat, it is said, James and the court had a laugh; 
 but to make Jock happy and merry, too, the King then 
 presented him on the spot with the farm of Braehead, 
 which belongs to the Howieson descendants to-day. 
 
 Melrose Abbey, Abbotsford, and Dryburgh 
 
 We left Edinburgh in the morning, the railway train 
 bearing us into the open country along the Firth of 
 Forth and southward over the fair Moorfoot Hills. 
 We passed many extensive demesnes, but it was the 
 ruins of Borthwick Castle that impressed us most. It 
 was while Mary Stuart and Both well were residing here, 
 in June, 1567, that the castle was attacked by Scottish 
 barons and their retainers. Bothwell escaped and the 
 Queen followed in men's clothes, booted and spurred; 
 she joined Bothwell and they rode to his castle at Dun- 
 bar. In November Cromwell forced the surrender of 
 the castle. A little farther on are the ruins of Creighton 
 Castle, in which Queen Mary was once a guest at a 
 wedding feast. It was a favorite resort of Sir Walter 
 Scott, which he mentioned in "Marmion"; but to us 
 the interest in the place was because it was the first 
 place in all our travels through Scotland that we had 
 come across where poor Queen Mary seemed to be any- 
 thing but the hunted deer, and we were almost afraid to 
 look with steady eye upon these ruins for fear we might 
 
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SCOTLAND 
 
 see the spirit of some Scottish chieftain in pursuit of the 
 haunted soul! 
 
 We crossed the historic Tweed, not immortalized by 
 murdered kings and queens, but known even over the 
 seas by its "Tweed cloth." 
 
 A little farther on and we were at Melrose, with all 
 the memories stored up from childhood. We lunched 
 at comfortable Abbey Hotel before we entered the 
 wonderful ruins of the Abbey of St. Mary of Melrose, 
 built by David I, King of Scotland. It is said the 
 mission of the monks residing there was not to care for 
 souls, but to live in seclusion and cultivate the ground. 
 
 Amid these silent majestic ruins we found the bury- 
 ing place of Alexander II, King of Scotland; near the 
 high altar of the abbey he was buried in 1249. In 1322 
 Edward II, King of England, on his return from Scot- 
 land came to Melrose, intending to reside there. He 
 sent on an advance guard to prepare for his reception, 
 but Lord Douglas surprised them, slew a good many, 
 which so enraged Edward that he proceeded with his 
 force and did what many another leader has done — 
 took vengeance on inanimate things, and utterly de- 
 stroyed the abbey, and the world is the loser of one 
 of its most beautiful works of art and architecture, 
 a loss that forty generations of King Edwards could 
 not possibly replace. Is this the march of civiliza- 
 tion? When the English were expelled from Scotland 
 Robert the Bruce began to rebuild the abbey in 1326, 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 and it was completed within the fourteenth century. 
 The Bruce's heart was buried here after being brought 
 back from Spain. At last Henry VIII became so in- 
 censed at the failure of his endeavors to woo the youth- 
 ful Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, for his son (afterward 
 Edward VI) that he sent Lord Hertford with an army, 
 which not only laid waste this whole section, but again 
 totally wrecked Melrose Abbey. Some of the most 
 beautiful architectural portions in detail remain to tell 
 the story of its past grandeur. The modernized build- 
 ings in the little village certainly do detract from the 
 dignity of these classic ruins; they are built so close to 
 the abbey it leaves no space for perspective epitaphs, 
 but from the adjoining churchyard a better view is 
 gotten. 
 
 Abbotsford 
 
 Three miles away stands the baronial pile of Abbots- 
 ford. Probably this is the most magnificent house built 
 from the earnings of a literary man and still in posses- 
 sion of members of his family. It is now occupied by 
 his great-granddaughter, Mrs. Maxwell Scott, a de- 
 scendant of Lockhart and Sophia Scott, daughter of Sir 
 Walter. The place is open every day to the public 
 from 10 a. m. to 5 :00 p. m. for a small admittance fee. If 
 attention is given to every niche and corner of this 
 fascinating somewhat rambling place, you leave with 
 the feeling that not only was Sir Walter Scott one of 
 
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SCOTLAND 
 
 the world's great literary men, but he had an insight 
 into the artistic domain that few men possess. He was 
 one, not endowed with the one talent to make himself 
 heard over the world, but seemingly with the ten, that 
 he should know not only the beauty but the aesthetic 
 value of bits of antiquarian interest, not so much ap- 
 preciated in those days, but a glory to-day to all lovers 
 of the beautiful and the unique. His study, the library, 
 the armory — one of the finest to be seen anywhere — the 
 salon with walls adorned with priceless paintings, and you 
 wonder, with the printed folios he has given to the world, 
 when he ever found the time to give to such varied study. 
 
 One pleasant incident comes to mind: I was wearing 
 a brooch given me by a friend; it was said to be the 
 portrait of Nell Gwyn copied from the painting by Sir 
 Peter Lely, but we had not proved it. To my delight, 
 on the walls of Abbotsford hung the painting of Nell 
 Gwyn by Sir Peter from which the painting on my 
 brooch was copied. 
 
 It is not hours but days one could spend among these 
 interesting artistic objects collected by Sir Walter 
 which are now left for the delight and education of 
 future generations who visit this shrine of beautiful 
 Abbotsford at Melrose on the banks of the Tweed. 
 
 Dryburgh 
 
 We left the charm hanging over old Abbotsford, and 
 five miles farther on came to Dryburgh. It is attested 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 by the ruins that the Druids once worshipped here. 
 It is said to have been known by the early poets — that 
 Thomson wrote his winter of his " Seasons" there; that 
 Gower was a monk there, and that Chaucer spent some 
 time there with Ralph Strode, the poet laureate of 
 Oxford. The first thing that struck our attention was 
 the well-guarded approach to the ruins, a striking con- 
 trast to Melrose Abbey. We had to leave our carriage 
 at the entrance, a good half mile's walk. 
 
 Dryburgh Abbey seems to have passed through the 
 same fiery ordeals as Melrose Abbey. It was early 
 settled by Christian missionaries, but the abbey was 
 founded in 1150 by Hugo de Morville. His charter 
 was afterward confirmed by David I. The monks of 
 Dryburgh gave their labors not only to the daily de- 
 votions of the church, but to the instruction of the 
 people. The early historians do not claim an earlier 
 date for these buildings than the middle of the twelfth 
 century, and most of them later. This is another high- 
 water mark of King Edward II's ambition to destroy 
 rather than build up; this was accomplished the same 
 year — 1322 — that sealed the fate of Melrose Abbey. 
 After numerous wrecks it was burnt by Richard II 
 in 1385, built up again ready to be wrecked by Lord 
 Hertford, under orders of Henry VIII, in 1545, when he 
 was adding to his sweet revenge on Queen Mary, and 
 so through the years these wrecks have become the stone 
 quarries of the nation. 
 
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SCOTLAND 
 
 Sir Walter Scott, as heir of the Haliburtons of New- 
 mains, was buried in their tomb in Dryburgh Abbey. 
 His tomb is in the open of St. Mary's Chapel. His 
 wife, his eldest son, Walter, and his son-in-law, Lock- 
 hart, are buried there. Mr. Ferguson has pointed 
 out that the north transept, with its two-bayed aisle 
 and its eastern chapel, St. Mary's, in which Sir Walter 
 Scott lies buried, was evidently the finest part of the 
 church. The north transept has one of the most beau- 
 tiful examples of First-pointed architecture anywhere 
 to be found. All that remains is the lovely pointed 
 window at the east end. Nothing can be more beau- 
 tiful than the exquisite proportions of this remaining 
 window. It seems most fitting that the earthly re- 
 mains of Sir Walter should lie here surrounded by the 
 dust of knights and canons, and those of his own loved 
 clan, amid the scenes he has immortalized in song and 
 story. 
 
 While we were wandering through this expanse of 
 church and cloister, going back to the days of romance, 
 forgetting for the moment the desolation surrounding 
 us, I felt a friendly arm thrown around me, and 
 there beside me stood a dear friend from America 
 from whom I had parted in my own loved land a few 
 weeks before. I defy any one taken by surprise under 
 such circumstances for the moment not to have thrown 
 aside all the explanatory traditions of the time and 
 place by the guide and made the most of the luck (for 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 arrangement could not have brought it about) that had 
 brought us face to face, heart to heart, in that foreign 
 land so far from home where we had so much in com- 
 mon; for what did abbey ruins, levelled walls, broken 
 pillars count for as against a few minutes' heart to heart 
 talk with a dear friend among strangers in a strange 
 land? 
 
 We walked out of the ruins of Dryburgh Castle, our 
 carriages leaving together, chatting by the way, and 
 crossing the Tweed with a farewell wave of the hand. 
 They turned toward Edinburgh over the land that we 
 had come, and we toward Durham, old England. 
 
ENGLAND 
 
ENGLAND 
 
 OUR first stop after we left Scotland en route to 
 London was at Durham. We found a city set 
 on seven small hills nearly surrounded by the 
 River Wear. The situation is wonderfully adapted to 
 the carrying out of plans that have made a very attrac- 
 tive city. The houses rise one above the other on these 
 plateaus until they are crowned by its grand cathedral 
 and an ancient Norman castle on the summit of a rocky 
 eminence. This cathedral was what drew us to Dur- 
 ham, our first introduction to the cathedrals of England. 
 It was not disappointing. 
 
 The cathedral was founded in 1093. The predomi- 
 nant style is Norman, but, like most of them, the various 
 additions have changed the styles which prevailed up 
 to the fourteenth century. The Galilee Chapel was 
 built by Bishop Hugh of Puiset in the twelfth century 
 and holds the remains of the venerable Bede; those 
 of St. Cuthbert, patron saint, rest in the Chapel of the 
 Nine Altars. The old Church of St. Nicholas, rebuilt 
 in 1858, is considered to be one of the finest specimens 
 of modern church architecture in the north of England. 
 Opposite the cathedral stands the castle founded by 
 
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 William the Conqueror for the protection of the country 
 from the inroads of the Scots; for many years this was 
 the richest See in England. 
 
 In the vicinity is Neville's Cross, erected by Lord 
 Neville in commemoration of the defeat of David II 
 of Scotland in 1346. There is also the site of a Roman 
 fortress, called the Maiden Castle. 
 
 We had so quietly and quickly crossed the line of 
 demarcation from Scotland over into England that 
 we could hardly appreciate that there ever had existed 
 that high wall of prejudice, religious and political ran- 
 cor, which, strange to say, we find recorded in the his- 
 tories of religious edifices. The story of the abbeys 
 and the cathedrals of the British Isles written on their 
 walls is one of the legacies handed down, and the ques- 
 tion is, which carries the more vital truth, the razed 
 walls of Scotland's abbeys, or the lofty spires of Eng- 
 land's cathedrals, 
 
 Where the pillared arches were over their head 
 And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead; 
 
 where some of her greatest ecclesiastical lights are 
 buried? The venerable Bede, who lies in the Galilee 
 Chapel, a Saxon ecclesiastic, born in Durham, was the 
 earliest historian of England, and it is acknowledged 
 by scholars that his greatest work, "Ecclesiastical 
 History of the English Nation," which occupied him 
 for many years, has remained the best and most trusted 
 
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ENGLAND 
 
 authority on the early period. Some day we shall 
 understand why the ways of the Lord's children took 
 such crooked bypaths to reach the goal of divine love. 
 We know St. Patrick was born, as most people believe, 
 on the Clyde, and St. Columba in Ireland. One began 
 his great missionary work in Ireland, the other at Iona, 
 and thence through Scotland. We are told by some 
 ecclesiastic authors "that the natural result of the 
 Saxon mission was to isolate the British Church from 
 the churches of Europe by a wedge of heathenism," 
 and yet history says Augustine, missionary to Kent, 
 was, in 597, surnamed the Apostle of the Anglo-Saxon, 
 and in 600 he became the first Bishop of Canterbury. 
 
 We are sure the impress of these holy men has been 
 left in old Durham and permeated the community. 
 The Sunday we spent there, June 5th, was literally a 
 day of rest, from which many another place might take 
 lessons. G., one of the four, observingly remarked, 
 "the only activity he had seen in the town was among 
 the milk wagons gathered around the water fountain." 
 
 St. Cuthbert, who is buried in the Chapel of the 
 Nine Altars, was born early in the seventh century. 
 He died March 20, 687. Owing to the prayers of King 
 Egfrid and the Northumbrians, he accepted the Bish- 
 opric of Hexham, but soon exchanged for that of 
 Lindisfarne, but at the end of two years retired, to 
 end his life in his hut in the Isle of Fame. When the 
 Danes arrived, the monks of Lindisfarne bore his relics 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 with them in their flight from place to place, until they 
 found a resting-place on the banks of the Wear, and 
 around his shrine a convent-cathedral and city arose 
 called Dunholme (Durham) . The chief treasure of Dur- 
 ham Cathedral has been the legends and relics of St. Cuth- 
 bert. St. Cuthbert of Durham is to be distinguished 
 from Cuthbert the Benedictine monk who was a pupil of 
 Bede's; another Cuthbert was Archbishop of Canterbury. 
 Now that we have seen and felt the atmosphere of 
 this old cathedral town and its marvellous cathedral, 
 without going into the details — that is, the environ- 
 ment of all cathedrals, yet the picture of it all is on the 
 brain — we shall take it with us through Merrie England, 
 and then to our home overseas. 
 
 York 
 
 The night of June 5th found us in York. For situation 
 we do not wonder that the Romans chose it. Some of the 
 odd walls still remain to remind us of their occupancy. 
 The city, outside of its wonderful cathedral, has much to 
 commend it to the student of the fair cities of the earth. 
 
 York was the seat of the general government during 
 the Roman reign, and we recall that it was here that 
 their Emperors Septimius Severus and Constantius 
 Chlorus died, and that Constantine the Great was here 
 proclaimed emperor by the army. Under the Saxons 
 it was the capital of Northumbria. The Scots and the 
 Danes here joined forces against William the Con- 
 
 [64] 
 
ENGLAND 
 
 queror. The city was then razed and afterward re- 
 built. Fairfax captured York from the Royalists in 
 1644, and in 1688 James II, for its opposition to the 
 arbitary measures of the Crown, took away its charter. 
 York Cathedral is by many considered the finest 
 church in England. We saw many of the fine public 
 buildings, its ancient Gothic Guild Hall, the valuable 
 museum, its numerous charitable institutions. It is a 
 city filled with churches of various denominations, and 
 when we had wandered hours in the cathedral, through 
 nave, transept, choir, and Lady Chapel, we thought of 
 the days when King Edward came to York to his palace 
 in the Pretorians in the Roman fortress and built the 
 little wooden church where Edwin was baptized Easter 
 Day, April 12, 627. Bede tells us this church was made 
 of upright semicircular logs, the trunks of trees cleft 
 in two, the flat surface facing the interior, the roof being 
 thatched — and we compare that description with our 
 present surroundings; the rough places in life had been 
 smoothed out, what was so elementary for centuries 
 had given place to culture, refinement, high art, prog- 
 ress, and we find but one solution : it was the Christian 
 element after all that has dominated this people and 
 brought order out of chaos. 
 
 London 
 
 Marvellous city! We are so familiar with her story 
 that the streets, the circuses, the historic houses, seemed 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUEOPE 
 
 like old friends, and we wandered from point to point 
 ready to give the glad hand to every old comrade we 
 met, and we carried with us something of the spirit of 
 apology to hand out that we had not extended it before 
 to these old acquaintances — Westminster Abbey, House 
 of Parliament, Buckingham Palace, Marlborough 
 House, Hyde Park, etc. No place visited filled our 
 souls with greater satisfaction than did the British 
 Museum. The one thing lacking was the weeks in 
 which we could revel amid these riches. 
 
 Of course, we should not think of giving any sort of 
 resume of what we did see and do in this marvellous 
 place; perhaps one thing more than another that at- 
 tracted us was the wonderful collection in glyptic art 
 and instructive specimens of Scarabea; nowhere have 
 we been privileged to see a broader or fuller representa- 
 tion in both these lines of Eastern art. 
 
 In the picture gallery we stood before kings and 
 queens, and noted literary women and men, especially 
 Sir Christopher Wren, and Sir Peter Lely's paintings of 
 Nell Gwyn, etc. As we stood before the picture of Sir 
 Christopher Wren we could but wonder if he realized 
 that it was the genius of his brain that brought to us, 
 through Major L'Enfant, the radiating streets from our 
 circles that are the glory of our beautiful Capital, Wash- 
 ington, taken from his plan of old London, which even 
 a novice can see to-day. These days in London have 
 started us on an entirely new vein of thought from that 
 
 [66] 
 
ENGLAND 
 
 which enveloped our jaunt through Ireland, Scotland, 
 and northern England. 
 
 The strife, the downfall of one people that another 
 might fill the place; the signs of the rise and fall of 
 clans, kings, queens, and nations; the razed cities, 
 ruined castles, abbeys, cathedrals, with nothing left 
 but broken walls and fallen columns, which are the 
 a, b, c's whereby you can read the story hidden within 
 and form some idea of the centuries of time involved 
 in — shall we call it the moulding of the human race? 
 They leave us with the impression that through time 
 it has been just one eternal strife, and the climax we 
 find in the London of the living present, a magnificent 
 city which, like others, has arisen out of the unforge table 
 past, with all the accumulation of perfected industry 
 and art. 
 
 In passing from point to point, life, in all its activity, 
 is spread out before you. There are open spaces; 
 Trafalgar Square is the dividing line of activities. 
 There are wide streets and narrow side streets; there 
 is Bond Street, Piccadilly, The Strand, Hyde Park, old, 
 old friends. There is the Thames, with its magnificent 
 bridges, its dark waters laden with the world's com- 
 merce; its immensity, its world power, its industries, 
 its commerce, make London by far the most interesting 
 city in the world. It surely is the fruitage of a civili- 
 zation that took root with the Anglo-Saxon race. 
 
 Then came a few days' trip through England by auto. 
 
 [67] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 We left London at 9 :30, and we reached Cambridge at 
 12:30. 
 
 AUTOMOBILING THROUGH ENGLAND 
 
 Having in mind our own country of magnificent 
 distances, where days can come and days can go, and 
 yet the end be not reached, we were not prepared for the 
 surprise that awaited us, that anywhere in Merrie 
 England was within our reach in hours, not days. Our 
 first point of interest was Cambridge. We rode through 
 this ancient town, among the university buildings, and 
 thought of the noted men who have studied there. 
 Chaucer, Bacon, Coke, Harvey, Spencer, Ben Johnson, 
 Milton, Dryden, Newton, Pitt, Byron, and Cromwell 
 stand out before one, and we reverence the place which 
 has helped to ripen the minds of men who have left 
 their impress on the world, and made it that much 
 richer in science and poetry, political economics, and all 
 that helps to make a country great. We lunched at 
 University Arms and called at "Castle Brae" to pay our 
 respects to the noted Biblical students and specialists 
 in old manuscripts, Mrs. Agnes Lewis and sister, Mrs. 
 Gibson, with whom, through the Women's International 
 Press Association, we had had interesting correspond- 
 ence and also contributions to the club relative to the 
 wonderful discoveries made by them and photographs 
 secured by them of rare old manuscripts at the mon- 
 astery at Mount Sinai; among them photographed 
 
 [68] 
 
ENGLAND 
 
 pages of the New Testament, the only copy ever se- 
 cured written in the language in which Christ talked, 
 and which were translated by their husbands, both of 
 whom were professors in the university. This call was 
 one of the bright spots in our trip and left a lasting 
 impression of what the human touch can do to open 
 avenues of new thought, new desires, new aspirations. 
 
 We made Ely that night, and when you have seen 
 the beautiful cathedral you have seen about all of Ely. 
 The bishopric was founded in 1107; the magnificent 
 cathedral was built in successive centuries from 1174 
 to 1534, so you find a mixture of early English styles. 
 A famous convent was built in 670 by Ethelrade, wife 
 of Egfrid, King of Northumberland, and she became 
 its first abbess. It was destroyed by the Danes in 
 870; the microbe of destruction was still in the land. 
 One hundred years later it was rebuilt by Ethelwold, 
 Bishop of Winchester, who placed in it monks instead 
 of nuns. The women evidently were not militant in the 
 days of Ethelwold. 
 
 We rode on to St. Ives, thinking perhaps we should 
 meet the "man with seven wives" and learn how it all 
 happened. St. Ives is an ancient little town, quaint 
 and interesting; we passed Glebe Hall, once the home of 
 Cromwell, but six miles beyond we came to the very 
 ancient Saxon town of Huntington, the birthplace of 
 Cromwell. Every mile was filled with interesting 
 history. The end of the day found us at Leamington, 
 
 [69] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 where we stopped at the Regent's Hotel; the rooms 
 were comfortable, well furnished, and clean. It is a 
 beautiful resort, situated on the River Learn, and has 
 wonderful mineral springs. The surrounding country 
 is charming, and Warwick and Kenilworth and Strat- 
 ford upon Avon are not far away. 
 
 June 10th is memorable, for it introduced us to 
 Kenilworth Castle and to what has been beautiful, 
 though turned to ashes in the hands of the kings. 
 Kenilworth was founded by Geoffrey de Clinton, 
 treasurer to Henry I. Having passed to the Crown, 
 it was bestowed by Henry III on Simon de Montfort, 
 Earl of Leicester; Edward II was prisoner here some 
 time; Edward III bestowed it on John of Gaunt, who 
 built large additions to it. When his son, Henry 
 Bolingbroke, became King it was again vested in the 
 Crown, until Queen Elizabeth bestowed it on her 
 favorite, Dudley of Leicester. Elizabeth visited it 
 several times, last in 1575, which Sir Walter Scott has 
 commemorated in "Kenilworth." The ruins of her 
 apartments are yet visible. The castle was dismantled 
 in the time of Cromwell. It is a sad comment that 
 the march of this conqueror can be traced through 
 Ireland, Scotland, and England by the ruins left in his 
 track. 
 
 Warwick Castle, in all its power and sublimity, is in 
 marked contrast to Kenilworth. There it stands, not 
 a stone razed from the time that Warwick, the maker 
 
 [70] 
 
ENGLAND 
 
 of Kings, had them put in place. Kenilworth shows 
 Cromwell's power as an enemy, and Warwick as having 
 him as a friend at court — one in ruins, the other beau- 
 tiful throughout and to-day the pleasure of the travel- 
 ling world in going over this domain. 
 
 Stratford on Avon 
 
 Shakespeare's home we found as we had pictured it 
 through the years. Ann Hathaway's cottage is near. 
 They say Ann Hath-a-way of her own, and William 
 soon found it out. The facts concerning Shakespeare 
 himself are meagre, and the differences of opinion many. 
 Certain scholars and literary men have produced un- 
 disputable testimony that he had no hand in the writing 
 of his plays, and could not have had, since neither he 
 nor his daughters could read or write. Of one thing 
 we are sure — if he was well paid by Francis Bacon, 
 who feared the wrath of Queen Elizabeth, for the use of 
 his name, and helped out of London with a small pat- 
 rimony of $5,000, it was not his fault that this decep- 
 tion has gone down the ages. Lord Palmerston, John 
 Bright, Prince Bismarck, and hosts of others have con- 
 tended that it was impossible for any man to have 
 written Shakespeare who had not been in touch with 
 the great affairs of state, and intimate with all the 
 social courtesies and refinements which at that time 
 were only to be met with in the highest circles. 
 If there is one person who adheres to the old Shake- 
 
 [71] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 spearian theory, please let him explain one of the ciphers 
 within the Shakespeare play. 
 
 We lunched that day in the picturesque village of 
 Broadway at the Lyngon Arms. We found every 
 room in this quaint little inn filled with old furniture, 
 pictures, and a most interesting collection of old china 
 and pewter. In the village is the picturesque home of 
 Mary Anderson, and not far away is Woodstock, where 
 we come to Blenheim Castle, the seat of the Duke of 
 Marlborough. We were a little too late to enter the 
 grounds, and so made our way toward Oxford, where we 
 arrived in time to take in the important colleges before 
 dinner. After dinner we wandered over the town. 
 Nothing in old England had impressed us more than 
 Oxford and for what it stands and has stood through the 
 centuries. We think of the thousands of men who have 
 studied here whose influence has spread over the world, 
 and the very walls seem sacred. Old England has 
 much to be proud of in her two university and college 
 towns that stand out preeminently as the great ex- 
 amples, and we wonder how much we owe in America 
 to our alma mater, Mother England, for the inheritance 
 brought over the seas and planted in a new land that 
 has made the United States of America in the twentieth 
 century one of the most powerful nations on the globe. 
 Not only did they bring education, culture, business 
 tact, but their religion, from the mother country, and 
 evidently it is a fruitage of a civilization that took root 
 
 [72] 
 
- 
 
ENGLAND 
 
 with the Anglo-Saxon race. We reverently said good- 
 bye to Oxford when our holiday there was over. 
 
 We went on to Henley and lunched at one of the 
 beautiful by-spots of England, and then on to glorious 
 Windsor, not noted for the beheading of any of England's 
 kings or queens, for which let us give thanks, but inter- 
 esting in the extreme from the days of William the 
 Conqueror, who purchased it from the monks of West- 
 minster, and extended by Henry I, Henry II, and 
 Edward III. Windsor was a residence of the Saxon 
 kings before the Norman Conquest, but the present 
 castle was founded by William the Conqueror and 
 almost rebuilt by Edward III, and since has undergone 
 several changes. In the royal vault connected with 
 the chapel are interred the remains of Henry VI, Ed- 
 ward IV and his Queen, Henry VIII and Jane Seymour, 
 Charles I, George III and his Queen, George IV, the 
 Princess Charlotte, the Duke of Kent, the Duke of 
 York, William IV and his Queen. In the round tower 
 James I of Scotland was confined. Here is the last 
 resting-place of King Edward VII. His casket had 
 been placed in the open vault visible to all visitors a 
 few days prior to our visit. We entered by the Henry 
 VIII gate, saw all of the state rooms, and the garden 
 where Eleanor lost her garter at an evening fete — hence 
 the Order of the Garter. 
 
 From the castle you have a charming view of Eton 
 College. This was finished by Edward VI. 
 
 [73] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 We reached our hotel, the Langham, in London^ 
 before dark. Our days in the automobile had passed 
 like a beautiful dream; more and more do we feel that 
 Mother England has a strong hold on our heartstrings. 
 
 After church the following Sunday we did what most 
 English people do : took our recreation by riding through 
 Hyde Park, Kensington, and on to Hampton Court, 
 the palace of Cardinal Woolsey and the residence of 
 many bygone kings. It was founded by Cardinal 
 Woolsey in 1515 and afterward purchased by Henry 
 VIII. In going out we went through beautiful "Bushey 
 Park," full of pleasant rural scenes. "Hampton 
 Court " is about twelve miles from Charing Cross. Out- 
 wardly it is one of the most comfortable looking buildings, 
 it has charming surroundings, on the Thames, beau- 
 tiful gardens — nothing more beautiful in all England — 
 but the interior is a series of rooms turned into picture 
 galleries, and tapestries galore, but without any earthly 
 hint that it ever could have been a home for the living. 
 
 While in London we had a ride on the top of a bus to 
 London Bridge, taking in many historic spots along 
 the way. The days of the literati were brought very 
 near from Chaucer down. We realized that we were 
 in the selfsame streets where Dickens, Wordsworth, 
 Browning, Shelley, Keats, Milton, and Charles Lamb 
 looked through their windows out upon the passing 
 public. The very doorways seemed haunted, and we 
 felt that if we waited but a little their familiar forms 
 
 [74] 
 
ENGLAND 
 
 would step out. Over all there is a gloom, for "passed 
 away" is written and rewritten in London, yet it seems 
 nearer to us than any of the other cities of the world; 
 we can't help feeling that blood is thicker than water, 
 notwithstanding Mother England felt it in her heart to 
 give her children a good chastising when they left home 
 and set up housekeeping for themselves. 
 
 To-night we leave the British Isles and old London, 
 where we have passed wondrous days since May 8th, 
 when we landed in Queenstown. We cross the North 
 Sea and pay our respects to Holland in memory of our 
 ancestors. 
 
 [75 1 
 
HOLLAND 
 
HOLLAND 
 
 IT WAS while crossing the North Sea that our 
 "Master" G. first called his "class" together. 
 The others of the quartette were held to give strict 
 account of what they had seen and remembered in their 
 sojourn through the British Isles, and when the "Mas- 
 ter" G. said, "Well done! good and faithful students," 
 we went to our rest assured of what would be expected of 
 us throughout our trip. A comfortable night trip landed 
 us at the Hook of Holland; at five o'clock in the morning 
 we took a train by way of Dell Haven and Rotterdam 
 for The Hague. While ini Holland we made our head- 
 quarters at the Old Doelen, and without hesitation we 
 can say it was one of the most comfortable hotels we had 
 found. Everybody connected with the house was polite 
 and gracious, and the table could not be surpassed. 
 
 Our first outing was to make for the "House in the 
 Woods." The pleasant and beautiful drive we shall 
 not forget. We were drawn here because there was 
 where the first Peace Congress was held. This is the 
 palace of the Queen. We were taken from room to 
 room. It was one of the homes of royalty where you 
 felt that there were some rooms in which one could 
 
 [79] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 settle down and have some perception of a home feeling. 
 It surely was with reverence that we entered the room 
 where the Peace Congress was held. The second Peace 
 Congress was held in Parliament House, which we vis- 
 ited also. 
 
 One of our morning trips took us to Knights Hall, 
 where the Fisheries Arbitration was going on. Mr. 
 Elihu Root was representing the United States. We 
 met his secretary and we all enjoyed a chat and a little 
 touch of home. 
 
 One of our side trips took us to Amsterdam. We 
 knew that the national industry and thrift of Holland 
 reached its limit in Amsterdam, and to Amsterdam we 
 took our way. They tell us it is built on one hundred 
 islands artificially made by the network of canals which 
 are spanned by scores of bridges. Many of the most 
 famous paintings of the world are to be found in Ryk's 
 Museum. Her national and municipal museums are 
 world-famed. And why not? So many of the great 
 artists of the world owe their birth to Holland. The 
 Amsterdam Stock Exchange is a power in international 
 finance; and her banks rank among the most important 
 financial institutions of the world. 
 
 The House of Orange is one of the most attractive 
 gems of Holland, and no cathedral in Europe surpasses 
 the cathedral at Amsterdam in magnificence. Its 
 Zoological Gardens, it is said, have no superior in the 
 world. And so the hours were overfilled until we took 
 
 [80] 
 
HOLLAND 
 
 our way on to Marken, a quaint and curious old island 
 town in the Zuyder Zee. We took a small boat for 
 ten minutes, a tram for ten minutes, and then the boat 
 on the Zuyder for the island, a half -hour's sail. As we 
 were gliding over the waters, my mind wandered back 
 to my childhood and my geography lessons, when my 
 father would give me a small coin if I would find that 
 curious far-away sea, the "Zuyder Zee," and now I was 
 really sailing over its crooked waters. On the island 
 we found one of the "dead cities" of the Zuyder — 
 because of no progress, no improvement. The great 
 attraction of the island is the native costumes of the 
 people. The boys and girls dress alike until they are 
 five years old. Up to that time they are distinguished 
 by the boys wearing a button rosette on their caps. 
 Their primitive homes are models of cleanliness, unique 
 in the extreme, yet you get the impression of their 
 having been fixed to show and not to live in. That does 
 not matter so long as you get the picture of long ago 
 brought down to modern times. The old delft and 
 brasses that shone like bottles made you willing to open 
 your pursestrings. 
 
 "No, no, not for sale," was the answer. 
 
 Volendam is easily reached by steamer, and has the 
 same typical types; Edam is a little north; Monniken- 
 dam was once an important city; Broek (pronounced 
 Brook) is also very interesting. In all these "dams" 
 we saw them making the Edam cheese. 
 
 [81] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 Our great desire was to see where the old fascinating 
 delft ware is made, but we knew, and were told again, 
 that the secrets of these old potteries in Europe were so 
 well guarded that visitors are not allowed a look, and 
 we also knew that many have preferred to die taking 
 their secrets with them rather than divulge the methods, 
 but we were allowed the privilege of seeing a fine col- 
 lection at the salesrooms. 
 
 But Delfshaven itself is full of history in which every 
 American Anglo-Saxon must always take the deepest 
 interest. The old church where the Pilgrim Fathers 
 held their last prayer meeting, the harbor from whence 
 the Mayflower with the Pilgrims on board sailed in 
 1620; the house at Ley den where the John Robinson 
 lived who prompted the Pilgrim Fathers to settle in 
 New England; the stone in St. Peter's Church at Ley- 
 den in his memory placed there by the Congregational 
 Churches of America, all tended to make history no 
 longer a myth but a reality. 
 
 One of our trips out from The Hague was at Scheven- 
 ingen, the show watering place of Holland, once a fish- 
 ing village situated on the North Sea, three miles north- 
 west of The Hague. It is a favorite resort for artists, 
 and certain times of the year a rendezvous for royalty 
 and all that follows in its wake; interesting and fas- 
 cinating in the extreme when you compare the quaint 
 natives of Marken with the fashionables that congre- 
 gate in Scheveningen. 
 
MUNICH 
 
MUNICH 
 
 OUR trip up the Rhine took us to Cologne in time 
 to see the town and the cathedral. Our one 
 joy in the museum was to see the world-wide 
 noted painting of Queen Louise. 
 
 The romantic Rhine with its historic castles brought 
 its delight. We could imagine Charlemagne in all his 
 glory, marching or walking before us, but we must add 
 that the much-sung Rhine cannot compare as a river 
 with our glorious Hudson. Its mountain fastnesses 
 and battered castles give it its glory. An all-night ride 
 brought us to Munich. We were in the land of old 
 Bavaria, and we would add for the comfort of others 
 who may take this route, no more comfortable sleeping 
 cars can be found than on this line. We were recom- 
 mended to the (Jahreszeiten) "The Four Seasons" 
 Hotel on Maximilian Street. Yes, we surely were in 
 a strange land; the very nomenclature of the streets 
 told us that. 
 
 Munich, a city celebrated for its architectural splen- 
 dor, for its admirable institutions, its university and 
 works of art, held out its hand laden with riches for our 
 entertainment. We spent our days visiting palaces, 
 
 [85] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 museums, gardens. The Sunday following our arrival 
 we were informed by the proprietor of the hotel that 
 the Ludwig monument would be unveiled that day. 
 The procession passed the hotel headed by the Prince 
 Regent, who takes the place of King Otto, who is by 
 far more of a madman than was his brother King Lud- 
 wig. The statue was unveiled by the Prince with 
 great ceremony. Crowds upon crowds were there, 
 showing that to-day Ludwig's memory is held in re- 
 membrance by a grateful people, who do not forget 
 how much he did for the welfare and upbuilding of his 
 kingdom and beautifying that part of this world over 
 which he had control. If he was as crazy as they say, 
 which many doubt, more's the pity that some other 
 rulers have not a taint in their blood that would make 
 for the betterment of their kingdoms. As the mag- 
 nificent bands of Munich were filling the air with the 
 music Ludwig so much loved, we gave thanks that mel- 
 ody had no dialect. 
 
 We have been forcibly reminded in our travels in 
 Europe of the misrepresentation by comparison of 
 American women with foreign women, especially the 
 American voice. We have always read of the high- 
 pitched American voice. Our experience was, and we 
 made it a tested point on several occasions, that if you 
 came upon a low- voiced party in railway or on the high- 
 ways they were invariably Americans. We were es- 
 pecially struck with this in Munich. We heard so 
 
 [86] 
 
MUNICH 
 
 much of the loud, high-pitched "ja ja" that we longed 
 to listen to the low, refined sound of a gentle "y e s." 
 And the German men! What shall we say of them? 
 We never went into a crowd that G. did not return ex- 
 hausted with his efforts to protect those in his care from 
 the uncouth, ungentlemanly behavior of the native 
 men. It was not an isolated case that they would 
 elbow their way through a crowd, separating a lady 
 from her escort. The majority of the men expect the 
 women to make way for them. 
 
 One of our trips with our friends the R.'s of New York 
 was to the Baths of Kreuth, sixty miles away, situated 
 in one of the most picturesque spots among the Bavarian 
 Alps. It is a most attractive place and our first look 
 upon the Alps. G. was testing the chauffeur who had 
 been engaged in New York for a four weeks' trip. Ex- 
 plicit orders had been given that fast driving would 
 not be allowed, as we wished to see the country, not 
 whirled through. The chauffeur made the sixty miles 
 in one hour. G. very quietly said : 
 
 "Please send me another chauffeur in the morning." 
 
 Perhaps there is nothing cheers the heart like meeting 
 old friends in a foreign land, and when the card of an 
 old and dear friend, Mrs. B. from Washington, was 
 sent up to me in the hotel, it was joy enough for one 
 day. 
 
 The next day we finished our stay, riding over the 
 city and surrounding country in an automobile, and 
 
 [87] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 bringing up at the Exposition Cafe for dinner. For a 
 time we all forgot that we were so far from home; the 
 place itself, the permanent exhibit, the marvellous 
 tapestry — we never expect to see the like again — the 
 entrancing music, altogether made it seem like fairy- 
 land. We parted that night to meet Mrs. B. again in 
 Oberammergau . 
 
 The Bavarian Royal Castles of Ludwig 
 Oberammergau and the Passion Play 
 
 We had been in Munich quite a week, when on June 
 27th we left our hotel, the Four Seasons, en route by 
 automobile to Oberammergau by way of the Neusch- 
 wanstein, one of the most beautiful and wonderful 
 creations of the so-called crazy Ludwig II. Our trip 
 took us through the picturesque Bavarian frontier 
 town of Fussen, reaching our hotel for luncheon at the 
 foot of the mountains; then the walk up the winding 
 way, the view widening, the scenery more and more 
 grand, until we passed the bridge and were in front of 
 this wonder of wonders, this fairy stronghold, the 
 Neuschwanstein. It is built in medieval style, stand- 
 ing on a rock like the eyrie of an eagle. It has many 
 towers and turrets, pillars and terraces, which, when 
 seen from a distance, give it a most delicate appearance. 
 The ponderous, substantial stonework is subdued and 
 rises fairy-like into the light-blue ether. It is five 
 stories high; the gateway stands prominently forward, 
 
 [88] 
 
£ 
 
 y< 
 
MUNICH 
 
 with the watch tower, and behind it the whole castle 
 premises, with the palace and knights' house at the 
 west, the ladies bower and chapel in the east; over it 
 the defence tower sixty-five meters high. 
 
 The interior shows the spell Wagner and his music 
 held over this supersensitive King; legend and romance 
 must now stand realized before him. Wherever we 
 turn the Knight of the Swan meets us. The story of 
 Tannhauser is depicted in his study; the curtains, pic- 
 tures, and furniture are gold embroidered on green silk; 
 and these emblems are likewise carried out on the 
 writing material and blotting book. The chandeliers 
 are borne by swans, the portfolios are richly adorned 
 with precious stones and contain water-color drawings 
 that tell the story of the Swan Knight. An artificial 
 stalactite grotto adjoins the living-room, and in this 
 room the Lohengrin legend in varied scenes carries 
 out the story in Wagner's opera. These were thought 
 out by the King with his artists. On every piece of 
 furniture we again meet the Swan King with his swan. 
 From every corner of the throne room cupids are peer- 
 ing out. The gallery is supported by sixteen reddish 
 porphyry pillars upon which light-blue pillars support- 
 ing a second gallery are raised. The whole room is 
 furnished in Byzantine style. The concert hall is a 
 wonder to look at; mighty chandeliers and numerous 
 candelabra are there for illumination. The wall paint- 
 ings represent the Percival legends. At one end is the 
 
 [89] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 place for the orchestra, a dias supported by pillars; 
 another at the opposite end is for the King and his royal 
 guests; but this hall was never used for the purpose for 
 which it was made. The King, who always turned 
 night into day, used to pass his time in this room alone. 
 Sometimes he would have the whole building illumi- 
 nated, when he would hie himself to "St. Mary's bridge," 
 that spans the glen above, and view this wonderful 
 creation in brilliancy rising up out of the depths and 
 the darkness. His bedroom was finished in the same 
 gorgeous golden glitter, the ceiling painted in the form 
 of an arbor overgrown with vines; in the chandeliers, 
 the tables, in the embroideries, curtains, carpets, pea- 
 cocks and swans predominate. 
 
 The bay window is devoted to Hans Sachs and the 
 life of the people of Nuremberg. The private chapel is 
 out of this room. The paintings illustrate the life 
 of Ludwig the Pious, the King's patron saint, Ludwig 
 I. The love of Tristan and Isolde adorn the bedroom, 
 which is a marvel in its luxury, all in the same heavy 
 gold ornamentation style. The dining-room was rep- 
 resented by pictures of the Menne singers; shiny and 
 glittering in gold were all the appointments. A room 
 large and sumptuous enough to entertain the lords and 
 kings of all the kingdoms contained but one small din- 
 ing table, which stood in the centre on a movable plat- 
 form, and would sink out of sight by the touch of a 
 button, be supplied and sent back without attendants, 
 
 [90 1 
 
MUNICH 
 
 so that the King could eat his meals without the dis- 
 turbing atmosphere of mortals around him. 
 
 Nature has provided the most striking of backgrounds 
 for this great phantasmagoria. On one side is a deep 
 circular valley; a swift mountain stream, the Pallot, 
 comes tumbling down from above where the mountains, 
 snow-capped, rise above; across the gorge the fairy- 
 like bridge seems to be hanging in the air. As we 
 stepped out on to the balcony from the King's dressing- 
 room, after having passed through and seen the effort 
 of man to eclipse the world in grandeur, we looked up to 
 the marvellous work of the Creator before us and we 
 could but exclaim, "And yet how the handiwork of God 
 belittles the best effort of man." 
 
 We left this fairy dream of a fantastic King with 
 beautiful pictures photographed on our brain and took 
 up our way toward Oberammergau, leaving its hand- 
 maiden, Hohen-Schwanzen, under its shadow, where it 
 has stood since the days of Maximilian II, the father 
 of the unhappy Ludwig, and for a long time the home 
 of the widowed Queen of Bavaria. 
 
 Again we passed through the old Bavarian town of 
 Fussen, with its interesting old castle of Bischofsburg. 
 The road we followed was crowned on the right and 
 left with beautiful landscape scenery. When we reached 
 the valley of the Ammer we soon saw the havoc the 
 recent floods had made, but bridge after bridge that 
 had been swept away had been quickly replaced, and 
 
 [91] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 our careful chauffeur had no difficulty Jn piloting us 
 safely over these troubled waters. 
 
 On entering the village of Oberarumergau one's eyes 
 are first attracted to Mount Kofel, the highest mountain, 
 on whose uppermost peak stands a cross, at once the 
 indicator to the world's passing troop of mortals who 
 are flocking to this Mecca what the great lesson is to 
 be taught by this Bavarian peasantry. 
 
 We wound our way carefully through the crooked 
 ways, for streets, strictly speaking, are not known; the 
 homes are known by numbers, houses set down here, 
 there, everywhere, and anywhere, almost without form 
 or comeliness. 
 
 The Oberammergauers have not only retained the 
 traditions of their ancestors, but life goes on just the 
 same as in the shadowy past when the Bavarian high- 
 lander and the Tyrolese peasant had their folk plays 
 and religious dramas, which were a part of their simple 
 lives. We find a village without form, and I might say 
 comeliness, but fascinating in its traditional ugliness. 
 
 After many turns and windings of our machine, which 
 seemed almost as much out of place as the veritable 
 "bull in a china shop," we brought up at the home of 
 William Lang, who is known among the brethren as 
 "Nicodemus." How simple, how restful, it all seemed! 
 The faces of father, mother, and children wore the ex- 
 pression of contentment, satisfaction, happiness. This 
 plain but hospitable home was the perfection of clean- 
 
 [92] 
 
MUNICH 
 
 liness and good cheer. The table was a reflection of an 
 orderly household. After luncheon we took a landau 
 for Linderhof . Automobiles are not allowed over this 
 royal road. We were soon passing beside the Ammer 
 River through the ancient monastery Ettal, then along 
 the great industrial part of this community, the lumber 
 district. Logs which had been successfully toted down 
 the mountainsides lay along the roadside for miles: 
 here was their material for house building, and, more, 
 the material for the wood carvers of Oberammergau, 
 one of the great industries of the district. All was a new 
 phase of life to us. Soon we were climbing into the 
 lonesomeness of the forest where King Ludwig in his 
 later life spent his days away from the haunts of men; 
 and again we came upon another of the wonderful cre- 
 ations of an imaginative brain, the Linderhof. 
 
 This gem set among the green hills, a production of 
 the best sculptors, the best artists, and embracing the 
 fulfilment of an imagination that was boundless, called 
 up the spirits of an age passed by in which he sought to 
 give them new life in this wondrous environment, 
 which it seems was so much more desirable to him than 
 the social environment of his own time. He forgot his 
 mission in the world, his duty to his country, but was far 
 happier in a world of his own creation and alone and 
 apart from all alliance or partnership with the world. 
 
 If there is any strong indication that would sustain 
 the Bavarian Government in their verdict, it is that he 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 was lost to all responsibility toward his people, and lived 
 entirely for self -gratification. But while he plunged 
 deeply into debt, with no outlook of cancelling obliga- 
 tions, and had even contracted for another castle to 
 excel all others, when the government felt the time had 
 come to step in, the world knows the result : poor Lud- 
 wig could not stand the humiliation of being dethroned ; 
 despair was the fortune that he had inherited. He was 
 placed in confinement in the Chateau of Berg on Lake 
 Starnberg, attended by his physician Dr. von Gudden, 
 and all know the result: the dead bodies of both were 
 found floating in the lake. The real facts of this drama 
 will never be known. One truth stands out, that poor 
 Ludwig II, King of Bavaria, left to his kingdom a 
 bonanza in these two castles, for we were credibly in- 
 formed that long since the heavy debt Ludwig left has 
 been paid out of the entrance receipts, and the state 
 coffers are still being filled. 
 
 The exterior of the chateau is in rococo style, two 
 stories, the fagade richly decorated in figures. In the 
 magnificent setting of terraces, fountains, grottoes, 
 there is a bronze equestrian figure of Louis XIV. The 
 ceilings of the chateau and wall paintings glorify Louis 
 XIV and Louis XV, and rooms are also found for the 
 portraits of Mme. de Pompadour and of Mme. Du 
 Barry. There are statuettes of the two kings and of 
 Marie Antoinette, and clocks, gobelins, candelabra, 
 medallions, vases, etc. — extravagance everywhere in 
 
 [94] 
 
MUNICH 
 
 the overwhelming gold finish of ceilings and walls and 
 royal purples. The dining-room has the same sumptu- 
 ous furnishings as the New Schwanstein, and the same 
 distaste for company is apparent in the disappearing 
 table. It is said the interior decorations cost many 
 million marks, and that it was built as a Petit Trianon 
 in the style of the well-known building at Versailles 
 where Marie Antoinette spent much of her time. In 
 short, Ludwig II's royal chateaus have become schools 
 of art, for everything from the keys to statues have 
 been made in the best manner. In all the "merry-go- 
 round" through these castles, room after room, with 
 their high ornamentation of gold and glitter, we some- 
 times long for a look into one with subdued, soft, restful 
 coloring. 
 
 We turned our faces again toward Oberammergau, 
 over the same road Ludwig had prepared, even in 
 summer, with snow brought from the mountains, packed 
 hard that he might take his midnight rides in gorgeous 
 state, with his four white steeds and gayly caparisoned 
 outriders. 
 
 On the road we came across several boys whose long 
 hair and bright happy faces told us they were wending 
 their way to the village to be ready for the morning to 
 take their role in the Passion Play of 1910. Some of 
 them perhaps, in the years to come, will fill the role of 
 the Christus or Herod or Nicodemus or some other 
 leading part, for all have the hope and the inspiration 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 of some day being among the chosen ones. We shall 
 not forget one little bright face looking up to us as he 
 was trudging on. When G. asked him if he would like 
 to ride, a sweet smile covered his face, and the pressure 
 of the little hand in token of his gratitude was more 
 than words when he left us in the village. 
 
 The Passion Play 
 
 At an early hour on June 29, 1910, we had break- 
 fasted and were waiting for the signal, the firing of 
 cannon at the foot of Mount Kofel. At half -past seven 
 the signal boom echoed from mountain to mountain 
 and through this happy valley, announcing that the 
 hour had come for the assembling of the multitude in 
 the great auditorium. As we proceeded on our way a 
 strange sight was before and around us. The people 
 were coming from every direction in throngs; it seemed 
 as though every nationality in the wide world was there 
 represented; assuredly there was a babel of tongues. 
 With quiet and subdued dignity they wended their 
 way toward the coming scenes of the religious play. By 
 eight o'clock every one of the eight thousand seats was 
 filled, and quiet reigned — so still, so impressive — we 
 were waiting for the revelations to come of which we 
 had heard so often and were now to see face to face. 
 The question uppermost in our hearts was, what will 
 be the effect on this assemblage and on ourselves? We 
 must wait and see. 
 
 [96] 
 
MUNICH 
 
 Before us at the end of the great building which 
 covered this assembly is an open space that gives an 
 outlook to the blue sky above. At the end of the 
 auditorium proper is the orchestra in sunken seats, and 
 not visible to the audience. Beyond is the platform 
 and great stage outside. The stage proper is closed 
 by a curtain, and is covered overhead and has movable 
 scenery. On the right and left are narrow houses with 
 balconies, which adjoin the central stage; on the left 
 Pilate's house, on the right that of the High Priest 
 Annas. Next to these buildings are two open arched 
 gates which afford a view into the town of Jerusalem; 
 in front of all is the fore stage, which is of size to hold 
 the large chorus. 
 
 In anxious, almost nervous, expectation we sit and 
 wait. Then come the solemn notes of the orchestra, 
 and while listening, in measured procession from either 
 side the chorus marches in with solemn tread; at the 
 same time the curtain rises on the first tableau, "The 
 Banishment of Adam and Eve from the Garden of 
 Eden." This is a picture of still life. The curtain 
 falls, rises again, another tableau is before us, "The 
 Adoration of the Cross." There are four figures kneel- 
 ing at prayer, young children are most artistically 
 posed — the tableau is perfect. 
 
 After the curtain falls the chorus in wonderful har- 
 mony implores the audience to follow the struggle of 
 the world's Redeemer. Now begins the drama proper 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 with the entry of Christ into Jerusalem; the sound of 
 happy voices is heard, which soon assumes the tone of 
 a hymn of praise. The curtain rises and a wonder of 
 wonders is before us: from every direction through the 
 streets of Jerusalem the crowd of people come pouring 
 in; men, women, and children appear with palm branches 
 in their hands; they stretch abroad the large stage — 
 they are in the porches, the colonnades, every space is 
 occupied. Five hundred men, women, and children 
 are singing and waving palm branches. Every figure 
 is posed to fill a certain place. Never has it been our 
 good fortune to see such perfection on the stage, never 
 such abundant harmony of color; not a discordant tone 
 in all this gorgeous display of these costumes of oriental 
 dress and coloring. 
 
 The Saviour appears amid hosannahs, riding upon 
 an ass, clad in pale violet raiment and red mantle. He 
 dismounts as He reaches the middle of the stage; every 
 movement is natural and unaffected, and the whole 
 bearing is devout. A great hush pervades the audi- 
 ence. There the Christ, in form and figure made 
 familiar to us in painting and statue, stood before us, 
 seemingly a living personality, with the long flowing 
 hair, the same chiselled features, tenderness of expres- 
 sion, consummate sadness, the same that we have car- 
 ried through life in mental picture — there standing 
 before us was the human Christ! 
 
 At first there was perhaps a shock that a human 
 
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MUNICH 
 
 personality should dare to try to carry out this role, 
 and yet, on second thought, all we know of the form or 
 features of Christ has been through art; some one dared 
 to give His material reflection to the world, and we 
 through the ages have learned to look upon that face 
 as divine. Never will this picture fade from our minds 
 of this city of Jerusalem, of this marvellous blending of 
 color among the moving populace, of the waving of 
 palm branches, and Christ in the midst of them; to our 
 spiritual sense we were in Jerusalem. 
 
 The first act lasts until Christ has been betrayed by 
 Judas and been taken prisoner. 
 
 After the curtain of the central stage has fallen and 
 risen again, the porch of the temple is seen, and in it 
 sits the money changers, and the hawkers with their 
 lambs and doves for sale for the coming sacrificial 
 Passover. Christ enters into their midst; until now His 
 voice has not been heard — but now, in stern accent, 
 He menaces them for their worldliness, He upsets their 
 table, and after the tradesmen and the scribes have 
 ended their violent altercation, and Christ has appealed 
 to the people who were with Him, He takes a rope and 
 twists it into a scourge and drives the hawkers out of 
 the temple. The doves are set free and fly away, some 
 of them soaring above the heads of the spectators up 
 toward the blue heavens. 
 
 Thus begins the Passion Play at Oberammergau, with 
 Anton Lang the spiritual and material manifestation of 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 Christ at Jerusalem. We were told authentically that 
 Ludwig Lang, a wood carver of Oberammergau, Direc- 
 tor of the Wood Carving School, is the artist who de- 
 signed every one of these five hundred costumes, and 
 that it is his sister Josepha who cut them out from her 
 brother's drawings, to be made by the women of Oberam- 
 mergau from stuffs brought from the Orient. When we 
 are told that it is Ludwig Lang who is the moving 
 genius behind the scenes, who is director of the play, 
 we feel almost like imploring the manager of the 
 theatrical artist whose late criticism of the Passion 
 Play seems so unjust because so untrue, to go to Oberam- 
 mergau, become a wood carver, take his lessons of 
 histrionic art of Ludwig Lang; he will find among the 
 things he did not know that no "Vienna artist" could 
 be stage manager at Oberammergau. Perhaps when 
 it is well known that the folk drama of Bavaria is as 
 old as humanity itself, that plays have been a part of 
 their uneventful lives for ages, that it has been a fea- 
 ture of German civilization for centuries, that Bavaria 
 has led all other nations in her continued passion for 
 the drama, that above all places Oberammergau with 
 its environment has and is the only spot where the 
 great Passion Play could or should have found lodg- 
 ment, the only place where its sacredness could be 
 protected, where commercialism does not enter, the 
 only place where the personification of the Christ would 
 be tolerated, the world will know and accept the story 
 
 [100] 
 
MUNICH 
 
 of this simple, earnest people, that the story of the 
 Passion Play with all its historic truths exemplified will 
 live when other great tragedies will be known only in 
 tradition. 
 
 The next living picture represents the sons of Jacob 
 taking council over the fate of their brother Joseph, 
 and the next represents the priests and scribes discuss- 
 ing whether Jesus shall be put to death. Annas and 
 Caiaphas, the former robed in white, the latter in red, 
 each wearing a priest's high golden cap, and hawkers, 
 Pharisees, Romans, high priests, saints, and angels 
 are in bitter council against this Galilean, who to them 
 threatens the overthrow of the religion of their fathers. 
 It comes to us in the Bavarian dialect, and they ef- 
 fectually make it a realization that all this happened in 
 Jerusalem centuries ago, as now it is again the living 
 breathing reality in Oberammergau. 
 
 The next scenes — Tobias taking leave of his parents, 
 and the bride in the Song of Solomon mourning over 
 the loss of her bridegroom — lead the audience up to the 
 affecting scene when Christ takes leave of His beloved 
 disciples, and in the next scene His parting with His 
 mother. The sympathetic love of a son for his mother 
 is truthfully exemplified and in such masterly force and 
 touching tenderness that every mother's heart takes 
 courage, that the great example in the direst hour of His 
 life did cling to and was cognizant of a mother's sym- 
 pathy and love. 
 
 [101] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 "Thou wilt, dear mother, suffer with me; thou wilt 
 combat with me my death, and with me shalt thou 
 celebrate the victory; therefore be comforted!" 
 
 The fifth group of tableau is " Christ giving the people 
 of Israel manna, the bread of Heaven, and the grapes 
 from the land of Canaan, typifying the bread and wine 
 of the new covenant." 
 
 Throughout all these changes of scenes and figures 
 the music has been in keeping with every poetic move- 
 ment. The orchestra, with the chorus in soft intona- 
 tions, one moment is telling the wondrous story of the 
 past in such simple melodious passages that the soul is 
 thrilled, and then, rising to the full orchestral effect 
 of a grand achievement, we are told of a new life and 
 a new heaven. 
 
 The next scene is most familiar, "The Last Supper," 
 which is the exact copy of the picture of Leonardo da 
 Vinci. We shrink from trying to depict the pathos of 
 this thrilling moment: Christ, with the dignity that 
 has become a part of his character, is seated at the 
 table with his twelve apostles by his side carefully posed 
 in trios, making a perfect balance of the picture, as 
 in the original. Jesus rises from the table, girds him- 
 self with a towel preparatory to washing the feet of His 
 disciples; slowly but with dignified grace he passes 
 from one to another, kneeling before each, performing 
 the lowly act of a servant, and in loving benediction 
 gives unto each the baptism of His holy spirit. When 
 
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MUNICH 
 
 the last disciple has been served He returns to His seat 
 at the table. "He broke bread and blessed the cup." 
 There is nothing to distract attention from the pathos 
 of this thrilling moment, when Jesus, with outstretched 
 arms, with a face full of suffering, betrays the knowledge 
 of the awful doom awaiting him by the simple sentence, 
 "One of you shall betray me." At the thrill of horror 
 which runs through the listeners at these terrible words 
 the character of each apostle is brought out : the loving 
 hearted John leans toward Jesus with a gesture of 
 sorrow, while the impetuous St. Peter whispers in his 
 ear, and the treacherous Judas, grasping the money 
 bag in his hand, tips over the salt with his elbow, thus 
 originating the well-known superstition, and all the 
 other disciples show characteristically the shock Jesus' 
 words have given them. When he passes the bread and 
 gives the cup, the silence in that great audience gives 
 solemnity to this sacred scene. 
 
 In the sixth scene Judas is taking the thirty pieces of 
 silver, then in the tableau we see Adam eating bread 
 by the sweat of his brow, and Jesus shedding bloody 
 sweat when praying on the Mount of Olives. 
 
 Then follows the taking of Jesus prisoner, the judg- 
 ment of Christ before the tribunal, St. Peter's denial, 
 the despair and suicide of Judas, and the realistic scene 
 of the excitement among the throng of people stirred 
 up by the priests when Pilate and Herod send Jesus 
 away. All these scenes have been acted with the 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 greatest detail, with great accuracy and consummate 
 naturalness. 
 
 We cannot call Anton Lang an actor; he is the living 
 embodiment of Christ to us. The only great actor is 
 Johann Zwink, the Judas. With supreme compassion 
 more than one in this audience followed him with pity 
 in their hearts. Many questions are beyond us to 
 answer. Some one must betray the Master to carry out 
 prophecy. Any one who has ever read the story of the 
 other Judas, or "Give Him a Chance," can but ask, 
 was that sacrifice also made for us? — one who had 
 implicit confidence in Christ's power and was disap- 
 pointed ! As link by link Judas was being led on through 
 the human meshes, little by little, and finally succumb- 
 ing to a sordid temptation, a gentleman sitting in front 
 of us for some time had been quietly brushing the tears 
 away, but when the climax came he buried his face in 
 his handkerchief and sobbed. To many this was the 
 climax in the play. 
 
 The noon hour had come; for four hours this audience 
 had sat there spellbound. As they quietly passed out 
 of the building hardly a face but showed the intense 
 emotions that had held them; all going to their quiet, 
 peaceful little homes, to be served at the dinner in many 
 cases by the actors in this wonderful drama. 
 
 Personally, the climax had been reached. Nothing 
 could stir the heart and soul beyond the experiences of 
 the morning. We had been told that there came a 
 
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MUNICH 
 
 time in the afternoon before the most tragic part came 
 on, for those who chose to leave to do so. 
 
 We next see Jesus on His way to Golgotha, bending, 
 staggering, faltering under the weight of the cross He 
 is carrying. Through the howling mob Mary, Mother 
 of Jesus, catches a glimpse of Him and recognizes her 
 Son. The cry that goes out from that wrenched soul 
 strikes to the heart of every listener, as the Son is being 
 prodded on by the soldiers. His last look rests ten- 
 derly on his mother, who is being supported by her 
 women friends and the beloved John. The curtain 
 again rises; you see the two thieves hanging there, and 
 Christ being nailed to the Cross. 
 
 The scene that follows in all its artistic magnitude — 
 the suffering countenance, the human cry to the heav- 
 enly Father for help, the earthly form stretched out 
 upon the cross, the bowed head, the parting of his gar- 
 ments among the soldiers, the last words, "It is 
 finished; Father, into Thy hands I commend my 
 spirit" — has left the audience at the climax of endur- 
 ance. 
 
 The tenderness with which Nicodemus and Joseph of 
 Arimathea take the body of their dead Lord in their 
 arms, with Mary the mother and John and others gazing 
 wistfully upward ready to receive the mortal part of 
 the man they loved — the descent from the Cross — has 
 left a picture in the mind that will never be effaced. 
 
 Then followed the burial and the scene at the grave, 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 and Christ's reappearance in the garden, and then the 
 symbolic glorification — the final scene that of the ascen- 
 sion — a climax to this whole play of such significance 
 that without it the wonderful lesson would be lost. 
 
 But one confession I must make, that in our travels 
 in the Tyrol, through Austria, Italy, France, every- 
 where, by the roadside, wherever there is a shrine — 
 and they are frequent — and the crucified Redeemer is 
 pictured before us in its materialism, I could not again 
 look upon it; and the inquiry in my heart is, why will 
 they not present to us the spiritual glorified Redeemer 
 of the ascension, for which the lesson of a life immortal 
 is taught in the Passion Play? This faith-abiding 
 people in that long ago made a vow that if God would 
 save them from the plague then raging over the country 
 they would perform every ten years as a memorial the 
 tragedy of the Passion of His Son. The great lesson 
 left to us does not seem to me to consist in having de- 
 picted the fickle-mindedness of the human family, the 
 treachery of man, but in teaching the world by object- 
 lesson the life and character of Christ, and what that 
 life, death, and resurrection carry with them. There- 
 fore, would it not be preferable that all materialism 
 should be lost in the finale of the great lesson that Christ 
 died but lives again as in the picture of his glorious 
 resurrection? 
 
 This to me is the lesson of the Passion Play of Ober- 
 ammergau. 
 
INNSBRUCK AND THE 
 
 AUSTRIAN TYROL 
 
 AND 
 
 DOLOMITES 
 
INNSBRUCK AND THE AUSTRIAN TYROL 
 AND DOLOMITES 
 
 THURSDAY, June 30th, we bade good-bye to our 
 new-made friends of Oberammergau, the family 
 of Wilhelm Lang, who was "Nicodemus" in 
 the play, and at whose home we were cared for during 
 our stay. We had entered upon a four weeks' auto- 
 mobile trip and had soon reached the charming scenery 
 of the Tyrol, and the wonders of the valley of the Zillar 
 en route to Innsbruck. All day, Alps on Alps had risen 
 green and snow-capped, until we reached lovely Inns- 
 bruck, tucked in between snowclad mountains. The 
 bold-cut mountain ranges glistening with ice and snow 
 are seen from afar looking down from their proud heights 
 into the midst of the bustle and business of the lower 
 world. Among them, Innsbruck is well named the 
 pearl of the Tyrol, and it is carefully set, for it is en- 
 circled by the guardian embrace of hills and mountains, 
 while seemingly so near they do not oppress, for the 
 town rests in a broad valley of the River Inn. 
 
 We made our pilgrimages over the town from the 
 Hotel Tyrol. Innsbruck contains many old-fashioned 
 buildings and picturesque corners. A splendid view of 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 the Alps is obtained from Maria Therese Street, which 
 leads into the medieval part of the town with all its 
 architectural story and charm. From here you get the 
 reflection from the "Goldene Dachl," which forms the 
 end of a stately bay-window of the Herzogsburg, which 
 dates from the fifteenth century. The roof is made of 
 more than 3,400 gilded copper plates, and is as resplen- 
 dent as when built centuries ago. 
 
 We visited the Court Church, which contains the 
 huge tomb of Kaiser Maximilian, surrounded by 
 twenty-eight life-sized figures in bronze — works of 
 most artistic merit. 
 
 The hours we spent in peeping through the hedges 
 and byways of this interesting city, the lessons that 
 came back of the earlier days when a high potentate of 
 Austria, Archduke Ferdinand, loitered and sought the 
 hand of the beautiful bourgeoise maiden, brought in a 
 flood light of memories that had to be readjusted to 
 time and place. The bronze monument to Andreas 
 Hofer, on Mount Isel, brought back the intrepid leader 
 and what he suffered. 
 
 We left Innsbruck by way of the beautiful Brenner 
 Pass, leaving the snow-crowned mountains of Inns- 
 bruck behind us. We lunched at Mulbach at the Hotel 
 Sonne. A sturdy looking set of people we saw as we 
 passed township after township in these Tyrolean hills 
 and mountains. Many of the homes are pictures in 
 themselves. The lower story of a Tyrolean house is 
 
 [110] 
 
THE DOLOMITES 
 
INNSBRUCK AND THE AUSTRIAN TYROL 
 
 usually made of masonry and whitewashed, and above 
 is woodwork of a brown hue. Doors and windows are 
 painted in manifold ways, and there is always a row of 
 flower pots on the balconies. 
 
 We are lured on through these medieval scenes and 
 cozy villages, until, lo! we are in the land of the Dolo- 
 mites. We are told by our "Master" that Dolomite 
 came from Professor Dolomieu, the French scientist and 
 professor of mineralogy, who discovered their forma- 
 tion to be a combine of carbonate of limestone and car- 
 bonate of magnesia resembling chalk. The Dolomite 
 mountains are largely formed of that material, from 
 which they take their name. The professor's theory is 
 that these mountains were once submerged and built 
 up by countless billions of small insects, the same proc- 
 ess that builds the coral reefs. In the multitude of 
 ridges, reaching a mile and more above our heads, we 
 are surely looking upon castles in the air; you see 
 obelisks and towers, pyramids, chimneys, castles with 
 stately windows, cathedrals with nave and steeples, 
 and it seems as though the great cathedral architects of 
 Europe must have got their wonderful suggestions in 
 nature's lessons written in the Dolomites. Of course, 
 in the centuries gone the sculptors of snow and frost 
 and rain have been behind in all this work, and they 
 have not yet laid by their implements, for change is 
 taking place year by year. 
 
 Our run of three hours from Toblach through this 
 
 [mi 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 awe-inspiring scenery over the perfect Ampezzo Road 
 was perhaps the finishing touch to this most enjoyable 
 trip. 
 
 We reached Cortina at 4 :30 p. m. This town, which 
 once belonged to Italy, is now in Austria. Our stop- 
 ping-place was just outside the village at the Hotel 
 Faloria, situated on the side of the mountains. Many 
 Americans are visitors at this house, and here we had 
 our first sight of the evening or afterglow of the Alps — 
 beautiful beyond expression; domes and spires miles 
 away were brought close to hand, and, beyond, the 
 blue skies of Italy, then the threshold of mystery. 
 
 When we sat down to the table in the dining-room 
 we gave thanks that chickens and eggs did not change 
 with the transfer to different countries, as do language 
 and money. 
 
 We did not forget that in this vicinity at Pieve di 
 Cadore Titian was born and reared, and here he first 
 brought forth his God-given talent. As this part of 
 this country belonged to Italy at the time, it was most 
 natural that he should be called a son of Venice after 
 his years of masterly work which made him the light 
 of the world in art. 
 
 On leaving Cortina we entered the Falzarago Pass; 
 again we were in the wonderful Dolomite region. Up, 
 up, we went into cloudland, with snows beneath us; 
 smoothly our auto climbed these heights; surely we had 
 reached the pearl of the Tyrolean Mountains; after 
 
 [112] 
 
INNSBRUCK AND THE AUSTRIAN TYROL 
 
 a three hours' climb we dropped down to Botzen among 
 the vineyards of northern Italy. 
 
 Our comfortable home at the Hotel Bristol brought 
 us into touch again with friends from America and 
 letters from dear friends at home. We motored to 
 Meran and took in the many attractions that called 
 our citizen Stoddard to give up life in America to make 
 his home here for years. 
 
 We left Botzen July 4th and crossed Mendal Pass, 
 and reached Sondria that night. Out of our hotel 
 windows in the morning we had a view of the marvellous 
 statue of Garibaldi. This attractive little town is also 
 nestled in a valley surrounded by its protectors, the 
 mountains. Often during these "Rip van Winkle" 
 rides over these mountain passes did the marvellous 
 feats of Hannibal come to mind, and his march through 
 Italy, and his comment on what he called a defeat by 
 Fabius. 
 
 "I told you," he said, "the cloud of the mountains 
 would shed its lightnings." 
 
 And so they do to-day; and the highways of travel 
 over the Alps made possible by Napoleon brought forth 
 a flood of recollections which kept mind and heart astir. 
 
 Our next objective point was Lake Como. Every 
 rod of the way was so attractive that the ride of one 
 hundred and fifty miles seemed short. We found a 
 complete resting-place at the Grand Hotel Villa d'Este. 
 The following day we reached Stresa on Lake Maggiore. 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 While being detained there for repairs on the road over 
 Mendal Pass, we visited the island "Isola Bella," of 
 world-wide fame, and the castle berg, attractive and 
 made famous by its beautiful garden and rare plants and 
 trees. To wander along the shores at twilight, hear 
 the gentle lapping of the oars mingled with the songs 
 of the boatmen far and near — for Italians are singing 
 ever — to do this in an atmosphere laden with the scent 
 of roses, with the mountain sentinels sinking into the 
 shadows of night, is to get a faint glimpse at least of 
 the charm of which the poets have sung for centuries 
 upon centuries. The surroundings are considered by 
 many the most attractive in the world. And then the 
 Simplon Pass, made passable by Napoleon, demands 
 quite as much admiration as the Simplon Tunnel, a 
 later achievement. Over this pass we began our steady 
 way on July 8th, stopping for lunch at Brigue,and reach- 
 ing Montreux at sunset. Never shall we forget that 
 golden sunset over Lake Geneva. After being a "shut- 
 in" for three weeks in the mountains, every ray seemed 
 like a love message from our far-away Western home. 
 The next morning a beckon from our "Master" put 
 us in readiness for our onward trip to Chamonix, a stop 
 at Geneva for lunch and on across the Rhone, through 
 the Mont Blanc gorge, reaching our hotel before dark, 
 blessed with a perfectly clear sky. The afterglow on 
 Mont Blanc was one rarely to be seen, we were told, 
 and surely never to be forgotten. G., with the chauf- 
 
 [114] 
 
INNSBRUCK AND THE AUSTRIAN TYROL 
 
 feur, climbed up the Mer de Glace, the rest of us con- 
 tent to be lookers-on; the satisfaction of which words 
 cannot express. We are glad to think of her there as 
 steadfast, unchangeable, where neither strife nor poli- 
 tics nor power can take away her glory. 
 
 We left Chamonix at 9 :00 a. m. and lunched at Albert- 
 ville, and at 4:00 p. m. we stopped for rest and tea at 
 the Chateau Chateaubriant, and then on for the Dau- 
 phine Chartreuse route in search of Hotel Chartreuse, 
 a monastery transformed into a hotel, which flaming 
 posters had announced en route. The wild ride up the 
 gorge, the most beautiful of any yet seen, but weird 
 and uncertain ; every turn in the road called for a toot 
 of the "emperor's horn" from the "Master" to warn 
 others — darkness coming on and rain setting in — it 
 was so weird and "scary" that it was all most enjoyable. 
 We reached the Chartreuse, but no transformation had 
 taken place and no place for travellers! We were di- 
 rected through a short gorge to an old-fashioned tavern, 
 clean and wholesome, where they cared for the travellers 
 bound for Charteux. We dropped into Grenoble the 
 next day; our southernmost point of this route had 
 been reached. We were 290 miles southeast of Paris. 
 The old port on the north side of the River Isere has 
 interesting buildings, halls of justice, episcopal palaces, 
 convents, and arsenals and citadels. The city seems 
 to be famous for the manufacture of kid gloves. As we 
 were passing through a street that led out of the city 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 we were struck by the women on the narrow sidewalk 
 with their small round sewing machines, making gloves. 
 I remarked that I never knew the famous Grenoble 
 gloves were "farmed out" to be made, as was the old- 
 time way of shoe binding in the United States. A few 
 rods farther on, in a barnyard, surrounded by geese, 
 chickens, turkeys, and pigs, sat a woman with her sew- 
 ing machine, her lap and hands filled with long white 
 gloves, going through the process of manufacture. 
 But let us look at the other side of these women's lives. 
 Their work was brought to them, and when completed 
 was gathered up ; they were elbow to elbow, and chatted 
 and gossiped in a neighborly way, and then the few 
 pennies that came into the larder helped in the purchase 
 of life's necessities. But we noticed the same lack of 
 grass, trees, and flowers that we had noticed so much in 
 the villages on the way. Houses built of gray stone, 
 solidly and together, one straight street, barns and 
 stables an adjunct — we often remarked how we would 
 like to set those people down in many of the attractive 
 villages of the United States, every home having its 
 lawn and shade trees, playgrounds and parks. It was 
 suggested that this old-world plan of crowding together 
 was for protection while the tilling of the land was being 
 done miles away. 
 
 July 13th brought us to Aix les Bains, the pleasant 
 rendezvous of Europe for health and recuperation. A 
 charm hung over the place, but of course to an American 
 
 [116] 
 
C '3 
 
 ua 
 in -2 
 
 fc 
 
INNSBRUCK AND THE AUSTRIAN TYROL 
 
 it struck us as novel to see patients in the fashionable 
 hotel prepared in their rooms for a bath and placed in 
 a chair surrounded by curtains, let down in an elevator, 
 wheeled some squares away, where they were put 
 through the process, and returned; and undoubtedly 
 in time restored to health, or Aix les Bains would not 
 have so many annual visitors. We recalled the many 
 springs of this kind in our land where luxury, good liv- 
 ing, and health-giving baths are all to be found under 
 the same roof, and no exposure to the outside world. 
 
 The next day we were again back in Geneva at the 
 Hotel Beaux Revage. During this stay we took the 
 occasion to call at the Chateau de Lancy, a short drive 
 out of town, charmingly situated, a school for boys 
 where Mrs. B., the friend we met in Munich, had placed 
 her two boys years before under the tutorage of Mr. 
 and Mrs. Brunei. The location is superb, and off to the 
 east Mont Blanc again gives us welcome. 
 
 The 15th of July we found ourselves in Berne, and of 
 course we found our way to the bear garden, and while 
 waiting for the clock to strike twelve to see the bears 
 fed (one of the things to do in Berne), we saw a baby 
 bear up a tree try to come down; he swung with his 
 forepaws but could not reach the lower limb; he cried 
 like a child. The old bear came out, scolded him, and 
 probably told him what to do. He moved along the 
 limb, tried again, and when he found he had clutched 
 the lower limb, he laughed aloud like a baby, and the 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 old bear stood with open arms to receive him. The 
 bear is the heraldic animal of Berne, hence its name. 
 The high clock tower built by Berchtold in 1191 is near 
 the centre of the city. Every hour its works set in 
 motion puppets which represent a cock, a procession of 
 bears, and a bearded old man with an hourglass, who 
 strikes a bell, and of course hundreds on the way to and 
 fro stop to see it perform. 
 
 Berne is beautiful in its situation, as most Swiss 
 cities are, hid in among the Bernese Alps. A day's 
 ride through quaint villages and along fields busy with 
 harvesters brought us to Basle, where we stopped at 
 the Three Kings Hotel, which stands on the banks of 
 the Rhine. The river makes a sudden turn here and 
 takes a course to the north to the outlet. After leaving 
 Basle en route for the Black Forest, we lunched at 
 Freiburg, and reached Titisee in the Black Forest July 
 17th, after crossing a pass over the mountains. It 
 was Sunday, and all the peasants were in holiday peasant 
 dress, which was most interesting. The place is beau- 
 tiful and unique for situation, but is merely the gateway 
 to the Black Forest. The next day we came to Triberg, 
 lunched at the Central Hotel, and walked over the 
 town, took in the falls, and reached Baden-Baden for 
 the night. We had passed through sylvan glens, glori- 
 fied passes, vineclad valleys, cultivated fields, flowering 
 meadows, homes in the country, mountains somewhat 
 in the distance covered to the summit in everlasting 
 
 [118] 
 
INNSBRUCK AND THE AUSTRIAN TYROL 
 
 greenery; and all this glorious beauty is the Black 
 Forest. 
 
 We reached Heidelberg July 20th in a pouring rain, 
 and rode up the mountains to Hotel Schloss. The 
 Schloss gardens and the castle occupied us the next 
 forenoon. At night — we shall never forget the scene 
 before us and under our feet. 
 
 We stopped the next night at Wurzburg to shorten 
 our trip to Nuremburg, which we reached in due time 
 for lunch, and drove over interesting, smelly old Nurem- 
 burg to the royal castle, to the home of Albrecht Diirer, 
 and to all the interesting points of which Nuremburg is 
 full. We rested for the night through a fearful storm 
 that did much damage and uprooted trees that filled 
 the roads, but did not dismay our careful chauffeur. 
 
 Our ride back to Munich after our four weeks' trip 
 was most delightful, showing no weariness or want of 
 enthusiasm for the days gone by — merely extreme de- 
 light. 
 
 Our auto trip was finished. What we had seen of 
 Oberammergau, the Ludwig Castles, the Tyrol, the 
 Dolomites, the Dauphine, and the Black Forest are 
 memories to-day, but living pictures are on the brain. 
 
 Lake Constance and Its Environment 
 
 After another stop-over of a week in Munich we took 
 the train to Landau, boarded the steamer for a sail 
 down the lake to Constance, and stopped overnight at 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 the hotel See, beautifully located on the lake. The 
 morning was spent in reconnoitring the town, and at 
 twelve o'clock we were on our way to Schaffhausen 
 and on to Newhausen and the Rhine Falls. The bal- 
 conies from our rooms at the hotel looked directly on 
 the fascinating panorama of the Rhine Falls, which 
 begin at the foot of Lake Constance. The mind cannot 
 draw a more entrancing picture of fairyland than was 
 offered us on this moonlit night with the falls below us 
 illuminated with many colored lights thrown upon the 
 rushing waters and the clouds of spray, bringing out 
 the lofty banks capped in one place by a castle-like 
 structure. One who is fortunate to be here on such a 
 night will carry with him a picture never to be forgotten. 
 The waters of the lake are supplied from the Alpine 
 glaciers. The Rhine proper is not navigable until after 
 it tumbles down these most beautiful banks. 
 
 Monday, August 1st, found us in beautiful, restful 
 Lucerne, in the Palace Hotel, on the border of the lake. 
 Lucerne is filled with interesting points for the traveller. 
 Our first venture was to visit the Glacier Gardens of 
 Lucerne. Nowhere that we know does one get so 
 perfect an object-lesson of the glacier mills as here at 
 Lucerne. The pots, or glacier holes, owe their exist- 
 ence to the whirling of stones driven round and round 
 by the force of melted ice. These stones, whirled 
 around by the water, ground the rock and polished it 
 as you see it here. On this small area of ground you 
 
 [120] 
 
INNSBRUCK AND THE AUSTRIAN TYROL 
 
 can read the pages of the history of the earth. In these 
 glacier mills we have the debris left by the ice that once 
 covered the northern hemisphere. Here we find other 
 pages as well; one dates from the period when the 
 waters covered the land, another when tropical heat 
 produced tropical forests; so we see the changes that 
 have come upon the face of the earth in all these mil- 
 lions of years. Surely these were in the long bygone 
 days when these glaciers were descending from the Alps 
 that the mills of the Glacier Garden were formed. 
 
 The Lake Dwellers 
 
 Some years ago I wrote for the Cosmopolitan Maga- 
 zine a short history of lacemaking, or "Dreams in 
 Woven Thread." My data for facts came from the 
 exhibit in the Smithsonian Institution. The first note 
 of its history was from a small dark brown piece of net- 
 ting taken from the relics of the Lake Dwellers of Lake 
 Zurich. What was my delight to find in passing through 
 the Labyrinth, or Moorish palace, a model of one of 
 these lacustrine settlements; at some distance from the 
 shore of the lake square low huts made of plaited clay 
 and straw, built on wooden structures; a long narrow 
 bridge connects this wooden island with the shore. 
 This was a protection against man and beast, and here 
 their industries were carried on, and, lo! a piece of the 
 fish-net, such as the Smithsonian had secured, and the 
 first step that led up to the perfection of lacemaking, 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 "The Old Rose Point" of Venice, was in the case before 
 us. In the cabinet against the wall can be seen and 
 studied characteristic fragments of the industries of 
 that people. 
 
 The Lion of Lucerne 
 
 Of course, the great attraction of the Garden is the 
 Lion monument made by the renowned Danish sculptor, 
 Thorwaldsen, which is familiar to every school child. 
 Above this lion, carved in the rock, are these words, 
 
 "To the fidelity and bravery of the Swiss," 
 
 and underneath the names of the twenty-six officers who 
 fell on that terrible day. 
 
 We heard the organ recital at the Hofkirche (Coast 
 Church) and rode up the funicular to Hotel Somberg, 
 where we had luncheon and took in the most lovely 
 visions of mountains and lakes. We were of one 
 opinion: Lucerne is a dream. 
 
 August 4th, en route to Interlaken. We ascended 
 Mount Pilatus, 7,000 feet, on the cog road, seemingly 
 straight up in the air. On, on, we went for three miles 
 to Brienz. Here in these beautiful mountain paths we 
 heard for the first time, through the Alpine horn, the 
 Swiss "Yodle." It touched the mountains across the 
 valley and the echoes in sweet tones returned to us. 
 Again friends from America made the time short before 
 we had to drop down again 7,000 feet into the valley. 
 
 [ 122] 
 
INNSBRUCK AND THE AUSTRIAN TYROL 
 
 Our next objective point was Interlaken, where for 
 two days we stopped at the Victoria, and then settled 
 down for a month at the Regina Hotel — Jungfrau 
 Bleck — one of the most satisfactory hotels we had found 
 in Europe. Never was there a "bonnier setting." 
 The night we settled down and for the time called it 
 home, the bride Jungfrau changed her morning dress 
 of pearly white for a most gorgeous pink and stood forth 
 in all her glory to welcome us. The crescent moon was 
 at our right, just above the mountain top over Lake 
 Thune, the evening star keeping vigil over this varied 
 scene of beauty; mountains, lake, Jungfrau, new moon, 
 evening star, village in the valley — a picture photo- 
 graphed for all time. 
 
 By landau we rode through the Lauterbrunnen Valley 
 and pronounced it the gem of all the beautiful valleys 
 we had seen. We saw the Staubbach Falls leap in 
 beautiful cascades from a height of 985 feet and fall in 
 spray at our feet, but the most astounding of nature's 
 work that we witnessed was the Trummelbach Fall 
 from the Jungfrau glacier. For ages that old mountain 
 has supplied the water for this fall, and here you can 
 witness the glacier mill in full operation: one of the 
 gigantic pots, and the millstone being whirled around 
 and around and polished by the force of the melted 
 ice. So we have a small glimpse of what went on for 
 centuries in Lucerne, which is now removed by miles 
 from any glacier cliffs. 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 Another interesting trip we took during our stay was 
 up the funicular for Harder-Kulm, 1,325 feet. It was 
 so straight up in the air you felt like holding fast to 
 keep from pitching forward, but it paid, for a more 
 magnificent view could not be had of Interlaken and 
 the Jungfrau range. We had our tea on these heights, 
 and returned in time for dinner. The trip was very 
 satisfactory, but exhausting, as most mountain trips 
 usually are. 
 
 Another day we again went up the Lauterbrunnen 
 Valley, took the funicular for Murren, where the Bernese 
 Alps stood out in all their glory; another day by car- 
 riage up the Grindelwald Valley to the upper glaciers. 
 
 September 1st, after four weeks' stay in Interlaken, 
 we had to say good-bye to the Jungfrau; for two 
 days she had hidden her face behind a cloud, and if 
 she felt as we did, it was because she had to say good- 
 bye. 
 
 We took our way over the Bernese Overland and 
 reached Montreux at 5:00 p. m. We found the same 
 rooms awaiting us that were ours in July. 
 
 Among the many interesting points to visit, of course 
 the Prison of Chillon was one. We went through the 
 winding meshes of that historic castle, notable for the 
 absence of implements of torture such as we had seen 
 at Nuremberg and the London Tower. We again took 
 the steamer for Lausanne, and from there another, and 
 crossed the lake to Evian, a beautiful sail and wonderful 
 
 [ 124] 
 
INNSBRUCK AND THE AUSTRIAN TYROL 
 
 environments. Again we had put our foot in France, 
 and it was satisfactory. Upon our return to, and a 
 day's rest in, Montreux, where we feasted our eyes on the 
 mystic blue waters of Lake Geneva and the mighty Alps 
 along its shores, we embarked again, this time for 
 Geneva. Here we met an old friend, Dr. Alice B. from 
 Washington, with whom I drove to Coppet, where we 
 visited the chateau celebrated as the residence of 
 Madam de Stael, daughter of Necker, the minister of 
 Louis XVI, and, of course, known as the author of 
 "Corinne" and many other remarkable works. The 
 chateau is kept as near as possible as in the days of her 
 occupancy, and the fresh flowers — surely the touch of 
 a woman's hand — scattered through the rooms gave 
 a home atmosphere to the place. She is buried in the 
 park beside her father, M. Necker. 
 
 Our return brought us through Ferney, noted for the 
 chateau which was the residence of Voltaire. Added 
 to this long-to-be-remembered little tour up Lake 
 Geneva was one across the lake to Chateau Belle 
 Reve. For many years we had both known of this 
 beautiful resting-place, for each of us had many Amer- 
 ican friends who had found this a heavenly haven. 
 We were received cordially by the presiding genius of 
 this fairy spot. The entrancing history as related by 
 her of its occupation by the French, the strolls over the 
 beautiful classic grounds, and the hours of rest and 
 delight have left beautiful memories of Belle Reve and 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 its charming hostess. We parted with our friend to 
 meet again in Paris. Our days in Geneva were full of 
 rest and interest, and Switzerland fulfilled our every 
 expectation. We took up our journey September 9th 
 and made our way to Paris. 
 
THE CHATEAUX OF 
 THE LOIRE 
 
THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 
 
 THE days in Paris passed with delight, as most 
 days pass in that fascinating city. But Paris, 
 as we have found, is not all France, and so we 
 were led by a golden cord into nearby ways. 
 
 "Yes, Aunt Mary, we will auto through the chateaux 
 district of the old kings and queens of France," said J. 
 "We can go at our leisure, stop when and where we 
 please, have plenty of time to repeople these old castles 
 with the kings and queens of departed days, bring back 
 the young artistic life of the sixteenth century, and 
 as the days go by you must tell the story we will 
 hoard up and be ready to answer the 'Master's' ques- 
 tions when he calls his class together." 
 
 Thus it came that one golden morning we motored 
 out of Paris, bound for the Chateaux of the Loire. We 
 had arranged for the five days' auto trip through the 
 historical chateaux district; we reversed the trip ordi- 
 narily taken by way of Versailles and made our way to 
 Fontainebleau and Orleans. Memory was now on the 
 alert to recall what we knew of the early history of this 
 chateau, or, it seemed to us, to be more in keeping to 
 call it palace. We knew Fontainebleau occupied the 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 site of a fortified chateau which was founded by Louis 
 VII, who died in 1180. This palace was built by Fran- 
 cois I, and here he received Emperor Charles V in 1539; 
 in 1601 Louis XIII was born here, and in 1602 Henri 
 IV caused the arrest of his companion in arms, Marshal 
 Biron, on a charge of high treason. Biron was beheaded 
 in the Bastile a month later. In 1685 Louis XIV 
 signed the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. The 
 great Conde died here in 1686, and we have regretful 
 memories that it was here, in this palace, that the sen- 
 tence of divorce was pronounced against the Empress 
 Josephine. Here, too, lived Marie Louise, and can we 
 wonder that she took her boy back home to Austria, 
 and that the time came that she would not even write 
 to Napoleon? And within, too, are the apartments of 
 Marie Antoinette; and we do not forget that she made 
 sacrifices to help America. Then come the apart- 
 ments that were occupied by Catherine de Medicis, 
 who died in 1588, and by Anne of Austria, mother of 
 Louis XIV, who died in 1666, and by Pope Pius VII, who 
 was a prisoner here from June, 1812, to January, 1814. 
 It is an object-lesson in the fine arts to go through the 
 rooms in this palace — the fine paintings, priceless tapes- 
 tries, statuary, stately furniture — but not one room that 
 does not bring remembrance of suffering and heartbreak. 
 And where do we look for the balance sheet? The 
 grounds are extensive and beautiful, but as we leave all 
 these, memories come back and we wonder what the an- 
 
 [130] 
 
THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 
 
 swer would be if one who participated in the grandeur of 
 those centuries would be asked to come back to repeat it. 
 
 Our faces were turned toward Orleans, which we 
 reached that night. Of course the dominating thought 
 was Joan of Arc, Maid of Orleans. We saw her statue, 
 occupying a most prominent position on the public 
 square; we went through the museum filled with curi- 
 osities, documents, and works of art referring to her 
 heroism. The superstitions that governed those in power 
 in Paris, the suffering and horror that was brought 
 about, the falling short of comprehending what this 
 girl saw and what she achieved by listening to some 
 small voice and carrying out its mandates, found no 
 place in the hearts of brutal men, and so they murdered 
 her; but in a later day France awoke to the atrocities, 
 and has tried to make amends by erecting in Paris and 
 Orleans equestrian statues in commemoration of the 
 sacrifices she made for her country, and to-day no name 
 stands higher on the roll of honor than that of Joan of 
 Arc, Maid of Orleans. 
 
 After a night of rest, and a visit to the cathedral, we 
 turned our faces toward Blois, with history and mem- 
 ories of the past for future thought of old Orleans. 
 
 Blois 
 
 The history of the Chateau de Blois in the sixteenth 
 century would be a fair history of the whole of France. 
 We pass over the early days when this site was ruled 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 by the Romans, and the royal chateaux of France served 
 as fortresses. Charles d'Orleans, on his return from 
 England, lived at Blois, and in 1462 his wife gave birth 
 to a child, afterward known to the world, in 1498, as 
 King Louis XII. Queen Claude was the daughter of 
 Louis XII and became the wife of Francois I, and here 
 they lived until near the end of his life, when he 
 lived at Chambord and Fontainebleau. Francois I un- 
 doubtedly was the founder of the beautiful in art in 
 France. In passing through these absorbing chateaux 
 one is struck by the classic lines of art and beauty 
 prevalent everywhere; almost a divine touch to every 
 expression, in every change he wrought in the gloomy 
 fortress homes with their embattlements, turrets, and 
 moats, which he transformed into artistically decorated 
 manorial chateaux. Forest and stream added to the 
 beauty of the scene, every vantage point was held in 
 mind, and, lo! the miracles in stone that are the de- 
 light of the traveller to-day. 
 
 Blois has passed through many vicissitudes; one of 
 the most tragic was the assassination of the Due de 
 Guise almost under the eyes of Henry III, while his 
 brother, the Cardinal de Lorraine, was thrown into 
 prison and murdered the next day. Catherine de Medi- 
 cis, who at this time was very ill, died a few days later. 
 Louis XIII had his mother, Marie de Medicis, shut up 
 here, and after two years' imprisonment she escaped. 
 Gaston d'Orleans, brother of Louis XIII, lived here 
 
 [132] 
 
L A F A A' E T T E ' S G R A V E 
 
 Paris 
 
THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 
 
 later; then came more changes and adornment, and 
 here we come upon the architectural touches of Fran- 
 cois Mansart. Gaston's death interrupted many of 
 his plans. It was here, soon following that, that Louis 
 XIV in passing through Blois first met Mile, de la 
 Valliere. After Gaston's death it was no longer used 
 as a residence, and is now owned by the state. Anne 
 of Brittany died here. 
 
 The most interesting parts of the chateau are the 
 apartments occupied by Catherine de Medicis; the 
 world-renowned staircase built by Francois I, outside, 
 carved and ornamented with statuary; one writer said, 
 "The stairs wind upward, folding their central shaft 
 like the petals of a tulip," and this lovely adornment 
 came from the design of Leonardo da Vinci. The 
 Salamander is carved everywhere. In the courtyard 
 is a statue of Louis XII, who was a native of Blois and 
 loved it, and was among the first to beautify it. 
 
 Blois was a place of royal pageants and ceremonies. 
 In the year 1501 a great company had assembled in the 
 hall of the chateau, whose walls had been hung with 
 cloth of gold in honor of the coming of the Archduke 
 Philip of Austria. King Louis and the Queen, Anne 
 of Brittany, were there with their lords and ladies, and 
 four and twenty little girls, besides, to attend them. 
 Everything passed off in a solemn and proper manner 
 until Claude appeared carried in her nurse's arms; and 
 the story runs that the little highness did not like so 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 much display and put forth her voice with great em- 
 phasis; whereupon all the four and twenty little girls, 
 maids of honor, forgetting decorum, rushed over to 
 console and comfort her. This was Claude, the wife 
 of Francois I, in embryo. 
 
 In 1814 Regent Marie Louise established here the 
 seat of government, and in 1870 it was occupied by the 
 Germans. 
 
 Chambord 
 
 Chambord was an ancient hunting seat of the Comtes 
 de Blois, and was rebuilt in 1549 by Francois I. He had 
 a strong love for the beautiful in architecture, and he 
 became a great builder; not one project would be com- 
 pleted ere another would loom up in the air. The only 
 clue to any reason for this beautiful chateau in this 
 forest region was his love for hunting. Here he carried 
 out his desire of creating a fairy palace on these unat- 
 tractive plains of Salogne, and the Renaissance, the 
 revival of letters and arts, the style of architecture that 
 succeeded the Gothic, was here to receive its triumph. 
 History tells us that 1,800 hands worked on it fifteen 
 years. Perhaps the point that stands out to all visi- 
 tors is another of the marvellous staircases of Francois 
 I, representing a gigantic fleur-de-lys in stone, where 
 those who ascend do not come in contact with those who 
 are descending. Here we see in most conspicuous 
 places the letter "F" and the Salamander, the almost 
 
 [ 134] 
 
THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 
 
 sacred emblem of Francois I. We wonder if this meant 
 that he would hint to the world that he came out of the 
 vices of the world unscathed. There are forty-three 
 staircases in this structure, and 365 rooms with fire- 
 places. The interior of the chateau is left entirely bare, 
 with the exception of the apartments of Louis XIV, 
 which he had fitted up in keeping with the time. It 
 was purchased by subscription and presented to the 
 Due de Bordeaux on his birth, and he assumed in 
 consequence the title of Comte de Chambord. The 
 government has several times made attempts to rescue 
 it, but it continues to belong to the ducal house of 
 Parma of Austrian nationality. Wait until some na- 
 tional strife turns on a new light for new developments. 
 
 Chaumont 
 
 Originally Chaumont was a feudal castle. In the 
 fifteenth century the chateau belonged to the Amboise 
 family. Pierre d'Amboise, having taken part in the 
 league called the "Public Weal," Louis XI punished 
 him by confiscating and destroying Chaumont. In 
 years following he gave back the domain to his old 
 enemy and authorized the reconstruction of Chaumont. 
 Pierre d'Amboise died in 1473 without having been able 
 to carry out the reconstruction. Charles II, his son, 
 commenced the transformation into the magnificent 
 building of to-day, a cross between the early fortresses 
 of the Middle Ages and the early Renaissance. 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 Charles II of Ainboise succeeded his father in 1481 ; 
 he received King Louis XII and his uncle, Cardinal 
 Georges d' Amboise, here at Chaumont. In 1560 Cath- 
 erine de Medicis purchased Chaumont. She never 
 lived here, but after the death of her husband, Henry 
 II, she caused her rival, Henry II's mistress, Diane de 
 Poitiers, to vacate Chenonceaux, where Henry had 
 kept her in luxury, and to take Chaumont in exchange. 
 Chaumont passed through various vicissitudes, and 
 many families came into possession as the years went 
 by. In 1758 it was purchased by Jacques le Ray, who 
 built a pottery manufactory at Chaumont. The cele- 
 brated Italian, Nini, had the pottery in charge and was 
 the artist who brought out the charming medallions 
 in terra cotta which have now become so rare and so 
 much sought after. Benjamin Franklin later visited 
 Chaumont and Nini excuted a portrait of him. Later, 
 the son Le Ray gave refuge there to Mme. de Stael, 
 who was pursued by the hatred of the Emperor Na- 
 poleon. 
 
 Chaumont is owned by Prince de Broglie. The 
 furniture and artistic objects which now embellish this 
 historical place were many of them once owned by 
 Catherine de Medicis and Diane de Poitiers. 
 
 Chenonceaux 
 
 No chateau that we saw surpassed Chenonceaux in 
 every appointment. We rode through a magnificent 
 
 [136] 
 
THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 
 
 avenue of plane trees which lead to the gate of the park 
 containing over three hundred acres. Here the visitor 
 alights. Through the park you walk under plane trees 
 again which end only at the fore-court of the chateau. 
 The whole construction is one of artistic beauty. The 
 Renaissance style of architecture is carried out through- 
 out the building, a relief to the feudal structures, with 
 their donjon towers, which always suggest a preparation 
 for strife and turmoil. The originality of the situa- 
 tion built in part across the river Cher is very attractive. 
 
 In 1496 the domain was acquired by Thomas Bohier, 
 who was receiver-general of finances in Normandy. 
 He acquired the property from the De Marques family, 
 in whose possession it had been since the thirteenth 
 century. As the years went on the many changes 
 undertaken ran the estate so in debt that his son sur- 
 rendered it to the king in order to pay the debts. The 
 Constable Montmorency took possession of it in the 
 king's name in the year 1535. Francois I often came 
 here to hunt. It passed into the hands of Henry II at 
 his father's death. The world knows of his placing his 
 mistress, Diane de Poitiers, in this palace; she had the 
 arches of the bridge over the Cher built. At the death 
 of Henry II, Catherine de Medicis found her day had 
 come for revenge for the days of heartache she had 
 suffered. She obliged Diane to give up Chenonceaux 
 and live at Chaumont. 
 
 Catherine had constructed a long gallery on the bridge 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 erected by Diane, and here were placed many of the 
 works of art of the day for which Francois I had become 
 famous for gathering together. Chenonceaux passed 
 into many hands, and at last, in 1891, it fell into the 
 hands of an American, Mr. Terry. The chateau is still 
 incomplete, and is said to have already cost more than 
 two million francs. 
 
 Amboise 
 
 In the first century a chateau existed on the hill where 
 Amboise stands. The town was built by Csesar and 
 his name is given to a part of the hill. St. Martin 
 established a church here. In 882 the town was ruined 
 by the Normans. The castle was rebuilt by the Comte 
 d'Anjou toward the end of the tenth century. In 1434 
 Charles VII added Amboise to the royal domain by 
 confiscation, and from this date the chateau attained 
 royal importance. Louis XI lived here before becom- 
 ing a recluse in the Palace of Tours. Charles VIII was 
 born here in 1470, and died here 1498. He began the 
 reconstruction and employed various designers and 
 painters from Italy. Louis XII made his home here for 
 some time. Francois I lived here in his childhood with 
 his mother, Louise of Savoy, and his sister Margaret. 
 Francois I was born at Cognac. He was the only son 
 of Charles Count of Angouleme. After the death of 
 two sons born to Louis XII he made his relative, Fran- 
 cois, Due de Valois and married him to his daughter 
 
 [138] 
 
THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 
 
 Claude, and selected him as his successor to the throne. 
 Francois I introduced the French Renaissance. Wher- 
 ever he lived he gathered treasures of art around him. 
 It will be remembered that he brought Italian artists 
 from Rome to carry out his artistic tastes, among them 
 Leonardo da Vinci. It was after da Vinci's alliance 
 with Francois I that he painted Mona Lisa. It is 
 said she was the one woman whom he worshipped, and 
 when he had worked over her picture for months, 
 Francois came to his studio to have it removed to the 
 art gallery. Leonardo burst into tears, and Francois 
 told him to retain it as long as he lived, which he did. 
 After all the vicissitudes of capture, etc., it still hangs 
 in the Louvre. We have profound respect for Fran- 
 cois I for his unchanging devotion through the years to 
 Leonardo da Vinci. Visitors at Arnboise can see the 
 Chateau de Clos, near his own castle of Arnboise, where 
 the painter is said to have died in the arms of Francois. 
 His grave and monument are in the grounds of Arnboise. 
 Francois I died at Rambouillet, and Henry II was 
 upon the throne; his wife was Catherine de Medicis. 
 One of the darkest hours that ever fell upon this fair 
 earth was brought on at Arnboise by Catherine de 
 Medicis, Queen Regent, who ruled with the iron hand of 
 a despot. From her came the edict to murder and 
 assassinate the Huguenots. The balcony is shown 
 where this awful massacre took place and where the 
 dead bodies were thrown into the river. Here it was 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 that she compelled her son Francois II and his young 
 wife, Mary Queen of Scots, to witness the horrors that 
 took place there, until her husband carried her away 
 in a dead faint. When the butchery was over and the 
 headless bodies were floating in the river or strung 
 up on the branches of trees, Catherine retired. This 
 stone balcony, now as then, borders the state apart- 
 ments on the riverside. Down some hundreds of feet, 
 over ragged rocks , these bodies were strewn. It is 
 remembered that these people were induced to come 
 here through treachery and false statements that they 
 were called to meet in conciliation council, and the 
 world knows the result. 
 
 Many writers portray Catherine de Medicis as she 
 was when she first came to the French court, pleasing 
 to everybody by her grace, affability, and, above all, 
 extreme gentleness. When she became Regent she 
 began by extreme moderation. She at one time wrote 
 to her bishop, her ambassador to Spain, "to rehabilitate 
 gently whatever the malice of the times might have 
 disintegrated in the kingdom"; but the sixteenth cen- 
 tury lost its notion of justice, and Catherine became 
 an apt scholar in the school of France. She surely did 
 not create the vices of her time, but she became identi- 
 fied with them. History has not yet said the last word 
 of Catherine de Medicis. There are many unpublished 
 letters of Catherine in the archives of St. Petersburg, 
 that when published should throw light on one of the 
 
 [ 140] 
 
THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 
 
 most unforgivable careers of which history makes 
 mention. 
 
 The chateau is one of the finest in France and now 
 belongs to the Orleans family. 
 
 Chinon 
 
 Chinon is of very ancient origin. This region was 
 first occupied by the Celts and then by the Romans. 
 In the eleventh century Chinon was the property of the 
 Comtes de Blois. Thibaut III had to surrender it to 
 Geoffroy Martel (Comte de Anjou) in 1044, and thus 
 it became in the twelfth century a part of the possessions 
 of Henry II (Plantagenet) , King of England. Of all other 
 continental towns Henry II liked Chinon the best, and 
 often lived here; he died here in 1189. His son Richard, 
 Coeur de Lion, was carried here wounded after the 
 siege of Chalus in Limousin, and died here. Both were 
 buried in Fontevrault, where Richard's statue and tomb 
 are still to be seen. Charles VII assembled the States- 
 General here while the English were besieging Orleans, 
 and it was here that Joan of Arc first visited the King 
 and made known her revelations, and it was here that 
 she decided to go to the rescue of Orleans. 
 
 Agnes Sorel was a visitor at Chinon. Her home was 
 at Orleans. History boldly parades the fact that she 
 was the favorite mistress of Charles VII and was the 
 mother of three children by him, only one more ex- 
 ample of the many of the kings and emperors who 
 
 [141] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 flagrantly flaunted their shortcomings in morals to the 
 world, and the world had only to acquiesce. If there 
 is no gain in the decencies of their lives, there is a gain 
 in the efforts over the world to cover it up. 
 
 In 1631 Chinon became the property of Cardinal 
 Richelieu, whose descendants retained the property 
 rights until the Revolution. Rabelais was born in the 
 atmosphere of Chinon. The chateau is composed of 
 three distinct fortresses. 
 
 It is not our intent to take the reader into every 
 remote corner or nave with explanations, but to people 
 these ruins by a brief picture of the men and women 
 who have come and gone out of these portals. 
 
 AzAY-LE-RlDEAU 
 
 Azay-le-Rideau has some conflicting histories; the 
 first chateau is believed to have been constructed in 1255 
 by Hugues Ridel. It is said that the Dauphin Charles 
 — afterward Charles VII — on his journey from Chinon 
 to Tours, in 1417, was attacked in front of the chateau 
 by the Burgundy garrison who were staying there. 
 Charles took the chateau by assault, exterminated the 
 defenders, and burnt the town, hence it was called 
 Azay-le-Brule (Burnt). But very little is known of the 
 place before its acquisition and reconstruction in 1520 
 by Gilles Berthelot, one of the Bohier families to whom 
 Touraine owes so much for the beautiful chateaux that 
 are the delight of tourists. This chateau has passed 
 
 [142] 
 
THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 
 
 through many hands. One gets here an idea of the 
 purest creation of the early Renaissance period. It is 
 so simple and modest in construction that it appeals 
 to one after the many gorgeous buildings we had en- 
 deavored to take in and comprehend. Being built 
 entirely at one time and with a master mind over all, 
 it is harmonious in style and most attractive. The 
 last important event in its history is that it was oc- 
 cupied by the Germans in 1870-71. In 1905 it was 
 purchased by the state from the Marquis de Biencourt. 
 The Marquis had previously sold the furniture and 
 works of art. The administration des Beaux-Arts 
 has taken possession of the chateau and has installed 
 a Renaissance museum. Exhibits have been sent from 
 the Louvre and Cluny Museum, and various private 
 gifts have been made to it. 
 
 The author of "Old Touraine" says Azay-le-Rideau 
 should be seen last of the chateaux of Touraine, for it 
 is perhaps the most beautiful and perfect of them all. 
 So its beauty gains by its association with all that is best 
 and most attractive, for in the shrine of Azay there was 
 gathered the whole gallery of faces of those who have 
 made the history of Blois, of Amboise, of Chenonceaux, 
 of France, and the chateau that is happy in its own lack 
 of history and intrigue gathers up within its sculptured 
 walls the memories of all that was worth keeping of the 
 old life that throbbed and struggled in the larger 
 chateaux and left them ruined or defaced. As we 
 
 [143] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 wound our way back to Paris we felt that we were 
 leaving the history of much of the world behind us. 
 We had had brought before us the lives and histories 
 of so many of the men and women who had a part in 
 the making and marring of France that we were glad 
 in our hearts that their destinies had been settled by a 
 just and true Father who never misjudges. But let us 
 not forget that Balzac, Rabelais, and George Sand had 
 their being in this valley, and near Blois is the early 
 home of Victor Hugo. 
 
 We found that the court that through the ages had 
 moved to and fro among the castles of old Touraine 
 gradually turned toward Paris and Versailles and Fon- 
 tainebleau. Historians tell us that William the Con- 
 queror at the Conquest of England had discovered 
 long before the rest of France the defects of the old 
 system and had "broken the mould of feudalism." 
 And yet the days and the years had brought other 
 changes, and we found no courts reigning at Versailles, 
 or Fontainebleau, or Paris. The walks and never end- 
 ing gardens of Versailles in all their glory feast the 
 eye and fill the soul as in the days of yore, but without 
 kingly power, and thus we saw how the lives of cen- 
 turies perish. 
 
 Langeais 
 
 Langeais is a fortress of the Middle Ages, and is con- 
 sidered one of the finest existing examples of the French 
 
 [ 1-14 ] 
 
THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 
 
 architecture of that period. This chateau was occupied 
 by the English during the invasions made by the Black 
 Prince along the Loire. We will not forget that it was 
 in the Chateau of Langeais that the marriage of Charles 
 VIII with Anne of Brittany took place. This alliance 
 assured the union of France and Brittany. It seems 
 that it is but one continued reading between the lines 
 that all this panorama brings before you — the then, 
 and the now, and what next? 
 
 Langeais was known as Alangavia as far back as the 
 fifth century. The new edifice was built by Jean 
 Bourre, minister of Louis XI, about 1450, and is filled 
 with most interesting furniture, tapestries, paintings, 
 etc. We have become familiar with the old forms of 
 feudal architecture at Blois, at Amboise, at Chinon. 
 These newer creations seemed the connecting link be- 
 tween the old and the new. Langeais is now in the 
 possession of M. Siegfried, who has presented it to 
 France, reserving the right for himself and wife to live 
 there during their lifetime. 
 
 As you leave the premises at your left you see the 
 home of Rabelais. Who of us would not have been glad 
 to have been a listener to the roars of laughter that 
 rang through the halls of Langeais whenever that 
 genius paid his respects to the King and Queen? King 
 Henry died in 1498 at Amboise. We are glad to think 
 of Langeais as the home of Anne of Brittany, for that 
 seems to be about all to remember historically of the 
 
 [145] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 chateau; and as we turned our faces toward Tours we 
 could in our hearts give thanks that no heartrending 
 tragedies are connected with the life of the Breton 
 Queen at Langeais. 
 
 Luynes 
 
 We still cling to the southern waters of the Indre, 
 knowing if we keep on that we shall add to our knowl- 
 edge the song and story in many voices of the Loire, 
 for the Indre and its tributaries, after winding in and 
 out, at last add their stories of the past to those of the 
 Loire, and our wanderings bring us to another of the 
 historic chateaux of Touraine — Luynes — which retains 
 precious souvenirs of the Roman occupation. It pre- 
 sents a very imposing appearance, but is not attractive. 
 The first chateau was destroyed at the end of the 
 eleventh century and was rebuilt in 1106 by Hardouin 
 de Maille, and in the fifteenth century it gave place to 
 the present chateau. The massive round "pepper box" 
 towers with thick counter forts look formidable, but not 
 elegant in appearance. On one side is a graceful build- 
 ing of stone and brick, which is flanked with the ever- 
 prevailing staircase. A magnificent view of the valley is 
 seen from here. Where can you find a locality so small 
 that is so laden with history as this valley of the Loire? 
 
 Through the strife and the carnage of the religious 
 and political wars very many of the chateaux of the 
 valley had become ruins. The old feudal towers, 
 
 [146] 
 
THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 
 
 whose strength undoubtedly had saved them from de- 
 struction, had been added to in times of peace, the 
 abodes were more elegant, and what was picturesque 
 only was saved of the earlier fortified dwellings. Louis 
 XI laid down a new line of policy, followed up by Henry 
 IX and carried forward by Louis XIV and Richelieu; 
 the old feudal spirit was wiped out and a new archi- 
 tecture sprang into life. 
 
 USSE 
 
 Chateau d'Usse is one of the most remarkable in the 
 valley of the Loire. It was constructed in the six- 
 teenth century and belonged to the Comte de Blacas. 
 It is admirably situated on the banks of the hills 
 which confine the rivers Loire and Indre. The apart- 
 ments have much of interest; what it seems to lack in 
 the activities of conquest and changing proprietors, 
 etc., is made up to the visitor in its gallery, library, and 
 works of art, which are most instructive. We leave 
 wondering what the recompense is for such an ex- 
 travaganza of turrets and towers, salons, and galleries, 
 for a comparatively private citizen. It is one of the 
 prize settings of the valley of the Loire and should not 
 be passed by without selecting the day when visitors 
 
 are allowed. 
 
 Loches 
 
 The visitor to Loches will long remember the splendid 
 royal castle, the donjon, the fortress, the black hole, 
 
 [147] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 and all the appointments of strife and war that have 
 possessed the world since history began. Loches ex- 
 isted in the time of the Romans. It took on form 
 around a monastery founded in the fifth century ; in the 
 sixth century it was defended by a chateau. In the 
 reign of Charles the Bold it became the seat of an he- 
 reditary government and passed into the hands of the 
 Anjou family, who kept control for nearly four hundred 
 years. In 1249 it became a royal residence and was 
 the home of Charles VII and Agnes Sorel, who is buried 
 in the Chapter House. Louis XI enlarged and per- 
 fected the prison. It has gone through the changes 
 of most of the royal chateaux — as the home also of 
 Charles XIII, Louis XII, Henry II, Charles IX, Henry 
 IV, and Catherine de Medicis. The castle was one of 
 the most stately of the Middle Ages. The dungeon, 
 we suppose, answered every purpose, for nothing we 
 saw was more revolting, with the torture room, prison 
 cells, etc. It would seem much more time was spent 
 in concocting ways and means of torturing the military 
 prisoners than in studying the ways of peace. Under 
 Charles XI, Cardinal La Baine invented the famous 
 prison cages, which make one shudder to look at them, 
 without room to sit down or turn around; but we were 
 told the Cardinal, the inventor of this instrument of 
 torture, was the first to taste the delights of his in- 
 vention. 
 
 The donjon, that impressive, architectural "warlike 
 
 [ 148] 
 
THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 
 
 masterpiece," built nine centuries ago, astonishes the 
 visitor by its confident and gigantic conception. There 
 are the loopholes through which the arrows and grape- 
 shot were fired against the enemy. One hundred steps 
 down into the dungeon takes you to the black hole 
 for the prisoners where more suffering, more inhuman- 
 ities have been carried on, and you can but ask the 
 question, will the time ever come when man's inhuman- 
 ity to man will cease? 
 
 It is with relief that we turn toward the Chateau 
 Royale, or King's apartments, and yet you sometimes 
 wonder who suffered most, the kings and queens who 
 lived under that roof or their prisoners in the black 
 hole. 
 
 It was in this chateau that Joan of Arc brought the 
 news of the rescue of Orleans to Charles VII, and urged 
 him to hasten to Rheims, where the crown was awaiting 
 him. Charles VII built the symmetrical tower of the 
 terrace named "Agnes Tower," where her ladyship, 
 favorite of kings, presided, but Chateaubriand said of 
 such, "They were useful to the country." In this 
 tower the sepulchre of Agnes Sorel was erected, repre- 
 senting her lying down with clasped hands, her head 
 between two angels. Two lambs, emblem of her sweet 
 temper, are at her feet. 
 
 As we follow these kings and queens from one chateau 
 to another they seem to have been forever on the wing; 
 strife and contention were uppermost; they had no 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 steadfast abiding place for mind or body, and we wonder 
 if it was not a relief to lie down and wait the call of the 
 Great Master. 
 
 Versailles 
 
 The city of Versailles is ten miles from Paris, and 
 owes its celebrity to the royal palace built by Louis XIV 
 on the site of Louis XIII's hunting lodge, where the 
 royal families resided until the Revolution. The mar- 
 ble court and the interior are marvellously beautiful; 
 the extensive galleries filled with pictures and statues 
 of great historical personages and events hold the curi- 
 osity of the visitor. Louis XV added the theatre and 
 other buildings. The most brilliant of the reigns of 
 Louis XIV, Louis XV, and Louis XVI are associated 
 with this Chateau of Versailles. The treaty which ter- 
 minated the American struggle for independence was con- 
 cluded here September 3, 1783. 
 
 During the Franco-Prussian War of 1870 Versailles 
 became the headquarters of the Germans; the King of 
 Prussia was proclaimed Emperor of Germany in the 
 palace January 18, 1871. 
 
 The time we spent in passing over this wonder of 
 wonders, and what we saw in a palace that would hold 
 ten thousand of the royal court if necessary, could not 
 be told in detail here. This entire court was surrounded 
 with everything art could supply or the demand for 
 luxury could suggest. During the Revolution much of 
 
 [150] 
 
THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 
 
 the furniture was sold and the pictures transferred to 
 the Louvre. 
 
 The place is intimately associated with the zenith and 
 decadence of the reign of Louis XIV. In 1684, after the 
 death of Marie Therese, Louis XIV married Madame 
 de Main tenon, who soon became the dominant power 
 at court. This was followed by the court of Louis XV, 
 which history says soon degenerated into a boudoir 
 ruled by Madame de Pompadour and Madame du 
 Barry. It was during the reign of Louis XVI, in 1774, 
 that differences of public opinion and divisions in the 
 court brought on the French Revolution. 
 
 The Gardens of Versailles 
 
 The gardens were laid out 1667-88 and are very much 
 in the condition now as then. A more artificial arrange- 
 ment could hardly be conceived. It is very evident 
 the landscape gardener was possessed with the idea that 
 symmetry could outdo nature, but the grounds are in- 
 teresting on account of their solemn, old-fashioned ap- 
 pearance. The fountains are the real charm of the 
 garden, and play on Sundays and feast days. 
 
 The Grand Trianon, which adjoins the park, a hand- 
 some villa of one story, was erected by Louis XIV for 
 Madame de Main tenon. The King was fond of com- 
 ing here and entertaining his friends with dinners, 
 balls, and sports. Every room was richly furnished 
 with all the extravagances of court life. 
 
 [151] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 A little to the north is the Petit Trianon, erected by 
 Louis XV for Madame du Barry. This was a favorite 
 resort in later years for Marie Antoinette. The Duchess 
 Marie Louise also made it her home at times. The 
 garden, laid out in the English style, was made for 
 Marie Antoinette. The palace and the park are mar- 
 vellous. The great and little Trianon enchant by the 
 delicacy of their lines and adornment. All the pleas- 
 ures and all the griefs of those who have had these 
 wonderful environments pass in panoramic view before 
 us, and we go back to the days of Francois I and to the 
 charming Margaret of Valois, Catherine de Medicis, 
 to Joan of Arc, Leonardo da Vinci, through the reigns 
 of all the Louis, to Napoleon and poor Josephine, until 
 we are sojourners in this fair country, and we wonder, 
 what next? 
 
 Our chateaux tour was over; the "Master" called us 
 together, and as we repeated our lesson to him, we give 
 it to you. 
 
 En Route to Spain 
 
 We left Paris September 30th en route to Spain. 
 We passed through a large part of the chateaux dis- 
 trict that we had recently gone over by auto. By 
 the time we had compassed this fair land the second 
 time it had become familiar. France surely is a satis- 
 fying country to ride through: much of it reminds one 
 of the West in America, notwithstanding the centuries 
 
 [152] 
 
THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 
 
 behind it. The far stretches of fertile fields and green 
 meadows as far as eye can see, and beyond, bring to 
 you the fertile prairies of the West in all their plenitude. 
 
 We circled the Bay of Biscay in the dim twilight and 
 passed Bordeaux, following the winding way of the 
 shore until we reached Biarritz at 10:30 p. m. We 
 soon found ourselves comfortably fixed in the Hotel 
 Palais de Biarritz, once the home of Empress Eugenie. 
 The depot at Biarritz, where kings and queens, lords 
 and ladies, and good Americans alight, is more prim- 
 itive, more inconvenient, and contains more dirt than 
 any country depot in America; and I must add that 
 nowhere in all Europe did we find a station that could 
 touch in beauty and magnificence that of Washington, 
 the Capital of the United States. 
 
 Biarritz is beautifully located on the Bay of Biscay, 
 on the opposite shore to San Sebastian, where we made 
 our bow to Spain. From Biarritz we took side trips. 
 On October 4th we reached Pau, the birthplace of 
 Henry of Navarre. The fortress had long since been 
 turned into a palace. Margaret, Queen of Navarre, or 
 Margaret of Angouleme, was the daughter of Charles 
 of Orleans and Louise of Savoy, the beloved sister of 
 Francois I. In 1509 she married Charles, Due d'Alen- 
 con, a prince of the royal blood. She was highly edu- 
 cated, a woman of great gifts and of charming per- 
 sonality. She was of great assistance to her brother 
 in the days of his prosperity and reverses. The Due 
 
 [153] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 d'Alencon died in 1525, and in 1527 Margaret became 
 the wife of Henri d'Albret, Count of Beam, titular King 
 of Navarre, whose kingdom was held in Spain. Her 
 daughter, Jeanne d'Albret, married Antoine de Bour- 
 bon. Under this reign Pau reached the zenith of its 
 prosperity. Their son, Henri IV of Navarre, was born 
 December 14, 1553. Jeanne d'Albret was one of the 
 most famous women in history. She was extolled by 
 men of letters, and loved by those who believed in free- 
 dom of religious thought. From her castle in Pau, the 
 capital of her kingdom of Navarre, she extended a 
 magnificent hospitality. Her young son Henri was 
 reared amid the hills at the base of the Pyrenees. From 
 a delicate boy her training made him strong. He was 
 exposed to hardship like the sons of peasants; he was 
 allowed to run barefooted and bareheaded, often dis- 
 tinguishing himself in games and manly sports. He was 
 trained in the freedom of religious thought, which led 
 the way to his becoming leader of the Protestants. 
 Henri on becoming King of France never forgot his 
 native city, which continued to be the capital until 
 1620, when Beam and Lower Navarre were annexed 
 to the Crown, and from the French Revolution dwindled 
 into the condition of a mere provincial city. Pau 
 would long have continued to be ignored had not Eng- 
 lish capitalists been attracted there by the mildness of 
 the climate, and settled there, purchasing land, erecting 
 villas, founding clubs, building Protestant churches, 
 
 [ 154] 
 
THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 
 
 introducing English sports, and thus bringing about a 
 revival of the prosperity of Pau, which to-day is one of 
 the handsomest and pleasantest cities of France. Pau 
 claims among its honored citizens Jeanne d'Albret, 
 1528-1572; Henri IV, 1553-1610; Bernadotte, 1763- 
 1844, who became King of Sweden and Norway under 
 the name of King John. 
 
 Our first steps in Pau were toward the castle. When 
 we entered we were supposed to be treading in the foot- 
 steps of Louis XI, Francois I, Charles V, and Queen 
 Isabella of Spain. Here are seen the same bedrooms 
 occupied by them; the rooms are spacious, ceilings 
 richly decorated, the walls hung with Flemish and 
 Gobelin tapestries, placed there mostly in the reign of 
 Louis Napoleon. There are the usual Sevres vases 
 found in every state chateau, high mantel clocks, rich 
 but uninteresting furniture. 
 
 The first room on the second floor is pointed out as 
 the room in which the great Arabic general, Abd-el- 
 Kader, and family were held as state prisoners in 1848. 
 The fourth room is the one in which Henri IV was born. 
 His cradle, an immense tortoise shell, still adorns this 
 room. 
 
 Some exceedingly interesting tapestries, representing 
 the story of St. John, are found in one of the galleries. 
 They probably date from Louis XII and Francois I. 
 
 From the chateau one gets an extended view of the 
 Pyrenees and the beautiful valley. This panorama of 
 
 [155] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 the Pyrenees is one of the most attractive sights in 
 Europe; the chain of mountains is visible for seventy 
 miles, and as we look over mountain after mountain 
 rising back of the valleys and the villas, we think of the 
 silence and rest, apart from the tumult and the strife 
 of men that has been going on for ages, an object-lesson 
 that has been there through the years, but has not sunk 
 deep into the hearts of men. 
 
 We left the old castle with the romance and the strife 
 of years hanging over us, and the question we have 
 asked ourselves so many, many times, we ask again: 
 Did the few short years of glory recompense for all the 
 years of anxiety and violent deaths? 
 
 We left Pau for Lourdes. We shall always remember 
 the beauty of her situation, the restfulness of her sur- 
 roundings, and the peace that came upon the travellers, 
 and the opportunities for study and recreation, when 
 they reached this fair portion of their wanderings. 
 
 Lourdes 
 
 It was a beautiful ride from Pau to Lourdes: green 
 fields, mountains in the distance which drew nearer 
 and nearer as we rode on; the good roads made the 
 twenty miles seem short. As we approached the town 
 a towering castle on a gray, rocky height confronted 
 us. This was a Roman fortress and besieged by Charle- 
 magne against the Moors. In the fourteenth century 
 the English for fifty-eight years kept a strong garrison 
 
 [156] 
 
THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE 
 
 in the castle, and by the irony of fate, here it was that 
 several Englishmen, Lord Elgin among them, were 
 imprisoned in 1803 by Napoleon I. We entered the 
 town from the east, the ancient part, through narrow, 
 gloomy, silent streets, but soon found ourselves in the 
 new boulevard which skirts the streets lined with shops 
 and hotels — shops redundant with pious offerings for 
 the shrine. To the west we entered the quarter sur- 
 rounding the Church and the Grotto. At first sight the 
 conditions may be a little disappointing. We had pic- 
 tured in the mind's eye a quiet little grotto in a retired 
 little glen where Bernadotte and two companions were 
 walking when the vision of the Holy Virgin appeared to 
 Bernadotte but not to the others, and an open pool 
 where the miraculous spring broke forth where the 
 seekers after health bathe their weary bodies. Instead, 
 as we reach the square, while one side is a part of the 
 city, we see the Church of the Rosary, a modern Byz- 
 antine edifice built in 1889, a beautiful, impressive 
 building: four flights of stairs lead to the different levels, 
 until you reach the upper church or basilica, which is 
 built on the extension of rock under which is the mi- 
 raculous grotto. Services are simultaneously going on 
 in different parts of the church. In front of the grotto 
 there is an image of the Blessed Virgin where it is said 
 Bernadotte had her interviews and her lessons. There 
 was a large pilgrimage the day we were there. Opposite 
 the shrine were seats filled with the pilgrims; the lame, 
 
 [157] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 the halt, the blind were there in front of the altar, 
 stretched out on cots, listening to the prayer of the priest 
 for their recovery. The pool into which many entered 
 was underneath the church and no longer visible to the 
 mere lookers-on. The solemn service, the devout-look- 
 ing people, the maimed and the blind appeal to every 
 sensitive heart. The walls and sides of the grotto are 
 hung with discarded crutches and canes by the dozens. 
 The fast days and the feast days are most religiously 
 kept as the Virgin's message dictated to Bernadotte. 
 It is said the pilgrimages increase yearly. The princi- 
 pal rites take place February 11th, March 25th, August 
 15th, and December 8th. 
 
 What was the lesson of all this to us? As to the vi- 
 sion of Bernadotte, something happened, or that child 
 of sixteen years could never have impressed herself so 
 earnestly upon the Church as to awaken it to a sense of 
 some duty undone, some injunction of the Master un- 
 heeded, which we believe to have been heal the sick and 
 preach the Gospel. "By their fruits ye shall know 
 them." Through some influence, the sick by scores 
 have been healed at Lourdes; that is well known. If 
 other churches are searching out the truth and trying 
 to live by it, as we know they are, why do they not all 
 of them believe in each other, and that the "Gem that 
 was lost from the Church" has been found again, not 
 by the Church or a Church, but by the children of men. 
 
SPAIN 
 
SPAIN 
 
 WE CAN hardly enter Spain intelligently with- 
 out taking a glance at her past. Briefly, we 
 will go over her history, and then, hand in 
 hand, we will journey together through Castilian lands, 
 to the fair plains of Andalusia, and then on to Algeciras 
 and Tarifa, the southernmost points of the European 
 continent. 
 
 Long before the birth of Christ, long before we have 
 any recorded history of Spain, this peninsula was in- 
 habited by a people of whom little is known. They 
 were called Iberians. These people are supposed to 
 have come from the East and to have been driven out 
 by the Celts, who again invaded their territory in Spain 
 and were submerged with them and were afterward 
 called Celtiberians. They occupied the central part of 
 the country. In time the Phoenicians were attracted 
 to this country, and it is known that they built cities 
 and planted settlements along the coast. The Greeks, 
 too, founded one or more colonies along the northeastern 
 shores and on the Balearic Islands. The Phoenicians 
 confined themselves to Andalusia, but so little is known 
 of these remote times that we will leave it to be re- 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 corded on her rocks and hills by an invisible hand, and 
 we will pass on until about three centuries before Christ, 
 when we come to the recorded pages of history. 
 
 The powerful Carthagenians flourished on the north- 
 ern shores of Africa; their capital was Carthage; the 
 Romans and Carthagenians were bitter foes; the long 
 series of wars that they waged upon each other were 
 called the "Punic Wars." The Carthagenians, having 
 lost Sardinia and Sicily, cast longing eyes upon Spain, 
 and two hundred and thirty-seven years before the birth 
 of Christ General Hamilcar Barca, at the head of a 
 large army, landed at Cadiz. These hosts seemed to 
 have been welcomed by the inhabitants of the country, 
 for ere long their army was swelled by the coalition of 
 the Celtiberians, the Andalusians, and the Balearic 
 Islanders. The whole of the south of Spain passed into 
 Hamilcar Barca's hands. In a few years he was suc- 
 ceeded in command by his son-in-law, Hasdrubal, who 
 built the city of New Carthage, in Spain. Hasdrubal 
 was succeeded by his son Hannibal, the most famous 
 and greatest military leader the world had known. 
 
 In time the Romans penetrated into Spain through 
 the rugged Pyrenees from the north. Again the old 
 rival nations faced each other, and after two centuries 
 the Romans had conquered the greater part of the 
 peninsula; but they soon fell into dissension in that 
 great struggle between Caesar and Pompey. The 
 latter fell. Yet the Romans were really the makers of 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 Spain; the Cartkagenians being semi-barbarians, it was 
 left for the Romans to civilize Spain. They built 
 towns, theatres, roads, and bridges and aqueducts. 
 The Latin language gradually became the language of 
 Spain; they introduced the Christian religion; but the 
 decline of the whole Roman dominion began between 
 the third and fourth centuries and soon dwindled to a 
 shadow. 
 
 Toward the middle of the fourth century we find the 
 Goths becoming prominent. They lived north of the 
 Danube on lands belonging to Rome. Toward the 
 latter part of the fourth century they left these lands 
 to escape from the ravages of a people called Huns, 
 crossed the Danube, and settled on the south of it. 
 They grew in strength as the Romans weakened, and 
 finally, in 410, defeated the Roman emperor, and under 
 their King, Alaric, invaded Italy, capturing and sacking 
 Rome. A peace was concluded: the Goths were to re- 
 ceive certain lands in Spain on which to settle. Thereby, 
 in 414, the Gothic rule began in Spain, which was to 
 last three hundred years. The Gothic kings were 
 thirty-six in number, and they made the ancient city 
 of Toledo their capital. By the close of the seventh 
 century the strength of the nation was gone; the con- 
 stant feuds between the priesthood, monarchy, and the 
 aristocracy had done the work. The last two Gothic 
 kings were Witiza and his cousin Roderick, who is 
 known in history as the last of the Gothic kings. Wit- 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 iza had a brother-in-law named Julian who controlled 
 the southern provinces and the African cities of Ceuta 
 and Tangier. A new power had sprung up in Africa 
 quite as strong as the Carthagenians were a thousand 
 years before. They were the Moors, the followers of 
 Mahomet. They were a restless, ambitious race, and 
 sought new worlds to conquer. 
 
 When the Gothic reign began to weaken in 711 a 
 daring Moorish leader, Tarik el Tuerto, landed in Spain 
 with 7,000 men, which was largely reinforced soon after 
 they pitched their tents on Gibraltar, and they had a 
 skirmish with Duke Theodomir, governor of Andalusia. 
 Tarik advanced and met the Goths, who had assembled 
 a large army but were not equal to the Moors in military 
 tactics. The western part of Africa was inhabited by 
 the barbaric Berbers; they it was who first entered 
 Spain from Africa, and they it was who fought the first 
 battle under Tarik in Spain against Roderick and the 
 Goths, called the Battle of the Guadalette. Roderick 
 witnessed the defeat of his subjects and the ruin of his 
 kingdom; city after city gave way after but a feeble de- 
 fence, when the gates were opened. Thus the Goths 
 were conquered by the Moorish invaders. 
 
 Pelayo, a Gothic nobleman, escaped, and later gath- 
 ered a few from the scattered soldiers and found a re- 
 treat in the sierras in Asturias ; his number soon grew to 
 be a large army, and seven years after the Battle of 
 Guadalette they declared him king. Here also was a 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 remnant of the Iberians. These, mingling with Pelayo's 
 Goths, were henceforth known as Spaniards. 
 
 Now began the long line of Christian kings who were 
 in the end to win back Spain. Pelayo led his men from 
 one victory to another. He died in 737 and was suc- 
 ceeded by his son Favila, and son-in-law Alfonso I, the 
 first of the Alphonse kings — a wise ruler. The home of 
 the Christians had now extended from a narrow strip in 
 the mountains to a large territory — from a narrow strip 
 in the north to a spacious kingdom. The south and 
 east were in possession of the Moors. Between these 
 two domains of Christians and Moors lay central Spain, 
 over which the contest was strenuous. Sometimes vic- 
 tory was on one side, sometimes on the other. This 
 went on for centuries. 
 
 In the meantime, the Moorish rule began to develop 
 all over Spain, but there was more or less dissension 
 among the people. The Berbers and the Arabs were 
 both Mohammedans; the Berbers, from Morocco and 
 the western part, were fierce warriors, but knew little 
 else. The Arabs were a cultured race; they brought 
 into Spain from the East the civilization, the education, 
 the arts, of a refined people. 
 
 Between the ninth and tenth centuries we find the 
 Kingdom of Pelayo has traversed the mountains and 
 forms the Kingdom of Leon; and to the east, spreading 
 toward the centre of the country, we find Castile; east of 
 this, under the shadow of the Pyrenees Mountains, are 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 the small states of Navarre and Aragon. All this was 
 Christian territory. In the course of time Portugal 
 came into the reckoning. After the death of Alphonso 
 I (1134) Aragon embraced both Saragossa and Barce- 
 lona. Leon and Castile fortunes were cast side by 
 side, taking up central Spain, Castile's southern boun- 
 dary touching Andalusia. In fact, all the Christian 
 countries excepting Navarre had largely increased their 
 proportions. The conquests and reconquests that went 
 on through the years cannot be followed here; the kings 
 and rulers that have come and gone must be sought 
 elsewhere. 
 
 We will go hand in hand over Spain's rugged moun- 
 tains, beautiful plains, into her magnificent cities, into 
 her palaces, her cathedrals, her castles, her picture gal- 
 leries, and drink from the fountain of inspiration left to 
 mankind by these wonderful people of old Castilian 
 days. 
 
 San Sebastian 
 
 A visit to Spain will surely give the lover of travel, 
 the digger after old history, art, and architecture, an 
 added leaf to his album of beautiful pictures, and a 
 satisfactory answer to the questions of an inquiring 
 mind; often, very often, you have to change the old be- 
 liefs instilled by writers and romancers. 
 
 San Sebastian is what it purports to be, a seaside 
 resort, the most fashionable in Spain. We took the 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 train October 6th, with bags and baggage, and at noon 
 we had entered Spain, and had settled ourselves at the 
 Continental Hotel, facing the beautiful bay. It re- 
 minded us forcibly of the Golden Gate at San Fran- 
 cisco, not so broad and extensive, but beautiful for 
 situation. The summer royal palace, an unpretentious 
 place, is on a slight elevation to the west end of the 
 beach. The bath-houses give a unique appearance as 
 they are drawn on to the beach by oxen. The bath- 
 house of the royal family is propelled back and forth by 
 the same power. Here for the first time in Spain we 
 saw the Plaza de Toros (bull pens), but felt no in- 
 centive to enter to see the bulls fight. There is not 
 much to interest the visitor except the beautiful harbor, 
 which was always an inspiration. Our days here were 
 of rest and recreation, a good beginning for entrance 
 into the land of the Moors and the Visigoths, the 
 Iberians and Goths, into the Basque country, where 
 still may be found the remnants of that mixed na- 
 tion. 
 
 We made an effort to find the American International 
 School for Girls, which has done much for the higher 
 education of women in Spain, but did not find it at its 
 old home, 40 Avenida; the school, for prudential rea- 
 sons, had been moved to Madrid. 
 
 In San Sebastian we learned of the uprising in 
 Portugal, and that the Palace Hotel in Lisbon, where 
 we had engaged rooms, was bombarded, so we changed 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 our route to Madrid by way of Burgos, and so journeyed 
 on to that quaint bit of old Spain, and passed the grand 
 old Spanish gateway, Santa Maria, into the town of 
 Burgos; the things uppermost in our minds were the 
 Cathedral and the Cid. We were soon located in the 
 little hotel, the Fonda del Norte, where we were well 
 cared for. Our drives and our walks carried us back 
 into the realms of memory. We had known and read 
 of the Burgos Cathedral. We had many decades to 
 pass over from the reign of Ferdinand III, when he 
 founded this cathedral, July 20, 1221, with the help of 
 an Englishman, Bishop Maurice. It was begun in the 
 period of the Gothic style, but was not finished for more 
 than three hundred years. It is somewhat interesting 
 in noting the history of this church to find that the two 
 periods of greatest interest were governed by the art 
 and grandest architectural achievements of English 
 thought, and by the admonitions and advice of another 
 travelled bishop who brought home with him from Ger- 
 many a German architect, and from whom emanated 
 the Gothic architecture in Spain. We think of the 
 days when Burgos was the centre of the Gothic mon- 
 archy in Spain; when it held all that was sacred in the 
 historic Iberian land; when it was the capital of the 
 kings of Leon, Asturias, and Navarre; the days before 
 the capital was removed to Toledo; the days of Ferdi- 
 nand I of Castile, the great king, before he had divided 
 his kingdom among his five children; the additions 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 through the centuries to the old cathedral, under new 
 kings and potentates. This was before the Moors had 
 carried war into Spanish territory and captured the land 
 from the Christians. To-day Burgos is bereft of its 
 glory, a quiet, sleepy little place, giving one the impres- 
 sion of weariness of years having settled upon its tired 
 body. 
 
 The various excursions in and around Burgos vary in 
 interest; the Real Monastery, interesting us most, was 
 built by Ferdinand III in 1249, and is a short drive of 
 one and a half miles out of Burgos. In the little church 
 belonging to the convent is a banner captured from the 
 Moors in the Battle of Las Nevas de Tolosa (1212), 
 also a most striking kneeling statue of Alphonso VIII 
 and his wife Eleanor, daughter of Henry II of England. 
 The Carteja de Miraflores, erected by Juan II, is noted 
 for its convent and little chapel and renowned by the 
 monuments erected in front of the altar by Isabella of 
 Spain in honor of her parents, Juan II and Isabella of 
 Portugal. This is classed as the finest monument in 
 design and execution in Spain. Another monument of 
 great interest stands in a recess in the north wall — that 
 of the Infanta Alphonso (1470) at the age of sixteen, 
 through whose death Isabella attained the throne. In 
 the arch is the kneeling figure of the young prince in 
 richly decorated dress. 
 
 Every road and every turn around this city of the 
 plains reminds you of its former greatness and glory. 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 Before leaving this city of cathedrals, churches, and 
 convents, we must pay our respects to the memory of 
 the Cid. Since our childhood we have had various 
 conceptions of the Cid; much of it we know belongs to 
 the fabled side of life, and yet we know he was born in 
 Burgos of good parentage; Diego Lainez was his father's 
 name. His mother was Dona Teresa Rodriguez, the 
 daughter of an Austrian count. Their son was Rodrigo 
 de Bivar, known in history as the Cid, or the Campeador 
 (Lord Champion). He was born in the Castle Bivar, 
 near Burgos, about 1040, and died at Valencia in 1099. 
 We will make no attempt to separate his exploits from 
 fiction; he figures conspicuously in Spanish literature, 
 but his real history is a myth. His life was spent in 
 combat with the Moors. He was standard bearer and 
 commander of the royal troops to Sancho II, King of 
 Leon and Castile. The designation Seig, corrupted to 
 Cid in the Spanish, was given to him by the Moors in 
 acknowledgment of his prowess, while the Spaniards 
 for whom he fought called him Campeador, the cham- 
 pion. About five years before his death he captured 
 Valencia and established himself ruler. His exploits 
 became the subject of romance, song, and story; so much 
 fiction was mixed with his real achievements that his 
 identity was well nigh lost. "The Poem of the Cid," 
 composed about the year 1200, is said to be one of the 
 earliest and most vigorous specimens of Spanish verse. 
 The author is not known, but is spoken of as the "Homer 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 of Spain." His wife, Zimena, daughter of Don Diego, 
 clung to her lover notwithstanding he had run her father 
 through with a spear because Don had arrogantly hit 
 his father Don Sanches. After the war that followed 
 Zimena is led to the altar by the King and Queen of 
 Aragon under arches of foliage, "wheat ears," and "olive 
 branches," with crowds of captive maidens dancing to 
 lute and zithern. 
 
 We stood on the ground of the Cid's priceless old 
 home, standing on the brow of the hill over Burgos, 
 near a medieval gateway, where you can see a stone 
 bearing the measure of his arm. He lived on this spot 
 many happy years with Zimena, going from here to frays 
 and to battles; but nothing remains except the stone 
 flooring and three carved shields which ornamented 
 the front, now upon pedestals to mark the spot. So 
 much we had seen, and yet we had not seen his tomb, the 
 chest of history, or his bones. Has any one? The 
 poor Cid having been carried from Valencia to Burgos, 
 he was, it is said, buried five miles off among the hills. 
 The mutilated monument still remains. You are shown 
 a stool in one house, said to be many hundred years old, 
 upon which the Cid's ancestors sat as judges in Burgos, 
 and an old portrait of the Cid almost faded and blurred 
 out of sight. In the cathedral sacristy your attention 
 is called to an old chest hung halfway up the wall. 
 This old chest is heavy and clamped with iron. The 
 story goes that the Cid wanted some money ; his pockets 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 were empty during the wars. He filled the chest with 
 sand and sent it to a Jew with this message: 
 
 "The Cid Campeador wants money. If you will furnish it he 
 will pay you back eighty-nine per cent, interest, leaving you as 
 surety this chest filled with his richest treasures on one condition, 
 that you take the oath by Father Abraham not to open the lock 
 until the money is delivered." 
 
 The Jew sent the gold and took the chest. Fact or 
 fiction reveals no more. We only know the chest hangs 
 in the cathedral. 
 
 We leave picturesque Burgos, the Cid, the cathedral, 
 its pictures and its monuments that have carried us into 
 the dim past, and come out into the open of the twen- 
 tieth century. We are en route by rail for gay, beau- 
 tiful Madrid. Our compartment is shared by a Mr. 
 and Mrs. M. of Madrid; the gentleman once belonged 
 to the legation in Washington. Twenty -five years ago 
 he married a Philadelphia girl, and they have since made 
 their home in Spain. Our hours were made short by the 
 exchange of home news and all the interesting stories of 
 her new life, and when we drew into Madrid at 2:00 
 p. m. our journey seemed short. 
 
 Madrid 
 
 Let me say to any one anticipating travelling in 
 Spain : take little heed to what books of travel tell you of 
 the discomforts of travelling there, and even " Baedeker" 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 should be rewritten. Spain of twenty-five years ago 
 is not the Spain of to-day. One of the most beautiful 
 and comfortable hotels we found in Europe was the 
 Hotel Ritz in Madrid. It was dedicated by the King 
 the Sunday before we arrived; and so on down the 
 peninsula, a new and beautiful line of hotels has been 
 built all the way, and the gem of all is at Algeciras. 
 
 Madrid is comparatively new, certainly modern. Her 
 great attraction is, of course, her picture gallery, "The 
 Musio del Prado." Here are seen the world's great 
 pictures of the old masters, of Velasquez, Murillo, Goya, 
 many of Raphael's, Andrea del Sarto, Correggio; in fact, 
 all the great masters speak to you of the past, and we 
 love it. 
 
 Madrid first appears in history in the tenth century 
 as a fortified Moorish outpost, situated on the hill 
 where the royal palace now stands. It was captured 
 by Alphonso VI in 1083, and he turned the mosque into 
 the Church of the Virgin de la Almadena, which re- 
 mained until 1869. From the time of the Castilian 
 monarchs the town was endowed with many special 
 fueros (privileges). These fueros provided for a re- 
 publican government in the three provinces ; for immun- 
 ity from taxes and military service. In 1329 Ferdinand 
 IV assembled the first Cortes in Madrid; in 1386 King 
 Juan I handed over the lordship of the town to Leo V. 
 Madrid was disturbed with new and varied troubles 
 through the reign of Henry III and Henry IV. Times 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 were quieter and more prosperous with Ferdinand and 
 Isabella; in fact, the most glorious reign in Spanish 
 history was when the crowns of Castile and Leon were 
 united with Aragon under Ferdinand and Isabella, 
 and the Moor was finally driven from the country. 
 And now in the twentieth century we are wandering 
 over the waste places of a once prosperous dynasty and 
 come into the conquered land of the Moors, and our 
 days will be spent in studying the then and now, and 
 we begin in beautiful old Madrid. 
 
 Our first delight in taking in our surroundings from 
 the Ritz was to find "The Musio del Prado" across the 
 street from our hotel. The evenings in the hotel were 
 picturesque and interesting. A deputation of Moors 
 from Tangiers were stopping there while the treaty- 
 making was going on. Their striking dress was in 
 unique contrast to that of the members of the Cortes, 
 many of whom were at home in the Ritz. When all 
 was going well the white cavalcade were conspicuous 
 in the dining-room, in the corridors, in the salon; but 
 when the course of arbitration was not in accord with 
 Moorish thought they kept to themselves until adjust- 
 ments were made. When we saw the chief enter, fol- 
 lowed by his clan, we knew all was well with them. 
 Ladies of rank, wives of the members of the Cortes — 
 conspicuous by the absence of young women — would 
 assemble in the evenings, and over their coffee exchange 
 the greetings of the day. Not one Spanish woman did 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 we see smoking, and we were told it was not the custom; 
 they might set some other nations an example. 
 
 The art gallery is the great attraction. Many a 
 morning and many a spare hour we took advantage of 
 our proximity to satisfy the longing we had had for 
 years to study the perfection of form and color pro- 
 duced by these old masters. 
 
 One privilege of which I did not avail myself was the 
 bullfight. The second Sunday of our stay some of our 
 party slipped off to the bullfight (Sunday is the great 
 day for these entertainments), but before I was aware 
 of time enough having passed to take them there, they 
 were back, having seen quite enough, and more, too, 
 when the first horse was gored, and all the horror of it. 
 They came back full of wonder that the authorities 
 would sanction such scenes in a civilized country; they 
 had had quite enough of "while in Turkey do as the tur- 
 keys do." It may be all right for Spaniards brought up 
 to know and understand every dexterous stroke, every 
 telling move — to them it may be fine sport; but the 
 amateur has no place there: to him it is only brutality. 
 
 By invitation, Miss C. and myself started for a Sun- 
 day afternoon tea, another Spanish custom, at the 
 Alice Gordon Gulick International School for Girls, 
 which we had tried to locate at San Sebastian. Mrs. 
 Gulick we had known in America, and her marvellous 
 work. The beautiful building built in her honor after 
 her death is one of the most attractive spots in Madrid, 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 and speaks volumes for the sacrifice she made. Her work 
 has been taken up by Miss Susan D. Huntington of 
 Connecticut, and every American who visits Madrid 
 should pay a visit to the Gulick International School 
 for Girls. 
 
 En route to this school we passed the home of Sorolla, 
 and as Sunday in Madrid is the day for social events, 
 we asked our driver to halt at the gate while we, as 
 Americans, paid our respects, knowing that since his 
 warm reception in New York and the great appreciation 
 manifested for his pictures he had become very fond of 
 Americans. We found the artist and his wife were in 
 Paris, but we were very cordially shown through his 
 most attractive home by the daughter and one of the 
 students. The drawing-room, the library, the dining- 
 room, and of course the studio, were filled with his 
 paintings, much to our delight. The home was sur- 
 rounded by lawns, flowers, shade trees, and filled with 
 laughing, gay young people as we entered. The charm 
 and atmosphere of this home is the supreme delight 
 shown by the artist in painting pictures of his own 
 family — his wife, two daughters, and a son. The eldest 
 is only eighteen. Perhaps the gem of the whole collec- 
 tion is the portrait of his wife. The wife says it is 
 idealized; he thinks not; at all events, in every detail it 
 is very pleasing. As we passed from room to room and 
 saw the exquisite work of this master hand we felt very 
 sure the art of painting did not die out with the old mas- 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 ters to whom we had bid good-bye in the Musio del- 
 Prado, but lives again in Sorolla, taking on new forms, 
 more in sympathy with the thought of to-day. The 
 old orders of kings and queens for church paintings of 
 saints and madonnas, of crucifixions and ascensions, 
 have passed by and given place to scenes of the hour 
 and the day in the world as it is. So Sorolla, with the 
 inspiration that comes from contact with the world 
 — with the talent endowed by the same Master that 
 gave Velasquez the power to hold the world in admira- 
 tion — is painting the fisherman of San Sebastian, the 
 children by the seashore of Valencia, the portraits of the 
 men and women who are integral parts in the work of 
 the world in the twentieth century, and doing it with 
 such a fascinating charm, so pleasing a technique, that 
 the world is looking on and taking notice of the strong- 
 hold art still has in the old haunts of Spain. 
 
 One Sunday morning our party left the Ritz to take 
 a walk up the Prado, on which our hotel was situated. 
 It is one of the magnificent streets of Europe, two 
 broad driveways in the centre, a park from one end to 
 the other with seats, grass, flowers, trees; Neptune at 
 one point with trident and attendant sea gods; Cybele 
 at another point driving her chariot over the powers of 
 the earth, beautiful and attractive from every point. 
 We were struck by the stillness and want of life; we 
 thought the hour had not struck for the gay and the 
 festive to begin their daily bout, where all sorts of 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 equipages parade up and down, led by the King's own, 
 until he turns his gay equipage off the Prado toward 
 the royal palace; five minutes after not a vehicle is in 
 sight. But this day it did not even begin. We soon 
 discovered the reason. G. came toward us with an 
 anxious look. Just then we heard music afar off. 
 G. said: 
 
 "They say at the hotel you must come back at once, 
 that the uprising which had been predicted for days — 
 since the affair in Lisbon — had really begun; that the 
 bullfight has been called off." 
 
 We walked back to the hotel, we will admit with pace 
 increased, and calmly took our positions to see what 
 was going to happen. The music came nearer and 
 nearer; at last the band came into view — not an impres- 
 sive-looking lot — and followed by perhaps three hundred 
 uprisers, more than half of them boys not sixteen. 
 They passed by as orderly as a Sunday-school proces- 
 sion, and that was all there was to the long-expected 
 uprising, although we were constantly told of the great 
 unrest in Spain. 
 
 It seems Philip II was driven to choose Madrid as his 
 new capital, if not for political reasons, for historical. 
 It could hardly be the Castilian Burgos, nor the Visi- 
 gothic Toledo, nor the Moorish Cordova, nor Seville. 
 He finally, in 1560, made Madrid the royal residence. 
 The eighteenth century brought the Bourbons and the 
 building of the royal palace by Charles III who came 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 from Naples to rule over Spain. To him is given the 
 credit of beginning or completing every good enterprise. 
 
 The royal palace is situated on a height once occupied 
 by a Moorish mosque. A palace begun by Philip II on 
 the same site was burned before completion. Here the 
 rulers of Spain have had their home since the days of 
 Charles III. We occasionally betook ourselves up to 
 these heights, not only to see the morning drill of the 
 royal troops in the courtyard, but also to study the 
 armor in the wonderful collection to be found in an 
 unpretentious building on one side of the court. The 
 building is filled with the world-renowned collection 
 of arms and armor, the effort of Charles V; but Philip 
 II transferred them from Valladolid to Madrid. The 
 outline history of Spain can well be followed through 
 this marvellous collection. 
 
 A short walk from our hotel is the Puerta del Sol. 
 This derives its name from an old gateway which opened 
 on to the rising sun. Here, too, Spanish history can be 
 read. It seems that in that long ago Puerta del Sol was 
 in the suburbs or country. To-day it is in the centre 
 of commercialism; ten diagonal streets lead into the 
 open square. The only really historic square in Mad- 
 rid is the Plaza Mayor. It was laid out early in 
 the seventeenth century and was the place for the pop- 
 ulace to assemble to witness horse races, bullfights, 
 executions, auto-de-fes. To-day the same balconies 
 of the houses are there that held the grandees of the 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 town; they served as boxes for the lookers-on. It is 
 said as many as 50,000 at one time had witnessed these 
 scenes. The balcony is there that was fitted up by 
 Philip IV for his mistress. On June 30, 1680, an 
 auto-de-fe lasted from early morning until night. 
 Charles II, his Queen and court were so edified by this 
 woful spectacle that they stayed the twelve hours. 
 A painting of this horror by Rizi can be seen in the 
 Prado. What is considered at least one of the finest 
 statues in Spain is that of Philip III, an equestrian 
 statue standing in the centre of an immense fountain 
 basin. 
 
 The Escorial 
 
 An hour's ride via the railway brought us to the Es- 
 corial. We are struck by the sameness of the land- 
 scape we are passing over to that of our entree into 
 Spain — a wild, weird, treeless grayness and desolation 
 written over all, a gray olive tree or a lonely juniper 
 here and there, which adds to the grayness and lone- 
 someness of it all. When you near the historic pile, 
 halfway up the mountain, you look sharp to distinguish 
 it from the mountain, but the endless rows of small 
 windows help to make the distinction. One of the 
 stories the traveller will meet with is that Philip II 
 vowed during the battle of St. Quentin, fought on St. 
 Lawrence Day, August 10, 1557, that if victorious he 
 would build a convent to this saint, a Roman soldier 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 and martyr of Spanish birth, in compensation for the 
 necessary destruction by the Spanish artillery of a 
 church dedicated to him; but no matter how good a 
 story, history tells us that the battle of St. Quentin 
 was won by Duke Emanuel Philibert of Savoy, and 
 Philip did not reach the field until it was all over. 
 Charles V, Philip's father, who died at Yuste in an ob- 
 scure monastery in the Estremadura, directed in his 
 will that a suitable monument should be provided for 
 him by his son. The Escorial was erected as Charles' 
 mausoleum. It was Philip's wish to erect a monument 
 to his father, to which he added a monastery imposing 
 enough to proclaim his piety to the world, also a palace 
 for himself where he could live under the sacred cross. 
 The Pantheon, or burial vault, was finished by Philip's 
 grandson, Philip IV. It is popularly believed that 
 the ground floor of the Escorial represents the gridiron 
 on which St. Lawrence suffered martyrdom, the royal 
 palace standing for the handle, the galleries or cov- 
 ered cloisters marking the bars of the gridiron. 
 Juan Beautista de Toledo, an eminent architect who 
 had studied in Naples and Rome, was summoned 
 by Philip in 1559 to carry out his plans, but this 
 artist died in 1563, after planning and laying the 
 foundation stone. His successor was the great Juan 
 de Herrera, who had studied in Brussels. But it 
 took the erratic mind of such a man as Philip II to dic- 
 tate how the building should be planned. Take it all 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 in all, the Escorial is one of the most remarkable build- 
 ings of all time and seems a part of the Guadarrama 
 Mountains. It looks like a fortress or prison; surely 
 it is a grand and gloomy pile of stone quite in keeping 
 with the rocky desolation surrounding it. 
 
 Our day was spent in wandering through the different 
 courts and granite cloisters. We came upon two rooms, 
 plain white walls, vaulted ceilings, and porcelain wain- 
 scots — the private rooms of Philip II. Here the mon- 
 arch lived and held audience; here he worked with his 
 secretaries, received high potentates, ambassadors from 
 different lands; here in this corner of the world, on the 
 side of the mountain, Philip authorized death warrants, 
 secret assassinations, gave out the word of annihilation 
 to weakened nations; between the acts, retiring into the 
 church, which only required the spring of a door, to say 
 his prayers and ask absolution of his sins. In this 
 room is the armchair in which he sat, covered with 
 embossed leather, a stool upon which his stiffened, 
 gouty legs used to rest; there is the table upon which 
 the written edicts went forth which scourged the sover- 
 eigns of Europe, which led him to boast "that with 
 two inches of paper he ruled the world," but he had not 
 reached the point where even a Philip II must stop to 
 recall "that a drop of ink will make the whole world 
 think." Even the blotting book he used is there, worn 
 and ink-marked. More's the pity that it does not bear 
 the mark of wicked, ungodlike edicts blotted out. 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 Near these rooms you pass through a low door and 
 enter a dark cell, no light, but quite accessible to the 
 high altar. Here he could attend service without being 
 seen; here the historic Philip II died. We are told that 
 he carried the same crucifix Charles clasped in death, 
 and wore the same penitential robes; the same prayers 
 were chanted over him out of the same mass book. 
 During his long days of illness, when his sufferings were 
 greater than any he could lay on his subjects, we wonder 
 what memories were brought to his agonized soul of the 
 suffering he had inflicted upon others. We are told 
 that he "turned his imploring eyes upon his confessor 
 and whispered, ' My father, my sins are so heavy I will 
 do anything, sign anything, decree anything, so that 
 you save my soul.' " 
 
 The building contains the royal palace, the royal 
 chapel, monastery, two colleges, chapter houses, three 
 libraries, dormitories, hospitals, and countless other 
 apartments. The most striking feature of the edifice 
 is the church built in imitation of the Church of St. 
 Peter at Rome, in the form of a Greek cross. It con- 
 tains forty chapels with their altars. Directly under 
 the high altar, so that the Host may be raised above 
 the dead, is a mausoleum built by Philip IV, known as 
 the Pantheon — octagonal, lined from top to bottom 
 with dark marble, and sarcophagi exactly alike, in 
 niches, the name of each sovereign, with the dates of 
 birth and death, engraved in golden letters. Here 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 repose the remains of all the sovereigns of Spain since 
 Charles V. The Pudridere in one of the chapels is 
 another burying place, sometimes called the Pantheon 
 of the Infantas. Don Carlos, the wayward son of Philip, 
 is buried here. He is looked upon in history in varied 
 lights, as a hero, a scamp, a reformer, a myth, a what 
 not. Philip, his father, is accused of his death; that 
 he died in prison suddenly has always been conceded. 
 Many and varied reasons are given for his death, but 
 the one given out as the last was that he died repentant, 
 and that finally with a holy taper in one hand and 
 feebly beating his breast with the other, he died without 
 a groan. The other side and later history say that 
 when Emilio Castelar was President of the Republic he 
 determined with his own eyes to ascertain the real 
 manner of the death of Don Carlos. He went to the 
 Escorial and to the Pudridere, with Don Joaquin as 
 companion, the casket was opened, and there was the 
 decapitated head beside the trunk of Don Carlos. A 
 sad comment on history. 
 
 Undoubtedly the church is the gem of this historic 
 pile. Its interior is a triumph in architectural effect, 
 grand, massive, solemn; on the steps are six colossal 
 statues in granite, with marble heads and hands and 
 gold crowns; these are called the Kings of Judea. On 
 one side, Charles V in magnificent enamelled robes, 
 glowing in gems; his wife, Eleanor of Portugal; his 
 mother, Juana la Loca, herself Queen of Spain; their 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 jewelled crowns lay lowly on the ground; on the opposite 
 side, Philip, right over the cell in which he expiated 
 through suffering some of the crimes he had com- 
 mitted — there in regal robes; Don Carlos and his other 
 son Philip III and his four queens — a constant lesson of 
 the studied hypocrisy the world has had to put up 
 with. 
 
 Toledo 
 
 Our next trip over this land of desolation was to 
 Toledo, a trip that can be made from Madrid in a day. 
 You see the same gray olive trees scattered here and 
 there, a barren waste to all appearance, a dull grayness 
 over the sky and over the earth; away back of us the 
 Sierra Guadarrama. Yes, we were on our way to 
 Toledo — Toledo in Spain. How all the stories of her 
 glory come up before us : her silks and fabrics, her mar- 
 vellous Toledo blades, her Alcazar, her cathedral ! As 
 we rode up the winding hill into her narrow gray streets 
 we wondered why the Jews, when driven out of Jeru- 
 salem by Nebuchadnezzar, came to Toledo. Of all 
 the desolate countries over which we had travelled, 
 Spain, outside its cities, takes the lead. So far it is 
 one long stretch of desolation, a repetition of the Bad 
 Lands of Wyoming — it is very marked around Toledo. 
 Whatever induced Tubal Cain or any other pioneer to 
 pick out this barren, lonesome locality is a wonder to 
 me. I know the Bible says when Jonah wanted to flee 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUEOPE 
 
 from the face of the Lord he paid his fare and started 
 for Tarshish (now Cadiz). We know that he did not 
 make port; whether he got a rebate we are not told. 
 When we hear of the desolate places in Palestine I 
 think it must have been because Spain around Toledo 
 looked so much like home. We know Tubal Cain was 
 the great iron master in his native land. Was this the 
 secret and the foundation of the steel industries that 
 have made Toledo famous? With steady tread we can 
 imagine them again packing the narrow streets of their 
 beloved city. We read that in those days the Jews of 
 Jerusalem sent a deputation to the head men of Toledo 
 asking : 
 
 "Shall this man who says he is the son of God be 
 given up to the Roman law and die? " 
 
 Their answer was: "By no means commit this great 
 crime, because we believe from the evidence that He is 
 indeed the long-looked-for Redeemer." 
 
 They were too late — on their arrival home the 
 deed had been done, but there is the tale that their 
 true allegiance is the reason the Jews of Toledo were 
 spared the horrors of the Inquisition. We know 
 that the King of the Visigoths, who had become a 
 Christian, made Toledo the ecclesiastical capital of 
 Spain. We are also told by historians that it was the 
 Romans who were the makers of Spain. They taught 
 civilization to the nations, they built bridges and roads 
 and aqueducts which are traceable to-day. They built 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 towns. Pliny has made record that in the lifetime of 
 our Lord there were eight hundred and twenty-nine 
 cities in Spain. They introduced the Christian re- 
 ligion. These were followed by the Goths in the fourth 
 century. Of course they were refugees from the Huns, 
 who crossed the Danube and found their way in time 
 to Spain; they in time conquered the Romans. Their 
 reign lasted three hundred years. There were thirty- 
 six Gothic kings and they made Toledo their capital. 
 These kings were elected by the will of the people. 
 Roderick, the last King of the Goths, is known in ballad 
 and fable. Then came the Berbers, descended of the 
 vandals in Africa, the representatives of Mahomet and 
 a new religion. This was the invasion of the Moors 
 in 711 when the Gothic reign was going to pieces. 
 Tarik "the one-eyed" landed in Spain with 7,000 men. 
 Soon followed the historic Battle of Guadalette, which 
 ended, after a week's fighting, in the defeat of the Goths. 
 City after city threw open its gates to Tarik. Toledo 
 was made the capital of their kingdom a century later, 
 and was wrested from them by Alphonso VI of Castile 
 and Leon in 1085. 
 
 There are but few buildings in Toledo of an historic 
 nature that do not bear the finger-marks of Goths, 
 Romans, Moors, and Spaniards. You walk through 
 the streets with the feeling that you might meet Tarik 
 or Alphonso and the Cid, or Ferdinand and Isabella. 
 The centuries seem but days; but you are confronted 
 
 [187] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 with the evolution of the dynasties that have come and 
 gone, and wonder if it was a part of the plan of crea- 
 tion. 
 
 The cathedral, the largest in Spain, impresses you 
 only by its size. The Alcazar is merely a reminder of 
 what has been; it is now a military school. In one of 
 these narrow streets you pass a shrine in the wall of a 
 convent covered by a wire grating and above it you 
 read, if any maiden wishes a tall husband a long pin 
 must be deposited in this receptacle; if a short one, a 
 short pin; if a black-eyed one, a black pin; if a light- 
 complexioned one, a white pin. By the accumulation, 
 we concluded it to be a very clever device to keep the 
 convent in pins. 
 
 We had become more or less entangled between the 
 Moslem and Christian civilizations, and — shall I own 
 up to it?— there were moments when it seemed that 
 history had recorded that the Moslems were more 
 humane than the Christians. We came upon the 
 church of San Juan de los Reyes. The outside walls 
 were festooned with the votive chains of captive Chris- 
 tians. We recalled that this church was built by Isa- 
 bella, it is said, and given to her husband on his return 
 from Portugal. The chief attraction of San Juan lies 
 in the Gothic cloisters. It would seem, to look upon 
 this scene, that Gothic decorative art had arrived at 
 the climax of perfection; but what recollections it brings 
 up : the crucifix that led the procession of the auto-de-f e 
 
 F 188 1 
 
SPAIN 
 
 brings back Philip II when the great show prepared 
 for the public when he was to be married was the burn- 
 ing of heretics in the market place of Toledo; and we 
 look into the marble galleries where Ferdinand and Isa- 
 bella sat to hear mass, and we wonder if she ever did 
 sit there and see these prisoners bound to be led to the 
 sacrifice; we wonder if really at heart she believed in the 
 Inquisition — a woman so good at heart, to whom the 
 world owes so much. Was it not the position fate had 
 placed her in? 
 
 In passing through these narrow, crooked streets, 
 everywhere a blank wall to the street — the attractive 
 patios are in the centre — we are possessed with the 
 feeling that the passing of centuries has shrunken them. 
 The city is situated on a granite hill, singularly beau- 
 tiful for location. The Tagus surrounds it in horse- 
 shoe shape. In leaving the city we wound round the 
 hill and crossed the Puente del San Martin, said to be 
 one of the wonderful bridges of the world. The story 
 goes that as the bridge neared completion the architect 
 discovered he had made a mistake in calculation and 
 that when the centres were removed the bridge would 
 fall. He made known his sorrows to his wife, who 
 quickly saw the remedy : burn the bridge. It was done. 
 On rebuilding, he profited by the mistake, and the 
 bridge stands to-day a monument to a wife's devotion. 
 
 In looking back upon the city we recall the towers 
 and Moorish patios, the double arcade of airy arches, 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 carved balustrades. We all recall the bloody struggles 
 between the Crescent and the Cross; we hear the echoes 
 of the footsteps of the regal presence that passed in the 
 centuries procession of the Iberians, the Moors, the 
 Romans, the Goths. It is the same story of the passing 
 of nations; we find it everywhere if time enough has 
 passed, and again we ask, with old Toledo fading out of 
 sight with the setting of the sun, is it all a part of the 
 plan of creation? 
 
 From Madrid to Seville we took our sleeper at 8:20 
 p. m. In the gray of the morning looking out of the 
 car window we caught the first glimpse of Cordova. 
 How beautiful it looked through the early mists; the 
 delicate branches of the trees that softened every nook 
 and corner. We are still wondering what sort of trees 
 they were; not olive or oranges; they were much too 
 graceful for those, yet miles of olive orchards spread out 
 over the plains, a beautiful relief to the eyes. The face 
 of the country began to look as we had pictured it in 
 our mind; the gray, rocky, forbidding landscape we 
 were leaving behind us. It does not matter so much if 
 the traveller is greatly disappointed at what he finds left 
 of the once perfect city of the Iberians. The marvellous 
 cathedral has never been surpassed; language does not 
 convey the superb appointments of this mosque, it 
 must be seen to be appreciated; but Cordova stands 
 out as another lesson of the changes time has wrought 
 over the fair face of Spain. 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 On our arrival at Seville we were pleased to find a 
 roomy, pleasant, modern depot, also that the officers' 
 duty consisted only of opening our trunks and closing 
 them again to satisfy the law. They knew no search 
 was necessary, as American women as a rule do not 
 smoke, and cigarettes would not be found, so we were 
 not detained long. Seville had a pleasant welcome for 
 us. It is situated on a flat, level plain — so is Chicago. 
 The Guadalquivir, which has been sung in song and 
 story, is not the glorious Hudson, but it runs along at 
 our side as cheery as possible, with its low banks and 
 not overmuch water, but it said us " Welcome to Seville," 
 and that is as much as any river can do. 
 
 We were taken by public conveyance to the Grand 
 Hotel de Paris. Our entree was through narrow streets, 
 low houses, all white, clean, and with an air of comfort 
 about them. You look through the iron gateways into 
 fascinating patios filled with shrubbery, flowers, and 
 fountains, with air and sunshine — the patio an open 
 hall, a reception-room, partly Roman, more Moorish; in 
 hot weather cots are arranged there for the family to 
 sleep; lounges, easy chairs, dining tables; in fact, the 
 housekeeping has a resetting in these patios. 
 
 After we had settled ourselves in our comfortable 
 hotel, we did not find it with all the modern comforts of 
 the Ritz at Madrid, but better by far than books and 
 the misrepresentations of writers and travellers in Spain 
 had taught us to expect. We breakfasted at eleven 
 
 [191] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 and betook ourselves to the Alcazar. There we spent 
 our time until the dinner hour. What can I say of the 
 Aladdin's wonder? It goes without saying that the 
 Alcazar is the greatest wonder and the most beautiful 
 building in Seville. The cathedral has many counter- 
 parts, grand as it is, and we have studied many, but the 
 Alcazar stands out alone, speaking its lesson to the 
 lover of history in a new language. Peter the Cruel 
 and Henry II caused the present building to be erected 
 by Moorish architects. Isabella erected the chapel on 
 the first floor. It was built on the ruins of the Roman 
 Pretorium. Charles V married Isabella of Portugal in 
 the Hall of the Ambassadors; he made many additions 
 and improvements. The extreme beauty of the Court 
 of the Maidens, the Hall of the Ambassadors, the vistas 
 through the vaulted doorways, the azulejos, the open- 
 worked walls of sculptured stone, the tracery of slender 
 ivory columns as they appeared, the pages of history 
 that unfold step by step, will leave a lasting impression 
 on the memory. As we walked the narrow, crooked 
 streets we were reminded of the home of the "Barber 
 of Seville." 
 
 When we took our seat in the garden — built by Don 
 Pedro, near the pool where Maria de Padella used to 
 bathe — under the beautiful palms, surrounded by 
 fountains and flowers, there came up before us names 
 that have won the admiration of the world. We are 
 told Caesar captured Seville forty-five years before 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 Christ, in spite of Pompey at Cordova; we know it was 
 the birthplace of Velasquez and Murillo; we know it 
 was the scenes of Mozart's Don Juan, and Figaro of 
 Bizet's Carmen. 
 
 The discovery of America gave a marked impetus to 
 Seville. Palm Sunday, May, 1493, Columbus was for- 
 mally received here on his return after the discovery 
 of America. We walk out of this place filled with the 
 thought of other days. We do not forget with all the 
 other horrid murders of Peter the Cruel that it was here 
 that he murdered his royal guest, Alba, Said of Granada, 
 for the sake of his jewels, one of which, a large spinel 
 ruby, given by Peter to the Black Prince, now figures in 
 the British regalia. 
 
 The Cathedral 
 
 The cathedral at Seville is probably the largest and 
 richest in all of its appointments of any cathedral in 
 Europe. It is another of the buildings that must be 
 seen to be appreciated. It has the same extravagantly 
 resplendent appointments of many others, and sur- 
 passes most of them. You look upon it all and are 
 dazed with the splendor, but are appalled at the beggars 
 who are allowed to embarrass the visitors with their 
 importuning, and sometimes the thought is forced upon 
 you that if there had been less extravagance in these 
 appointments and in most of the cathedrals in Spain, 
 and some of these millions put in reserve to care for 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 these vagrants that prey upon the public with greater 
 or less degree of annoyance, the spirit of Christianity 
 would be presented perhaps in a more acceptable form. 
 
 We would hesitate to put into words the embarras- 
 sing situation in which some of our party were placed 
 by reason of them, and it does look as though somewhere 
 a remedy could be found. 
 
 The paintings are numerous and well worth time and 
 study, but the one that took our party back time and 
 time again during our stay in Seville was Murillo's 
 "Guardian Angel." In 1656 Murillo finished his cele- 
 brated "St. Anthony of Padua" for the baptismal 
 chapel in the cathedral at Seville. The expression 
 on the saint's face, who on his knees extends his hands 
 to receive the infant Saviour amidst a glory of super- 
 natural light, is a smile of perfect happiness. The little 
 messenger has come to bring some word of comfort 
 and he lays his hand cunningly on St. Anthony's cheek. 
 In 1874 the figure of St. Anthony was cut out, stolen, 
 and sold to a Mr. Schaus, a picture dealer in New 
 York, for $250. He turned the purchase over to the 
 Spanish Consul, who returned it to the cathedral at Se- 
 ville. 
 
 An interesting feature to American visitors is the 
 monument to Columbus in the south transept, which 
 was erected in Havana, in 1892, in the cathedral and 
 taken to Spain in 1899. It consists of a marble base 
 on which are four allegorical figures in bronze, the king- 
 
 [194] 
 
SPAIN 
 
 doms of Castile, Aragon, Leon, and Navarre, support- 
 ing the sarcophagus that contains the mortal remains 
 of the great discoverer. From 1509 till 1510 the re- 
 mains of Columbus reposed in the Convent Church of 
 Cartuja. They were brought from Valladolid, where 
 Christopher Columbus died May 21, 1506. In accord- 
 ance with the last wish of Columbus his remains were 
 removed to San Domingo in Haiti. After the French 
 got possession of that part of the island the body was 
 transported to the cathedral in Havana in 1796. From 
 there it was brought to Seville in 1899. It is profoundly 
 hoped that here it may rest. 
 
 The treasury, the naves, and chapels must be studied 
 in detail, but cannot be included in a general survey of 
 the cathedral. 
 
 The Giralda, a conspicuous landmark of Seville, is con- 
 sidered the most beautiful building in Seville — if build- 
 ing it can be called. It was originally the minaret, or 
 prayer tower, of the Moorish mosque erected in 1184-96. 
 From the outside one is impressed with the feeling of 
 tower, nothing more. The fascinating Moorish touch 
 is inside. It is capped by a small dome on which stands 
 a bronze female representing Faith. The figure is 
 Giraldello, or vane, which gives the tower its name, and 
 which moves with ease at each turn of the wind. It is 
 an adjunct of the cathedral and is under the special 
 protection of Sts. Justa and Rufino, whom Murillo has 
 immortalized by his painting of the " Saints with the 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 Giralda." There is the legend that Justa and Rufino 
 were potters in Triana, a suburb of Seville across the 
 river. Triana was noted for the production of beau- 
 tiful pottery, especially for the wonderful azulejos. 
 The legend runs thus : Sts. Justa and Rufino were patron- 
 esses of Seville a. d. 304; these were two Christians 
 dwelling in that city. They were the daughters of a 
 potter and made a living by selling earthenware; and 
 contenting themselves with the bare necessaries of 
 life, they gave all the rest to the poor. Certain women 
 who lived near them and who were worshippers of the 
 goddess Venus came to their shop to buy vessels for 
 their idolatrous sacrifice. The sisters answered that 
 they had no vessels for such a purpose, and that their 
 ware should be used for the service of God and not in 
 the worship of stocks and stones. Upon this the pagan 
 women broke all the earthenware in the shop. Justina 
 and Rufino retaliated by falling upon the image of 
 Venus, which they broke in pieces and flung it in the 
 kennel. The populace immediately collected before 
 their door, seized them and carried them before the 
 prefect. On being accused of sacrilege, they boldly 
 avowed themselves to be Christians, and, being con- 
 demned to the torture, Justina expired on the rack and 
 Rufino was strangled. Murillo has frequently painted 
 them, sometimes as Spanish girls bearing the palms, 
 as martyrs holding in their hands earthenware pots, 
 and the Alcarrajas at their feet; but it is his picture 
 
 [196] 
 
SPAIN 
 
 of the "Saints with the Giralda" that you carry with 
 you. 
 
 The sun was shedding its golden light upon the pil- 
 lars in marble, the panels of lacework, the arches in 
 horseshoe windows, all, all the marvellous Moorish 
 ornamentation, as we turned into the narrow, crooked 
 street to make our way back to our hotel, feeling that a 
 look at the "Giralda" alone would repay for a trip to 
 Spain. 
 
 Seville is rich in the work of the old masters. If one 
 wants to revel in Andalusian art, in the atmosphere of 
 Murillo, go to Seville. In one of our morning walks, 
 in and out of the crooked streets, we came upon the 
 Museum, which was once the old Convent Church. 
 Here Murillo almost reigns supreme. Among the pic- 
 tures is " St. Anthony of Padua with the Holy Child," 
 who, with rapturous look, touches him with the divine 
 finger. This is but one more evident fact that no mas- 
 ter has ever portrayed the divine atmosphere in his 
 children like Murillo, and no one can fully understand 
 it until they have drunk it in in Andalusia. Among the 
 many rare paintings we will note one more, that of the 
 Virgin and Child, called the "Virgin of the Napkin," 
 one of Murillo's best-known works. The legend sur- 
 rounding this picture is as follows: Murillo was at 
 work in the Capuchin convent at Seville when his cook, 
 Brother Pepe, entered with the tray on which was his 
 noonday meal. He began to expostulate with Murillo 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 on his wonderful gift. " God has been very good to you, 
 Sefior Maestro, and raised you up to his throne to show 
 you heavenly mysteries. You are a god, too, in your 
 way. If from nothing He made the world, you by your 
 genius give new life to it. If I," continued the monk, 
 "could possess one of your Virgins, I should be the 
 happiest man in Seville." "Gold could not purchase 
 these," replied Murillo, "but to show you mine is not 
 a mercenary nature, if you will bring me a canvas I 
 will promise to paint you a saint upon it." "But I 
 have not the price of a canvas," the monk cried out. 
 "Here," answered Murillo, "give me this coarse napkin 
 from your tray and I will keep my word." The balcony 
 of Murillo's room overlooked the Plaza di Santa Cruz. 
 On looking down Murillo saw a woman, with an infant 
 on her arm, take her seat on one of the benches. " Great 
 God!" exclaimed Murillo, gazing at the woman in 
 ecstasy, "can it be really she, my first love? Is she 
 alive?" Meanwhile the woman, busy with her child, 
 pulling at the tresses of her raven hair, turned its 
 dimpled face upward with a smile, but saw not 
 Murillo. In the meantime Murillo had snatched the 
 napkin and rapidly traced on it her image and the 
 child's. 
 
 A vision came to Murillo in the night of his love, the 
 face upon the napkin, and all the sweet, sad days it 
 recalled. Again Brother Pepe appeared to claim his 
 picture. 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 "Never!" cried Murillo, covering it with his body. 
 "Never while I live." 
 
 Afterward the voice of conscience smote: "She 
 loved you, she belongs to another. You, too, have 
 stood before the altar with an honest wife; to keep the 
 portrait would be a sin — it might injure her, your 
 beloved." 
 
 Murillo slept in an iron chair before the picture. 
 There he was found by Brother Pepe when he came in 
 at the regular hour. 
 
 "Awake, Maestro!" called Pepe, touching him on the 
 shoulder, and as Murillo turned his eyes he fixed them 
 on the Virgin. 
 
 "Have you come for that, Brother Pepe?" he asked 
 in a low voice. "If so, take it, carry it away; it is too 
 precious." 
 
 Strange words, thought Brother Pepe; he may be 
 wandering in his mind; but he seized the picture and 
 carried it away. 
 
 This is the legend of the "Virgin of the Napkin" 
 that we saw in the picture gallery of Seville. If there 
 are any signs of the texture of the linen of the napkin 
 they were not visible to us. The exquisite coloring, 
 the perfection of form and feature, to all appearance 
 might have been on porcelain. 
 
 Another morning brought us to the Casa de Pilatus. 
 It is thought that originally this was a Moorish palace, 
 but it fell into the hands of Don Enrique Ribera and 
 
 [199] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 was completed under his descendants. The Marquis 
 de Tarifa had made a journey to Jerusalem, and from 
 this arose the conclusion that it was in imitation of the 
 house of Pilate, and hence the name: the House of 
 Pilate. When the third Duke of Alcate, Don Fernando 
 Enrique de Ribera, was established in this home, he 
 built a library and added to the collection of antiquities 
 which his father had brought from Naples. It was in 
 his regime that the house was made the social centre 
 of Seville. We read that Herrera and Cervantes were 
 among the guests. The style of architecture is a com- 
 bination of Moorish, Gothic, and Renaissance. You 
 enter by a marble portal, then you are entranced as 
 you enter the patio with a double arcade supported by 
 the same airy slender marble pillars that are the joy of 
 the Alcazar, the capital and pediments wrought in lace- 
 work; broad cloisters covered with tiles (azulajos). 
 We wish we could convey to the reader the restfulness 
 of the softness and the depth of color in those intense 
 shades decorated by the lustre pigments, and recall 
 that centuries have passed since they were the invention 
 and the product of the Arabs. By these tiles with which 
 the mosques of Persia and Arabia were adorned we 
 mark the progress of the Arabs along the shores of 
 Africa, and in Spain the Moorish buildings at Seville, 
 Toledo, Granada, and above all at the fortress palace 
 of the Alhambra. The Spanish learned the art from 
 the Moors, and carry it on to this day. So it came that 
 
 [200] 
 
SPAIN 
 
 the House of Pilate, to enter the domain of true art and 
 enchantment, must be adorned with azulajos. There 
 is also the Pretorium of Pilate, with the Apostles' Creed 
 on the door. There is a reproduction of the column at 
 which Christ was scourged (the gift of Pius V). At a 
 window in another room you are brought to the place 
 where Peter denied the Lord. Four statues mark the 
 corners of fountains. These were brought from Italica, 
 a town founded by Scipio Africanus, 205 b. c, as a 
 refuge for his veterans; it was the birthplace of three 
 Roman emperors: Trajan, Hadrian, and Theodosius. 
 It was built at the foot of the mountain near to Cala, 
 a tributary to Quadalquivir. In the Middle Ages 
 the ruins served as a quarry for Seville. Of course, 
 Pilate was a Roman, and you are ostensibly in Pilate's 
 House. 
 
 In the rear of Pilate's House we come upon a narrow 
 street (calle) called Candilejo, where we saw a bust of 
 Peter the Cruel (Don Pedro) in the wall of one of the 
 buildings. Another interesting story we were told con- 
 cerning Peter: he made it a rule to prowl around the 
 city at night to see what he could find that was good, 
 bad, or — indifferent. He was dressed in disguise and 
 wore a mask. In one of these midnight adventures, at 
 the point mentioned, he ran upon an outcast, who struck 
 him. Peter at once defended himself with his sword. 
 In the melee Peter killed his antagonist. When he 
 realized what he had done, he knew by his own decree 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 he was doomed to die. While cleaning his sword he 
 removed his mask; a thought came to him: no one had 
 witnessed the quarrel; he was safe. The next morning 
 his alcalde (mayor) was summoned. The King in- 
 quired if any one had broken this law against street 
 fighting. The mayor's answer was that he knew of no 
 one who had broken the law. 
 
 "You must remember," said the King, "if any fight- 
 ing takes place within the city and the culprit escapes, 
 I shall hold you responsible." 
 
 The mayor grew disturbed; he knew the King would 
 live up to his word. While the conversation was going 
 on a Moorish page told the King that the body of a 
 man had been found in the street. 
 
 "You come before me and deny the facts," said the 
 King; "here comes the news that a dead man was found 
 in the plaza behind Pilate's House." 
 
 The King informed the mayor that in three days, if 
 the murderer was not found, he would be hung in his 
 place. Everything was put in motion by the alcalde 
 to find the guilty one; after two days' search and after 
 taking leave of his family he sent for his confessor. An 
 old woman was shown into his presence and boldly 
 announced that she could name the man. She told 
 her story: 
 
 "That night I heard a great noise. It was very 
 dark; I lit my candle and looked out of the window. I 
 saw two men fighting. One," she said, "had his back 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 to me, the other was the King. He was in common 
 clothes and wore a mask, but when he had laid his 
 enemy low, he took off his mask and stood wiping 
 his sword. Had I not seen his face I would still have 
 known it was the King by the knocking of his knees ; 
 everybody in Seville knows him by the rattling of his 
 knees." 
 
 The old woman left with the alcalde's blessing. The 
 next morning he presented himself at the Alcazar 
 bright and early. The King's first inquiry was: "Have 
 you found the man? " 
 
 "Yes, and nothing is easier than for you to meet him 
 face to face." 
 
 "You have found no one!" cried the King. 
 
 "But, my lord," cried the mayor, "if you know the 
 real man why don't you command me to seek him? 
 And now, will your honor permit me to leave in order 
 to make preparations for the execution? As you 
 will be present, all preparations must be made with 
 care." 
 
 The alcalde called skilled Moorish artists; they were 
 told to construct a life-sized figure dressed in royal robes, 
 a sword in one hand, a sceptre in the other. The next 
 morning this figure was hanged in the plaza of San 
 Francisco. Don Pedro was present, the court was 
 in attendance. Tradition stops here. How the 
 King explained the situation is not told, but when 
 the dummy in king's dress and crown was swung into 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 the air, it is said the King called the alcalde to him and 
 said: 
 
 "Justice has been done; I am satisfied." 
 
 The house is pointed out where the old woman made 
 record of what she saw, and the street is called the Calle 
 del Candilejo, and where the King fought is Cabeza 
 del Reg. Don Pedro. 
 
 Much of the part of Seville, where the old Roman 
 aqueduct walls still stand, is in good repair, with the 
 modern electric cars running beside them, and one of the 
 graceful arches broadened so as to make room for the 
 railway lines from Madrid to pass through; and not far 
 away Moorish houses with imposing miradors (gal~ 
 leries with extension views) bring the story of two thou- 
 sand years before you in unspeakable language. 
 
 G. came in one morning and announced that a special 
 performance was going to be given to our party that 
 night at the Dancing Academy by Sefior Otero. We 
 were aware that the best dancers in Andalusia can be 
 seen in training there, and we knew that some of them 
 had made their bow to American audiences. There 
 were some exhibitions of the Gaditanae dances, which 
 we are told delighted Petronius and Horace and were 
 danced before Tiberius at Capri — a movement of the 
 body instead of the feet, which I suppose was made 
 tolerable because Cervantes pronounced it "a bound- 
 ing of the soul, a quicksilver of the limbs," and it 
 was tolerated just as the turkey trot is in America. 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 But the poetry of motion was shown in the modern 
 dances. The "Spanish dance" when waltzing was 
 first introduced, the Mazurka, and various other dances 
 which were taught in America when I was a child, were 
 still religiously danced as a part of Spanish dancing. 
 With this dancing also came melody in place of the 
 thrum-thrum of Oriental dancing, accompanied by a 
 pat of the toe and turn of the heel. Our evening was 
 entertaining; we were honored with a photo of Otero 
 with his autograph, and many souvenirs to G. and the 
 the rest of the party. We came out feeling quite sure 
 "the turkey trot" and the "bunny hug" did not orig- 
 inate with Seftor Otero. 
 
 Like a dream our days passed in old Seville, and then 
 came the bright morning when her pink and white 
 houses, her cathedral, the "Giralda," the Alcazar, the 
 quiet Guadalquivir which had been our companion for 
 days, faded out of sight — we were on our way to old 
 Granada, still in Andalusia; but I will confess the en- 
 ticing glamor that clings around that word is most mis- 
 leading, for the greater part it is a melancholy country : 
 the extended arid plains, the treeless and almost ver- 
 dureless hills and mountains are depressing. We are 
 told there were forests which were swept away by the 
 Moors, that the birds could not hover therein and eat 
 the grain, and so we hear no singing of birds. 
 
 Yet here we are in Andalusia, on our way to Granada, 
 the dream of years. We are struck by the heavenly 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 blue sky, and the massive silver-colored cumulus clouds 
 that hang mountain-like abreast of the blue sky, and 
 then we see where Velasquez found the ground for the 
 striking cloud effects in his pictures, of his white clouds 
 ready to drop out of the deeply blue background. 
 
 We reached Granada in the night, and we shall not 
 soon forget the long drive from the depot to the town, 
 over a road worse than the corduroys in the wilderness, 
 but at last we turned into the Moorish streets of Gra- 
 nada, and soon we were entering the imposing gate at 
 the foot of the hill on which stands the far-famed 
 Alhambra. We had rooms engaged at the Alhambra 
 Palace. 
 
 The Alhambra 
 
 It was late at night, but we were agreeably surprised 
 to find a modern, attractive hotel, another refutation 
 of the general impression. From our windows in the 
 morning we got our first view of the snowclad peaks of 
 the Sierra Nevada Mountains that seem to encircle 
 Granada. There is a deep valley through which the 
 River Darro flows. The veda, or plain, spreads out at 
 our feet, and the city of Granada, with all its history, 
 still listens to the rippling waters as it did when the 
 Moors were in their glory centuries before. It is the 
 Alhambra of to-day we are to drink in. The many 
 legends and bits of history lend a charm and shed a 
 glory over it all. 
 
 [206] 
 
SPAIN 
 
 After our breakfast we sallied out to enter the Won- 
 derland. The graceful elms that waved their welcome 
 were first in the picture that greeted us. We learned 
 that on this barren hilltop the Moors had exercised 
 their right of vandalism and not a tree was left, but 
 after the Duke of Wellington came into possession of 
 Soto de Roma these barren hills appealed to him, and 
 he was the instrument that beautified this hallowed 
 spot. The history of the Alhambra is too well known 
 for need of relation here, but we cannot divest our- 
 selves of the peculiar charm that hangs over the place 
 in memories of the past, when the Moors believed that 
 the celestial paradise hung over this very spot, and 
 here was developed the best that was in them, in ele- 
 gance and splendor. It was then that they diligently 
 cultivated the arts and sciences. An empire was 
 formed that had no rival, all the graces and refinements 
 and culture of Eastern Arabia at the height of its great- 
 est civilization were planted here; and as we walk over 
 and through these ruins we seem to be walking over 
 the map of Spain. Their arts, philosophy, knowledge, 
 have gone to sleep — will it ever wake up? Not in the 
 same old lines. With the centuries, new sciences have 
 arisen and there is not time nor place for the old. The 
 telegraph, the telephone, the wonders of electricity, 
 the aeroplane, that annihilate time and space, leave no 
 place for the slow processes of real art or architecture; 
 and now as we pass through the Gate of Justice into 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 the Wonderland of the Alhambra we ask, what awaits 
 the old world in the centuries to come? 
 
 This gate is called the Gate of Justice from the tri- 
 bunal held on the upper porch during the Moorish 
 reign. The great vestibule is formed by an immense 
 Arabian arch of horseshoe form; on the keystone of this 
 arch is engraven a gigantic hand; within the vestibule 
 on the keystone of the arch is sculptured in like manner 
 a key. A tradition is handed down from the oldest 
 inhabitants that the hand and key were magical de- 
 vices on which the fate of the Alhambra depended. 
 This spell, the tradition goes on to say, would last until 
 the hand on the outer arch should reach down and grasp 
 the key, when all would tremble together, and all the 
 treasures underneath buried by the Moors would be 
 revealed. We passed through and up the walk to the 
 marble platform, where the judge used to sit to issue 
 his decrees. As we walked on, in the shaded road, we 
 got glimpses of the vermilion towers the fame of which 
 had helped to draw us across the waters. The cen- 
 turies opened and we walked on into the past. 
 
 It is a long step backward to the days of the Al- 
 Ahmar dynasty, the first of the Masride dynasty in 
 1232, who built his residence on this hill. He is known 
 as Mohammed I; his son continued the work, and 
 Mohammed III built the first mosque, and Mohammed 
 V was instigator of the crowning glory, the Court of 
 Myrtles, the Court of Lions. With Mohammed VII 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 began the decline. The building up and the tearing 
 down have kept up through the centuries. 
 
 We came out upon an esplanade; in front is the mon- 
 strosity commenced but never completed by Charles 
 V. Never was a pile of marble, stone, and mortar more 
 out of place; no wonder it was left unfinished. We 
 passed on to the upper end of the court and entered 
 the Tower of Comares by a small door which opened 
 upon a narrow winding stairway; we reached the ter- 
 raced roof. What a panorama spread out before us, 
 of mountain and valley, crumbling ruins, Gothic domes, 
 Moorish towers, imposing cathedrals! Yes, this is 
 Spain. On one side you see the whole plan of the 
 Alhambra, you can look into the gardens and courts. 
 A battlement with strong towers is the boundary of the 
 fortress. At the foot of the pile is the peaceful River 
 Darro. 
 
 Away over the city and into the plain the guide 
 points to the place where stands the historic bridge 
 where Columbus was overtaken and called back by the 
 messenger of Queen Isabella after he had left her and 
 in desperation was going to try another source to send 
 him across the sea. A little to the right and almost in 
 the centre of the Vega you see the city of Santa Fe, 
 built by the sovereigns Ferdinand and Isabella during 
 the siege of Granada. It was to this city that Columbus 
 was called back by Isabella and the compact made that 
 led to the discovery of America, and here upon this 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 tower were some of America's children looking upon 
 the site of these scenes that took place over four hundred 
 years ago. 
 
 We took our way back and entered the patio of the 
 Alhambra, almost dizzy with the changes the centuries 
 have wrought. We found ourselves in a court paved 
 with white marble, decorated at each end with light 
 Moorish peristyles. In the centre is an immense aqua- 
 rium stocked with goldfish and bordered by roses. 
 We passed into the Court of Myrtles, a pool of water 
 surrounded by hedges of myrtle, with all the touches of 
 Moorish art, through a Moorish archway to the Hall 
 of the Ambassadors, where all the powers that have 
 held sway over this magic place have congregated. 
 Nothing outdoes the richness of the adornment of the 
 Hall of Ambassadors that we have seen in Andalusia: 
 it is among the richest of the Alhambra. At last we 
 were in the centre of this bewildering magnificence, in 
 the Court of Lions. This was the centre of the winter 
 palace of the kings : a large fountain basin supported by 
 twelve lions — at least the guide called them lions — and 
 they are equally good as some of the roaring beasts that 
 adorn our Capital. They have stuck to their duty 
 through the ages, carried the water pipes through their 
 noses, and watched the generations come and go, and 
 listened to all the appreciative encomiums lavished upon 
 the snowy arches that make a vista of entrancing lace- 
 work, and we admired their steadfastness through the 
 
 [210] 
 
SPAIN 
 
 years, and noted that desolation and ruin do not mark 
 the ravages of time in the Court of Lions. The most 
 entrancing and the most stately of the halls are ranged 
 round this court. 
 
 The Hall of the Abencerrages 
 
 It is told that Boabdil brought upon himself the 
 curse of the whole tribe by congregating the principal 
 managers in this room and beheading them, thirty- 
 eight in number. They were brought into the court 
 one by one and massacred, through jealousy of his wife. 
 The blood stains in the marble are still pointed out, and 
 the soft murmur of the fountains still goes on but tells 
 no tales. Washington Irving refutes this story; it was 
 not Boabdil but his father, Muley Hassen, who com- 
 mitted this horrible crime. It is known that it was 
 Muley Hassen and not Boabdil who confined his wife 
 in one of the towers — in fact, she was Boabdil's mother. 
 
 We passed on into the Hall of Justice. Here were 
 performed the pompous ceremonies of high mass in 
 the presence of Ferdinand and Isabella and their 
 triumphant court. The cross is still to be seen on the 
 wall where the altar stood. The hall is now barren 
 and desolate, bats fly in and out at their leisure. Not 
 so many centuries ago, in this room, could be heard, 
 "Allah II Allah! There is but one God and Moham- 
 med is his prophet." We think of the Moslem monu- 
 ments in Spain, the Alcazar of Seville, the Mosque of 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 Cordova, the Alhambra of Granada, all bearing the 
 inscriptions that at one time told of power, and that 
 power ran through the centuries; and yet to-day we find 
 it was an exotic; when dug up and carried back to 
 Africa it was absorbed by the Berbers of barbaric 
 Africa, and their power is known no more. 
 
 The Hall of the Sisters 
 
 In an outer wall of the Alhambra is a Moorish tower 
 called the Hall of the Sisters. When we found our way 
 into the interior we were astonished at the beauty of 
 architecture, the unparalleled harmony, its lofty arches, 
 the arabesque finish. Nothing had we found in this 
 marvel of wonders of which this is not the equal. Those 
 who have read the legend of the three beautiful prin- 
 cesses, Zayda, Zorayda, and Zorahayda, by Washington 
 Irving in his "Alhambra," will recall this tower as their 
 home, and will seek the window by which they were low- 
 ered to the ground to meet their Spanish lovers. 
 
 Washington Irving's Rooms 
 
 We, of course, were much interested to locate the 
 rooms where Washington Irving lived while studying 
 the Alhambra. We entered the Patois de Daraxa: a 
 charming court shaded by orange trees, a fountain, of 
 course, and many plants. The rooms surround the 
 court and contain the archives of the Alhambra. In 
 one of these rooms we saw where Irving wrote "Tales 
 
 [212] 
 
SPAIN 
 
 of the Alhambra." "Cook" says the name Daraxa, 
 meaning vestibule, has been unaccountably meta- 
 morphosed into Lindaraja; that Washington Irving was 
 led to speculate about an imaginary Moorish beauty, 
 Linderaxa. 
 
 And thus we made our first round in the Alhambra; 
 the ravages of time and mortals have brought a tinge 
 of disappointment, but the remaining glory grew upon 
 us as we traversed acre after acre of this fascinating 
 ruin. 
 
 We must call attention to a tower of Comares, La 
 Cautiva, for associated with it is another of the enter- 
 taining legends that are connected with the Alhambra. 
 Muley Hassen, so the story goes, in his old age married 
 a beautiful Christian captive of noble descent, Isabel de 
 Solis, known in Moorish annals as Fatima. She be- 
 came the mother of two children and had ambitions 
 that they should succeed to the crown, and set herself 
 to work to prejudice Abu'l Hassen against the children 
 of his former wives. This prejudice led him to slay 
 some of them. It is quite evident that a high morality 
 was not the ruling passion with Abu'l Hassen. Ayxa 
 la Horra, the exemplary mother of Boabdil, who had 
 once been his best-beloved wife, was also placed under 
 the ban of suspicion, and so she was confined in the 
 Tower of Comares, and Boabdil would probably have 
 been a victim to his fury, but the pangs of a mother's 
 tender heart found a way of rescue. In the night she 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 lowered him and herself in a basket by the means of 
 scarfs and the help of attendants, and they escaped to 
 Guadix. 
 
 At the upper end of the street that leads from the 
 entrance gate we come to the Washington Irving Hotel. 
 In that vicinity, partly hidden by the Hotel Roma, is 
 the site of the Gate of the Seven Floors, the gate by 
 which Boabdil is said to have left the Alhambra, and 
 at his request was walled up and never again opened, 
 through the sympathy of Isabella. 
 
 History records the unfrequented route taken by the 
 broken-hearted monarch to avoid the people : he crossed 
 the Vega, and followed the course of the Xenil, coming 
 to a small Moorish mosque, now converted into a 
 chapel of San Sebastian. A tablet on the wall tells 
 the story that on this spot Boabdil surrendered the 
 keys of Granada to the Castilian sovereigns. A little 
 farther on there was a small village where Boabdil's 
 mother and family awaited him. They took up their 
 line of weary march to a dreary height in the Alpuxarra 
 Mountains, called the "Hill of Tears." It is said from 
 the heights of one of these mountains upon a high rock 
 Boabdil took his farewell look of Granada — still called 
 the last sigh of the Moor. Tradition says that here, 
 too, is the spot where his mother, Ayxa, who had so 
 often been his prop and stay, said to him, "You do well 
 to weep as a woman over what you could not defend 
 as a man." 
 
 [214] 
 
SPAIN 
 
 The true human heart will always have pity for poor 
 Boabdil. 
 
 The Generalife 
 
 The Generalife is the celebrated summer residence 
 of the Moorish kings, delightfully situated on the side of 
 a steep mountain turned toward the north opposite 
 the Alhambra. The house proper is in a dilapidated 
 state, but the landscape gardening to this day shows to 
 what perfection the architect of the Alhambra carried 
 his art. The house is depressing for the story it tells 
 of time and change — the contrast of then and now. 
 There is one redeeming feature of interest: the pic- 
 tures that cover the walls of Spanish sovereigns since 
 Ferdinand and Isabella. There are also pictures of 
 the fourteen Marquises of Granada who held the office 
 of Superintendent of the Generalife. A genealogical 
 tree hangs at the end of the hall showing eighteen 
 tributary kings who reigned in Granada. There are 
 portraits of Ferdinand and Isabella, of Charles V, 
 Philip II, Don Juan of Austria, Gonzalo, and, perhaps 
 the most interesting of all, is one of "Boabdil of Chico." 
 
 And here Fatima (Isabel de Solis), the captive wife 
 of Abu'l Hassen, lived; Fatima (Light of Dawn) she 
 was named. Here she wandered in these gardens of 
 fountains, fruit, and flowers, until she was caught in 
 interviews with a handsome Abencerrage guardsman. 
 All these accusations Fatima denied, which was said to 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 have led up to the massacre of the Abencerrage by 
 Abu'l Hassen at the Court of Lions. 
 
 The Cathedral 
 
 Our walk one morning took us down the hill under the 
 shadows of the beautiful elms, through the gate, into 
 the streets of old Granada. We wound our way, with 
 minds full of the days of her glory — but the contrast, 
 it is hopeless to undertake the portrayal. Of course, 
 we brought up at the cathedral. It was like entering 
 so many others, and yet individual, filled with rich 
 sculptures and paintings, but the point of greatest 
 interest to us was the Capilla Real, which communicates 
 with the cathedral. It will recall to mind the brave 
 deed of Herman del Pulgar, who entered Granada by 
 the conduit of the Darro on the night of December 18, 
 1490, and with his dagger pinned a scroll on the door 
 of the mosque bearing the words "Ave Maria." The 
 mosque stood on the site of Santa Maria Church. Ad- 
 joining is the Capilla Real built as a burial chapel for 
 the Catholic kings. It was afterward enlarged by 
 Charles V who found it too small for so great glory. 
 You pass through wrought-iron gates, where are two 
 alabaster tombs, surrounded by all the heraldic em- 
 blems of the age. Here are four royal monuments 
 lying side by side. To the right is Ferdinand and 
 Isabella. There she lies in her majesty, still leaving 
 her impress on the world. To the left lies Philip of 
 
 [216] 
 
SPAIN 
 
 Austria and Joanna (Mad Joanna). Down a few steps 
 in the vault lie the leaden coffins. Philip's coffin is the 
 one his mad Queen used to carry about with her. The 
 sacristy contains among numerous articles the standard 
 which floated before the sovereigns in battle, Ferdi- 
 nand's sword, the sceptre and crown of Isabella; and a 
 golden casket is shown you containing her jewels, 
 placed by herself and given into the hands of Columbus 
 to furnish funds for his first voyage, and returned by him 
 filled with gold. The visit to Granada would not have 
 been complete without having seen the resting-place of 
 our great benefactor. On one of our drives through the 
 city en route to Cartu ja we could hardly believe that this 
 was once the seat of regal power, the centre of the arts, 
 science, and literature. The public library in the 
 thirteenth century was a marvel of the age. It is said 
 that any of the precious manuscripts it contained are now 
 in the Escorial. Where now are the literati, teachers of 
 the law, historians, philosophers, are the questions we 
 ponder over as we pass over her uninteresting streets. 
 
 The Cartuja is pleasantly situated on a high plateau, 
 overlooking the tender green of the Vega, the snow- 
 topped sierras; it is a secularized Carthusian convent 
 built about the middle of the sixteenth century. There 
 were many tokens of religious spite said to be inculcated 
 through the repudiation of Catherine of Aragon and 
 the advancement of Anne Boleyn, but the ornamenta- 
 tion of the Cartuja surpasses in some degree anything 
 
 [217] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUKOPE 
 
 we saw in Spain because of the painstaking care mani- 
 fested over the building. The doors, dadoes, and walls 
 are inlaid with ivory, mother-of-pearl, jasper, tortoise 
 shell, silver, without a sign of deterioration through the 
 years, every part as brilliant as though the artist hand 
 had left it but yesterday ; evidently one place where van- 
 dalism had had no sway. 
 
 Then came the day when we must say good-bye to 
 Granada and to fascinating old Alhambra; once more 
 our party wandered over the most fascinating parts 
 of this sylvan place. We have put brain pictures 
 of the Alhambra into a sun bath that they may not 
 fade. Surely it is a Moslem pile in a Christian land, and 
 yet you feel that what is left is a monument to a brave, 
 intelligent, artistic people, who, conquered, had their day 
 of ruling and passed away. 
 
 At 7:30 a. m. we left the Alhambra Palace, another of 
 the pleasant and satisfying hotels in Spain, for Ronda. 
 The route in part was the same as we went over en route 
 to Granada. We entered the valley of the Guadalette, 
 and ascended between the limestone hills. It is a 
 featureless and uninteresting waste much of the way. 
 We passed the interesting town of Teba, and the estate 
 of Eugenie, Empress of France (Countess of Teba), and 
 on to Ronda, situated most picturesquely among the 
 mountains. Our hotel, the Reina Victoria, was most 
 comfortable, comparatively new, a little outside the 
 town, with pleasant gardens and view unsurpassed. 
 
 [218] 
 
^ - 
 
SPAIN 
 
 It would appear to newcomers that Ronda hung in the 
 air. A short walk from the hotel brought us to the 
 historic railing. No pictures give the correct idea of 
 Ronda; it is six hundred feet at least above the river 
 which divides the town by a rocky gorge. Two won- 
 derful bridges span this gorge, one Moorish, one Roman. 
 Some of the party had ventured down the rocky path 
 to the mills on the river and looked almost like ants on 
 the landscape. The wildness, the beauty, the awful- 
 ness of it all entrance one. While the climbers were 
 in the gulch I tipped a small brother and sister to walk 
 with me to the Arab bridge. We all crossed over and 
 went to the palace of the Moorish King. We paid 
 50 cents and were shown the vacant rooms, and out of 
 the back balcony we saw the steps cut in the rocks by 
 Christian captives, almost sheer down to the River Tajo. 
 There was a stone wall which tradition says Hercules 
 helped to build, and there is the house where Miranda 
 lived, and more things than we can mention, interesting 
 beyond measure. We are still witnessing the rise and 
 fall of empires. 
 
 The old city of Ronda was originally an Iberian and 
 afterward a Roman town. We recall the attack of 
 Ferdinand on Ronda through the advice and assistance 
 of the Marquis of Cadiz; we remember the stubborn 
 fight made by Hamet el Zigre to save his city, and the 
 rejoicing of the Christian captives as they listened to 
 the cannonading, and, after the surrender, the first 
 
 [219] 
 
AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 thought of the Marquis of Cadiz was to liberate his 
 unfortunate companions in arms from the dungeons 
 where they had been imprisoned. Many of them were 
 nearly naked, with iron chains at their ankles, their 
 beards reaching to their waists. These captives were 
 provided with mules and sent to Queen Isabella, who 
 was at Cordova. History tells us that the humane 
 heart of Isabella melted at the sight of the piteous 
 cavalcade; she supplied them with food and clothing 
 and money to pay their expenses home. The chains 
 that were attached to these prisoners were hung as 
 pious trophies against the outer walls of the Church of 
 St. Juan de los Reyes, Toledo, to which we have alluded 
 in our chapter on Toledo. 
 
 We spent the days, and now it had come to hours, 
 mounting the rocks, crossing the interesting bridges, 
 sliding down the precipices, listening to the music of 
 the Guadalevin as the wild waters rushed between the 
 rocks and on up into the old town; down to the lower 
 Tajo bridges, studying the old architecture — the world's 
 wonder, the windows in the rocks. But above all we 
 enjoyed the most inspiring of views we had found in 
 Spain — and all such a complete contrast to what had 
 gone before, that we reluctantly say good-bye. 
 
 Algeciras, Tangier, and Gibraltar 
 
 Our train carried us through a serpentine bend and 
 silently sank into the valley of the Guadalevin, which 
 
 [220] 
 
SPAIN 
 
 now took the name of the Guadiaro. We passed 
 through various and sundry tunnels, by the chalk cliffs, 
 and then into fertile plains. Olive and almond trees 
 adorned the spaces, but the most interesting were the 
 groves of cork trees, and the wagons laden with bark, 
 which leaves the trees, when stripped, barren in spots. 
 This can be repeated at stated times, an interesting 
 feature because new. At last we passed into the town 
 of Algeciras. On the opposite side of the Bay is 
 Gibraltar. 
 
 The Hotel Reina Cristina is the last of the new hotels 
 in Spain that make travel there in this day a pleasure. 
 This is one of the most attractive of the hotels in Spain. 
 Of course, it has its Spanish court, with fountain and 
 flowers, and unique in every appointment. The flower- 
 bordered paths in the garden would lure you on for 
 hours, a beautiful spot for the crowning luxury of a tour 
 through Europe on the southernmost point of the great 
 peninsula that has entranced us through the weeks. 
 
 The most interesting point in the old town is the 
 building in which was held the Morocco International 
 Conference, January 17 to April 7, 1906 — the Casa 
 Consistorial, where the world's representatives con- 
 gregated to adjust the Moroccan matter. They met 
 in a large room in the second story. The traveller is 
 also shown where the great banquet was held. In this 
 room are photographs of all the representatives who 
 took part, and we have one of them all seated at a 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 banquet when the work had been accomplished. The 
 representatives from the United States are easily identi- 
 fied. 
 
 Aside from the restfulness of spending your leisure 
 time in the charming surroundings of the Reina Cris- 
 tina, you are in easy communication with Gibraltar and 
 Tangier. 
 
 November 12th in the early morning we took row- 
 boats at the pier and met the steamer from Gibraltar, 
 en route to Tangier. The world was full of sunshine, 
 the sea smooth as glass; we were soon passing the Pillar 
 of Hercules, and to our right was Tarifa, the southern- 
 most point in Spain and of Europe. Tarifa was named 
 from Tarif, a Saracen chief. 
 
 During the Moorish invasion of Spain all vessels 
 passing through the Straits of Gibraltar were here com- 
 pelled to pay duties, from whence came our word tariff. 
 
 As our ship turned toward the African shore, we 
 looked beyond the Straits out into the path of the old 
 Atlantic, over the blue waters where we were booked 
 to sail homeward the next week. When we landed at 
 Tangier everything presented a new aspect, from man 
 and beast down to the small donkeys. 
 
 Our hotel, the Cecil, was situated just outside the 
 city gates, near the beach. Again we found ourselves 
 comfortably fixed in a modern hotel; European, with 
 every comfort. After we had taken lunch, the whole 
 party mounted donkeys, with a guide who spoke good 
 
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 English and intelligent enough to know what travellers 
 would care most to see. Hadj Mahommed Mohre was 
 his name — Mahommed for short. Each donkey was 
 provided with a driver at the bit. We entered the 
 oriental city of Tangier, the interest increasing with 
 every turn in the streets, which were so narrow your 
 donkey could not diverge or you would brush the walls 
 of the houses. They were not good wide alleys. For 
 two hours we rode through the Moorish, the Jewish, and 
 the Berber quarters. We passed several schoolrooms 
 en route, and could hear the children reciting the Koran, 
 the only book they study. The donkeys, the asses, 
 the mules filled the streets. Sunday is market day; all 
 were doubly loaded with the products of the country for 
 the next day. We rode over rocks and stones and 
 crooked streets, our sure-footed little donkeys carefully 
 picking their way. It was the one day in the week 
 when the Moslem women were allowed out. The 
 married women would pull their mantles with an extra 
 jerk when they saw us coming, holding their hands 
 tightly over their faces lest we get a peep. The Jewish 
 women, many of them, were in fashionable attire, and 
 let me say that in all Europe I did not see such beautiful 
 children, in form and feature, and their lovely costumes 
 were in keeping with their sweet, joyous faces. We 
 went through labyrinths of streets, turning a corner 
 at almost every length of the donkey. The white 
 houses, or, rather, pale blue, in the Moorish quarter 
 
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 were clean and picturesque; the old gates of the city 
 fascinating; the minaret overtopping all a new feature 
 in architecture, and we reached the mosque just in time 
 to hear the call of the Muezzin to prayer. 
 
 The Moors look so solemn and stately in their white 
 or colored burnous and yellow slippers, with brilliant 
 turbans or fez. Our guide, when mounted, looked a 
 king, with his red cap, black broadcloth coat lined with 
 white, always worn partly off his shoulder, and yellow 
 waistcoat; these, with his red saddle reaching up his 
 back, gave him a most picturesque appearance. We 
 rode on out of the city into the country; saw the villa 
 from which MacLean was captured by the brigands, 
 and on to the country home of Perdicaris, where we 
 hoped to pay our respects. He and his wife when in 
 Washington were the guests at lunch of the Pro-Re- 
 Nata Club, when he gave a most interesting account of 
 his capture. We found that he and his wife were 
 spending their days in a quiet way on one of the lakes of 
 Switzerland. On and on we scrambled down into the 
 Bubana Valley. If there is any other road in the world 
 as bad we have missed it. But down the hills, crossing 
 the Jew River, with hearts quaking, but a steady hand 
 at the bit and no thought of dismounting, as some of our 
 party did, we compassed the big boulders and deep 
 gullies, and up a small rise and a turn to the right we 
 were on "Mount Washington," so named by our 
 American Minister, or Consul, Matthews, who built a 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 villa thereon. Since then it has become the summer 
 dwelling-place of the well-to-do. A little farther, and 
 we were in full view of the Atlantic. Mahommed 
 ordered tea from a Moorish tea house, a little shack in 
 front of us, a drygoods box for our table. An attend- 
 ant in gay Moorish costume came forward with a 
 tumbler of tea for each, in which was a sprig of mint. 
 This is their native beverage and is really very palat- 
 able. 
 
 On our return we passed many fine buildings, the 
 Portuguese and Spanish legations, and reached our 
 hotel before the setting of the sun. 
 
 At night, with Mahommed and G. and the driver 
 who had done such heroic service through the day, we 
 started for the city inside the gates, our driver in ad- 
 vance with a highly decorated lantern at least two feet 
 high, with a candle, to illuminate our way; the city is 
 poorly lighted. In single file, Indian like, we made our 
 way through the old city gate and up through the wind- 
 ing streets until we reached a door where the sound of 
 bones, tambourines, and voices told of an entertain- 
 ment. The performers were all sitting on the floor of 
 the platform. Nobody but foreigners use chairs in 
 Tangier. We listened for some time to the wild, 
 barbaric music. One girl went through the muscle 
 dance. Many of the countrymen who had come in 
 for the Sunday's market were there in their white dress, 
 their heads tied with gun-protectors, a piece of black 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 cloth to attest to their bravery. The music seemed 
 to give them great delight. They had all left their 
 sandals at the door at the top of the stairs before they 
 entered the room — barefooted and barelegged. It was a 
 quaint bit of Moorish life, probably the bright spot in 
 their work day. Before we left we were served with 
 coffee, the only real Mocha coffee we had tasted in 
 Europe. It is well known that the Moors think that 
 they alone know the secret of making good coffee. 
 
 The caravans that passed our hotel were an interest- 
 ing study, either on their way into the city or to the 
 wharves. They told the story of the many industries 
 of this hard-working people. 
 
 On Sunday morning our guide, drivers, and donkeys 
 were at the door at ten sharp. We were soon mounted 
 and on our way to market, the day of all days in Tan- 
 gier. Again we wound our way through the crooked, 
 narrow streets until we came to the Market Space 
 " Soco." It was like looking upon a sea of floating 
 cloud: white, yellow, red, not a foot of ground unoc- 
 cupied, with everything marketable — vegetables, fruits, 
 flowers, meats, bread — the last named by law is sold 
 only by the divorced women, partly veiled — the for- 
 tune teller, the snake charmer — the story tellers all had 
 the little audiences in the moving panorama that 
 covered acres. We did not know how far these people 
 had come with their wares; their great bundles of wood 
 fagots were carried by women, loads that would stag- 
 
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SPAIN 
 
 ger a donkey. This is their day out and the men make 
 them useful. Distance here is not known by miles or 
 leagues, only by the time it takes to walk it. Not a 
 carriage or wagon could be used in Tangier. Donkeys 
 or humans are the burden carriers. We occasionally 
 passed a Moslem on the street, whose erect, proud car- 
 riage, whose faultlessly clean burnous, whose intel- 
 lectual face, carried you back to the patriarchs in the 
 Bible. 
 
 This city on a hill that commands the Atlantic 
 and could command Gibraltar, since the days the 
 Portuguese controlled it all, has seemingly stood still. 
 Through the centuries it gives no more, no less, to its 
 citizens of the newer civilization of the comforts of 
 living — as civilized nations look upon life to-day — 
 than when the Berbers entered Spain. We followed 
 our guide up the hill to the Court of Justice. We saw 
 the new governor, son of the Sultan, and the judge, in 
 an open booth under the roof of a white court, receiving 
 the salaams of his subjects who were under trial. The 
 ladies of our party were conducted to the harem of the 
 governor. The Mogul was sitting in the marble porch 
 of his house on a mat, his legs crossed under him, arms 
 folded, surrounded by a half-dozen Moslems who, we 
 were told, were his tenants. A liberal hand-out of 
 silver by our guide soon brought forward a dark-skinned 
 lass who opened the way and took us through — room 
 after room, up two or three flights of steps, the walls of 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 every room lined with most artistic azulejos; mosaic 
 floors, with handsome rugs, with broad flat settees, 
 with mattresses covered with white linen and plentiful 
 pillows, small tables with beautiful silver and china 
 appointments for afternoon tea. Here the wives have 
 their afternoon siestas. In the harem proper were the 
 four wives, one a fine-looking woman with a beautiful 
 little girl. The place was clean, attractive, and beau- 
 tifully furnished for a Moorish home. According to 
 Moorish law, they probably saw the outside world once 
 a week. Mahommed, the guide, said: "We allow our 
 women to go out once a week." I asked him what 
 the men would do if some day the women asserted 
 themselves and told the men they must be shut up and 
 not be allowed to see the world but once a week? A 
 shrug of the shoulders was the answer. 
 
 One tall palm is seen from the upper heights of the 
 city: this is where the Dervishes assemble when they 
 come to the city. The lone palm is the talisman that 
 beckons them to the place of assembly. But the streets 
 — what do they bring forth? The water carrier with his 
 goat skin, or the ass with two jugs hanging from each 
 side, who are continually pushing your donkey to one 
 side; veiled women with their backs to the street selling 
 their wares; a burst of barbaric music, and on through 
 the gates comes a religious procession of tattooed and 
 ragged humanity carrying flags and lanterns on their 
 way to prayer. 
 
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 We passed little niches in the walls, perhaps six feet 
 square, and were told they were those of the marriage 
 brokers : the broker sitting on a mat, no table, no chairs 
 or papers, arms folded ready to give advice. The 
 shoemaker, the crockery vender, the drapery dispenser, 
 all sorts and conditions of tradespeople, are found in 
 these narrow quarters; all have their slaves to run 
 behind the donkey and cry "Balaak!" ("Get out of 
 the way!") Altogether it is a land of mosques and 
 shrines, of gardens, of mines of coal and minerals not 
 worked, a land of ruins, and going daily to decay. The 
 Muezzins' midnight cry rises and floats out on the air: 
 "Praise be God, who made the world! Prayer is 
 better than sleep ! Come ye to pray ! " 
 
 We had made friends in Tangier; when we were 
 ready to take our departure, Mahommed and his attend- 
 ants were drawn up in line to courteously give us a 
 joyful parting, and accompanied us down to the wharf 
 — not for the last round of small silver, for that G. had 
 liberally attended to, but to give the American visitors 
 the parting compliments of Tangier. 
 
 Gibraltar 
 
 Our last days before sailing for our own loved America 
 were spent in Gibraltar. Here A. and I parted with 
 G., J., and Miss. C, they to make the tour around the 
 world, we to return to our America. It is not well to 
 dwell on the regrets at parting, after months of charm- 
 
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AFOOT AND AWHEEL IN EUROPE 
 
 ing days and weeks enjoying the delights of travel, and 
 yet nothing appeals to the heart after long separation 
 like home. 
 
 But the great Lion's Rock across the bay from Alge- 
 ciras beckoned us there, whence we took the Cunard 
 liner for home. Instead of the one day and night we 
 expected to stay in Gibraltar we were kept there three 
 days awaiting the arrival of our steamer. How wist- 
 fully we watched for the flag that would float from 
 Gibraltar's rocky heights when the ship was sighted. 
 In the meant me we spent the days taking in all there 
 was of interest in the place. We saw a description in 
 one of the daily papers of some points of interest, among 
 them of some Moorish baths quite in keeping with 
 those of the Alhambra; instructions were to call for 
 the key at the governor's house, which we proceeded 
 to do, and were politely told by the guard that if we 
 would call the next day at a given hour we cou d have 
 it. At the time appointed we were there. Two officers 
 in uniform came with the key, and if not intruding 
 would like to go along as they had never had the plea- 
 sure of seeing the Moorish baths. It was but a short 
 distance from our hotel, but when we entered and 
 passed from room to room, we only saw where they had 
 been — every vestige of marble flooring, marble baths, 
 and all the appointments had been removed; no one 
 the wiser, nobody knew when, by whom, or where re- 
 moved to. I most courteously begged the pardon of 
 
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 the English officers for disappointing them in what 
 promised to be a sight of much interest. They took 
 it as you would expect an Englishman would, and saw 
 no irony in the joke. 
 
 The hotels of Gibraltar cannot touch one in which we 
 sojourned in Spain for comfort, luxury, cleanliness, 
 food, or in any way. It seems almost time for England 
 to wake up! 
 
 This stronghold has been held by England two hun- 
 dred years. Not until I stood on Gibraltar did I ap- 
 preciate that the old rock does not command the en- 
 trance to the Bay of Gibraltar. There is Tarifa, the 
 southernmost point of Europe, and the African Pillar 
 of Hercules, which would or could command the en- 
 trance: and in these days of unrest we wonder if the 
 time will come when these outer projections of Spain 
 and Morocco will ever be fortified by other nations and 
 England shut in with her stronghold? These are 
 merely thoughts by the way. 
 
 Gibraltar is not an English city to all appearance. 
 The population, apart from the military assignment, 
 is made up of Moors and a heterogeneous set of immi- 
 grants of all nationalities from the shores of Spain. We 
 saw the most there was to see there, and were quite 
 happy when the flag floated from the signal tower 
 announcing our ship. At twelve o'clock we were on 
 board the Saxonia, pleasantly located. We take our 
 seats upon the deck to watch the fading vision and to 
 
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 realize that we have said good-bye to the rocks and hills 
 and lonely plains of old Spain, where we have wandered 
 and dreamed and drank in the old and new life of Spain. 
 We realize that we have left her ancient halls and castles 
 to their bleakness and their barrenness. The Moorish 
 suggestions of her fascinating ivory colonnades, lace- 
 bedecked Alcazar, her inimitable Giralda, from whose 
 height we fancy we can hear the Moslems cry to prayer; 
 her grand old cathedrals with their fascinating naves, 
 their brilliantly colored windows through which the sun 
 sheds effulgent glory; her paintings of the old masters, 
 her crowning glory, Murillo's "Guardian Angel"; the 
 tomb of Columbus; the treasury filled with the glow 
 and glitter of precious jewels, the hand-downs of queens 
 and potentates; the old Alhambra with its lessons of 
 power and weakness; beautiful Madrid with its mar- 
 vellous "Musio de Prado," are now but memories; each 
 revolution of the engine is putting them farther and 
 farther behind us — all memories, sweet and lasting, for 
 they have been photographed on the brain. We shall 
 remember what we have drunk in of "the days of the 
 Phoenicians," of the Visigoths, of the Huns, of the 
 Moors, and the mixture of nations we call Spaniards; 
 of Spain's good days and bad days, of her rough, for- 
 bidding landscapes, of her satisfying plains of green 
 fields and olive orchards. 
 
 We sit here while our ship cuts through the deep 
 waters, and gradually let go our hold and find ourselves 
 
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 reaching out to another land, where freedom, light, and 
 truth are supreme. Our journey is over. I see the 
 old Flag of our Union floating upon its native soil. The 
 tears spring for joy — it is our Flag, our country, our 
 home. 
 
 THE END 
 
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