Class _B.-^1A 
 Book i Fl^ 
 
BY THE WAY 
 
Photographed by 
 Steffens, Chicago 
 
BY THE WAY 
 
 AGNESS GREENE FOSTER 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 EVENTS PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 1903 
 

 Copyright, 1903 
 
 BY 
 
 AGNESS GREENE FOSTER 
 
 By transfer' 
 

 r 
 
 ^ My Dear : 
 
 =^ " When at the first I took my pen in hand 
 Thus for to write ; I did not understand 
 That I at all should make a little book 
 In such a mode ; Nay, I had undertook 
 To write a letter, which when almost done, 
 Before I was aware I this begun. 
 * * * But yet I did not think 
 To show to all the world my pen and ink 
 In such a mode ; I only thought to make — 
 I knew not what : nor did I undertake 
 Thereby to please my neighbor ; no not I, 
 I did it mine own self to gratify. " 
 
 And thus it was, one bright September day, 
 Full suddenly I finished " By the Way." 
 
BY THE WAY 
 
 En Route, May 5. 
 NDEED and in truth, one is 
 rarely natural save under deep 
 ^A emotions. After all my resolu- 
 
 ^V tions and determinations, I found 
 
 I^^L I was not able to part from those 
 ^^^ I love with any degree of compos- 
 ^-■^1 ure. Was I not brave to keep up 
 as well as I did, at parting from you? 
 But I do assure you that I did not stay 
 "up" very long, for as the cruel train 
 pulled out, and I saw, through a mist of 
 tears, that dear form fade from sight, I 
 broke down, and remained "down" all the 
 afternoon and evening. With this morning's 
 bright sunshine and your telegram, how- 
 ever, I am a man (?) again. 
 
 After leaving you we ran along the shores 
 of Lake Michigan, with the whitecaps on 
 
8 By the Way 
 
 the light green waves dashing upon the 
 sands. Indiana is further advanced than 
 the more northwestern states, and the trees 
 with their pretty pink blossoms look quite 
 spring-like. We are passing through orchards 
 and orchards of peach-trees, which stand 
 out and make the one bright spot in the 
 landscape, for it still rains, and the car is 
 cold. 
 
 Washington, May 6. 
 The first sound I heard this morning was, 
 "Here's a message for you, miss," and 
 straightway that porter's name goes ratthng 
 down the rocky road of history as a dis- 
 cerning and right-minded person. What 
 married woman of — well — let's say thirty, to 
 avoid argument, does not enjoy being called 
 "Miss"? And yet she'd not feel that way if 
 the tables were turned. But to go back to 
 my telegram. It served as my dejeuner a la 
 felicite. I sent the answer back from Balti- 
 more, and from that moment I was happy. 
 Who shall say that all is not Mind ? Not I, 
 
By the Way 9 
 
 indeed, after the peace of heart that has 
 taken possession of me since the coming of 
 that dear message. 
 
 The view from the car window this morn- 
 ing differs greatly from that of yesterday, 
 and I think I hke best these great black 
 pines standing among the light green ever- 
 greens, both sparkling with the diamond- 
 like drops left from yesterday's rain, making 
 the Cumberland Mountains a dream of 
 beauty. I am wondering if I -shall see any- 
 thing so lovely as Washington. Each ave- 
 nue in the city is white with its pavement 
 of asphalt, and is flanked on either side with 
 great trees. Above it all towers the dome of 
 the capitol, and my heart throbs with 
 patriotism and thankfulness that I am 
 permitted to see it all before I leave my 
 native land. It did not take long to get my 
 letters and credentials, which entitle me to 
 the international courtesies of the Paris 
 Conservatoire and Trinity College in Dublin, 
 and now I am off for Philadelphia. 
 
lo By the Way 
 
 Philadelphia, May 7. 
 Cora met me at the station and went 
 with me to the ship, which we found at her 
 dock at the foot of Washington Street. We 
 made our way through the long hne of 
 people who were busy identifying their 
 luggage or getting off to friends the ship's 
 printed Hst of passengers. Cora was a great 
 comfort and help to me. The ship was so 
 white and clean, and I was so pleased over 
 our nice state-room, that I forgot for a 
 moment the big lump in my throat, but I 
 do not comprehend why people allow those 
 near and dear to them to come to see them 
 off. Nothing could have kept me on that 
 boat had my nearest and dearest been stand- 
 ing on the dock. Ruth and Charlotte are 
 here at last, and Ruth has with her a little 
 Icelander. I am sending these Hues back 
 with the pilot. I wish he were to take me 
 instead of the letter. How I envy it! 
 
 S. S. Waesland, May 11. 
 
 There has been no writing on board this 
 
 ship for the past four days, and very Httle 
 
By the Way n 
 
 sleeping, and less eating. Every one is sick 
 except Ruth, a few of the men, and myself. 
 Those of us who were able to crawl up on 
 deck were lashed to our steamer-chairs and 
 the chairs were lashed to the deck. 
 
 The ride down the Delaware occupied the 
 entire day. We passed the shipyards and 
 Atlantic City near enough to get an idea of 
 the hfe there. The pilot left at six in the 
 evening. Every one on board rushed to 
 the side to see the sailors lower him into 
 his little boat, and I watched him as far 
 as the eye could see, for he carried with 
 him my last message to you. 
 
 We no sooner struck the breakwater than 
 the ship began to roll and toss, and it has 
 continued for four days without cessation, 
 for we are following in the wake of a storm. 
 Charlotte and the little Icelander were taken 
 violently ill almost at once, so Ruth has the 
 latter with her and I have Charlotte. I 
 must say she is the most considerate person 
 I ever heard of, who is batthng with mal 
 de mer, and I am as comfortable as this 
 rolhng old ocean will permit. 
 
12 By the Way 
 
 You asked me to tell you every little 
 detail of life on board ship. You little know 
 the task you set me; and right here I desire 
 to put myself on record as begging the pardon 
 of every writer on this subject for my unkind 
 thoughts of them. I see now, after only 
 five days on shipboard, why all descriptions 
 are so unsatisfactory to those who have never 
 experienced it. 
 
 In the first place, the word "deck" is most 
 inadequate. One naturally thinks that a 
 "deck" is an open space on the top of a ship, 
 similar to that of a river steamboat. The 
 decks are in reality nice, wide piazzas — nice, 
 when the sea is quiet. On them the passen- 
 gers congregate — when all is well with them 
 and with the elements. I say "up on deck," 
 when it is only "out on the veranda." It is 
 not necessary to climb a ladder set straight 
 up in air as we did on the St. Lawrence River 
 packet before shooting the Lachine Rapids. 
 Flights of easy stairs connect the various 
 floors. These stairs are dancing continually, 
 but one soon gets used to it if one has his 
 "sea legs," and usually arrives safely. This 
 
By the Way 13 
 
 ship is similar to an oval house of several 
 stories, with galleries or verandas running 
 completely around each story, and any 
 number of basements and sub-basements; 
 but with these we have nothing to do. 
 
 As I crossed the gang-plank I landed on the 
 saloon deck and entered the only door on that 
 side. I found myself in a small hallway, out 
 of which opened the ladies' saloon and the 
 writing-rooms, and from which the stairs 
 descend to the floor where the dining-room 
 and most of the berths are situated. My 
 state-room is on the top story, so I have only 
 to step from our hallway onto the main deck. 
 
 I read the description which I have just 
 written to the captain, and I wish you could 
 have heard him shout. He begged me to 
 permit his "tiger" to make a copy of it for 
 him, and I did, but I was sorry the moment 
 it left my hands, for I know it is most absurd, 
 and it was intended for you only. Never- 
 theless, I'll venture the assertion that those 
 who know will readily see the picture, and 
 those who do not know will get a pretty good 
 idea of how it looks. 
 
14 By the Way 
 
 Mid-Atlantic, May 12. 
 Every one is out to-day, and as it is cold, 
 the entire saloon-deck is lined with a much- 
 wrapped, many-rugged assembly, whose 
 chairs are fastened to the house-side of the 
 deck, while those who have their sea-legs are 
 marching to and fro in front of the line of 
 chairs. The deck steward has the chairs 
 placed for us each morning on the side free 
 from the winds. Most of the time these past 
 days I have been sitting in my chair looking 
 at my feet, first with the sea and then the 
 sky as a background. 
 
 Opf Queenstown, May 18. 
 • Oh, blessed day ! We saw land for a few 
 moments, and I have your dear letters — two 
 happy events. I ran away with my letters 
 and have written answers to them which 
 are for your eyes alone. That reminds me 
 to say, that I think it would be better for me 
 to write on one sheet of paper a wee bit of a 
 letter to you, telling you a few of the many 
 nice things I think of you, and which will 
 
MID-ATLANTIC 
 
1 6 By the Way 
 
 interest no one but you. On another sheet 
 I will tell of the places I see and the people I 
 meet, and this you may send to the friends 
 who are self-sacrificing enough to say they 
 would like to read about this little journey of 
 mine. 
 
 I found on this ship the usual number of 
 wise — and otherwise — passengers, a few of 
 whom are most interesting. Mr. and Mrs. 
 P., of Philadelphia, who are well-known 
 philanthropists; an Englishman, whose care 
 and attention to an invalid wife and child 
 forever clear his countrymen from the con- 
 tumely of indifference to their families; Mrs. 
 F. and her son; Mr. L., a noted organist; 
 Mr. and Mrs. W., of Japan; and Mr. Elbert 
 Hubbard, the author. 
 
 Ruth and I are seated at the table at the 
 right and left of the dear old captain. The 
 table is served beautifully, and the viands are 
 delicious. We really try not to ask too 
 many questions, but I am afraid our en- 
 deavors are a failure. Were I a captain of 
 one of these ocean liners, I'd have some- 
 thing like the following hung in each state- 
 
By the Way ry 
 
 room, along with "How to put on this Ufe- 
 preserver when drowning": 
 
 First. This ship is fire-proof, water- 
 proof, and mat de mer proof. 
 
 Second. We will positively land on the 
 
 day of , or on the next day, or 
 
 surely the next. 
 
 Third. The captain is (or is not) married, 
 as the case may be. I should advise that 
 it be written "is" in either case, to save 
 trouble. 
 
 These American liners carry only a limited 
 number of first-cabin passengers, with much 
 freight, and they are slow, taking usually 
 nine days for the ocean voyage, which, 
 together with the day down the Delaware, 
 another up the channel, and the delay 
 caused by the storm, will keep us on board 
 thirteen days. It is because of the slow 
 speed and the limited number of passengers 
 that this line is patronized by such a delightful 
 class of people, who go chiefly for the rest 
 obtained on the sea. 
 
1 8 By the Way 
 
 St. George's Channel, May 19. 
 
 "Floating around in my ink-pot" are 
 many things which I intend to tell you some 
 fine day, but not now, with the unsteady 
 condition of this writing-table. Just a word 
 to-day about my fellow- travelers. No one 
 seemed to know Mr. Elbert Hubbard, neither 
 did he appear eager for acquaintances. I 
 met him in the most natural manner. Some 
 one asked me to read at the sacred concert 
 on Sunday evening. While I was reading I 
 noticed an earnest, dark-eyed man listening 
 attentively. After the service of song was 
 ended he came at once to the young clergy- 
 man who conducted the service and asked 
 to be presented. He has a calm, quiet 
 atmosphere, and resembles a courteous 
 gentleman of the old school. Fortunately I 
 knew the "Little Journeys" and Thomas 
 Mosher's "Bibelot," which proved an open 
 sesame. 
 
 He talks well upon every subject, is a 
 charming listener, is modest and retiring, 
 and devoted to the young son, who is his 
 constant companion. He reads or writes 
 
By the Way 19 
 
 almost continually, and talks to few save 
 the ship's surgeon, who is "bookish." 
 
 Mrs. F., of Boston, is another interesting 
 passenger, who reminds me of the Arabian 
 proverb: "He who knows not, and knows 
 not that he knows not, is a fool; shun him. 
 He who knows not, and knows that he knows 
 not, is simple; teach him. He who knows, 
 and knows not that he knows, is asleep; 
 wake him. He who knows, and knows that 
 he knows, is wise; follow him." 
 
 Mrs. F. is one whom I should be willing to 
 follow. She has with her an invalid son, 
 who looks older than she. She and their 
 servants seem to vie one with another to 
 bring comfort to the invalid. They did not 
 appear on deck for many days, and kept 
 entirely to themselves. The mother came 
 up one of those days when I was alone on 
 the deck. Joe, our deck steward, placed us 
 in Ruth's two chairs, one of which she had 
 just vacated, while he and the lady's servant 
 fetched our chairs. When the chairs ap- 
 peared they were identical, and with the 
 same initials on them. Joe knew mine 
 
20 By the Way 
 
 well, and the lady's servant knew hers. As 
 the chairs were brought neither of us spoke, 
 but our eyes met and we laughed. 
 
 After a few moments, "I wonder," said 
 she, "if they are spelled the same, too." ''I 
 doubt it," I replied. That was all. The 
 servants stared in wonder and left. She 
 smiles and bows each time we meet, and I 
 must confess I'd like to know her name. On 
 the sailing list it is given as Mrs. Wilburn 
 Godfrey F. and maid. Mr. W. G. F., Jr., 
 and servant. Shall I ever know how her 
 given name is spelled? 
 
 We missed the tide, so the boat will not 
 be able to land us at the dock, but, instead, 
 we shall be compelled to go in on a tender, 
 which is approaching in the distance. 
 
England 
 
 "Oh! to be in England — 
 Now that April's there! 
 Whoever wakes in England sees some morning, 
 
 unaware, 
 That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf 
 Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf; 
 While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 
 In England — now!" 
 
 Robert Browning. 
 
ENGLAND 
 
 Liverpool. 
 
 We landed at eleven o'clock and I went 
 immediately and sent a cable to you. In 
 paying for it, my first money transaction 
 in England, I was given too little change, 
 which stamps me as fresh from America and 
 not up in shillings, pence, and ha'pennies. 
 The contents of our letters made it necessary 
 to change some of our plans. Charlotte is 
 not able to go to France, and instead goes 
 direct to her sister in London; the little 
 Icelander is off for Norway; and a telegram 
 to Ruth from Lady Henry Somerset, com- 
 pelling her to go north for a few days, will 
 separate us for that length of time. Ruth 
 begs me to accompany her, but I have 
 promised to be in Paris before Adelaide 
 leaves there, so this merry family of ours 
 separates to meet — (?) 
 
 You are a very satisfactory sort of corre- 
 spondent, for you bid me tell how one should 
 go to London from Liverpool, what to see, 
 
 23 
 
24 By the Way 
 
 and the little details not known to the 
 stranger, not forgetting the necessary ex- 
 penses. Ruth has been here many times, 
 and knows every spot of interest, and she 
 has mapped out a route for me to take until 
 she can join me. 
 
 After going through the ' ' Customs, ' ' 
 which, by the way, is easier in European 
 countries than in America, we started at 
 once for London, via the Great Western 
 railway. Speaking of the ' ' Customs, ' ' they 
 have sort of aisles, in which the trunks are 
 arranged, and one is not allowed to enter 
 until all is ready. Hanging in conspicuous 
 places are the letters of the alphabet, and a 
 man at the door asks your name, and you 
 are directed to the proper aisle. The officer 
 first looks you over, then asks: "Have you 
 any spirits" (not ghosts, but liquors), 
 "cigars, or English copyrighted books?" 
 I answered "No," of course, and the blue 
 chalk mark was placed on my luggage with- 
 out further question, and a splendid-look- 
 ing porter was called to carry it to my car- 
 riage. The woman behind me, too, said 
 
By the Way 25 
 
 ''No," just as I did, but she, it seems, had 
 a dear man all her own, and the ofl&cer said, 
 ''I will have to trouble you to open the 
 trunks for me." Apparently the customs 
 officers have a way of finding out things, 
 and I wish you could have seen the contents 
 of those trunks! There were bottles and 
 bottles, and cigars and tobaccos — every- 
 thing but books. That was the first time 
 I was sorry my name began with "F," for 
 had it been otherwise I should have been 
 spared the sight of the discomfort of that 
 poor woman. As I was leaving, the sec- 
 ond officer said to her, ''Please call your 
 husband, madam." Now, how do you 
 suppose they knew she had a husband 
 with her? 
 
 After the others had left, Mr. and Mrs. 
 W., into whose care Ruth had placed 
 me, and I went up town, where I bought 
 a little souvenir of my first day in England, 
 and sent it off to you. 
 
 Oh, dear! Oh, dear! That ocean seems, 
 somehow, awfully wide with you on the other 
 side. 
 
i6 By the Way 
 
 Chester. 
 We purchased in Liverpool an '' Ameri- 
 can tourists' stop-over ticket" for 16/6, which, 
 being interpreted, signifies sixteen shillings 
 and sixpence, or slightly over four dollars, 
 over what is known as the ' ' Garden route. ' ' 
 We are at ' ' The Blossoms, ' ' an inn over four 
 hundred years old. We have been to Ha- 
 warden castle, the beautiful home of the late 
 Mr. Gladstone. It is in Wales, but five 
 miles from here. On our return we visited 
 Eaton Hall, the magnificent ' ' place ' ' of the 
 Duke of Westminster. Chester is one of the 
 oldest towns in England, and some of the old 
 Roman wall, built over one thousand years 
 ago, is yet standing. The '^Old Rows," 
 two-story shops, with some above and some 
 below the sidewalk, are quaint. The beauti- 
 ful drive is called the ' ' Roodee, ' ' a contrac- 
 tion of the French word "rue," and the River 
 Dee, on the banks of which the old town is 
 situated. Here is a cathedral which pre- 
 sents every style of English mediaeval archi- 
 tecture, from the early Norman to the last 
 perpendicular. 
 
By the Way 27 
 
 I count this a remarkable day. I have 
 seen my first English cathedral, my first Eng- 
 lish estate, and have stood, for the first time, 
 in the cloisters of an abbey. 
 
 Leamington. 
 
 We arrived here at ' ' ten to five ' ' last even- 
 ing. The people of the Manor House were 
 expecting us, as we had written from Chester. 
 We chose this inn from our guide-book, and 
 because it had a garden. I have learned 
 that, in England, when in doubt about an 
 inn, "lead" with a garden, and you will 
 rarely make a mistake. 
 
 This has been a damp journey so far. The 
 rain began in Chicago, and has kept pace 
 with me all the way, and is still by me. Not- 
 withstanding, we strolled, after tea, over the 
 little spa and a good five miles of beautiful 
 meadow to Guy's Cliff, the handsome coun- 
 try-seat of Lord Percy, and back in time for 
 eight o'clock table d'hote. The number of 
 times these English cousins of ours eat is 
 remarkable. They breakfast anywhere from 
 
2 8 By the Way 
 
 8 to II, lunch from 12 to 4, have tea always 
 at 5, and dinner from 8 to 11 at night. 
 
 This morning, at eight, dressed in our- 
 short walking-skirts and heavy boots, with 
 every warm garment we possess under our 
 jackets, we started for Warwick. It was bit- 
 terly cold — but — did you ever see a castle? 
 I have! To-day! Imagine me standing 
 outside the castle wall, gazing up in silent 
 awe. This wall is one hundred and twenty- 
 five feet high and ten feet thick, built around 
 a square of two miles, the gray walls of the 
 castle itself forming one side of the square. 
 I wonder if other people are moved to tears 
 by grandeur in nature or in art ? Do you re- 
 call how the tears would come the day 
 I caught my first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean 
 from Mt. Lowe? So to-day, while others 
 were ''ohing" and "ahing, " I was dumb 
 with joy; and if I have said once, I have said 
 a hundred times, ' ' If you were only here to 
 enjoy it with me!" 
 
 As we left the embattled gateway we passed 
 through a road deeply cut out of the solid 
 rock, the walls of which were covered with 
 
By the Way 29 
 
 vines. A sudden turn brought us abruptly 
 into the vast open court, and there burst 
 upon our vision a fortress, mighty and mag- 
 nificent, and this was Warwick Castle! No 
 matter how many embattled castles you see, 
 the one seen first will be stamped forever 
 upon your memory, and I hope it will be 
 beautiful Warwick. We were shown through 
 the state apartments, but they were as noth- 
 ing compared with my first glimpse of the 
 massive fortress of the feudal barons of War- 
 wick — the old king-makers. After dinner 
 we drove to Kenilworth and viewed the 
 stately ruins by moonlight. 
 
 Stratpord-on-avon. 
 The sun shone to-day, and it was a wel- 
 come sight. We came here to rest over the 
 Sabbath. We have wandered over the sim- 
 ple old town to all the haunts of the poet. 
 We met Americans, Germans, Frenchmen, 
 Italians — all doing him honor. As we 
 walked ' ' Across the field to Ann" in the twi- 
 light, I recalled Dr. Richard Burton's beauti- 
 fulfpoem of that title. 
 
30 By the Way 
 
 I find that one can get her Hnen washed 
 quickly, cheaply, and well in all parts of 
 England. You give your soiled clothes, 
 with a thru'pence, to your maid at night, and 
 you will find them at your door, along with 
 your shoes, in the morning — shoes and all 
 having been thoroughly washed. 
 
 Oxford. 
 Thackeray was certainly right when he 
 said of Oxford, "It is a delight to enter, but 
 despair to leave." Should you ask me to 
 tell you candidly how long one should remain 
 in Oxford in order to see it perfectly, I should 
 reply, "A lifetime." It is charming. Of 
 course the college buildings, with their quads 
 and cloisters, the churches, the Sheldonian 
 theater, and Bodleian library, are all teeming 
 with historic interest, but it is the beauty of 
 the outdoor part of Oxford — of all England, 
 in fact — that most appeals to me. Well 
 may this be called the "garden route," for all 
 nature is alive with flowers and foliage, with 
 green of all shades, and odors sweeter than 
 
By the Way 31 
 
 honey. Everything here is freely accessible 
 to the visitor. No wonder the English 
 women are good walkers. One cannot see 
 the beauties of these glorious gardens, both 
 public and private, unless one walks miles, 
 as I have this day. 
 
 White Hart Inn, 
 Windsor. 
 
 I have been repaid a thousand-fold for 
 that awful ocean voyage. The massive walls 
 of Windsor Castle are just outside my window, 
 and as I write, I count ten guards abreast 
 upon them. It is the Queen's birthday, 
 "God bless her!" 
 
 I was up with the lark and entered the 
 embattled gateway as soon as it was open 
 to visitors. The terraces, the grand par- 
 terre, the royal stables, St. George's Chapel, 
 where the royal marriages are celebrated, the 
 State Apartments, the Round Tower, and 
 Albert Memorial Chapel — all, all are be- 
 yond my power of description. It was with 
 difficulty that I tore myself away, bade 
 
32 By the Way 
 
 good by to Mr. and Mrs. W., caught the 
 train for Paddington Station, reached London 
 in time to take a cab to Guilford Street, 
 where I found your blessed letters; back 
 to Charing Cross Station, paid thirty-eight 
 shillings for my ''booking," twelve for extra 
 luggage, two for storage (I haven't seen my 
 trunks since I left Liverpool), and away I 
 went to Folkestone by the sea, where I was 
 to meet Mrs. C. and go on to Paris. 
 
 While crossing the Channel, which, as 
 usual, was very rough, Mrs. C. gave me a 
 "sure cure" for mal de mer. She took hers 
 — I held mine in my hand — and soon she 
 was helped below. I came nearer succumb- 
 ing than ever I did on the ocean voyage. I 
 had my English gold changed into French 
 silver, I have barely learned shillings and 
 pence, and now francs and centimes must 
 be mastered. The French money is easier 
 to learn, however, as it is a decimal system, 
 similar to our own. 
 
 On our arrival at Boulogne I actually 
 assisted a fellow-traveler in ordering his 
 dinner in French. On the train to Paris 
 
f^M 
 
34 By the Way 
 
 Mrs. C. and I had a compartment to our- 
 selves. When one has a compartment alone 
 in these foreign trains, one can lie' at full 
 length and rest. We reached Paris too late 
 to go through the Duane (customs), but our 
 hand luggage had been examined at Bou- 
 logne-sur-Mer, so we went at once to the 
 Hotel Britannique on Rue Victoria. I 
 climbed to the fifth floor, too tired to mind 
 the stairs, bewildered at the day's doings. 
 
 Now, wouldn't you call this a glorious 
 day — Windsor Castle, London, and Paris- 
 all for the first time, and all within the space 
 of twenty-four hours ? 
 
By the Way 
 
 3S 
 
 30 Rue de la Bienfaisance, 
 
 Paris. 
 
 MUST tell you what a joy you 
 are! You have contented your- 
 self with the daily post-card and 
 the bi-weekly billet doux, which 
 have been plus doux que long, I 
 fear, but without the usual weekly 
 budget; and yet here you are 
 willing to forego it for anothei; 
 week that I may help Mary. This will go 
 to you first, however, and will be but a 
 little later reaching her. 
 
 We have been going so fast that the mental 
 has refused to perform its functions when 
 the physical was so fatigued. I think it wise 
 to rest a bit and endeavor to digest the 
 knowledge gained in travel before writing of 
 it. As I look back over what I have seen in 
 the last few weeks, both in art and nature, 
 I realize the truth of a little thing I once 
 read, taken from a letter by a well-known 
 writer of short stories to Mr. William Dean 
 Howells. She said that we must have some 
 atmosphere, some distance, between ourselves 
 
3^ By the Way 
 
 and our theme in order to get perspective, 
 whether one be painter or writer. So I feel 
 sure this budget will lose nothing by the 
 waiting before I tell you what I have picked 
 up by the way in La Belle Paris. 
 
 If you can come but once, Mary dear, do 
 not come in July or August, the tourist 
 season. Paris is a dream of beauty at all 
 seasons, but the charm of any city is obscured 
 when crowded as Paris is during those 
 months. Come in May. Do you not 
 remember what Victor Hugo said in "Le 
 Proscrit?" 
 
 "Le mois de mai sans la France, 
 Ce n'est pas le mois de mai." 
 
 One of the first things we did on our ar- 
 rival in Paris was to register at the office of 
 the New York Herald, on the Avenue de 
 1' Opera. Our American friends could then 
 find us. We did another wise thing in 
 choosing from among our numerous addresses 
 a pension downtown. It saved us time, 
 strength, and money. It is not one of those 
 pensions Longfellow used to tell about, 
 which had inscribed on the front of it, "Ici 
 
By the Way 37 
 
 on donne a boire et a manger ; on loge a pied 
 et a cheval"; literally, "Here we give to 
 drink and eat; we lodge on foot and on 
 horseback." Our pension only "give to eat 
 and lodge on foot." There is more prose 
 than poetry about the non-drinking part, for 
 seldom can one get a good cup of coffee 
 anywhere, I find. The chocolate and tea are 
 perfect, however, and the little crescent- 
 shaped roll and the fresh, unsalted butter 
 are delicious. 
 
 We are on the Rue de la Bienfaisance, 
 just off the Boulevard Haussmann, not far 
 from the beautiful little Eglise Saint Augustin, 
 where most of the w^eddings of the Paris 
 "four hundred" are celebrated, and a few 
 steps from the Gare Saint Lazare, where 
 we take our bus. Madame Dedebat, our 
 hostess, is most charming, and she sets the 
 best table we have found. We call each 
 morning for our delightful English friends. 
 They live in the Rue des Pyramides, near 
 where it runs into the Rue de Rivoli, where 
 stands the beautiful bronze statue of Jeanne 
 d'Arc. 
 
38 By the Way 
 
 The Louvre Palais, which contains the 
 Musee, and the Tuileries are just across the 
 street, with the Place de la Concorde a little 
 farther up; the Grand Opera is but a few 
 squares away, with the American Express 
 ofhce near it, and the Church of the Made- 
 line hard by. 
 
 The Place de la Concorde is an immense 
 square with mammoth pieces of sculpture at 
 each corner, representing the provinces taken 
 from the Germans. One of these was re- 
 captured by the Germans, but instead of 
 marring the beautiful "place" by tearing 
 down the statue, it is draped with crepe and 
 wreaths of flowers. In the center of the 
 square is the obelisk, with fountains playing 
 about it. 
 
 The roads are as white as snow, both 
 through and around the Place. It is framed 
 in green by the Tuileries, the Champs Ely- 
 sees, and the banks of the Seine. There is a 
 view one gets right here which cannot, per- 
 haps, be excelled in all the world. If you 
 stand at the court of the Louvre, in the open 
 space where the Arc de Carrousel meets the 
 
By the Way 39 
 
 Louvre Palais, and look through the arch, the 
 eye catches at once the green of the Tuiler- 
 ies garden and its trees, the dazzling bright- 
 ness of its marbles, the sparkling of its foun- 
 tains, the obelisk, and far on through the 
 Champs Elysees, the Arc de Triomphe, 
 which makes a fitting finish for this most 
 glorious vista. 
 
 I am at loss to tell you just what to do with 
 only a week in this little world, but let noth- 
 ing deter you from coming. I would rather 
 have come for one day than never to have 
 seen it at all. With a month on your hands, 
 and an inclination in your heart, you can do 
 wonders in this the most fascinating city on 
 the globe. Were one to be here but a short 
 time, a drive over the city should occupy the 
 first day. Parties are sent out every day, 
 with guides who know the best routes, and 
 it is iiot a bad idea to join one of them. Do 
 not, however, go with a party to see interiors 
 or the works of art, for one is so hurried that 
 one scarcely knows what has been seen. 
 
 As an illustration: Two young girls 
 stopping at our pension joined one of these 
 
40 By the Way 
 
 parties going to Versailles the same day that 
 Ruth and I went. We had seats on top of 
 the steam tram which leaves every hour from 
 the foot of the Place de la Concorde bridge. 
 We spent the entire day there, and came away 
 after dark feeling that we had had the merest 
 peep at the parks and gardens, vast with 
 miles of marble terraces, miles of lime-tree 
 bowers, fountains of gold, of silver, and of 
 bronze, green of all shades, flowers of all 
 colors, staircases of onyx, paintings, sculp- 
 tures and relics of untold value. We walked 
 miles and had been driven tens of miles 
 through the parks and gardens of the Grand 
 and Petit Trianon. We had stood by the most 
 stupendous series of fountains the world has 
 ever known. And we crawled home weary, 
 but happy at heart for all this beauty, to find 
 that our poor little friends had been there but 
 two hours — that they had galloped from 
 place to place, catching but little if anything 
 of the foreign names pronounced so differ- 
 ently from the way we are taught. Versailles 
 is one of the places where there are official 
 guides, and it pays to hire one by the hour. 
 
By the Way 41 
 
 Of the museums, see the Luxembourg first 
 because while the gardens are beautiful, they 
 are not so well kept nor to be compared with 
 those of the Louvre or Versailles. The 
 works of art are placed in the Luxembourg 
 gallery during the lifetime of an artist, if his 
 works merit that honor; if his fame lives for 
 ten years after his death, they are transferred 
 to the Louvre. Hence it is in the Luxem- 
 bourg one will find the best works of living 
 artists. There hangs the painting by Maria 
 Bashkirtseff. It was admitted to the salon 
 in 1884, and hung in the Luxembourg in 
 1886, and still remains there. 
 
 The Louvre Musee is a vast collection 
 of classified art, and occupies the palace 
 of that name, any room of which will repay 
 one. 
 
 Just wander about alone until some work 
 of art compels you to stop before it ; then look 
 at your Baedeker and see if it is something 
 noted. It tickles one's vanity to find one has 
 selected a masterpiece without having it 
 pointed out. Speaking of guide-books, 
 Baedeker is by far the best, and rarely fails 
 
42 
 
 By the Way 
 
 one excepting in galleries where it is impossi- 
 ble to keep an accurate list of the works of 
 art on account of their being moved from 
 room to room, or of their being loaned to 
 some world's exposition. 
 
 JEWEL ROOM, THE LOUVRE 
 
 In the Louvre are many of the master- 
 pieces, pictures which every boy or girl knows, 
 as Murillo's Immaculate Conception. Other 
 well-known masterpieces of Titian, Raphael, 
 Van Dyke, Rembrandt, Rubens and Fra An- 
 gelico make one agree with Marie Corelli, 
 that the old masters took their secret of colors' 
 to the grave with them. I offended my Eng- 
 
By the Way 43 
 
 lish friends by admitting that I did not like 
 Dickens, and now I'm afraid I'll shock my 
 Holland friends by not liking Rubens ; but his 
 best works are still in Holland, and I have not 
 seen them. One should get catalogues of 
 both the Louvre and Luxembourg galleries. 
 They are worth the small fortune they cost. 
 
 If you can make time, see Cluny, Guimet, 
 the Musee des Religions, the Musee Gustave 
 Moreau, the Musee Cernuski, almost wholly 
 Oriental, and — well, all Paris. 
 
 The Louvre shop is across the street from 
 the Louvre Musee, and it, together with the 
 Bon Marche and Printemps, form a trio of 
 wonders in the commercial world of Paris 
 which it is well not to miss seeing, but buy 
 your rare and dainty things at the little shops 
 dealing exclusively in one article. 
 
 The best manner to see the Bois de Bou- 
 logne, for one whose time is limited, is to take 
 a boat on the Seine at the Pont Royal, 
 stopping at St. Cloud (San Clu) and Sevres, 
 and, after an hour of exquisite rest amid the 
 dreamland on either side, disembark at Su- 
 resnes (Sur-ren), cross the bridge, and walk 
 
44 
 
 By the Way 
 
 back to Paris through the forest. We took 
 the earhest morning boat. It chanced to be 
 the day of the Bataille des fieurs (Battle of 
 flowers). Some time was spent viewing this 
 
 STAIRCASE, GRAND OPERA 
 
 beautiful scene; we stopped frequently at 
 little cafes for tea or rest, and six o'clock 
 found us at the Arc de Triomphe hailing a 
 cab to take us home. It was fatiguing, but 
 in no other way could we have seen so well 
 
By the Way 45 
 
 the splendid woods nor the ghmpses of 
 family life among the hon bourgeois. 
 
 The day you go to the Bon Marche walk 
 down to Notre Dame, cross the Pont d'Ar- 
 cole, and that brings you right into the gar- 
 dens of the Hotel de Ville, which is beyond 
 all doubt the most magnificent palace of 
 justice in the world. Its decorations rival 
 those of the Louvre. The entrance, the gal- 
 leries, the ball-room, and the banquet-hall 
 are splendid beyond description. The 
 ceiling decorations are all by noted artists 
 and represent some type of Plenty, Music, 
 or Love. It is marvelous, the art these 
 French have put into their architecture. 
 
 The crowning delight, that of a visit to the 
 tomb of Napoleon, awaits your week's end. 
 The tomb is in the crypt under the dome des 
 Invalides, a home for old soldiers, and is 
 reached by walking through the gardens and 
 long, cloister-like passages of the Invalides. 
 As I entered my eyes fell on an immense 
 altar, through the amber windows of which 
 a flood of golden light poured on a colossal 
 cross, lighting the face of the bronze figure of 
 
46 By the Way 
 
 Christ nailed to it, making a most dramatic 
 picture. This figure was cast from one of 
 Napoleon's cannons. The tomb itself is a 
 large marble basin, over the edge of which 
 you look down onto the sarcophagus cut out 
 of a huge block of reddish brown granite. It 
 stands on a mosaic pavement, in the form of 
 a laurel wreath, and around the walls are 
 twelve colossal statues representing the 
 twelve victories. 
 
 30 Rue de la Bienfaisance, 
 
 Paris . 
 
 'T wish I had been born either rich or a 
 hod-carrier!" The very idea of a woman of 
 my parts counting centimes! Instead of 
 telling my friends how to come on the least 
 money, I'd rather say, go hide somewhere 
 until you have millions to buy the dainty 
 confections with which Paris abounds. It 
 gives me heart-aches to look and smile and 
 reach for — then stop and sigh and count the 
 aforesaid centimes. From this you have, 
 perhaps, surmised that we have been going 
 
By the Way 47 
 
 over the pros and cons of shopping — princi- 
 pally the cons. 
 
 How foolish of me to tell any one not to 
 come to dear, mad, wild, glorious Paris! 
 Why, I'd come, if only to remain a day, and 
 have nothing to eat for a year thereafter. 
 
 . Last night when I wrote I was "way back 
 at the end of the procession," but this morn- 
 ing I am "right up behind the band." And 
 the reason ? Never ask a woman sojourn- 
 ing on foreign shores for a motij. There is 
 but one, that, far from those she loves, makes 
 or mars the pleasure of being — brings the 
 sunshine or the cloud— regulates the pulse- 
 beats of her very existence — and that is — A 
 
 LETTER ! 
 
 I have not told you. For some days I 
 have had no word, hence my lowly position 
 of yesterday. But on this bright, beautiful 
 morning, I found on my breakfast-tray a 
 packet of many-stamped, much-crossed, and 
 often-forwarded letters. And now, although 
 it is raining in torrents, and the coffee is — not 
 coffee — I can see only golden words, and 
 
48 By the Way 
 
 those through rose-tinted glasses. "Ah, 
 what care I how bad the weather?" — lam 
 so happy that I have already forgiven those 
 who have not been constant, or who failed 
 "to remember." 
 
 Alice is here, the guest of friends at their 
 country house at Fontainebleau. The day 
 she was our hostess she met us at the station, 
 and we were driven through a long lane of 
 lime-trees to the chateau of Fontainebleau. 
 
 No other palace has aroused so keen an 
 interest as has the interior of this noble old 
 mediaeval fortress. In this palace are tapes- 
 tries of rare worth and weave, jardinieres in 
 cloisonne, bas-reliefs in jasper, masterpieces 
 of marquetry, and priceless bric-a-brac, 
 found nowhere else in such lavish profusion. 
 
 Ahce's hostess sent her servants with a 
 dainty luncheon, which they served for us on 
 the marble steps leading from I'Etang des 
 Carpes to the water's edge. The afternoon 
 and early hours of the evening w^ere spent in 
 driving through the forest. 
 
 The forest of Fontainebleau embraces over 
 
By the Way 49 
 
 fifty square miles, and its magnificent timber 
 and picturesque splendor is not surpassed in 
 all France. 
 
 Adelaide is not coming to Paris at present. 
 She is still studying in Vienna, and winning 
 
 FONTAINEBLEAU 
 
 hearts and laurels by the score. She will 
 leave soon for the land of the midnight sun, 
 and I shall expect some glowing accounts of 
 that northland. 
 
 We were guests at the Ambassador's re- 
 ception yesterday. The house, just off the 
 Champs Elysees, is furnished with elegance 
 and taste. General and Mrs. Porter received 
 alone. She was gowned in a black and 
 white foulard, into which lace was set, out- 
 
50 By the Way 
 
 lined with narrow black velvet ribbon. The 
 gowns worn by both the French and Ameri- 
 can women were, many of them, gorgeous, all 
 of them graceful and fetching, and most of 
 them airy creations of lace. Lace is the 
 prominent factor in gowns here. 
 
 Refreshments were served from a buffet 
 table set in one of the drawing-rooms, and 
 gentlemen, instead of ladies, assisted the 
 hostess about the rooms. 
 
 Paris. 
 
 You are a wise woman in your generation, 
 Olive dear, for upon what you read before 
 going, depends largely what you will com- 
 prehensively absorb during a stay in any 
 foreign country. 
 
 The Women's Rest Tour Association of 
 Boston issues a httle book — A Summer in 
 England — in which is found, besides some 
 excellent advice, an exhaustive bibliography. 
 In addition to those you mention as having 
 read, I would suggest Mr. Henry James's 
 "Little Tour in France." One should not 
 
By the Way 51 
 
 travel in rural France without knov^dng it. 
 F. Berkeley Smith's "The Real Latin 
 Quarter" has much of the naive charm that 
 characterizes his father's writings, and gives 
 one an insight to that fascinating part of 
 Paris rarely found in books. 
 
 Few books have been so helpful to me as 
 Esther Singleton's "Turrets, Towers, and 
 Temples" and her "Great Pictures Described 
 by Great Writers." The names tell you 
 what a wealth of information they must con- 
 tain — information which ever}' traveler 
 should possess. You must not think of see- 
 ing Germany without knowing ]\Ir. Howell's 
 "Their Silver Wedding Journey," and "One 
 Year Abroad," by the author of that de- 
 lightful story, "One Summer." 
 
 Brander Matthew's clever "Americanisms 
 and Briticisms" abounds in funny but valua- 
 ble information. Katherine DeForest's 
 "Paris as It Is" tells of many out-of-the- 
 common places, and Kate Douglas Wlggins's 
 English, Scotch, and Irish "Experiences," 
 and "Cathedral Courtship," present the 
 fascination of fiction blended with reality. 
 
5^ By the Way 
 
 For out-of-the-way parts of the world I 
 can recommend Grace Greenlee's "As We 
 were Journeying." I have met the young 
 author, and find that the information con- 
 tained in her book is authentic. 
 
 Buy a Baedeker for each country, and 
 Hutton's "Literary Landmarks" for each 
 city. Study them, eat with them, sleep with 
 them, walk, talk, pray with and swear by 
 them. 
 
 You will be glad to know that the Book- 
 lover's Library has crossed the water. One 
 may now get books in New York, read them 
 on shipboard, and have them exchanged at 
 her hotel in London or Paris without any 
 further trouble than the writing of a post- 
 card. 
 
 I am reminded every day that the world 
 is small; not by the dear old world itself, for 
 it seems mighty big to-night, as the distance 
 between me and the united "colonies" comes 
 to mental view; it is rather the droll and 
 this-is-original-with-me expression which 
 
By the Way ^3 
 
 accompanies the saying that impresses me 
 with smallness. 
 
 But if the world seems smah, America does 
 not. 'Everywhere I go I have cause to real- 
 ize the greatness of my native land. 
 
 The artists' quarter is agog over the great 
 success of the American artists. Chief 
 among these is Pauline Palmer. Last night, 
 at a musical, a young English barytone sang 
 a number of Carrie Jacobs-Bonds' beautiful 
 songs, much to the delight of the audience; 
 and you can imagine my pleasure when I 
 found Emma Lee Walton's sweet little story, 
 ''Marget," among the treasured clippings of 
 my talented French master, M. Emile. One 
 might think a section of Chicago transplanted 
 in Paris. 
 
 Paris. 
 Will you please send the letter to dear 
 Louise, first, this week ? She and Susan 
 have been the most faithful of all my friends, 
 and a foreign post rarely leaves America 
 without some word from them to me. Even 
 
54 By the Way 
 
 wee Hazelton has sent "his mark." Both 
 Louise and Susan have asked who Ruth is. 
 
 Ruth is my friend, in the fullest meaning 
 of the word. She is a Quakeress, as you will 
 see by the thee and thou. She is the loveliest 
 and most considerate of traveling compan- 
 ions, and — and — well, if I should take the 
 dictionary and shake out all the adjectives, 
 and use them to tell how beautiful she is, 
 within as well as without, they would not do 
 her justice. So, then, I send instead a char- 
 acteristic letter received from her while she 
 was a guest at Eastnor castle. Besides 
 giving you an idea of Ruth, I feel sure you 
 will be interested in reading of life in a castle, 
 by one who has so recently experienced it. 
 
 The Letter. 
 
 Eastnoe Castle, 
 
 Ledberry, England, 
 
 June I. 
 
 Beloved: — But ten short days have gone 
 since I bade thee farewell as we parted com- 
 pany in Liverpool, thee bent upon reaching 
 
By the Way ^^ 
 
 the Continent, and I to make a circuitous 
 route to this wonderland of Eastnor Castle, 
 the royal home of that royal lady, Isabel 
 Somerset. I wonder if her ladyship can have 
 any idea what a ghmpse into "this life apart" 
 can mean to ordinary, every-day mortals! 
 Had I possessed my wits I would not have 
 accepted thy refusal to halt in thy mad rush, 
 first coming here with me, after which we 
 could have journeyed together to the city of 
 the Seine. 
 
 Thee bade me tell thee how the nobles hve. 
 Thee has set me a difficult task. Thee knows 
 this is the second time I have been admitted 
 to these palace walls. When I came first, 
 two years ago, utterly destitute of the knowl- 
 edge necessary to a rightful appreciation of 
 this titled heritage, I fear I resembled an un- 
 trained coh let loose within a garden of 
 flowers, in ignorance and fright ruthlessly 
 treading upon, or bhndly passing by, that 
 which to a sage would be sacredly signifi- 
 cant. Here is set befc»re us the history of 
 Anglo-Saxon civihzalion — every foot of 
 ground aids in spelling out some distinctive 
 
^6 By the Way 
 
 step in the evolution of the race. To one 
 who looks with vision veiled there may appear 
 little but "stuff and nonsense" in the innu- 
 merable customs and ceremonies, the old 
 landmarks, the tomes of relics which occupy 
 every niche and corner of park and palace. 
 But to the knowing ones all these become 
 possessed with living tongues, speaking in 
 fiery eloquence the language of ages far agone. 
 I think thy estimate of me since the day 
 we met must be that I am a most thoroughly 
 democratic American; especially convinced 
 must thee be of this fact since our close 
 association during those trying days on ship- 
 board. Nevertheless, I sometimes wish there 
 were inherent among us as a people a little 
 more of reverence, both for persons and 
 things. I believe the reflex influence of such 
 sentiment upon the American character 
 would be to modify what may be termed 
 national self-conceit, and which we are too 
 prone to flaunt abroad with a degree of vain- 
 glory that is scarcely consistent with mod- 
 esty and good manners. It were better to 
 teach our youth the historical significance of 
 
By the Way 57 
 
 these old estates, the long-ago achievements 
 that won for certain families distinguished 
 titles that are perpetuated in what constitutes 
 the nobility of the present day, than to pur- 
 sue our present inconsistent course of utterly 
 ignoring them. 
 
 A certain morbid curiosity now character- 
 izes many American tourists, to satisfy which 
 they not infrequently make themselves liable 
 to the criticism that we are snobbish and 
 superficial, lacking in delicacy and culture. 
 I used to be very sensitive myself relative to 
 this seemingly unkind rating of us by our 
 Enghsh cousins, but several trips abroad have 
 led me to see the situation from the other side, 
 and I can but wish that there were less cause 
 for it. 
 
 I shall always count it one of those rare 
 privileges which seldom come to any mortal 
 twice in a lifetime to have been domiciled for 
 this week in beautiful Eastnor. June in 
 England is endowed with even more loveli- 
 ness than for us at home. Nature has 
 donned her robes of bloom and perfume. 
 The leaves are of that glossy green which 
 
58 By the Way 
 
 mirrors the faces of cowslip and daisy. The 
 hedges have not yet been chpped, and the 
 wild rose and honeysuckle have merry frolic 
 in their scramble for a brier or bush to cling to. 
 With such rare beauty pervading dell and 
 dale, and with my democratic principles in 
 prime condition, I had no thought before 
 coming that this visit would be much of an 
 incident in what has already been, as thee 
 knows, rather an eventful life. I may not 
 have told thee that, when I was here before. 
 Lady Henry was not living in state. Indeed, 
 she spent very little time at this castle, choos- 
 ing rather to live more quietly in the manor 
 at Reigate, in Surrey. But since then her 
 only son has reached his majority, and has 
 assumed charge of a good share of his 
 gracious mother's affairs. He has married 
 the beautiful Lady Catherine, and as this 
 castle is the official residence of the family, 
 the events I have just mentioned have caused 
 everything hereabouts to blossom out in 
 grand splendor. Lady Henry now resides 
 here in state. Certain apartments have been 
 assigned to the son and his family (a little 
 
By the Way 59 
 
 grandson arrived a few months ago to bless 
 the hearts and perpetuate the name of the 
 house) and many of the two hundred cham- 
 bers of the castle are frequently put at the 
 disposal of her ladyship's guests. So thee 
 can understand that this visit is vastly more 
 meaningful than was the former one. 
 
 Oh, the splendor of these castle walls! 
 The magnificence and extent of the interior! 
 The punctilious attention of this army of 
 servants! The rambles through these miles 
 of parks! The drives over the vast estate! 
 I must confess that at first it failed to im- 
 press me as deeply significant of a phase of 
 life I have never known much about, but 
 after the first day or two are now past I find 
 myself beginning to think that these things 
 are, after all, quite to my liking. This morn- 
 ing I found myself unconsciously waiting for 
 the maid to enter and remove the drapery 
 from the window; to dust and arrange my 
 clothing, and even offer to put it on ; to brush 
 my hair, and in her gentle voice ask whether 
 I wished breakfast served in my room. I 
 may say that any one invited here to visit is 
 
6o By the Way 
 
 supposed to belong to the class who would 
 bring their servants with them, but with 
 Americans it is different, and a maid is as- 
 signed us from those of the household staff. 
 How natural to have that important func- 
 tionary, the head-housekeeper, inquire with 
 an air of high dignity, at what hour I wish to 
 drive, and whether I will dine at home all 
 day. 
 
 The wealth of flowers, freshly cut each 
 morning, are lovely, as they nod from the 
 tables in the boudoirs and the niches in the 
 great library. And the works of art that 
 adorn the corridors and the great staircase, 
 the dining and drawing rooms, are fascinating 
 in the extreme. How much pleasanter to 
 study Rubens, Watts, Ghirlandajo, Veron- 
 ese, and a host of other great painters in this 
 castle-home than in a crowded public gallery, 
 where one's legs and neck get so tired. What- 
 ever we as a nation may think of titles and 
 nobility in general, I know at least one citi- 
 zen of the Republic who deems the life here 
 ''perfectly lovely." Last night, shut in 
 by the silken draperies of my downy couch, I 
 
By the Way 6i 
 
 dropped asleep half-wondering what my 
 chances might have been had my father been 
 able to settle a dower upon me of a million 
 or two. 
 
 Yesterday I ventured to say to the mis- 
 tress of all this grandeur, "Lady Henry, you 
 are indeed a queen"; whereupon her lady- 
 ship gave me a reply that holds the keynote 
 to her noble life, "My dear, I like the idea 
 of fellowship better," she said. Ah, yes, I 
 could well believe it, else what could induce 
 her to deliberately forsake the life of quiet- 
 ness and refinement for that of a moral re- 
 former? It would have been most natural 
 for her to have passed a life of royal ease, for 
 her cup of earthly comfort was full to the 
 brim. The daughter of seven earls, with a 
 pedigree seven hundred years long, and 
 estates involving, besides this castle, a 
 splendid old manor at Reigate, a city home 
 in London, another in Paris, a villa in Switz- 
 erland, and a tenantry of one hundred and 
 twenty thousand souls. 
 
 Her house has always stood in high favor 
 with the reigning sovereigns, and many im- 
 
62 By the Way 
 
 portant political achievements have shed 
 glory on the ancient name of Somers. 
 Socially no^one outside the royal family itself 
 has ever shone with fairer fame in the high- 
 est coteries of London than she who is now a 
 familiar figure among the farmers of the 
 Malvern Hills or the miners of Wales. 
 
 'Twere well for thee and the length of this 
 already unreasonably long letter that a butler 
 has just announced, "Her Ladyship is in the 
 Grand Library, and awaits your presence at 
 afternoon tea," or I fear the spell that was 
 upon me to write might have held me until 
 the shadows fall, which, by the by, at this 
 time of the year in England do not fall till 
 between nine and ten in the evening. But 
 I dare not tarry a moment longer. 
 
 No. 12 BiSHOPGATE PlACE, 
 
 London. 
 Beloved Friend:— -As thee will see, I never 
 got back to my letter after leaving it last week 
 to take tea with her ladyship. The remain- 
 ing days were so fully planned for that we 
 were occupied almost every hour. 
 
By the Way 6^ 
 
 I left the castle yesterday morning in a 
 maze of bewildered impressions. How queer 
 to again grab my own bag and umbrella and 
 join the seething crowds. How uncouth and 
 rude it seems after having been hid away with 
 beauty and culture for eight days. But Lady 
 Henry's reply rings in my ears, "I like the 
 idea of fellowship better," and the fact that 
 when I left she was out somewhere near Lon- 
 don lost in work among the masses, helps re- 
 store me to my senses. Life is more real 
 than ever before. Last night as I came from 
 St. Paul's here to my lodgings, it seerged 
 easier to discern God's image in even the 
 least attractive of those I encountered upon 
 the highway than it used to be. My demo- 
 cratic principles have suffered no injury 
 whatever. They have only been burnished 
 and made to shine with new luster. 
 
 I am stopping at the old Friends' Meeting 
 House. It is very quaint, and to me every- 
 thing about it is of intense interest. I will 
 join thee in Paris Thursday. 
 
 Faithfully thine, 
 
 Ruth. 
 
64 By the Way 
 
 88 GuiLPORD Street, 
 London, June 25. 
 
 So many things crowd to the place where 
 the gray matter should be that I gasp for 
 breath. I wonder if every woman who comes 
 over here is possessed with the wild desire to 
 write letters. I go to see places now that I 
 may tell you about them, and am uneasy 
 until I reach my little sky-parlor in order to 
 begin the telling. 
 
 Can I ever make you understand how 
 much, how very much, I appreciate all the 
 delights you are making it possible for me to 
 enjoy ? Were I to be stricken blind and 
 deaf, and then live a thousand years, I have 
 enough of beauty of color, of sound, and of 
 fragrance to enable me to live happily through 
 it all. 
 
 And yet, I am going to say, "I told you 
 so." You never did so unwise a thing as to 
 induce me to bring those trunks. We have 
 discarded them and have each purchased 
 an English "hold-all" and a dress basket. 
 This last we send to the place where we 
 are to be at the week's end, and there we 
 
By the Way 65 
 
 are laundered, and away it goes to our next 
 resting-place. 
 
 There is a system of "carted luggage" here 
 by which one may send any large piece of 
 luggage that can be locked (it will not be 
 taken otherwise) from one's door and find it 
 in one's room at the hotel or lodgings in the 
 next city. The cost is nominal. Unless one 
 comes to visit or for social duties, only the 
 bare necessities should be taken. Other 
 articles are an extra bother and expense. We 
 have learned, too, to write ahead, and in time 
 for a reply, before venturing to hotels or 
 lodgings. Women unaccompanied by men 
 do not receive the best attention in Europe 
 unless '^expected." 
 
 A strange coincidence occurred which I tell 
 you to show that I am not superstitious. My 
 room at my home hotel was numbered 
 thirteen, the stateroom assigned me on the 
 ship was numbered thirteen, and my first ad- 
 dress in London was numbered thirteen, yet 
 I am alive and well, and almost happy. 
 
(>(> By the Way 
 
 House-Boat Reve d'Or, 
 
 Bourne End, England, 
 
 July 2. 
 
 I shall not soon forget those dear friends 
 who have been faithful and have written me 
 every little w^hile. No one knows, save those 
 who have experienced it, what a letter means 
 to one traveling in a strange country. 
 
 I am having the desire of my life. Every 
 one is lovely to me. I am seeing picturesque 
 England, literary England, and historical 
 England. I am having an ideally perfect 
 time amid elegance and luxury, yet you can 
 little realize the courage it takes not to throw 
 the whole thing up and go home. I feel as 
 though I'd like to gallop — run is too tame — 
 right off to the docks and take the first thing 
 that crosses that big ocean. Never fear, 
 though, I'm going to brave it out, and I'll be 
 a better and a wiser woman in consequence 
 of it. 
 
 London, July 4. 
 
 Hurrah for the red, white, and blue ! The 
 
 dear maid brought me eleven letters, each 
 
68 By the Way 
 
 with a little flag on it, and each intended to 
 reach me on this day. 
 
 Ruth and I took two young American girls 
 with us to the Ambassador's reception this 
 afternoon at four. Mr. and Mrs. Hay live 
 at Carlton House Terrace, and received most 
 graciously. Mrs. Hay is a tall, fine-looking 
 woman, and was simply gowned in a blue 
 foulard. Miss Hay was in white. The 
 gardens and white marble terrace leading to 
 them were draped in our nation's colors, and 
 red carpets were laid to avoid the dampness. 
 
 There is a spirit of patriotism in the breast 
 of social leaders which perhaps is seldom 
 equaled by those in the humbler walks of life. 
 The firing of gunpowder in its various forms, 
 the drinking of all sorts and conditions of 
 drinks, the noise of the numerous and sense- 
 less yells on our nation's natal day, does not 
 necessarily stamp the doer with boundless 
 national love. 
 
 When one is far from one's native land the 
 feehng of love for that home-land is of too 
 deep and sacred a nature to admit of jocular 
 demonstrations. I saw society to-day with 
 
By the Way 69 
 
 statesmen and men of letters and foreign 
 representatives at the Ambassador's recep- 
 tion, and the heart swelled with patriotic 
 emotion, and many eyes were moist with tears 
 as some one unfurled the Stars and Stripes, 
 while the band played the Star-Spangled 
 Banner. All this was done without sound 
 of any sort, save the sweet strains of the 
 music, or the deeper drawing of the breath, 
 and yet the men of other nations uncovered 
 their heads in respectful acknowledgment of 
 the fact that they stood before the represen- 
 tatives of the truest and most patriotic coun- 
 try on earth. 
 
yo By the Way 
 
 London, July 20. 
 ;AURENCE HUTTON says: 
 "London has no associations so 
 interesting as those connected 
 with its Hterary men." I do 
 not entirely agree with him, but 
 rather think, as Katherine De- 
 Forest remarks of Brittany, 
 "It is one of the few places that never 
 seem to lose their artistic seduction." 
 
 Not half has been told of dear, delightful, 
 dirty, dreary London. I should be the last 
 person to call her dreary, for she put on her 
 best behavior for me, and the sun shone nearly 
 every day those first weeks. It was June: 
 
 "And what is so rare as a day in June ?" 
 
 You will remember that the American states- 
 man-poet wrote the poem containing this 
 line in London. 
 
 The first and last place to visit in London 
 is Westminster Abbey. The church is in 
 the form of a Latin cross, and the poets' cor- 
 ner is in the south transept, a wing off the 
 organ-room. When you enter it, you seem 
 
, a-"- .'jL'i. ,* - 7 -<**-■» *^ ' q i 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY 
 
72 By the Way 
 
 to be in a chapel with pews and an akar Hke 
 any place of worship, but it appears to grow 
 larger as one continues to gaze. The wall 
 and every available space are filled with 
 marble busts or bas-reliefs. The stone 
 placed in memory of Mr. Gladstone is in the 
 floor of this poets' corner, and is a simple 
 white marble tablet engraved: 
 
 Wm. Gladstone, 
 1898. 
 
 Involuntarily I stepped back and stood 
 with bowed head, then passed around 
 through another aisle. It is worthy of note 
 that Longfellow is the only American whose 
 bust adorns this corner. There is a service 
 of song here every afternoon at four, and the 
 harmony of those unusually sweet voices is 
 yet ringing in my ears. 
 
 The Houses of Parliament are across the 
 street from the Abbey. They contain over 
 a thousand apartments, more than a hun- 
 dred staircases, and a dozen courts. The 
 art in these buildings rivals anything of the 
 kind in the world. The paintings, sculp- 
 
By the Way 73 
 
 tures, and the mosaic pavements are beauti- 
 ful beyond description. They are only open 
 to the public on Saturdays, from ten to four. 
 One should take a boat from the Tower 
 bridge to get the view of these buildings from 
 the river, and sail away down past the em- 
 bankment, where are many of the finest 
 hotels. 
 
 There are some beautiful water trips 
 around London. One, particularly pleasant, 
 is from London bridge to Kew. If you have 
 time, stop at Chelsea and see the home of 
 Carlyle, which is now fitted up as a memo- 
 rial ap.d open to visitors, afterwards going 
 on to Kew. Disembark here and take a 
 chars-a-bancs, or the top of an omnibus, to 
 Hampton Court, and walk through the 
 grounds. 
 
 To me one of the greatest delights of Lon- 
 don is Hyde Park. I cannot understand 
 why one hears so much about Paris and so 
 little of London. Hyde Park is to London 
 what the Tuileries are to Paris, and the 
 marble arch at the Victoria Street entrance, 
 erected by George the Fourth, is as beautiful 
 
74 By the Way 
 
 as the Arc de Triomphe, while the massive 
 archway and iron gates at the Piccadilly end 
 are finer than anything of the kind I saw in 
 Paris. One gets the best idea of Hyde Park 
 by taking a 'bus at Piccadilly Circus — and, 
 by the by, do you know what Piccadilly 
 Circus is ? Well, it is only a street, or rather 
 a widening of the place where Regent Street 
 ends and where Piccadilly turns west. 
 Piccadilly itself is a prominent street, but only 
 about half a mile in length, beginning at 
 Haymarket and ending at Hyde Park. 
 
 To go back to Hyde Park — I repeat, take 
 a 'bus at Piccadilly Circus, ride to Kensing- 
 ton Gore, and walk back through Kensing- 
 ton Gardens, past the Albert Memorial and 
 the marble statue of the Queen, done by her 
 daughter, Princess Louise. One is obhged 
 to walk, as carriages are not allowed in Ken- 
 sington Gardens, and there is no other way 
 by which to see the beauty of the rare old 
 trees, the fountains, the lakes and bridges 
 and the glorious array of blossoms. Try to 
 get down to Rotten Row in Hyde Park by 
 four, for at that time the "drive" begins, and 
 
76 By the Way 
 
 one may see London's lords and ladies at 
 their best. 
 
 Another delightful day may be spent in 
 St. James Park. Aim to arrive there for the 
 "guard mount," at nine each morning, and if 
 you go on a Wednesday, and the King and 
 Queen happen not to be in town, you may 
 be shown through the palace. 
 
 Make a day of the Crystal Palace at Cyden- 
 ham Hill. If one cannot take the conti- 
 nental trip, a very good idea of the works of 
 art of Switzerland, Germany, France, and 
 Italy may be obtained in this ''miniature 
 world," as the Crystal Palace is sometimes 
 called. 
 
 One should go to the theaters, and go 
 some time when they do not "book stalls." 
 This experience is apt to test your menti- 
 culture. The Haymarket theater, for in- 
 stance, does not book seats on Saturday 
 afternoons and the highest priced seat is but 
 four shillings. It seemed strange that Ruth 
 insisted on our lunching so early the Satur- 
 day we were to attend, but I thought per- 
 haps the performance began at twelve, like 
 
By the Way 77 
 
 the Wagnerian cycles at Covent Garden. 
 When I saw the pretty, well-behaved young 
 women sitting there in line on camp-stools, 
 it struck me as very funny. I lost my "place" 
 time after time stepping out to gaze at them. 
 There were few men present, and the low 
 voices of the women never rose high or shrill 
 when arguing about their right to a place. 
 But best and most fascinating of all is the 
 National Gallery, and after that the British 
 Museum. I like the English school of art. 
 Landseer, Turner, Reynolds, Hogarth, and 
 Gainsborough are a decided relief from the 
 old masters in the galleries on the Continent. 
 If I could have but one picture, and that of 
 my own choosing, I'd take, without hesita- 
 tion, Landseer's "A Distinguished Member of 
 the Royal Humane Society," not because 
 the largest crowd is always before it, nor 
 because the easel space is full with artists 
 copying it, but because it appeals to my 
 heart. One should go several times to this 
 gallery that the knowledge gained may be 
 properly digested. On the first visit espe- 
 cially a guide should be taken. 
 
78 By the Way 
 
 I have had a most dehghtful opportunity 
 to see something of the country hfe of 
 England, and one that the casual traveler 
 cannot experience, unless she has friends 
 living here. It was on a house-boat at 
 Borne End, and the memory of that charm- 
 ing week will live long after paintings and 
 sculptures have faded from my mind. It 
 was the last week in June. The Thames was 
 in gala dress for the boat races and the 
 banks were lined with house-boats — veritable 
 bowers of plants and blossoms — ready for 
 the Henley regatta. These house-boats are 
 really flat-boats supporting summer cottages. 
 They are seldom moved except for the races, 
 and are then towed up the Thames to Henley 
 or Oxford by little tugs. 
 
 The scene is one of unsurpassed loveli- 
 ness, the banks lined with these floating 
 bowers, the water dotted with thousands 
 of small boats, each flying some college 
 colors, the fresh-looking English maidens 
 in holiday array, the stalwart fellows in 
 white duck, the bands of music, the gayety 
 and flowers — flowers everywhere. If you 
 
8o By the Way 
 
 have read the description of an Oxford 
 regatta in " The Handsome Humes," you 
 will agree with me, I am sure. 
 
 It is a mistaken idea that the English 
 people sneer at or slight Americans. Every 
 well informed Englishman acknowledges the 
 United States to be the most progressive 
 nation on earth. Everything American is 
 sought after, and American ideas command 
 the highest price. 
 
 I have found the better class of English 
 the most charming of people, and their 
 hospitality knows no limit. My stay here, 
 away from my native land, has been one 
 bright dream of pleasure, made so particu- 
 larly by a dear old English couple whom I 
 met first in Paris, by the family on the 
 house-boat, and our little English companion, 
 Eleanora, who is showing Ruth and me her 
 London. 
 
 Elbert Hubbard says something to the 
 effect that, to travel through Europe with 
 one and still remain friends stamps both as 
 remarkably amiable persons. Without wish- 
 
By the Way 8i 
 
 ing to seem egotistical, I'd like you to know 
 that before bidding Eleanora good-by she 
 invited me to join her later in a jaunt 
 through Italy. 
 
 London, July 21, 
 .The packers were here all day, and those 
 awful trunks have gone, and we shall not see 
 them again until Ruth sails. The dress 
 basket we are to share between us has been 
 sent to Edinburgh, where we shall be next 
 Sunday. 
 
 Just after everything had gone, Maud 
 called on'us. Poor child, she is very brave, 
 but very homesick at being left behind. She 
 is beautiful, and her voice is a superbly rich 
 contralto. You must hear her when she 
 returns to the States, for I am sure she will 
 make a great name for herself. 
 
 The news has just reached us of the 
 sinking of a French liner. How horrible! 
 With you on that side and I on this. But — 
 
 "No wind can drive my bark astray, 
 Nor change the tide of destiny." 
 
82 By the Way 
 
 Lakeside, Windermere, 
 West View Villas. 
 
 We left London — -St. Pancras Station — 
 at 10:30 yesterday morning, via the Midland 
 Railway, stopping en route at Chesterfield 
 long enough to see the "Twisted Tower" of 
 the cathedral. It was built in the fourteenth 
 century, and the book says, "A curioijs 
 twist to the spire was caused by the warping 
 of the wood." The poor ignorant people 
 say it was the devil. It is very odd, whoever 
 did it. 
 
 We left the train at Leeds in order to see 
 the ruins of Kirkstall Abbey, catching the 
 next through train by driving to Skipton, 
 and here began the most picturesque scenery 
 I have found in England. 
 
 The valley of Craven consists of mead- 
 ows similar to those of Chester and War- 
 wick, but they are softer and greener; the 
 same hedges, but darker, higher, and more 
 velvety. The woods behind them set them 
 off to advantage, and here and there, spark- 
 ling in the sunlight, is a little lake. The 
 winding white roads and beautiful roses 
 
By the Way 83 
 
 are everywhere, a fitting setting for all the 
 harmony of color. We passed through a 
 cafion cut in the rocks, with cliffs as high as 
 one can see, and the blue hills of Cumber- 
 land burst on our vision. 
 
 This mountain region, called the Eng- 
 lish Lake District, is said by the English 
 to be the most beautiful spot in the British 
 isles, but the Scotch and the Irish each 
 claim the same superlative. I shall see 
 them all, and shall give you an unpreju- 
 diced opinion, but certain it is that within 
 these limits lies a wealth of scenery not to 
 be very far surpassed anywhere. 
 
 We arrived here at fifteen to six, and 
 came directly to West View Villas. After 
 a cup of tea we walked out over the mead- 
 ows. Have you the slightest idea what an 
 English meadow is like ? I had not, and it 
 is beyond the power of this poor pen point 
 to describe one to you. This one has hills 
 on either side, with the clear blue Winder- 
 mere at their feet. The white roads wind 
 in and out, with this cluster of villas all 
 covered with roses, and an old rustic bridge 
 
84 By the Way 
 
 near by. I am writing this in the sweetest 
 and cleanest of rooms, from the window of 
 which I see the purple hills in the west and 
 the sun just sinking behind them. 
 
 En Route. 
 
 We had heard nothing from Dr. L., 
 whom we expected to join us here, and it 
 looked as though we would have to go on 
 alone. We walked along a lovely lane to 
 the steamboat landing, and as we were 
 about to start, who should come hurrying 
 up but the doctor and his party. 
 
 The sail on Lake Windermere was de- 
 lightful. The boat touches at a number of 
 picttlresque places once frequented by Scott, 
 Wordsworth, and Southey, landing us at 
 Amblesides about ten in the morning. Here 
 the coach was waiting to take us on one of 
 the loveliest drives in Great Britain. All 
 the way we glided over the same smooth 
 roads, with mountains on one side and Lake 
 Grasmere at our feet. We visited the cot- 
 tage where Wordsworth lived, the one in 
 
By the Way 
 
 85 
 
 which Coleridge died, where Arnold wrote 
 the "Light of Asia," and the home of Harriet 
 Martineau. What wonder that these per- 
 
 OUR ENGLISH COACH 
 
 sons wrote so poetically! One must find 
 expression for one's dreams in this land 
 of beauty. 
 
 We reached Keswick just in time to board 
 
86 By the Way 
 
 the train for Penrith, where we changed for 
 Carhsle. Here we took time to visit the old 
 castle and the really fine cathedral before 
 leaving for Melrose, Scotland. So, good-by, 
 bright, fragrant, and flowery England 1 
 
Scotland 
 
 "I canna thole my ain toun, sin' I hae dwelt i' this; 
 To bide in Edinboro' reek wad be the tap o' bliss. 
 Yon bonnie plaid aboot me hap, the skirlin' pipes gae 
 
 bring, 
 With thistles fair tie up my hair, while I of Scotia 
 
 sing. 
 
 Kate Douglas Wiggin. 
 
SCOTLAND 
 
 Waverly Hotel, 
 Edinburgh. 
 
 Melrose Abbey by moonlight! What a 
 world of meaning those words hold for me! 
 What a wealth of history those ruins con- 
 tain ! Their story must be read before com- 
 ing for the custodian's daughter, who was 
 our guide, like Stockton's Pamona, had 
 learned her story by heart, and no amount 
 of questioning would bring forth any other 
 facts save those in the "book." 
 
 This morning Ruth and I hired wheels 
 and rode to Abbotsford. The beautiful 
 home of Sir Walter Scott is after the style of 
 many castles we have seen, walled in with 
 gardens, terraced lawns, parks, and drives. 
 We plucked a bit of the ivy and holly hedge 
 planted by Sir Walter's own hand, and 
 walked in the gardens he loved so well. 
 
 Imagine, if you can, a city of three 
 hundred thousand inhabitants, having in its 
 89 
 
90 By the Way 
 
 heart an immense rock, with a castle on top 
 of it, Edinburgh is rich in landmarks, in 
 spite of the fact that it has been burned to 
 the ground twice since 1300. Its natural 
 beauty surpasses that of either London or 
 Paris. It is built upon two ridges, divided 
 by a valley, which is now a park. The new 
 town is situated to the north of the park, 
 and in this portion are found the modern 
 buildings and principal hotels. I am living 
 in this part of the city, on Princes Street, 
 and from my window I look out on the 
 marble features of Scott, whose monument 
 is at the end of the park. 
 
 The picturesque "Old Town" begins with 
 the castle on its huge embankment and 
 slopes down toward the south. It is here 
 one finds the historic landmarks crowding 
 each other in dramatic interest. Here, too, 
 is brought vividly to mind the sad story of 
 poor Queen Mary. In the valley between 
 the old and new towns is found a wealth 
 of art and architecture not duplicated any- 
 where, for these Scots are strong in their 
 originality. 
 
By the Way 9' 
 
 It was from the esplanade overlooking 
 one of the perpendicular sides of the castle 
 rock, and which is now used as a drill- 
 ground for the soldiers in the barracks, that 
 I had my first view of that man-devised 
 wonder, the Forth bridge. I crossed it 
 afterwards en route to Glasgow. 
 
 A few days is but scant time to do justice 
 to the landmarks of Edinburgh, and it 
 puzzles one to choose from among those 
 orthodox and those otherwise. St. Giles, the 
 old Gray Friars, and John Knox vie with 
 the haunts of Burns, Scott, Johnson, and 
 Boswell. The shops form no small part of 
 the attractiveness of the street scene, and the 
 windows filled with articles done in plaids 
 of the different clans are alluring. 
 
 Bath Hotel, Glasgow. 
 Not far from Edinburgh, after passing 
 the Firth of Forth, is the pretty town of 
 Dunfermline. It is the residence of the 
 United States consul, and he made the short 
 stop pleasant for us. 
 
92 By the Way 
 
 The chief difference, I find, between the 
 EngHsh and Scottish castles lies in the fact 
 that the former are simply residences — 
 walled to be sure — while the latter are 
 strongholds, generally perched on some 
 gigantic rock, and, incidentally, royalty 
 resided in them long enough to have their 
 heads under the guillotine. Stirling castle is 
 no exception to the rule, and it is therefore 
 not visited by many women. There is a 
 long, hard climb up the hill leading to the 
 fortifications, for Stirling is still a garrisoned 
 town, and the castle stands on the edge of 
 a steep, isolated rock overhanging the Forth. 
 Here are the steps where Mary, Queen of 
 Scots, stood to survey her possessions, the 
 window out of which the body of Douglas 
 was thrown, and the raised dais, on the 
 battlements, from which Queen Victoria 
 reviewed her troops. From the battlements 
 there is a fine view of the country for miles 
 around, with the statue of Wallace to be 
 seen in the far distance. Just before crossing 
 the drawbridge at the entrance to the castle 
 stands a bronze Robert Bruce, whose 
 
By the Way 93 
 
 features, even in iron, bring back the fore- 
 most of Scottish chiefs. 
 
 When a Scotchman teUs you to do or see 
 anything, he invariably adds, "If the day be 
 fine," and true enough much depends on the 
 ''fineness" of the day in a country where it 
 rains a Httle every day. The good wishes 
 had been so many and so fervent that we 
 might have a fine day for the coach drive 
 through the Trossachs that nature put on 
 her brightest smile and never shed a tear 
 until we were under shelter. 
 
 The name Trossachs signifies "bristly 
 country," and Scott, in his "Lady of the 
 Lake," tells how it "bristles" with beauty 
 and romance. That old story is, after all, 
 the best guide to the lake region of Scotland. 
 
 The big red coach, with its four white 
 horses and red-coated driver, meets the 
 passengers as they alight from the traveling 
 carriages, and dashes away almost before 
 they are seated. Then follows in quick 
 succession pictures of white roads bordered 
 with purple heather, with a background of 
 
94 By the Way 
 
 the dark green of the mountain; of a stone 
 bridge spanning the blue waters of a salmon 
 stream; of a wild bit of mountain scenery 
 with a road seemingly straight up its rugged 
 sides; and last comes the view of the calm 
 waters of Loch Katrine. 
 
 The boat Rob Roy receives the party from 
 the coach and rounds Ellen's Isle, sailing 
 almost the entire length of the beautiful 
 loch. When she finally lands, there is 
 another coach waiting to carry us across the 
 mountains, and on to Inversnaid, where, after 
 visiting the waterfall, the train is taken for 
 Glasgow. 
 
 Glasgow is not a picturesque town — in 
 fact, the Clyde is the prettiest thing about 
 it — but it is modern and progressive, and it 
 has two attractive public buildings, the ca- 
 thedral and university. 
 
 Ayr, Scotland. 
 
 Burns'-land lies between Glasgow and the 
 
 sea, and from the moment that one alights 
 
 from the train, at each step is found some 
 
 haunt of the much-loved poet. It takes but 
 
By the Way 
 
 95 
 
 a short time to peep through the window 
 into the room where Burns was born, and to 
 compare the humble cot where he hved his 
 
 THE BONNIE DOON 
 
 hfe with the magnificent place he occupies 
 in death. His tomb is set high up on a hill 
 in the midst of a park whose sides slope 
 down to the bonnie Doon. 
 
Ireland 
 
 "When the glass is up to thirty, 
 Be sure the weather will be dirty. 
 When the glass is high, O very! 
 There'll be rain in Cork or Kerry. 
 When the glass is low, O Lork! 
 There'll be rain in Kerry and Cork. 
 
 And when the glass has climbed its best, 
 The sky is weeping in the west." 
 
 Kate Douglas Wiggin. 
 
IRELAND 
 
 Larne, Ireland. 
 The shortest sea voyage between Scot- 
 land and Ireland is from Stranrauer to Larne. 
 Stranrauer is a short ride from Ayr, but the 
 S. S. Princess Victoria was five hours cross- 
 ing the channel. It was cold and rough, 
 and many of the passengers were ill. 
 
 One of the most fatiguing of trips is that 
 of the Giant's Causeway. From Larne the 
 road takes its way through a number of 
 thriving towns, and the country looks neat 
 and has an air of the well-to-do. 
 
 At Portrush the scene changes, and be- 
 comes, almost at once, one of wild rugged- 
 ness. The cliffs rise high on one side, and 
 the steep precipice at the edge of the tram- 
 way goes down to the sea on the other. This 
 is a most extraordinary coast. The action 
 of the waves and the tides on the limestone 
 have made the rocks take on most fantastic 
 99 
 
loo By the Way 
 
 shapes. The ocean is always tempestous. 
 It must be beautiful from the water, but 
 nothing save small boats can venture here, 
 so the view is almost unknown. This sort 
 of scene continues until we reached Dunluce 
 castle. 
 
 Perched on the summit of an isolated rock, 
 not far from the shore, is this picturesque 
 fortress. The rock is separated from the 
 mainland by a deep chasm. The castle is 
 reached by a drawbridge, while beneath the 
 waves beat madly against the sides of the 
 rock, black with the age of centuries. 
 
 The word causeway means paving, and 
 these Irish giants certainly paved well. Ba- 
 saltic rock is plentiful along the north coast, 
 but this particular district alone embraces 
 these odd varieties of form. The caves 
 along the coast can be seen only by means 
 of row-boats. These are manned by strong 
 and trustworthy sailors. The sea is very 
 rough, and the boatmen delight in making 
 the trip seem even more hazardous than per- 
 haps it really is. After the caves have been 
 explored the boat is rowed to the extreme 
 
By the Way loi 
 
 end of the Causeway, and it is during the 
 walk back that we get the best idea of these 
 wonderful formations, and have a hair-rais- 
 ing experience on a narrow path three hun- 
 dred and twenty feet in air. At first it was 
 delightful — high, of course, but with a broad 
 path. On turning a sharp corner, suddenly 
 we came to a narrowing of the way, with 
 nothing but rocks and sky above, and rocks 
 and sea below. We dared not turn back, 
 and we walked that terrible pass until we 
 came to a widening in the path — it seemed 
 hours^ — and then Ruth and I sat down and 
 cried from sheer exhaustion. It cost us ten 
 shillings to enter by the sea and six to make 
 our exit by land. How is that for the down- 
 trodden Irish ? 
 
 Great Southern Hotel, 
 
 KiLLARNEY. 
 
 I wish I were a poet! But even the poet 
 laureate, who recently visited here, says, 
 "Words cannot do justice to this sweet, sad 
 scene." His word "sad" pleased me, for I 
 
I02 By the Way 
 
 said yesterday to Ruth that the scenery of 
 Ireland has a tenderness about it that 
 makes one quiet and think things. 
 
 We started at nine-thirty in a four-horse 
 coach with a bugler. The road lies along 
 the north side of the lower lake, and it wasn't 
 long before the exquisite mountain scenery 
 came into view. The Purple Mountains 
 grew more interesting at every step. 
 Presently we came to Kate Kearney's cot- 
 tage, and our Irish guide turned and asked, 
 in the richest of brogues: 
 
 "Oh! have you ever heard of Kate Kearney? 
 She lived at the Lakes of Killarney; 
 One glance of her eye would make a man die; 
 And have you never heard of Kate Kearney?" 
 
 Further on we strike the mountain pass, 
 where the coach cannot go. We dismounted 
 and were placed on ponies. I thought at 
 first I could not ride one, but I soon got used 
 to the saddle, and I would not have missed 
 the wild, weird pass over the mountain for 
 anything. There was nothing "sad" or 
 "tender" about that. It was grand, fearful, 
 • awesome, and mysterious. There is noth- 
 
By the Way 
 
 103 
 
 ing in Switzerland, I understand, more fas- 
 cinating. 
 
 We left the ponies at the foot of the 
 mountains and paid toll into Lord Brandon's 
 
 GAP OF DUNLOE 
 
 estate in order to reach the boats. Lunch 
 was served on the banks of the upper lake. 
 These lakes have to be explored in row- 
 boats, on account of the narrows, a pass 
 between the rocks not more than ten feet 
 
I04 By the Way 
 
 apart. Such varied beauty I have seen 
 nowhere else. The tender grace of the 
 heather-strewn valley against the back- 
 ground of hills, the frequent change from 
 the gentle to the stern, the calm-flowing 
 waters, the smiling cascades turning into 
 dashing cataracts over dangerous piles, are 
 a never-ending source of surprises. The 
 upper lake is more placid and less change- 
 able, but the lower has every change, from 
 smooth, glass-like waters to the rapids, which 
 we ''shoot" in no fearless manner. Finally 
 we alight on Innisfallen Island to see the 
 ruins of the abbey; then across to Ross 
 Castle. Here another coach and four was in 
 waiting to carry us home. After ten miles 
 by coach, five on horseback, and thirteen 
 by boat I actually dress for dinner. 
 
 We were up with the larks this morning, 
 packed everything very carefully, sent the 
 basket off by carted luggage, and nearly 
 came to blows with the stupid paddy at the 
 station over the settlement. 
 
 After breakfast the coach came dashing up, 
 
By the Way 
 
 105 
 
 and away we flew again, over the purple 
 hills, through shady lanes, past the wee 
 farms and the hovel, catching glimpses of 
 
 MEETING OF THE WATERS, LAKES OP KILLARNEY 
 
 castles, churches, and ruins. The most beau- 
 tiful of all is Muckross Abbey. I had no 
 idea we could possibly repeat the pleasures 
 of yesterday, but in some respects we ex- 
 ceeded them. Our road to-day wound up 
 
io6 By the Way 
 
 and around Eagle Nest Mountain, in the 
 dark recesses of which the eagle builds its 
 nest. Here, too, is the home of the famous 
 Killarney echo. The effect produced by 
 the notes of a bugle is almost supernatural. 
 
 The coachmen have a clever manner of 
 talking to the echoes. For instance, ours 
 called out, "Pat, were you drunk last night ?" 
 and the confession came back from a 
 thousand hills, "Drunk last night, drunk 
 last night, drunk last night." 
 
 The literary Killarnian claims for this 
 beautiful region that it was the ruins of the 
 old castle on the shores of the Middle Lake 
 which called forth Tennyson's masterpiece, 
 "The Bugle Song." 
 
 The Purple Mountains take their name 
 from the purple of the heather. One can 
 see every shade, from the light pink-lavender 
 to the dark, almost red, purple. To me the 
 Irish heather is much prettier than the 
 Scotch. 
 
 We arrived at Glengarriff just as the sun 
 was sinking. The valley, the lakes, the 
 mountains, the red coach, with its four big 
 
By the Way 107 
 
 horses darting in and out of the winding 
 road, and finally galloping up to the exquisite 
 little inn at Glengarriff, high on a knoll 
 overlooking the blue waters of the Bay of 
 Bantry, are among the delightful details of 
 to-day's picture. 
 
 The shore line of this attractive bay can 
 only be appreciated when one is taken in a 
 small boat, threading one's way through 
 the numberless private yachts that dot it's 
 waters. One of the gentlemen of our party, 
 thinking to have some sport with the boat- 
 man, said that only one lady could go in 
 each boat, and that he must choose the one 
 he wished to go with him. After a critical 
 survey the answer came, "Divil a step will I 
 go without the both of yez!" and he handed 
 us both into his boat, and left the gentlemen 
 to seek a boat by themselves. 
 
 Cork, Ireland. 
 
 We left the coach at Bantry and took an 
 
 observation car to Cork. After a rest of a 
 
 few hours and a dainty luncheon a jaunting 
 
 car "shook" us over the road to Blarney 
 
io8 
 
 By the Way 
 
 Castle. The road lies through a beautifully 
 cultivated country. There is a charm about 
 the sweet old castle that is indescribable. 
 The view from the top is superb, taking in 
 
 IRISH JAUNTING CAR 
 
 the valley of the Lee, with the old Roman 
 bridge in the far distance. When any one 
 tells you that he kissed the Blarney stone, 
 take it with several grains of salt. It is a 
 physical impossibility for one who wears 
 petticoats. 
 
By the Way 
 
 109 
 
 Cork is, to my mind, the prettiest town 
 in all Ireland. It lies in the midst of lime- 
 stone quarries, and is white to a degree. I 
 
 OUR FIRST VIEW OF BLARNEY CASTLE 
 
 had not read Thackeray's "Sketch Book" 
 before I came here, and I wondered why 
 some one had not raved over this magnificent 
 part of the world. I have since been 
 delighted to find that he did rave — I use the 
 
no By the Way 
 
 word advisedly — as no one but Thackeray 
 can. 
 
 Cork has more well-known landmarks 
 than any other place in Ireland. In a little 
 three-storied bell tower in the center of the 
 town hangs the chime of bells made famous 
 by Francis Mahoney in his — 
 
 "With deep affection and recollection 
 I often think of the Shandon bells." 
 
 One of the pleasant drives from Cork takes 
 one to Sir Walter Raleigh's home at Yaughal. 
 For more than four hundred years it has 
 stood with but little change. Attached to 
 the grounds is the garden where Raleigh 
 experimented with the potato, which was 
 here first grown in Ireland. 
 
 We were a rather solemn lot on the drive to 
 Queenstown,for all but Ruth and I were to sail 
 from there for home. This seeing people off 
 isn't what "it's cracked up" to be, especially 
 when they are off for the land where "some 
 one loves you and thinks of you far away," 
 but we wished them hon voyage, and Ruth 
 and I turned our hard-set faces northward. 
 
By the Way 
 
 III 
 
 I AND 2 Great Denmark Street, 
 
 Dublin. 
 
 Ah, well! All things must have an end, 
 and so this all too happy summer must come 
 to a close. I remain here to study, and 
 Ruth goes to Iceland. We shall meet in the 
 spring, when I have taken my degree ( ?) , 
 and go to sunny Italy together. 
 
 I was sitting on the deck of the ship that 
 was to carry Ruth away from me, looking 
 at the lights out over Dubhn Bay, when 
 some one touched me on the shoulder, and, 
 on turning around, there stood dear Miss 
 B., who was with us for a time at Killarney. 
 I met her father on the street the other day, 
 and told him of Ruth's intended departure. 
 They were very good to come to us that night, 
 and I shall never forget their kindness in 
 helping me over these first trying days of my 
 loneliness without my blessed Ruth. Through 
 them I have made some charming friends 
 who occupy the time before I start in to study. 
 
 I have had a delightful outing, one which 
 enabled me to see, and in an uncommon 
 
Ill By the Way 
 
 manner, certain out-of-the-way places where 
 the casual tourists rarely go, and it has all 
 been due to the friends of Miss B. These 
 Irish know how to do things well. 
 
 We started away with a regular cavalcade, 
 most of the women in the coach, a few on 
 horseback. The servants went ahead with 
 the wagons carrying the viands and rugs, 
 and — oh, an hundred things we Americans 
 would never think of. 
 
 Dublin has more pleasure resorts at her 
 door than any other city in the world. We 
 drove out through Phoenix Park, passing the 
 summer home of the Lord Lieutenant of 
 Ireland. We made our first stop at Killiney 
 Castle to get the fine view of Dublin Bay. 
 It was from this spot that the poet wrote: 
 
 "O, Bay of Dublin! 
 My heart you're troublin'. 
 Your beauty haunts me 
 Like a fever dream." 
 
 Then we dashed away to Bray and Bray's 
 Head, along the Esplanade, through the 
 Scalp, a wild bit of country in the county of 
 Wicklow, and the Dargle, which is a roman- 
 
By the Way 113 
 
 tic glen. We never go slowly — the horses 
 are either galloping, or stopped altogether. 
 Then on through Enniskerry, a lovely little 
 village, where everybody stopped or ran to 
 the door to watch us go by, with a wave of 
 the hand, and always a "God bless ye!" 
 
 I could not believe such magnificence 
 were possible in Ireland as was found at 
 Powers Court had I not seen it with my own 
 eyes. It is the finest private mansion I have 
 seen in all my travels. The Vale of Avoca, 
 which called from Moore these lines, 
 
 "There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, 
 As the vale on whose bosom these bright waters 
 meet," 
 
 did not appeal to me so much as did Kill- 
 arney. 
 
 The city of Kilkenny, called the "Marble 
 City," impressed itself on me. The streets 
 are paved with marble of their own quarry- 
 ing, and what is better, the inhabitants have 
 fire without smoke, from a peculiar coal 
 found in that district. They also claim to 
 have water without mud, and earth without 
 
114 By the Way 
 
 bog, and however true these boasts may be, 
 it is a wonderfully clean city. The coach 
 was sent back from this place by the servants, 
 and we returned by train. 
 
 It all seems very tame in this telling of 
 mine, but the trip was delightful, every 
 moment of it. Sometimes we would all get 
 out and walk; sometimes the ladies would 
 exchange with the men and ride horseback; 
 or the men would crowd into the coach, as 
 when it would rain for a few moments. Then 
 there would be good fun, and I could get an 
 idea of their thoughts. They are great 
 story-tellers, these Irish, and have such 
 warm hearts, especially for the poor. I am 
 sure many pounds were given away during 
 that jaunt. And the songs they sang, when 
 shall I ever hear such again ? And yet there 
 was not a young person, that is, one under 
 thirty, in the party. Other things besides 
 wine, my dear, "improve with age." 
 
 There is a pathos about the love of an 
 Irishman for his country that is most touch- 
 ing, and each county vies with the others in 
 patriotic loyalty; and let me whisper in 
 
By the Way 1 1 5 
 
 your ear, that the Irish gentry are far and 
 away ahead of — "what the world thinks" 
 they are. In fact, they are ''deloitful." 
 
 I suppose you have noticed the number 
 of ''Kills" which form some part of many 
 of the names I have referred to. "Kil" is 
 the Gaelic for ''church." One of my Irish 
 friends told the story of an Englishman who 
 went over to Ireland and fell upon the fol- 
 lowing conversation between two tough- 
 looking natives: "I'm afther being over to 
 Kilpatrick," said the first. "An' I," replied 
 the other, "am afther being over to Kil- 
 mary." "And where are you going now ?" 
 asked number one. "To Kilmore," was 
 the answer. 
 
 The frightened Englishman concluded not 
 to tarry in such a bloodthirsty country, and 
 stood not upon the order of his going. 
 
 I AND 2 Great Denmark Street, 
 
 Dublin. 
 
 Did you notice that I celebrated the day 
 of days — to us — in writing that last letter ? 
 
ii6 By the Way 
 
 Since, I have been very busy getting in trim 
 for work, and at last I'm ''fit." 
 
 I have been taking my afternoons to see 
 this wonderful city. I told you, did I not, 
 that because I am in these blessed petti- 
 coats, I am obliged to recite "apart" — not 
 "apart" from the petticoats, but apart from 
 the unpetticoated sort — and I am glad of it. 
 
 I was in Belfast last week with some Amer- 
 ican friends, and we drove to Shane's Castle 
 and to Carron Towers, the seat of the Mar- 
 chioness of Londonderry. The Americans 
 then went on to the Causeway, and I came 
 back to the "Great Denmark." My home 
 is in quite a nice-looking house, and it is well 
 furnished, but the landlady is away, and 
 the maidens, all forlorn, do it up when and 
 how they please. I have a large room 
 "front," and as I study here every morn- 
 ing, and write much of the remainder of the 
 time, my room is "tidied" only when I ask 
 for it, and then, of course, it is an extra. 
 
 We are but a step from Sackville Street, 
 one of the finest thoroughfares in Europe. 
 The picture I am sending you is taken from 
 
By the Way 
 
 117 
 
 O'Connell's bridge, and the colossal monu- 
 ment to Daniel O'Connell is in the fore- 
 ground. The tall pillar, midway up the 
 street, is the Nelson monument to com- 
 
 -.oSfeaxft'TSf '. . iif^' j^\,, Z-jstj i-ig^. „ 
 
 SACKVILLE STREET 
 
 memorate the hero of Trafalgar. You may 
 be -interested to know that I pass the beau- 
 tiful column every day. 
 
 Will you beHeve me when I tell you that 
 nowhere in Europe have I seen more lovely 
 or better dressed women than right here on 
 Sackville Street ? I have accounted for it, 
 
ii8 By the Way 
 
 in some degree, by the fact that our Irish 
 cousins follow the American styles more 
 closely than do any of their immediate sis- 
 ters. The Irish women are always in good 
 form. One never sees them wearing any 
 sort of jewelry before luncheon. They are 
 usually found in the morning in short, 
 tailored skirts, a chic blouse, and natty hats; 
 some dainty confection of lace and muslin 
 in the afternoon; and, almost without ex- 
 ception, the middle class, as well as the 
 gentry, "dress" for dinner; and then one 
 sees the beautiful jewels handed down by 
 their forebears. 
 
 The college buildings are delightfully 
 quaint, with their multitude of old-fashioned 
 wee window-panes which stud their face. 
 Statues of two of Ireland's beloved sons, 
 Burke and Goldsmith, are on either side of 
 the entrance. Opposite is the famous bank 
 of Ireland, beautiful in design, and the gen- 
 eral post-ofi&ce. Statues of "Hibernia," 
 "Mercury," and "Fidelity" adorn the latter. 
 
 For some reason an Irishman, in his native 
 country, will not admit ignorance on any sub- 
 
By the Way 
 
 119 
 
 ject. He would rather tell you wrongly 
 than to say "I don't know." Some one asked 
 a jarvey what those statues I have just men- 
 tioned were. Pat hadn't their names 
 
 TRINITY COLLEGE 
 
 handy in his mind, so he drew on his im- 
 agination, and replied: "Thim's the twelve 
 apostles sur." ''Twelve apostles," shouted 
 the inquirer, "why, man, there are only 
 three of them!" To which Pat, not to be 
 caught by such a trifle, said: "Sure, an' yer 
 honor wouldn't have thim all out in this 
 
I20 By the Way 
 
 dom rain, would ye ? The rest of 'em are 
 inside sortin' o' the letters." 
 
 The first day I was shown over Dublin 
 my guide, in pointing out the college, said: 
 "This is the Library, and an institute for 
 learning." I asked, "How far does the 
 Library extend ?" meaning which was the 
 Library and which the Institute. The hon- 
 est, but thick-headed, paddy replied, "To 
 the roof, mum." 
 
 The comparative neglect by tourists of a 
 country like Ireland, where nature has lav- 
 ished her charms with such wonderful pro- 
 fusion, can only be explained by its hitherto 
 unsettled condition, and its long-a-dying 
 notoriety for inferior accommodations and 
 modes of transportation. But whatever 
 difficulties and discomforts may have existed 
 to deter the traveler in former days, it seems 
 to me that little now is wanting to render 
 a tour through Ireland all that the rational 
 traveler can desire. 
 
 It is well nigh impossible to tell of the ex- 
 quisite scenery of the beautiful island with- 
 
By the Way 121 
 
 out seeming fulsome. Almost every county 
 so teems with prehistoric remains, and the 
 island is so begirt with varied attractiveness, 
 that it is as alluring to the student and artist 
 as it is to the pleasure-seeker. 
 
Italy 
 
 "For Italy, my Italy, mere words are faint! 
 No writer's pencil can convey thy heaven's blue, 
 Thy languorous bay. 
 Thou art thine own interpreter. 
 I dream and wake and find no words for her — 
 For Italy's soft -storied charms 
 I throAV the English words away. 
 Her gondolas drip through the night — 
 I stretch my arms toward Napoli, 
 And 'Monte Bella' softly say." 
 
 Harriet Axtell Johnstone. 
 
ITALY 
 
 CocuMELLA Hotel, 
 Sorrento, Italy, May 5. 
 
 How nice it seems to be free again ! And 
 yet I do believe it does one good to take a 
 few months every year or so — having been 
 out of the habit of studying — and give close 
 application to some subject. 
 
 I was glad when the time came to cease 
 traveling and to begin study; and now I am 
 glad that I can cease my studies and again 
 begin sight-seeing. 
 
 Ruth, as you know, found it necessary to 
 return to America before joining me. She 
 sailed from New York the i8th ult., on the 
 Tartar Prince, and I met her at Ponta Del- 
 gada. Ponta Delgada is the chief city of 
 the island of San Miguel, which, in turn, is 
 the principal island of the Azores, and it is 
 prominent as having the most beautiful gar- 
 dens in the world. 
 
 Among the passengers who boarded the 
 ship with me at Ponta Delgada was a de- 
 125 
 
126 By the Way 
 
 lightful Portuguese family — the mother, son 
 and his wife — who came with us to Italy. 
 They are charming, cultured people, and 
 speak English perfectly, though the mother 
 
 PONTA DELGADA, AZORES 
 
 and wife had never before been off the 
 island. 
 
 We left the Azores on the 27th of April, 
 passing Gibraltar on May Day. Gibrahar is 
 grand, but not so frowning as I had im- 
 agined, for the graceful rock smiled down 
 
By the Way 1 27 
 
 on us as if in greeting. We passed near 
 enough to see life going on in the town, 
 and then headed for the African coast, that 
 we might catch a ghmpse of the vegetation 
 along the shore. 
 
 All that has been written about the blue 
 Mediterranean is true. It is blue as nothing 
 else is. The sky, those days, was greenish 
 pink, and you know what a delight to the 
 eye is the blending of these colors. But the 
 one bright memory that stands out clearest 
 when I think of the Mediterranean are the 
 sunsets. I remember one night in particular. 
 The good captain told me to hasten from 
 dinner. I drew my chair close to the rail, and 
 out beyond the horizon I saw a city of fire. 
 The beautiful mansions, and cathedrals, and 
 castles, with turrets and towers, were all 
 ablaze. Through the streets people in fiery 
 red draperies were flying from the flames. 
 Sometimes an old man with flowing beard 
 appeared in the midst of them, and with 
 out-stretched hands, would seem to call aloud. 
 The flames turned to a greenish gold, the 
 
128 By the Way 
 
 smoke rolled away, and far beyond appeared 
 a Moorish village, the temples carved of 
 alabaster. Suddenly, through the lace-like 
 pillars, came the faintest tint of pink, growing 
 dimmer and dimmer, until only the outlines 
 could be discerned. A great billowy sea of 
 foam rolled over the village, and divided on 
 either side of a world of golden fire, and, as 
 I gazed, it dropped into the black water. 
 
 A voice said, "Come, dear, the captain 
 wants you to see the moon come up out 
 of the sea." It was my blessed Ruth. 
 
 "Did you see that burning city and Moor- 
 ish village? I asked, as soon as I had re- 
 turned to earth. "Yes, dear," she replied, 
 and there were tears in her eyes, too. 
 
 This morning we were called at five 
 o'clock to see the sun rise over Vesuvius- 
 The same ball of golden fire which went 
 down in the sea that night crowned for a 
 brief moment the wonderful Mount. 
 
 The Bay of Naples is unlike anything else 
 on earth. On one side are the castles, or 
 villas, or pleasure resorts, whichever it be 
 
By the Way 129 
 
 that comes to your gaze as you glide past; 
 on the other, the turquoise-blue water; and 
 far in the distance, like a camel with two 
 humps, rising out of the sea, is Capri. The 
 air is filled with music, and the scene is one 
 of the wildest confusion. Every sort of 
 craft that sails the seas, every sort of flag, 
 every sort of sound, cause you to wonder 
 if you will ever get through that throng. 
 The ship i^ stopped, the steps are let down 
 the side, and the doctor and the purser with 
 the mail come on board. 
 
 While we were busy with our letters from 
 home one of the party with whom we were 
 to go through the Blue Grotto had bargained 
 with a boatman to take us to the ship that 
 goes to Capri. 
 
 The mode of going ashore here at Naples 
 is different from that of any other port where 
 I have landed. Hundreds of stout row- 
 boats come from the various hotels, just as 
 the busses meet the trains in the smaller 
 cities at home,- 
 
 The Blue Grotto must be visited on a 
 clear, calm day, and some old travelers ad- 
 
130 By the Way 
 
 vised us, if the day was fine, to go directly 
 from the ship before landing. The captain 
 allowed us to leave our luggage on board, as 
 the ship will stay in Naples for several days 
 to unload freight. There were six of us, 
 then, transferred to the German Lloyd S. S. 
 Nixe. 
 
 As we sailed away, Vesuvius and Sorrento 
 were to the left, the city of Naples behind 
 us, and the outlines of Capri ahead. We 
 went directly to the Grotto, or rather as near 
 as the large boat goes. Here, again, we 
 take to the row-boats, two in each. The 
 Grotto itself is a cavern in the side of the 
 huge rocks of Capri. It is necessary to lie 
 flat in the boat to get through the tiny open- 
 ing. I could readily see why the authorities 
 do not permit visitors on stormy days, for 
 the sea was very rough even on this quiet 
 morning. The interior of the cave is very 
 high, and the effect of the reflection of the 
 sun on the blue waters is indescribable. 
 Everything under water takes on a silvery 
 hue, and the echo is weird. 
 
 On board the ship once more, we sailed 
 
132 By the Way 
 
 away from this real fairies' abode to the 
 town of Capri, arriving at high noon, and 
 as the town is on the side of a mountain, 
 we dimbed up a good part of its side to get a 
 lunch. It was my first Italian meal, and 
 it was delicious. Of course there was 
 macaroni in the Italian style, with beef-stock 
 and tomatoes, and fried fresh sardines. The 
 dessert was a fruit, something like our 
 California plum, which I tasted for the first 
 time at the Azores, the nespera. 
 
 After the repast we hired a carriage for 
 Anacapri. The road, hewn out of solid 
 rock, lies along the mountain side, giving us 
 a magnificent view of the bay, with Vesuvius 
 always in sight. No matter from which side 
 one looks, one will find that well-known 
 peak, with the black smoke pouring from its 
 mouth, in evidence. 
 
 We caught the Nixe on her return trip 
 to Sorrento. Here, again, the little boats 
 meet us, each bearing the name of its hotel 
 on a silken banner. The boatman shouts 
 out the name of the one he represents until 
 a passenger calls, in turn, his choice. We 
 
By the Way 133 
 
 were going to the Cocumella, and I wish you 
 might have heard the boatman call, in his 
 soft, musical voice, "Co — ceh — m-e-1-l-a! 
 Co — ceh^m-e-1-l-a!" The steward helped 
 us into the boat, and we were rowed to an 
 opening in the chff. The town lies on the 
 top of perpendicular rocks, and we struggled 
 up five hundred steps cut in a tunnel through 
 the mountain, coming out at the top into 
 the lovely garden of this hotel. 
 
 The Cocumella was once a monastery, and 
 its situation is ideal. Here is a place where 
 I should be willing to spend the remainder 
 of my days, and by the length of this letter, 
 you may think I am going to put the account 
 of them all in it. 
 
 Hotel Metropole, 
 
 Naples, Italy, 
 
 May 6. 
 
 Ruth is such a brick! She is not afraid 
 of her shadow, and she likes to be alone 
 some time each day. That remark was 
 called forth by the number of tourists one 
 
134 By the Way 
 
 meets who are worn to the bone by com- 
 panions who are afraid to room alone or to 
 look out of the window alone — to eat, sleep, 
 walk, talk, or pray alone — and who must 
 have some one close by them every moment 
 of the time. 
 
 Last night, on our walk about Sorrento, 
 we passed the house of Mr. Marion Craw- 
 ford. We slept in an old palazzo- — the hotel 
 was crowded — with no locks on the doors, 
 and with windows opening onto a garden; 
 but we did not mind, and rested well. 
 
 This morning in two carriages, for there 
 were eight of us, we went for the drive from 
 Sorrento to Amalfi. The road, cut out of 
 the rock, with a balustrade of stone to protect 
 the traveler from the precipice, is regarded 
 as one of the finest pieces of engineering in 
 existence. Sometimes a viaduct, perhaps 
 five hundred feet high, will span a chasm. 
 It winds up and around the mountain, and 
 the view, with the Bay of Naples at its feet, 
 is sublimely picturesque. The almost per- 
 pendicular sides of the mountain, between 
 the road on the different levels, are terraced 
 
By the Way 
 
 135 
 
 and planted with olive, lemon, or other 
 fruit trees. 
 
 The drive was ended at Vietri about five, 
 and we returned to Naples by train, having 
 
 our first glimpse of Pompeii and our first 
 ride on an Italian railway. 
 
 Naples, May 7. 
 
 It rained in torrents all day, but, nothing 
 
 daunted, we started for the Customs. That 
 
 sounds very commonplace and innocent, but 
 
136 By the Way 
 
 it spells a mad, wild sort of a time. In the 
 first place, we had to beg, borrow, and 
 finally- to steal a facchino (porter), and 
 induced him to get a boatman to fetch our 
 luggage from the ship, fully a mile out in the 
 bay. We paid him first to show there were 
 no hard feelings, again to get a tarpaulin to 
 cover the luggage, and again and again for — 
 I know not what. 
 
 Then we sat down and waited — stood up 
 and waited — purchased all the post-cards in 
 the little cafe and wrote to every one we 
 knew— waited some more, and, finally — yes, 
 they came. There was another transferring 
 of coins — always from my hand into that of 
 the facchino— then the Customs with its 
 fees, and the cabman with his, and all the 
 time I had to take their word for the change, 
 for I had notmastered the lira. 
 
 Before leaving Naples we visited Pompeii. 
 I was disappointed at first with these wonder- 
 ful ruins. There is much that one must 
 imagine. One must take the word of the 
 guide for everything, and they have a little 
 
STREET SCENE NAPLES 
 
138 By the Way 
 
 way of "space-filling" which has lost its 
 charm for me. But Pompeii grew on me 
 each moment of my stay. We were taken 
 in a sedan chair carried on the shoulders of 
 two strong peasants. The general appear- 
 ance is that of a town which had been swept 
 by a tornado, unroofing the houses and 
 leaving only the walls standing. It is on these 
 walls that one finds the exquisite bits of col- 
 oring which has given us the Pompeiian tints. 
 
 One is lost in amazement surrounded by 
 these ruins of another age, and remembering 
 that the entire city was buried from sight 
 for fifteen centuries. 
 
 The following day we visited the poor 
 quarters of Naples, and in the evening took 
 the fashionable drive and saw the Neapolitan 
 "four hundred." 
 
 The charm of Naples lies in the wonderful 
 scenery surrounding it and in its street 
 scenes, with the noise and clatter of its street 
 vendors. Life in the poorer quarters is like 
 that in no other city, being free and open to 
 public gaze. All the duties of the household 
 are performed in the street. 
 
By the Way 
 
 139 
 
 72 Via Sistina, 
 Rome, May 12. 
 
 The first thing to learn in Rome is the 
 pronunciation of the name of the street and 
 the number of your pension, in order that 
 
 SPANISH STEPS 
 
 you may be able to get home. Our pronun- 
 ciation is set-tahn-tah dew-ey vee-ah sis-teen- 
 ah, and the manner with which we hop into 
 a cab and say it to the cocchiere stamps us 
 as old Italians. 
 
 Our home here is at the top of the Scala 
 
140 By the Way 
 
 Di Spagna (Spanish steps), right in the 
 heart of the new town. We walk down the 
 steps every morning as we start out to the 
 American Express office to get our letters, 
 but we come up the '4ift" — for ten centimes. 
 
 It is absolutely necessary to be driven 
 about Rome accompanied by a guide, whether 
 one's stay is to be of long or short duration. 
 In no other manner can one comprehen- 
 sively grasp this vast array of ancient and 
 modern art, nor the colossal expanse of 
 architecture, both standing and in ruins. 
 After having been shown the important 
 places, it is well to return alone, and at 
 leisure ponder over those things which most 
 appeal to the heart as well as to the senses. 
 
 We were fortunate in securing the services 
 of one of the best of Roman guides, Signor 
 Seraphino Malespina, and for three days had 
 a carriage to places the names of which take 
 up much of the space in an ancient history. 
 
 The letters from the archbishop have 
 proven of great assistance to me socially. I 
 
By the Way 141 
 
 have been the guest at a dehghtful tea in 
 the palazzo Pamphity, on the piazza Navona, 
 and there met the baroness of whom the 
 archbishop spoke. She was most gracious, 
 and speaks English fluently. She has invited 
 me to a very private audience next Sunday. 
 One evening Father C. paid me a visit, 
 and from him I got a careful explanation 
 of the significance of that much-used word 
 "basilica." Originally it was a portico sepa- 
 rated from some public building, not unlike 
 the peristyle at our Columbian Exposition, 
 save that it need not, of necessity, be near 
 any body of water ; in fact, it rarely was in 
 the old Roman days. The basilica of the 
 old forums were really walks under cover. 
 In later days these porticos were inclosed 
 and made into churches. The name basilica 
 still clung to them, and now the oblong 
 space forming the main body between the 
 pillars in any church edifice, without regard 
 to the style of architecture, is so called. 
 
 I have read somewhere, in the reveries of a 
 bachelor (not Ik Marvel's), that ''style is 
 
142 By the Way 
 
 born IN a woman and ON a man." I 
 wonder how he knew — perhaps he had been 
 in Rome. The style of the greater number 
 of foreign tourists of the female persuasion 
 must be ''in," as there is little visible to the 
 naked eye. But the style of these Italian 
 soldiers is "on," indeed, and they are on 
 dress parade the livelong day. I have used 
 all my superlatives, but really in no city 
 on earth does one see such gloriously, ex- 
 quisitely dressed little men as are the sol- 
 diers of Italy, and especially of Rome. The 
 Bersaglieri form the elite corps, and wear 
 a large round hat, with a multitude of cock's 
 plumes, tipped far on one side of the head. 
 This tribute to the swagger appearance of 
 the soldiers is also applicable to the young 
 priests, monks, and students, and even the 
 butlers and footmen. 
 
 On a fete day we went to mass at St. 
 Peters, and were repaid by meeting our 
 Portuguese friends, who took us to drive 
 through the beautiful parks and grounds 
 of the Villa Borghese, returning to luncheon 
 
By the Way 143 
 
 with us at our pension. This home of ours 
 is a very attractive place, but it tries my 
 soul to be forced to go through a ten-course 
 dinner each night, when I am anxious to 
 get out. The words change or haste are 
 unknown here, and it is only endurable be- 
 cause the dinner is so exquisitely prepared 
 and served. 
 
 We have some interesting and clever peo- 
 ple at our table; a family from Boston, two 
 dear girls from Washington, a brother and 
 sister from Philadelphia, who have lived 
 here for years, and a beautiful Canadian. 
 The last named sits next me, and our sotto 
 voce conversations have brought out the fact 
 that her heart is full of love for all things. 
 She is Canadian only by birth, and among 
 the array of smartly dressed Americans in 
 the pension, she leads. 
 
 I do not wish to be put on record as one 
 who judges a woman solely by her clothes; 
 but oh, the American woman here is in- 
 comparable. I agree with Lillian Bell, that 
 the women of no other race can compare 
 with her in dress, or taste, or carriage. She 
 
144 By the Way 
 
 is bewitching! She is a type! I believe I 
 once told you that we had no type. I take 
 it back. We have, and so glorious an one 
 that I am proud to claim kinship with her. 
 
 You will be shocked, I am sure, when I 
 tell you that I do not agree with Mr. How- 
 ells, nor yet with my beloved Hawthorne, 
 for I love modern Rome. To be sure, Haw- 
 thorne wrote of Rome in 1858, and Mr. 
 Howells in 1864, and it may be the shops 
 were not so altogether enticing in those 
 early days, or it may be because they were 
 not women that the shops had no charm for 
 them; but if they had known Castellani, the 
 goldsmith on the piazza di Trevi, who 
 executes designs from the old Grecian, 
 Etruscan, and Byzantine models, or Roc- 
 cheggiani's exquisite mosaics and cameo 
 carvings, it is probable their opinions v/ould 
 be modified. 
 
 Michelangelo's Moses is not in the big St. 
 Peter's of the Vatican, but in St. Peter's of 
 Vincoli. This was a surprise to me, for I 
 
By the Way 145 
 
 had supposed to the contrary. I have asked 
 many times, to no avail, w^hy Michelangelo 
 put horns on his Moses, until a learned 
 monk told me that, in an early translation 
 of the scriptures, the v^ord horns v^as incor- 
 rectly given for skin. Notwithstanding the 
 disproportion of its outlines, the gigantic 
 statue is, to me. the most wonderful thing 
 ever cut from a block of marble. 
 
 I have done a horribly "American" thing — 
 smuggled my camera into the Capitol, Run 
 ning the risk of having it confiscated, and 
 got a splendid picture of that exquisite Faun 
 of Praxiteles, made famous by Hawthorne's 
 "Marble Faun." 
 
 We have an ascensior (elevator) in our 
 pension. The big concierge puts me in, 
 locks the door, unlocks the catch, and lets 
 it go. When it gets to my floor it is supposed 
 to stop, and in the same breath to have its 
 door unfastened, and all I have to do is to 
 walk out. Sometimes, however, it stops mid- 
 way between floors, and then I wish I had 
 walked up. I find Roman and Spanish 
 
146 By the Way 
 
 steps just as fatiguing to climb as any others, 
 and patronize the ascensiors with vigor. 
 We went by appointment one day to the 
 
 THE MARBLE FAUN 
 
By the Way 147 
 
 Rospigliosi palazzo to return the visit of our 
 Portuguese friends, Signor and Signora A., 
 and were taken into another part of the palace 
 to see Guido Reni's Aurora. The picture 
 is painted on the ceihng, and there is an ar- 
 rangement of mirrors by which one can 
 view it without having to tire the neck with 
 looking up so constantly. It is the greatest 
 painting that has been done in the last two 
 hundred years. In the evening we all went 
 to hear Gioconda at the Teatro Adriano. 
 The Italian audience seemed, by the up- 
 roarious applause that greeted each aria, 
 to appreciate the music, but talked con- 
 tinually through it all. 
 
 We have revisited many of the places 
 which most interested us during our three 
 days' drive with the guide about the city, and 
 have whiled away many delightful mornings 
 in the shops. We rest a little in the early 
 part of each afternoon, and then, almost 
 invariably, we drive on the Corso and to the 
 Pincian Gardens, where the band plays from 
 five until an hour after Ave Maria. Here 
 
148 By the Way 
 
 one sees the smart Romans, and in fact 
 people of nearly every race on earth, in their 
 best attire, on pleasure bent. 
 
 It is needless to tell you that we take a 
 carriage sans numero, for the private parks 
 of the best palazzos allow only carriages 
 without numbers to enter. 
 
 The scene on the Pincio is just what it 
 was in Hawthorne's day. Read his descrip- 
 tion of it in the "Italian Note Book," and 
 you will see it more clearly than I can make 
 you understand. It is a continual fete 
 champetre. 
 
 One day, while we were obliged to stop 
 on account of a jam in the ring of carriages 
 that move slowly round and round the circle 
 where the band plays, Ruth stepped from 
 the vehicle to get nearer the beautiful foun- 
 tain of Moses to make a little sketch of it. 
 I sat alone listening to the glorious Italian 
 band. And while my thoughts were thou- 
 sands of miles away, and very near the one 
 to whom this message goes first, some one 
 spoke to me in French, and asked if I would 
 have the goodness to go to his madame. It 
 
By the Way 149 
 
 was the serving-man of our fellow-voyager, 
 she of the same initials as my own. I looked 
 in the direction he indicated, and there, not 
 ten carriages back, she was, so hemmed in 
 that it was impossible to drive alongside. 
 
 As I left my seat and walked over to her, 
 she met me with the radiant face and smiling 
 greeting of an old friend. She is beautiful, 
 with that inimitable something about her 
 that attracts one, and I wondered if I should 
 ever know what her name is. I knew for a 
 certainty that I should never ask. She is 
 not old, but gives one the impression that 
 she has lived long enough to have "gathered 
 the fruits of experience where once blossomed 
 the flowers of youthful enthusiasm." 
 
 The bells for Ave Maria had rung. The 
 musicians were picking up their music. The 
 Pincian Hill was deserted. Ruth sat alone 
 in her carriage as this woman's hand grasped 
 mine in reluctant parting. 
 
 "Good night," I said. 
 
 "Good nightr-' 
 
150 By the Way 
 
 "Somehow or other our pathways met, 
 How or why let the angels say. 
 We never helped by a breath the wind 
 
 That carried our sails each other's way. 
 Call it whatever you will, sweetheart. 
 Miracles even are christened 'odd'; 
 But the touch holds fast where our lives have 
 crossed, 
 And the angels know that fate means God." 
 Harriet Axtell Johnstone. 
 
 72 Via Sistina, Rome. 
 
 You recall my telling you of Mrs. F. on the 
 ship — she whom I met on the Pincian Hill — 
 and her invalid son ? Well, he was not her 
 son. He is — her husband. 
 
 It will be no breach of confidence to tell 
 you the story, for should you ever meet her, 
 you would never associate that smiling face 
 and austere, calm demeanor with the broken 
 heart they hide. 
 
 It seems that the husband, in his youth, was 
 rather "rapid"; and, in a mxost idiotic will, 
 the father left him a large fortune, provided 
 that, on his twenty-fifth year he had been 
 married to a woman at least ten years his 
 senior. It was stipulated that the woman 
 
By the Way 151 
 
 was not to know the conditions of the will 
 until after the marriage, so that she might 
 be some one of worth and character, capable 
 of caring for the money. 
 
 No wonder it sobered the poor young man. 
 He swore that he would never marry, and 
 that those who were ready to grasp the 
 fortune, should he fail to "keep the bond," 
 might have it, and be — happy. 
 
 But fate took him to the home of a class- 
 mate in one of the Eastern college towns, 
 where he met and fell in love with this 
 woman whom I have described to you. He 
 had no idea she was older than himself until 
 he had made her a proposal of marriage. 
 She, of course, refused what she conceived 
 to be a foolish boy's fancy. He sent for 
 his mother, and together they set them- 
 selves to win the lady of his choice, after 
 the mother had "looked her up" — and 
 down — as mothers of precious boys are wont 
 to do. 
 
 In the mean time the young man was taken 
 very ill, in his delirium calling for his love, 
 who finally, at the physician's urgent request, 
 
152 By the Way 
 
 came to the bedside, and, with the mother, 
 cared for him. 
 
 It had gotten to the day before his twenty- 
 fifth birthday. The mother was frantic at 
 the thought that her convalescent son was 
 to lose his fortune. He cared little for the 
 money, save that it would enable him to 
 shower favors upon this love of his. He 
 begged her to marry him that night to save 
 him from some great trouble — if she ever 
 regretted it for one moment she should be 
 free — that he could not in honor tell her why 
 it was so necessary that the marriage be 
 solemnized at once. She had grown fond of 
 him, yet naturally hesitated to do either him 
 or herself injustice. Finally, his helpless- 
 ness and his mother's agony proved too much 
 for her, and just before the midnight they 
 were married at the bedside. 
 
 And now comes the foolish vow she made 
 a condition of that marriage^that, as soon 
 as he was able they should go abroad, and 
 that she should be known as his mother. It 
 was this pride of hers that wrought all the 
 misery. 
 
By the Way 153 
 
 In another week they had started for 
 Europe, and I have accounted to you the 
 strange manner in which their names ap- 
 peared on the ship's register. It served as 
 a safeguard against inquisitive people, and 
 every one took it for granted that they were 
 mother and son — and she a widow. 
 
 Everything went merrily for the young 
 husband. He cared not what the world 
 thought so he had her to himself. But not 
 so with the wife. Men are not slow to find 
 so charming a woman, and here in Rome, I 
 fancy, two hearts are bleeding instead of one. 
 
 The husband did not improve as they had 
 hoped. She called a physician to whom 
 they had letters — and presto! they find their 
 affinity. 
 
 The woman, of course, sees and feels it 
 first, and intends to tell him of her true re- 
 lation toward the sick man; but one night, 
 after a long hard day at the bedside, he asked 
 her to give him the right to help her care for 
 her son. 
 
 It came so fast and unexpectedly that the 
 avowal was made before she could stop it. 
 
154 By the Way 
 
 No one knows what she said, but somehow 
 he knew she loved him. The next day the 
 true relations of the husband and wife were 
 made public, and shortly after they moved 
 to another part of Rome. 
 
 How I hated that doctor when I first 
 learned all this. I had not seen him then, 
 but now I am as sorry for him as for her. 
 He is a splendid fellow — just such a man as 
 she should have for a mate. He is, perhaps, 
 slightly her senior, with a kindly gray eye, and 
 features finely chiseled. He dresses with 
 exquisite quietness, has the atmosphere of a 
 thorough gentleman and a knight of the new 
 chivalry. 
 
 But I have had all my worry, as is usual 
 with that sort of thing, for nothing. The 
 doctor has departed for Natal, to battle with 
 his sorrow alone. He is too generous to sub- 
 ject her to the pain of meeting him again. 
 He came to bid me good by, and I have 
 promised to keep him informed of anything 
 that happens to my Lady. Better, I have 
 given him letters to my fair Mary, a charm- 
 ing English woman I met on the house-boat. 
 
By the Way 155 
 
 who lives there. He is going through the 
 shadows, but I pray he may soon see the 
 Hghter tints of blue. A noble-hearted man 
 is the grandest work of God ! 
 
 72 Via Sistina, Rome. 
 
 How glad I am that I saw dear old Eng- 
 land first, for it seems very young when com- 
 pared to this. Everything here is twenty 
 centuries or more old, therefore you may 
 imagine that, by comparison, things only a 
 few hundred years old are yet in their in- 
 fancy. Apropos of age, while at Oxford, the 
 guide, a student, told us with much solem- 
 nity, that Magdalen College "was built in 
 1490 before you were discovered." The 
 doctor said, "Well, what of it?" I was 
 shocked at the good doctor, and was much 
 impressed by its great age; but I understand 
 the doctor's sarcasm now, for he had recently 
 returned from Rome. 
 
 The "oldest church in Rome," however, 
 reminds one of "the favorite pupil of Liszt." 
 I am meeting with them still. 
 
T56 By the Way 
 
 The most magnificent place in Rome, after 
 the Vatican, is the Villa Borghese (bor-gay- 
 zay), not only on account of the beautiful 
 park which contains numerous ornamental 
 structures, little temples, ruins, fountains, and 
 statues, but also on account of the collection 
 of antiques in its casino, or gallery. It is 
 here that Canova's marble statue of Pauline 
 Borghese is exhibited, to me, the most beauti- 
 ful marble in Rome. Here, too, is Titian's 
 first great work. Sacred and Profane Love. 
 I fear that Titian saw life from many view^- 
 points. 
 
 Imagine one going from the sublime to the 
 ridiculous — from the gorgeous Borghese 
 Villa to a Rag Fair. A Rag Fair is an open- 
 air sale of everything that can be thought of, 
 from a garter-clasp to a diadem. We went 
 for old brass candlesticks of the seven- 
 pronged, sacred variety, afterwards con- 
 tinuing on to St. Peter's to have some things 
 blessed. I am afraid the pope's blessing 
 was nullified by the looks of the attendant 
 when we gave him the fee which we thought 
 ample for his trouble. 
 
158 By the Way 
 
 We were repaid for mounting an incline of 
 1,332 feet up through the dome of St. Peter's 
 by the view of all Rome, the Vatican gardens 
 and the pope walking in them on that beau- 
 tiful sunshiny morning. 
 
 Mrs. F. joins us quite often now. Her 
 husband is gaining every day, and she has 
 been so constantly in the sick-room that he 
 begs her to go out. She is very original, and 
 reminds me of Harrie with her clever sayings. 
 The other day she wrote me a note asking if 
 she might come to see me for a few moments, 
 adding, "the only place I breathe below my 
 tonsils is in your room." I do not know if 
 she knows that I know (a la Cranford) of 
 her secret or not, but this I do know, she 
 has a beautiful soul, and my heart bleeds 
 for her. 
 
 She asked me one day, if I thought it 
 possible for a married woman to have gen- 
 tlemen friends, or comrades, and still be true 
 to her husband and herself. I was about to 
 reply "yes," when I bethought myself of 
 Harrie's answer to a similar question, so I 
 
By the Way 159 
 
 said, "The woman could, but the man, 
 never!" 
 
 'T'm afraid you have not known all sorts 
 of men; I know men who are as good and 
 true as any woman," she replied. 
 
 "There you mistake me," I said, "for I 
 have known good and true men, so many, in 
 fact, that I would trust them before women 
 in everything but love." 
 
 "I thought it was in love that men shone." 
 
 "It is, but not the sort of love they give to 
 married women," I replied. 
 
 She went with us Thursday to the church 
 San Paola alle Tre Fontane (St. Paul of the 
 three fountains). It is kept by Trappist 
 monks, a silent order. They never speak to 
 each other, but make up for it when visitors 
 come. We had a dear "brother" show us 
 the objects of interest, and he presented each 
 with a wee drinking-glass to measure out the 
 Eucalyptus wine which they make there, and 
 which, thank heavens, I can drink. 
 
 You know how stupid I am about what 
 I drink, and it is even worse over here. It 
 
i6o By the Way 
 
 makes me have "ingrowing nerves" to be 
 obliged to explain vi^hy I do not drink this 
 or that. I believe I love Mrs. F. because she 
 never asks "why." 
 
 The three fountains are flowing clear as 
 crystal, and whether or not the head of St. 
 Paul jumped three times on these spots, as 
 tradition has it, it matters little; but the 
 simple faith of the sweet-faced sisters who 
 knelt and drank from each spring and arose 
 freed from some claim was touching, and far 
 from provoking the mirth that some people 
 feel toward these devout pilgrims. 
 
 En route home we stopped at the English 
 cemetery and plucked a flower from the grave 
 of Keats and of Shelley and of Constance 
 Fenimore Woolson. 
 
 We saw Hilda's tower, too, that day. I 
 had occasion to thank Hawthorne, and in- 
 cidentally Ida BeUe, for "The Marble Faun" 
 and "Italian Note Book," otherwise I should 
 not have been able to relate the story of 
 Hilda and her tower. In truth, all Italy 
 would have remained as a closed book to me 
 had it not been for my three "H's," as Ruth 
 
By the Way 
 
 i6t 
 
 calls them — Hawthorne, Howells, and Hut- 
 ton. The latter says, in his "Literary Land- 
 marks of Rome," that the "Italian Note 
 Book" is still the best guide to Rome that 
 
 BASILICA, ST. Paul's (without the walls) 
 
 has ever been written, and that one should 
 read it before coming, again while here, and 
 yet once more after returning home. 
 
 I shall say the same about the Landmarks, 
 for without them, much of the charm I have 
 found here would have been lost. 
 
1 62 By the Way 
 
 Yesterday we bade St. Peter's good by on 
 our way to Sant' Onofrio. Here, again, a 
 bright young frere showed us over the church 
 made most interesting from its association 
 with Tasso. There are some excellent 
 paintings in the lunettes under the colonnade 
 of the cloisters. 
 
 It is a great pleasure to show Mrs. F. 
 anything. Her appreciation is keen. She 
 knew little of the literary landmarks which 
 she passed each day. I had pointed out to 
 her the house where Keats lived, on the left 
 as one goes down the Spanish steps, the 
 house of Shelley on the right, with the lodg- 
 ings occupied by Byron almost directly 
 opposite. 
 
 On our return from Sant' Onofrio, she 
 inquired of the coachman if the horses were 
 tired, and upon his answering that they were 
 good for several hours, she turned and in a 
 low voice asked me to remain with her as long 
 as possible. I understood. From a list of 
 streets and numbers which I had with me, 
 we selected such as we wished to visit. 
 
 On the via di Bocca di Leona we found the 
 
By the Way 163 
 
 home of the Brownings; close by, the house 
 that sheltered Thackeray in Rome; and not 
 far away, the place where Adelaide Sartoris 
 lived. In rapid succession then we made 
 ''little journeys" to the Italian homes of 
 Louise Alcott, Helen Hunt Jackson, George 
 Eliot, and the house where Mrs. Jamison 
 held Sunday soirees in a wee two-by-four 
 room. We should have been going yet, I 
 do believe, had not my back and front bone 
 met with hunger ; but my precious friend had 
 been saved from herself. Mr. Hutton and 
 I did good work, for after all other sights had 
 failed to interest, our ( ?) literary landmarks 
 succeeded in saving the day. 
 
 Grand Hotel delle Belle Arti, 
 
 CoRSO Cavour, 
 
 Orvieto. 
 
 After the rather strenuous day, the account 
 of which closed my last letter, we settled up 
 our affairs in Rome, heard for the last time 
 the pope's angel choir, sent off our luggage 
 to Boulogne-sur-Mer, purchased our tickets 
 through to that port, with innumerable stop- 
 
164 By the Way 
 
 overs, which cost two hundred and sixty-two 
 liras — the tickets, not the stop-overs — and, 
 hardest of all, bade good by to our friends. 
 
 Just before we were leaving, Mrs. F.'s 
 footman brought to the door of our compart- 
 ment in the traveling carriage an armful of 
 roses and a letter. The flowers brightened 
 all the hot dusty day — but the letter — oh, 
 that letter will brighten all the years that 
 may come to me, and I have tucked the 
 precious words away in the warmest corner 
 of my heart, to be taken out on the rainy days 
 of hfe and fondled like some of childhood's 
 memories. 
 
 I did not see her again after she left me at 
 the door that evening, nor had she spoken 
 one word to indicate that she knew that I 
 knew. She paid me the highest tribute of 
 friendship — silence. 
 
 Among other things in the letter, she said : 
 "The Catholic Church has not a monopoly 
 of 'ears that hear yet hear not, eyes that see 
 and are blind,' for I find in you one who is 
 built fine-grained enough not to mistake 
 silence for stupidity, nor to consider the ab- 
 
By the Way 165 
 
 sence of an interrogation mark as lack of 
 sympathy. . . . You need never be 
 ashamed of your tears. Large natures fill 
 to the brim, and sometimes, of necessity, 
 overflow. At such times, God pity us if our 
 friends ( ?) must needs stand round with 
 pitchers to catch all they can and carry it 
 home for family use. The very evident fact 
 that your beautiful companion knows noth- 
 ing of my sorrow stamps you as a splendid 
 friend, and I want you for such. . . . God 
 may have been in a just mood, but he was 
 not in a merciful one, when he made woman 
 and put her in the same world with man. 
 ". . . I am a bundle of tangled wonder- 
 ings this morning, that I am too weary to un- 
 ravel. . . . This is not an 'interesting 
 landmark,' nor yet an Ttalian journey'— 
 it is a thorny path, which I must travel alone 
 with bleeding feet. Your going has taken 
 away my strongest staff. You have been 
 bravely permitting me to lean on you, too 
 hard I fear, these last days, but you under- 
 stand — you understand — and understand- 
 ing — forget! . . . 
 
1 66 By the Way 
 
 "I should come to you in person to bid you 
 good-speed, but I should break down and 
 only poison your day with my gloom, so 
 I am sending you this — non-conductor." 
 
 I left the Eternal City with a heavy heart. 
 I would remain there forever, if you were only 
 there; but, if you were, you would probably 
 be a priest. I would rather be there myself 
 and you earning the bread in some other 
 place. 
 
 My new heart' s-sister (new if we count 
 friends by that base estimate — time) remains 
 amid all the grandeur of ancient, and all the 
 fascinations of modern, Rome! 
 
 No wonder Mrs. Ward sent her weakest 
 heroine here to hide. If you ever lose me, 
 and suspect that I am in hiding, hunt for me 
 in Orvieto, though it is doubtful if your 
 search would be successful. I had heard 
 nothing of the place until I read Eleanor, 
 but now, if I were a guide-book, I'd put five 
 asterisks before it and six in front of it's 
 cathedral. You will understand how I feel 
 
By the Way 167 
 
 about it when I tell you that most of the 
 guide-books never use more than two stars 
 to indicate the superlative. Loomis, in his 
 wildest flights, sometimes uses three, so I 
 think five would about fit my estimation of 
 the Orvieto of to-day. The Duomo is built 
 of alternate courses of black and white stone, 
 the first of that sort I have seen, with a 
 fa9ade gorgeous with marble sculpture and 
 mosaics. 
 
 The town is on the top of a mountain, up 
 the almost perpendicular sides of which it 
 is reached by a f unicolare (cable tramway) . 
 
 SiGNORA ElVINA SaCCARO'S, 
 
 Pension Tognazzi, 
 
 Via Sallutio Bandini 19, 
 
 Siena, Italie. 
 
 I wish I might live here, on this street and 
 in this pension, and have it all on my visiting- 
 cards, and write it in my best style at the top 
 of my letters. If it were engraved on my 
 visiting-cards, and you should wish to come 
 to see me, you would simply have to say to 
 the cabman, "See-nyee-o-rah — Al-vee-nyee- 
 
i68 By the Way 
 
 ah — Sah-chah-ro — Pe'n-see-yo' — Tog- 
 natz-zee — Vee-ah — Sal-lut-chio — Bahn- 
 dee-nee — Dee-chee-ah-no-vay." That's 
 all, the last word being nineteen; but the 
 entire address doesn't include the beautiful 
 cloisters into which my windows open, for 
 the place is an old monastery. 
 
 The first I ever knew of Siena was from 
 one of Lilian Whiting's books. She spoke 
 of Symonds' history, and Mrs. Butler's 
 biography of Katherine of Siena, and 
 straightway I devoured them both. How 
 little I thought then that I should walk the 
 same streets and kneel at the same altar at 
 which that saint knelt. I like her the best 
 of all the saints 'T have met," for she loved 
 to be alone and think things and build 
 castles. 
 
 Siena is a rival of Rome and Florence in 
 mediaeval art and architecture. The churches 
 are wonderfully beautiful, and filled with the 
 choicest works of ancient and modern art- 
 ists. The marble pavement and the carved 
 white marble pulpit in the cathedral cannot 
 be equaled. 
 
By the Way 169 
 
 Pension Riccioli, 
 
 CORSO DEI TiNTORI, 71, 
 
 Florence, Italy. 
 
 Three weeks in the art center of the world 
 and not one letter written! The note-book, 
 however, is getting so fat that it begs to be 
 put on paper and sent away to you. My 
 bank account is correspondingly lean, made 
 so partly by the purchase of pretty carte- 
 postales which carry the telegraphic messages 
 across the sea, just to show that I'm alive, and 
 that a letter is coming some fine day. 
 
 If my porte-monnaie were not so trh maigre, 
 I'd buy many copies of Howell's "Tuscan 
 Cities," Hutton's ''Literary Landmarks of 
 Florence," Ruskin's "Mornings in Florence," 
 Mrs. Oliphant's "Makers of Florence," and 
 Mrs. Browning's "The Casa Guidi Win- 
 dows," and send to each of you with this 
 inscription: "These are my sentiments." 
 
 It was with a sense of lazy dehght that we 
 wandered about Siena, watching the peasant 
 women in their picturesque head-coverings, 
 inhahng the atmosphere of mediaeval art and 
 the restfulness that comes with it. In the 
 
lyo By the Way 
 
 same leisurely manner, armed with numerous 
 Leghorn straws, we turned our faces north- 
 ward, and found pleasant rooms awaiting us 
 here. 
 
 Our house number reads as I have written 
 it, but being translated signifies only the 
 front entrance. Our windows look out on 
 the Arno, and to the right I see the Ponte 
 Vecchio — to the left, a bella vista which ends 
 at Fiesole. 
 
 The new Florence is broad and white and 
 glistening : the old, is narrow, dark and 
 massively rich. The Arno, like the Tiber, is 
 a yellowish green. Its eight bridges are 
 unique, ancient, and historic. The Lun- 
 garno, down which we walk each morning, 
 is odd and fascinating. It has on the Arno 
 side a marble balustrade — on the other, little 
 shops displaying jewels and precious stones 
 which would tempt the soul of a female 
 angel Gabriel. The display of turquoise, of 
 which stone Florence is the home, is ravishing, 
 yet sometimes — once, I think — we really go 
 by without entering. The day we did not go 
 in, however, we went by appointment to one 
 
By the Way 171 
 
 of the shops on the Tornabuoni, where were 
 arrayed some gorgeous ancient chains and 
 rings of scarabs, the cartouche of which 
 proved them to belong to some Egyptian 
 potentate. 
 
 The piazza della Signoria forms the center 
 of Florence. It is surrounded by the Pal- 
 azzo Vecchio, the Ufhzi, and the Loggia dei 
 Lanzi. In the center is the fountain of 
 Neptune. It was in this piazza that Savon- 
 arola was burned. 
 
 In the buildings just named, each a mas- 
 terpiece of architectural beauty, are found 
 many of the chef-d'ceiivres of the world. 
 Florence overflows with so much that is 
 ornate, it were difficult to make selections. 
 Like poor Helen, 
 
 "Were the whole world mine, Florence being bated, 
 I'd give it all to be to her translated." 
 
 Sometimes I think if I could have but one 
 of these gems of architecture, I'd choose the 
 Duomo, with its graceful facade and its cam- 
 panile; but when I cross the street to the 
 •Baptistery of San Giovanni, and gaze at its 
 bronze doors, I change my mind, and give it 
 
172 By the Way 
 
 first place. And thus the gods of art and 
 beauty wrench my soul each day from one 
 love to another. 
 
 Now it is Santa Croce, with its w^ondrous 
 wealth of marbles, where Ruskin— and I — 
 spent many happy hours; but soon Santa 
 Maria Novella has outshone them all, until 
 the loveliness of the Medicean chapel wins 
 my heart anew. 
 
 Alas, so weak am I, that all the cathedrals 
 sink into obscurity when the Uffizi Palazzo, 
 with its Tribune, is seen. It holds the one 
 perfect woman- — the Uffizi Venus. The 
 Pitti palace and the Boboli gardens; the 
 Bargello, with its unique staircase and court ; 
 the Riccardi — in truth, all the wealth of in- 
 comparable grandeur of artistic Florence 
 have their place in my affections. 
 
 The wealth, beauty, and royalty of Flor- 
 ence are seen on the fashionable driveway. 
 The Cascine is to Florence w^hat the Pincio 
 is to Rome. There, in the late afternoon, 
 society drives back and forth along the bank 
 of the Arno, listening to the music of a 
 military band. 
 
STAIRWAY, BARGELLO PALACE 
 
174 By the Way 
 
 It is of little consequence how the artist 
 gives expression to his soul's dream — whether 
 by pencil, pen, brush, chisel, or voice, in 
 marble, painting, song, or story — Florence is 
 the home of them all. 
 
 And Fiesole, ah, Fiesole by moonlight! I 
 have walked up the Fiesolian hill, and taken 
 the little electric tram, but last night I took 
 you with me in a carriage. The others did 
 not know you were there, so you and I 
 ''cuddled down" on the back seat. You held 
 my hand and said never a word, but by that 
 same blessed silence I knew you were drink- 
 ing in the beauty of it all. 
 
 As the strong horses pulled up the moun- 
 tain side, you and I looked back at Florence. 
 She lay off in the distant shadows, with the 
 Arno at her feet — the Arno, no longer a yel- 
 low, muddy stream, but a glistening, silvery 
 ribbon, with the moonbeams dancing merrily 
 on its phantom-like bridges. The towers and 
 turrets were transformed into marble lace; 
 the statues to golden cupids; the chimney- 
 tops formed bas-reliefs; and the whole, a 
 misty shadow-picture. Even Florence was 
 
By the Way 175 
 
 improved by the witchery of "that old man 
 in the moon." The silvery unrealness of it 
 cast a spell over us, making — 
 
 ". . . The longing heart yearn for 
 Someone to love, and to be 
 Beloved of someone." 
 
 That's why I took you with me. 
 
 When the top was reached we looked only 
 at the fairyland in the distance. It is diffi- 
 cult to idealize an ordinary little village, even 
 if it be Tuscan, and this one has nothing to 
 recommend it but a cathedral and some 
 picturesque beggars. 
 
 Returning another way, we passed Boc- 
 caccio's villa, and in fancy, saw his merry 
 party of lords and ladies seated in the arbors 
 looking out towards La Bella Firenza over 
 the now golden river Arno. 
 
 Thus it was I left you in Florence. I 
 could not find you when Ruth called out, 
 "Are you going back with the cab, honey?" 
 
176 By the Way 
 
 Hotel de Roma et 
 
 Pension Suisse, 
 
 Canal-Grande, Venice. 
 
 If Florence was left behind in a memory of 
 purple mist, the highroad between it and 
 Bologna would awaken the most poetic per- 
 son. The word highroad is a little creation 
 of my own in this connection, but I feel sure 
 you will believe it to be "high" when I tell 
 you that Florence lies at the foot of the 
 Apennines and Bologna at the sum.mit; and 
 that the railway is, by some miracle of en- 
 gineering, built up through and around these 
 mountains. We threaded forty-five tun- 
 nels, swung around numberless viaducts, 
 crawled over heart-stilling trestleworks con- 
 necting one peak wath another, and finally 
 came out on top, much dirty and more tired. 
 
 We arrived in Venice at twelve o'clock, 
 midnight, at the full of the moon. It cannot 
 be compared with my Florentine dream, for 
 while they are both exquisitely lovely, they 
 are different. There is nothing on earth 
 quite like Venice by moonlight. 
 
 All things lose perspective at close range, 
 
By the Way 
 
 177 
 
 or in the glare of the sun's rays, and Venice 
 shares this disenchantment. It matters ht- 
 tle what or how much one has read of Venice 
 — to reahze its charm, its color scheme, and 
 
 i^^«!f^- 
 
 its uniqueness it must be experienced. For 
 Venice is not a thing, it is an experience. 
 
 We owned a gondola for a week. We 
 lived in it, and I, sometimes, slept in it while 
 we were being wafted from one place to an- 
 other. 
 
 There is the usual — oh, no! there is noth- 
 
178 By the Way 
 
 ing usual in Venice- — cathedral, as in all 
 cities, but St. Mark's stands out first and for- 
 ever as, The Church of all churches. My first 
 glimpse of this pile of precious stones was 
 unexpected and most dramatic to me. 
 
 There were no letters that morning, and I 
 was just walking — I did not care where or on 
 what. What's beauty and loveliness com- 
 pared to One letter ? An arcade blocked 
 the way, and not knowing — not caring — 
 where it led, I passed in and through it. 
 Chancing to look up, I found myself in the 
 light of day, and straight before me, ablaze 
 with the sunlight full on its facade, was a 
 structure of lavish Oriental magnificence. 
 
 "What is that ?" I cried aloud. 
 
 ''San Marco!" answered a number of soft 
 musical voices in unison; and there stood by 
 my side a little crowd of Italians, their dark 
 eyes sparkling and white teeth showing, evi- 
 dently pleased at my adoration, and most 
 likely used to such surprises; I found out 
 afterwards that the words "What's that" 
 was all the English they knew. 
 
 "San M-ahr-co, San M-ahr-co," they 
 
By the Way 179 
 
 drawled in delight. For once their pleasure 
 was real; they did not break the spell upon 
 me by holding out the hand for a pourboire. 
 
 St. Mark's is Moorish in design, and has a 
 coloring both gorgeous and subdued. The 
 richness of jewels and costly stones do not 
 seem out of place here as in many Roman 
 churches. Nothing could be too precious, 
 too sumptuous, too rare, for this temple mag- 
 nificent. 
 
 The piazza of St. Mark's is a square paved 
 with trachyte and marble. It has the church 
 on one side, and on the other sides, old white 
 marble palaces, in the arcades of which are 
 now found shops of world-wide renown. 
 The piazzetta leads one, between the Doge's 
 palace and Libreria Vecchia, to the Grand 
 Canal. 
 
 Every evening a military band plays in 
 the square, where thousands of tables and 
 chairs are set out, by the owners of the cafes, 
 in the arcades. It is like a vast, open-air 
 drawing-room with a huge masquerade ball 
 in full tilt. 
 
 We climbed the Campanile and saw, be- 
 
mj - Spii 
 
 ST. MAKK S 
 
By the Way i8i 
 
 sides a beautiful sunset, the Alps, the Adriatic, 
 and in the dim distance, the Istrian Mountain 
 rising out of the sea. 
 
 With but one day to give to Venice, or with 
 a whole year at your disposal, there is only 
 one thing to do — dream! Whether you rest 
 in a gondola on the Lagune, drifting past the 
 Bridge of Sighs, the Rialto, the Ghetto, or the 
 Lido, listening to the gondolier calling out 
 the names of the palaces as the boat glides 
 by, or whether you stroll idly through the 
 miles of churches and galleries containing 
 the paintings, or sit in wondering awe before 
 the vast area of mosaics in St. Mark's — it 
 matters little — dream ! 
 
 In truth, one cannot well avoid it, amid 
 the "subtle, variable, inexpressible coloring 
 of transparent alabaster, of polished Oriental 
 marbles and of lusterless gold," as Ruskin 
 puts it. 
 
 Hotel d'Italie, 
 Au BoRD DU Lac Como. 
 
 Heavens! Just think of me writing 
 "Como" at the top of my letters! I have 
 
1 82 By the Way 
 
 pinched myself to see if I am really alive and 
 here. The unreality of it all recalls what 
 Mr. Howell's said after reading Ruskin: 
 "Just after reading his description of St. 
 Mark's, I, who had seen it every day for three 
 years, began to doubt its existence." So I 
 am beginning to doubt my own existence. 
 
 The morning we left Venice I was nearly 
 arrested by a man in a cocked hat, and on 
 account of two other men in sailor hats. In 
 short, I overstepped the etiquette of the gon- 
 dolier most woefully. Our train left at the 
 fetching hour of six, so I made an appoint- 
 ment with our trustworthy Pietro to come 
 for us in time. I think I have told you that 
 the word "haste" is an unknown quantity 
 here, and when Pietro was not at the door ten 
 minutes before the time to start, I had the 
 clerk call another gondola. As we were about 
 to step into the boat, Pietro was seen drifting 
 idly toward our hotel. 
 
 He wasn't very indolent when he saw what 
 was going on, and those two "sunsets" (I 
 think that is my own, for in a sunset, do you 
 not see the day-go ?) danced several kinds of 
 
By the Way 
 
 183 
 
 jigs up and down and sidewise, before me. 
 Several others came to their assistance, among 
 them the aforesaid cocked-hatted individual. 
 
 THE LIDO, LOOKING TOWARD VENICE 
 
 I told the clerk to tell them that I wished 
 to conform to the rules, and to settle it their 
 way. A summer breeze could not have been 
 calmer than all became in the twinkling of 
 an eye, but the cause of the calm was appar- 
 
1 84 By the Way 
 
 ent when I settled the bill. Their under- 
 standing of "settling it their own way" was 
 to pay each of them, including the cocked- 
 hat, but that was better than languishing in 
 a dungeon for ever so little a time, n'est-ce 
 pas, mon cher? 
 
 Since then Milan has been visited — Milan, 
 with its mammoth marble cathedral done in 
 Irish-point pattern and with a papier-mache 
 interior — but beautiful withal. Several days 
 were spent at Menaggio on this lovely lake. 
 Another at Villa Carlotta, where Canova's 
 original and divinely beautiful marble 
 Cupid and Psyche, stands in all its purity. 
 Many more, sailing up and down these en- 
 chanting waters, made green by the reflec- 
 tion of the forest on the mountains surround- 
 ing, and by the grounds of the wealthy Milan- 
 ese, whose summer villas line its banks. 
 
 Vineyards are scattered along the moun- 
 tain side in terraces, and the brilliant green 
 of the chestnut and walnut trees is blended 
 with the dull grayish green of the olive and 
 laurel. 
 
By the Way 185 
 
 What is it that the poet says "makes all 
 men kin" ? I really cannot recall it, but it 
 must have been meeting a well-known face 
 in a foreign land. Some years since, in the 
 western part of America, I met the charm- 
 ing and accomplished Mrs. G. Our lives 
 merely touched, and we separated. Later, I 
 met her in London, just before she was pre- 
 sented to the Queen. Last May, in Rome, 
 she recognized my voice in the gardens of 
 Doria Pamphili, and now here, on the little 
 boat which plies between the hotels on the 
 banks of these heavenly waters, we greet each 
 other again. 
 
 Hotel d'Espagna, 
 domodossola. 
 
 Lake Lugano and Lake Maggiore are 
 beautiful sheets of water, but they lack the 
 romantic atmosphere of Como. I can re- 
 call no other description so pleasing to the 
 heart as well as the fancy as the eulogy to 
 these lakes in Mrs. Ward's "Lady Rose's 
 Daughter." And, by the by, every one is 
 
t86 By the Way 
 
 reading it over here. How is it taking in 
 America ? I think it the strongest book of 
 the year. 
 
 Rural Italy must be seen, to be appreciated, 
 by tram, by boat, by steam, by old-fashioned 
 diligence, and on foot. Its lakes and moun- 
 tains, its valleys and vineyards, have been a 
 source of continual surprise to me, and it is 
 with a feeling of keenest regret that our last 
 place in Italy is reached . 
 
Switzerland 
 
 "Fair Switzerland, thou art my theme, 
 Thy praise by day, by night my dream. 
 My swelhng heart with rapture speaks; 
 I love thy lakes and snow-capped peaks. 
 Thy wooded glens my thought recalls, 
 Thy mountain paths and Waterfalls. 
 With praises I my verse adorn 
 Of Jungfrau and the Matterhorn. 
 Thy moon-lit nights and sun-lit days, 
 For thee in song, my voice I raise. 
 Thy name for right and freedom stand — 
 I love thee, dear old Switzerland." 
 
 Roland Phelps Marks. 
 
SWITZERLAND 
 
 Hotel Beau-Rivage, 
 Lucerne, Switzerland. 
 
 Ah, Kate! dear old friend of 
 my childhood! How little I 
 thought that night in June, when 
 you stood up and told the audi- 
 ence "Beyond the Alps hes 
 Italy," that some day those same 
 Alps would lie between us. We 
 have not only been ''beyond/' 
 but over them. 
 
 The soft pink glow of the early dawn hung 
 over the village of Domodossola as the start 
 was made for Switzerland. 
 
 Our caravan consisted of four dihgences, 
 two luggage vans, and a mounted guide, who 
 knew every inch of the pass. He galloped 
 from coach to coach, hurhng his instructions, 
 like death warrants, to occupants and drivers, 
 what to do in case of danger. 
 
 Above the blowing of horns, the ringing 
 of bells, and the answering shouts from the 
 189 
 
T90 By the Way 
 
 coaches, this guide's last command rang out 
 loud and clear, ''Keep close together! Fol- 
 low me! Come!" 
 
 It was all as uncertain as life itself. How 
 blindly and with what enthusiasm we enter 
 the race, knowing nothing of what the day 
 may bring! The creaking diligences started 
 away with their freight of human souls, to 
 follow — follow to what ? God only knows. 
 
 Again, as in life — up and up — on and on — 
 higher and higher — until the summit is 
 reached at noon-day, and as the shadows 
 lengthened in the waning of the day, we 
 began the descent. 
 
 That morning as the purple village was 
 left behind, the road grew narrow and clung 
 close to the mountain side. So close, in- 
 deed, did we but stretch out the hand ever 
 so little, we would touch its ruggedness. 
 Sometimes the road widened into a mountain 
 village, but ever and always on the other side 
 was the deep, dark abyss. It varied in depth 
 and blackness, or was filled with some moun- 
 tain torrent, but the gloom was always 
 there. 
 
By the Way 191 
 
 The mountains themselves often smiled 
 down on us, or laughed outright, as some 
 sparkling, bubbling cascade could no longer 
 keep within the channel time had worn for 
 it in the rocky slope; yet the same rippling 
 waterfall that had danced right merrily down 
 from its snowy source, became stern and 
 cruel after it had crossed the road under us 
 and joined the somberness of the cavern. 
 
 If the glare of the sun partially dispelled 
 the glamour the moon had cast over Venice, 
 how vastly more does close proximity to the 
 Alpine village of song and story dissipate its 
 charm. As every gleam of sunshine must 
 cast a shadow somewhere, so the splendor of 
 the Alps must needs be balanced by the mate- 
 riality of its inhabitants. 
 
 Of the forty miles from Domodossola, 
 Italy, to Brigue, Switzerland, the first ten per- 
 haps is almost entirely inhabited. These 
 people live on the road, their huts snuggling 
 close to the mountain. The little patches of 
 ground that are tilled lie straight up the 
 mountain side, and upon these sides, too, 
 their sheep graze. One of the witcheries of 
 
19^ By the Way 
 
 the region is the tinkhng of the tiny bells 
 tied around the necks of the sheep. 
 
 Before reaching Iselle, where the customs 
 is paid, the longest of the Simplon tunnels 
 is passed through, and a block of granite 
 marks the boundary line between the two 
 countries. 
 
 Along the route the drivers had often to 
 call out, that the women and children might 
 make way for the coaches. The children 
 would offer fruit or flowers, running along 
 with the vehicles and calling out the little 
 English that had been picked up — "Good- 
 a-bye!" "Kiss-a-me!" ''Hur-rah up!" but the 
 smiles soon turned to tears if no pennies were 
 thrown to them. 
 
 Sometimes in the distance there seemed 
 to be a mammoth pile of rock or debris ob- 
 structing the roadway, which on being ap- 
 proached, was found to be part of an aval- 
 anche tunneled out for the passageway. 
 These are termed "galleries" to distinguish 
 them from the usual tunnels. 
 
 Away up on a high point an old hospice is 
 seen, to be reached only by pedestrians. 
 
By the Way 193 
 
 These are refuges for the mountain-dimbers, 
 and particularly for those injured. Some 
 of them were built by Napoleon, others by 
 monks, and yet others by those who have lost 
 friends in the mountains. 
 
 Far up among the clouds is a bridge re- 
 sembling a tiny toy. Long hours afterwards 
 when the summit of the peak is reached, and 
 when the road seems to end abruptly, the 
 bridge comes into view again spanning some 
 yawning gulf. Then it is that the guide goes 
 over first, alone, and each coach follows 
 slowly, careful that but one be on the struc- 
 ture at the same time. 
 
 Once while crossing from one peak to an- 
 other, the gorge below seemed filled with 
 white smoke. The guide pointed it out as 
 something rarely seen save in the early morn- 
 ing. It was the clouds. Some thousands 
 of feet below these same clouds were above 
 us — we were now above them. 
 
 The sensation was awful. "Look!" 
 "Lookl" cried the guide, pointing down into 
 the moraine. The clouds had separated, 
 and the rain could be seen pouring on a little 
 
194 By the Way 
 
 village far below, while the sun shone bright 
 on us. 
 
 "Where is that rain coming from ?" asked 
 a passenger. "God only knows," replied 
 the guide. 
 
 The sunshine is not warm among these 
 snowclad peaks. It was bitter cold. The 
 crunching of the snow under the iron hoofs 
 of the horses was the only sound to be 
 heard. 
 
 At the village of Simplon where luncheon 
 was served, and where the horses were 
 changed, the luggage vans were raided for 
 warm wraps and rugs. 
 
 Half a mile from the village of Simplon the 
 remains of a big avalanche were encountered. 
 Men were at work clearing the roadway and 
 the guide ordered every one to dismount 
 and walk across, the drivers leading the 
 horses. 
 
 When "the road grew wider," it should 
 not inake a mental picture of a broad road- 
 way. It is wide only in comparison with 
 the narrow mountain pass, cut out of the side 
 of the cliff, making a sort of ridge of suffi- 
 
By the Way 195 
 
 cient width to permit but one vehicle at a 
 time. There are places cut deeper into the 
 rock so that two may pass. A stone parapet 
 runs along the ledge next to the precipice to 
 prevent accidents should the wheels come 
 too near the edge. 
 
 At the highest point, 6,600 feet, this para- 
 pet was broken. An accident to a private 
 carriage had caused the break, and resulted 
 in loss of life. The workmen who were re- 
 pairing the wall had been called to assist in 
 clearing the low^er road of the avalanche over 
 which we had been obliged to walk. 
 
 It was at this point that one of our horses 
 balked. The road, so narrow that it 
 scarcely permitted the passage of the dili- 
 gence — the parapet entirely gone for a dis- 
 tance of many feet — the gorge, deep and 
 black, with a roaring torrent, too far down 
 to be seen — the very heavens weeping at our 
 misery — here it was, the horse chose to be- 
 come unmanageable. 
 
 The two in the box seat behind the driver 
 did not realize what was happening until a 
 shriek from some one in the body of the coach 
 
196 By the Way 
 
 caused the entire party to turn. The driver 
 yelled ''Jump! Jump toward the mountain- 
 side." 
 
 God grant that rarely on human sight 
 may dawn such a scene, horrible only to 
 those who had occupied the coach a second 
 before. The back wheels were over that 
 fearful ledge, the diligence just tottering. 
 One moment more, made heavy by its human 
 load, one quiver of the now terrified beasts, 
 and the whole would have been engulfed in 
 the depths of that seething torrent. 
 
 We had jumped at the first word of com- 
 mand — jumped as one body. One second 
 and it would have been too late. And the 
 old coach, relieved of our burden, had bal- 
 anced itself in an almost human manner, as 
 if it, too, clung to life. 
 
 We stood crouching away from the gorge 
 against the wet side of the rock, the driver 
 unnerved, one horse sick, another unruly, and 
 the leader balky. The entire cavalcade had 
 begun the descent, and there was no stopping 
 when once under way until a valley was 
 reached some seven miles below. There 
 
By the Way 197 
 
 was nothing to do but wait, and pray that 
 the guide would miss us and send help. 
 
 The awesomeness of that scene had time 
 to imprint itself on my very soul, for the 
 hours spent on that Alpine peak, I count as 
 the most stirring years of my life. 
 
 Help came, or I should not be writing this. 
 But, grateful and overjoyed as we were to 
 see a fresh horse and two men on its back, 
 coming to our aid, the result was even more 
 terrifying than the present experience. 
 
 The guide had missed us when, as was his 
 wont, at the first stop, he galloped back from 
 coach to coach. Fortunately it was near a 
 hospice, where he procured two men and a 
 powerful horse, and sent them after us. 
 
 Surely God had, 
 
 "One arm 'round thee, 
 And one 'round me, 
 To keep us near." 
 
 The driver and his helper had hardly dis- 
 mounted from the back of the new horse when 
 the wild creature reared around, and started 
 on a mad gallop down the slope. He 
 tripped, thank heavens, on a strap that had 
 
198 By the Way 
 
 become loosened from his trappings, and 
 was caught. 
 
 That the new driver was a fiend was ap- 
 parent from the cruel manner in which he 
 treated the runaway. I am still uncertain 
 what his excuse was for living. He was so 
 hideous he was unique. After he had 
 pounded the horses he turned his attention 
 to the passengers. Ruth and I were ordered 
 out of the box seat into the coach. It was 
 impossible to crowd us all inside, and he was 
 obliged to submit to our remaining above. 
 The hood was closed, the boot drawn up, and 
 we were strapped securely to our seats. The 
 doors were locked on those inside. These 
 were his instructions from the guide. 
 
 The three drivers mounted in front of us, 
 and, while we were thankful to be in the 
 open air, and to be able to view the wonderful 
 scenery around us, we were also compelled 
 to witness the inhuman treatment of the ani- 
 mals. 
 
 In this manner we began the descent. 
 
 The fiend had the reins and the long whip, 
 the others had prods, and used them on the 
 
By the Way 199 
 
 balky and the sick horse. The fresh horse 
 took the lead, dragging the others after him. 
 On, and on, and on we flew, now under wild- 
 roaring cataracts, whose waters thundered 
 down on the rocky roof of the tunnels under 
 them- — now over frail bridges, which trem- 
 bled with our speed — now down slippery, 
 ice-covered stretches. They did not stop at 
 the first plateau, fearing, I suppose, they 
 would never get the horses started again. 
 
 The fiendish shouts of the drivers, the 
 cries of the occupants, locked inside the 
 coach, the swaying and groaning of the old 
 diligence, the almost human moans of the 
 ailing horse, and the audible heaving of the 
 others, blended with the warning cries of the 
 natives, who stood aside, aghast at our mad 
 speed. 
 
 Down, down, down! The white peaks 
 grow fainter and fainter, until they are lost 
 in the blue mist. The incline becomes less 
 steep. The little farms look like window- 
 panes set up in air, and the sun goes 
 down behind the purple mountains. The 
 beautiful valley of the Rhone spread out be- 
 
200 By the Way 
 
 low, like a celestial vision. The sun, which 
 has hidden its face from us behind the walls 
 of rock at our side, is shining clear and strong 
 on the sublime scene. 
 
 Suddenly, after a long curve had been 
 rounded, the Rhone, bathed in a flood of 
 golden fire, comes into view. Across the 
 yawning gulf the mountains, on the other 
 side, take on the same glorious hue. 
 
 It is the Alpine glow! 
 
 Yet on and down we go, never stopping 
 the wild pace until the horses dash into the 
 courtyard of the inn at Brigue, and one of 
 them falls lifeless. 
 
 Lucerne, Switzerland. 
 
 Switzerland is one of the places whose 
 charm is enhanced by the glare of the sun. 
 But Switzerland does not have many oppor- 
 tunities to endure glare of anything, for it 
 rains almost continually. The "weeping 
 skies of Ireland" cannot compare with it. 
 
 Lake Geneva, as it winds around Lau- 
 sanne, is extremely pretty, and lake Lucerne 
 
By the Way 201 
 
 has quite the most picturesque surround- 
 ings possible. It nestles down among the 
 Alps, with Rigi on one side and the beautiful 
 town on the other. And Lucerne is a beau- 
 tiful town, built in a curve in the Alps, with 
 towers and battlements on its walls. Sailing 
 away from it, it presents a picture altogether 
 different from anything else I have seen. 
 
 It took some days for me to recover from 
 that mad ride down the mountains. After 
 the effects of it had passed, I could but think 
 how very near the ludicrous is the sublime. 
 
 Death by climbing up or falling down 
 these Alpine heights would be, perhaps, ro- 
 mantic ; but to be backed over a precipice by 
 a common balky horse could not be other- 
 wise than ignominious. 
 
 Now, too, I recall some of those senseless 
 questions women ask. One woman cried, 
 "Oh, where will we go if that harness 
 breaks ? " The fiend replied, "Not knowing 
 your past hfe, Madam, I can't say. I'm 
 pretty sure, though, where I'll go." 
 
202 By the Way 
 
 Grand Hotel Victoria, 
 Amsterdam, Holland. 
 
 I have actually found some places that I 
 do not like, and I am glad of it. I have used 
 up all my adjectives and exclamations. I 
 did not care for Zurich, and many of the 
 Rhine towns found no favor in my eyes. I 
 saw most of them only from the river about 
 which we have heard so much that, naturally, 
 it failed in the realization of my anticipations. 
 Besides, it rained much of the time. 
 
 Heidelberg, Dusseldorf, and Mayence are 
 splendid. I mean to return to them some 
 day and enjoy them at my leisure. 
 
 The small portion of Germany which I 
 have seen reminds me of America, and the 
 railways there have quite the best service in 
 Europe. 
 
 I overheard a conversation between two 
 American girls on the boat up — or down — 
 the Rhine. Every time I say "up" the other 
 person says "Down, wasn't it ?" and when I 
 change it to "down" I am asked "Up, wasn't 
 it?" 
 
 The first girl was saying, in a tired-to- 
 
By the Way 203 
 
 death manner, "I saw EVERY church in 
 Rome!" 
 
 "Ah, indeed! How long a time did you 
 spend in Rome? You knew, did you not, 
 that there are over four hundred churches 
 there ?" sarcastically asked the other. 
 
 "Four hundred!" shouted the first girl, 
 never noticing the sarcasm, "four hundred! 
 I'll bet I tramped through a thousand!" 
 
 I can sympathize with that first girl. 
 
 The cathedral at Cologne is very fine. It 
 is built in two distinct styles of architecture. 
 The legend runs that the first architect sold 
 his soul to the devil for plans unlike any other 
 church in the world. When he had it half 
 finished he disappeared, and the plans with 
 
 him. 
 
 I suppose he and the devil became too well 
 acquainted with each other, and perhaps he 
 ran in to see him every day — which is enough 
 to tire even the devil himself — so he put the 
 architect out of the way. Be that the case 
 or not, the church was commenced in 1248, 
 and only recently finished, in a modern 
 fashion. 
 
204 By the Way 
 
 What a difference it makes to have a friend 
 residing in a foreign city. I posted a letter 
 to Marie from Cologne, and as I was break- 
 fasting the morning of my arrival here her 
 visiting-card was brought to me. She has 
 made our stay in this quaint city a bright 
 green spot in the oasis of hotel life and hus- 
 tling for one's self. 
 
 You remember she was but a girlish bride 
 when I first met her, and she has improved 
 with a maturer grace of person. Both she 
 and her handsome husband have that calm, 
 quiet, but delightful, formal charm of man- 
 ner which distinguishes the cultured for- 
 eigner. 
 
 She has driven us over this picturesque old 
 town; taken us to the palaces, and to the 
 Royal Rijks museum. We have walked with 
 her through her favorite haunts in the parks. 
 She has made a martyr of herself and showed 
 us through the shops — and have you ever 
 heard of the lovely shops of Amsterdam ? 
 But, best of all, we have had a bit of home 
 life, and Marie, bless her heart I has given 
 us the first cup of real coffee we have 
 
By the Way 
 
 205 
 
 had since we left home — with real cream in 
 it, too! 
 
 I cannot tell you much in detail about the 
 splendid school of art here, for — let me whis- 
 per it to you — I did not get a guide-book of 
 
 AMSTERDAM 
 
 Holland. Marie and her good husband left 
 little for us to glean. But this I do know, 
 that, in all our travels, no more comprehen- 
 sive and beautiful collection of art treasures 
 have we found. 
 
 The building itself is magnificent, and the 
 masterpieces are all Flemish. I gladly re- 
 
2o6 By the Way 
 
 tract what I said, in Paris, of Rubens. His 
 "Helen Fourment," Rembrandt's "The 
 Night- Watch," and a portrait by Van Dyke 
 are among those which I recall. 
 
 Holland is a quaintly picturesque country. 
 Everything that Mr. F. Hopkinson Smith, 
 that exquisite word-etcher as well as painter, 
 has said of it is true. 
 
 But the language! And the money! Oh, 
 the money is impossible. 
 
 Now, I call Ruth a brilliant woman, and 
 one vastly above the average intellectually; 
 and you know that, while I'm not an expert 
 accountant, I can do "sums" once in a while. 
 Well, neither of us have learned to pronounce 
 nor do we yet know, the value of the thing 
 which takes the place of the franc. It is 
 spelled g-u-1-d-e-n — most Americans call it 
 gilder, but it is no more like that than it 
 is like horse. In fact, it is not unlike the 
 last word, when a native gets his tongue 
 around it. 
 
 As to its value! I have taken goods for it 
 to the value of a penny and of a half-dollar. 
 I simply take the change given me and go. 
 
By the Way 207 
 
 The other, hke Thoreau's friend, has both 
 the first word and the last. How awful! A 
 woman can never talk back in this language. 
 
 Hotel Belle-Vue et Flandre, 
 Brussels, Belgium. 
 
 Mr. Elbert Hubbard tells, in one of his 
 Little Journeys, how, when his ship landed 
 in Antwerp at eleven o'clock in the morning, 
 he walked to the hotel and awakened the 
 landlord from his early morning nap in order 
 to get some breakfast. I cannot speak from 
 experience as to what hour they arise, but I 
 do know, from very close association with the 
 people, that they do not know what sort of 
 money they use. 
 
 At the door of the cathedral, where we 
 went to see Rubens' chef-d'xuvre, The De- 
 scent from the Cross, the woman at the door 
 refused to take one of those coins of which I 
 do not know the value; but, when I tried a 
 little dramatic action, and turned to go, she 
 took it very readily, and permitted us to 
 enter. The same scene was gone through 
 
2o8 By the Way 
 
 at the door of the really exquisite museum; 
 but it did not work at the station. 
 
 We were using all our Belgian coins before 
 going into France, and had saved enough for 
 the porters at the station where we had left 
 our hand luggage. The porter who brought 
 our luggage from the train into the station 
 had accepted the coin we gave him. The 
 one we secured to carry them out to the train 
 had reached our compartment, and demanded 
 his money. 
 
 I counted out the coins, which he refused. 
 We had no other money. I tendered him a 
 book, and finally my watch. He still re- 
 fused, and would not permit us to put the 
 things in the compartment. There was no 
 woman in sight, and foreign men are so differ- 
 ent from our countrymen that we could not 
 bring ourselves to ask aid from them; be- 
 sides, we did not speak Flemish. 
 
 It was absolutely necessary that we reach 
 Brussels that night, and had we gone back 
 and gotten the money changed, it would have 
 necessitated our remaining over Sunday in 
 Antwerp, where we had exhausted everything 
 
By the Way 209 
 
 of interest. We were becoming desperate, 
 when good fortune smiled on us in the form 
 of a pair of girhsh black eyes. 
 
 I asked her if she spoke Enghsh. She 
 shook her head. 
 
 "Parlez vous Fran^ais?" and, oh, joy, 
 ''Mais un peu," she rephed. 
 
 I made known our dilemma, and she very 
 sweetly settled with the facteur for about half 
 the amount he had demanded of me. 
 
 Who shall say there is not a free-masonry 
 among women ? There, in a strange coun- 
 try, with not a cent of that country's coinage 
 in my pockets, knowing no word of its lan- 
 guage, came to my assistance a woman of yet 
 another country, speaking nor understanding 
 no word of my mother-tongue, and, in yet 
 another language, which we both spoke indif- 
 ferently, I asked and she gave aid with that 
 same grave politeness which marks the no- 
 blesse oblige everywhere. 
 
 The next morning, dressed in our bravest, 
 we had the concierge call the shiniest cab he 
 could find, with the tallest-hatted cocher, and 
 with the loveliest basket of roses that could 
 
2IO By the Way 
 
 be procured, we drove in state to the address 
 she had given us. We had a cordial greet- 
 ing, but somehow I fancy she had been in 
 doubt as to whether she would ever see those 
 few francs again or not. 
 
 You may rest assured that we had suffi- 
 cient money changed at Brussels, and that we 
 found numerous ways in which to spend it. 
 Next to Venice, the lace shops here are the 
 finest in the world. 
 
 Boulogne-sur-Mer, France. 
 
 "On the sea" is good, but "in the water" 
 would more adequately express the situation 
 of this little French town. It is quiet and 
 restful, and that is the thing-needful just now. 
 
 It is to be regretted that the big packet of 
 letters, which awaited me here, full to over- 
 flowing with questions, could not have been 
 received earlier. The twelve hours of unex- 
 pected waiting, caused by the delayed sail- 
 ing of the ship, will give me, however, an 
 opportunity to answer a limited number. 
 
 You will receive this, one of you at least. 
 
By the Way 21 r 
 
 before that happy day when I shall step foot 
 upon my native land. 
 
 Does it pay to come abroad for a short 
 time ? It pays to come for a day. The ocean 
 voyage pays for itself in itself. Nothing 
 broadens one's life like touching the lives of 
 others. 
 
 And now, before leaving, you ask me to 
 snm up my foreign experiences. Your re- 
 quest reminds me of the old school-master 
 who gave out, as the subject of a prize com- 
 position, The World and its Inhabitants. 
 Joking aside, this has been the most delight- 
 ful, and at the same time the most miserable, 
 year of my life. Comprenez vous ? 
 
 I am not unmindful of all the opportuni- 
 ties I have had to see God's beautiful world, 
 nor do I fail to comprehend its broadening 
 development. 
 
 I have endeavored to digest all I have been 
 privileged to see, and I think little has escaped 
 that has been in my line of vision. 
 
 Of all countries, I like England best. Yes, 
 England! Dear, green, blossoming Eng- 
 land ! 
 
212 By the Way 
 
 Of all churches, St. Mark's in Venice. Of 
 all cities, Paris and Florence. Of pictur- 
 esque places, the lakes of Killarney and the 
 lake of Lucerne. Of awesome grandeur in 
 nature, the Giant's Causeway and on the 
 heights of Switzerland. Of man's work in 
 art and architecture combined, the Bargello, 
 Fontainebleau, Versailles, and Raphael's 
 Stanza and Logge in the Vatican. Of col- 
 lected art in painting, that found in the gal- 
 leries of Florence. Of collected art in sculp- 
 ture, that found in. Rome. Of the subhme 
 in nature, the sunsets on the Mediterranean, 
 the moonlight on the Arno, and the Alpine 
 glow on the Rigi. Of quaintness and quiet 
 loveliness, Holland, with its bridges and 
 windmills. Of all people, the upper class of 
 the Irish and English. 
 
 And the happiest moments spent among all 
 this sublime array were those when reading 
 my letters from the dear ones at home. 
 
 I have been treated with charming cor- 
 diality everywhere, and have met clever, 
 cultured people, both foreign and American. 
 I have, of course, seen and heard a few 
 
By the Way 213 
 
 Americans similar to those of whom Ruth 
 spoke in her letter from Eastnor Castle, the 
 sort whose bragging brings the blood to 
 their countrymen's faces, but I am happy 
 to tell you they have been few. 
 
 I should advise any one to come here with 
 the full intention of enjoying everything, and 
 not to criticise. If things are desired as they 
 are in America, stay there. One comes to a 
 foreign country to see things as they are, both 
 antique, historic, and modern, and, most of 
 all, to see the things which we have not. One 
 is far happier to take things as they come and 
 make the most of them. 
 
 Culture comes high, at the very easiest, and 
 in no way can one absorb so much or so well 
 as by comprehensive observation while trav- 
 eling. 
 
 On Board S. S. Potsdam, 
 English Channel. 
 
 This will go back by the pilot. 
 
 Soon after the last letter was posted, a 
 carte-postale, a letter, and a cablegram were 
 handed me by the purser. 
 
DFXK S. S. POTSDAM 
 
By the Way 215 
 
 The first was from the young frere at 
 Sailt' Onofrio, who has become a valued 
 friend. He apprises me of the falHng of the 
 beautiful Campanile at Venice. Quel dom- 
 mage! 
 
 The letter was from South Africa. The 
 doctor is en route home. 
 
 And the cable from Mrs. F. announces 
 the death of her husband. This news I have 
 been expecting for some days. 
 
 Her hurried notes to me have borne only 
 her initials. The cablegram she signed, for 
 the first time, with her full name — the same 
 as my own. 
 
 The spelling is identical. 
 
 Odd, is it not ? 
 
PRINTED BY R. R. DONNELLEY 
 AND SONS COMPANY, AT THE 
 LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO, ILL. 
 
APR 14 19C: