We were dropped at Cuxhaven on July 26th, and from here a train carried
us to Hamburg, arriving on the morning of the 26th of July. With the
name of Hamburg, the idea of seaport is associated; and one can see at
its harbor a forest of masts, but is greatly astonished when he learns
the sea is one hundred kilometres distant. In fact, the grandeur of our
New York harbor is never so emphasized as when you realize that the
large ocean liners that can lie at her very door are unable to enter
European harbors. Little tenders carry all passengers to and fro. The
Elbe between Hamburg and Cuxhaven is in reality an artificially
constructed inlet of the sea, formed by vast dykes, and filled by the
mighty waters of the Elbe, driving back the sea itself. The tide,
however, brings no sea water to Hamburg; it only holds back the waters
of the Elbe, making its effect felt thirty-six kilometres beyond the
seaport. It is hard to understand why this German city is such a
wonderful shipping point, until you are told that the Hamburg dock
possesses the invaluable advantage of being at all times accessible for
ocean steamers, an advantage that is wanting in most seaports, such as
Antwerp, London, Liverpool, etc. They consist of a so-called
“tide-havens,” in contradistinction to “dock-havens.” We will now
traverse an old country but a new empire; for the Germany of to-day
measures its existence by comparatively few decades. Our Civil War was
a thing of the past before German unity was an accomplished fact.
[Illustration]
Our introduction into Germany was certainly a satisfactory one. We were
surprised to find, upon our arrival the first evening, that it was
daylight until 9.30 o’clock and twilight after 10 o’clock; in fact, one
could read the paper at that time; daylight again at 3 A.M. The night
seemed delayed and dawn hastened, thus robbing the night of some hours
at each end. It began to be a serious question as to when Morpheus
would operate, but we found upon awakening next morning it was 12 M.
(mid-day), not interfering in the least with our slumbers. What a scene
of beauty greeted us upon looking out of the window! A beautiful lake,
miles long, running right through the centre of the city; graceful
swans by the hundreds gliding over its azure depths; fairy launches
here, there, and everywhere. The eye rests on beauty—beauty. Pavilions
dot its borders, where the happy German and his family are drinking
their beer and listening to the music (which is always good in
Germany); thoroughly enjoying themselves in their characteristic way,
so enviable. The city possesses beautiful streets and picturesque
squares; its beauty is greatly enhanced by two artificially constructed
lakes called the outer and inner Alster,—“Aussen Alster,” “Binnen
Alster,”—the boulevard, as we would say, but known there as the
“Jungfernstieg,” is one of the most beautiful promenades in all Europe.
Most of the important buildings, monuments, and attractive coffee
houses cluster around the “Inner Alster.” The landscape beauty of
Hamburg is beyond description. “Schöne Aussicht” greets you in bold
letters everywhere you glance, to remind you if you are careless and
indifferent to their beauty. Usually four rows of lindens will run the
entire length of the streets; drives through the residence portion are
quite unlike those of our American cities. The exclusiveness of their
homes is a distinct feature. They are hidden almost from view by dense
but highly cultivated foliage. Flowers are in greatest profusion about
every home, from the palace to the peasant’s home at Cuxhaven. The dogs
pulling the milk wagons through the streets, the women carrying their
wares and green stuffs on their shoulders, suspended in baskets from
wooden sticks, reminds one that he is not in an American city, which
for the moment is forgotten in their more modern haunts. There is
simply a wilderness of foliage in this city; they give it constant
care. Their slavish attention along all artistic lines proves that the
German, while he sips his beer and cannot reverse in the waltz or dance
the two-step, does not lose his love for art; and the high state of its
development here shows him to be above the average American in his
merciless greed for wealth.
After a day and night at Nienburg (the birthplace of George W.
Spilker), we took the “Schnell Zug” for Berlin, making a short
stop-over at Hanover. We were agreeably surprised in their railway
systems. While there is considerably more jostle than on one of our
good trains, there is a degree of comfort enjoyed in second-class
travel that is in some ways superior to our first-class. We ran about
fifty-seven miles an hour, a whole compartment to ourselves; remarking
it “was the pleasantest long ride that we had ever taken on a railroad
train.”