which Louis Napoleon built for Eugénie. It is a very choice place, and
we were allowed to go on the stage and behind the scenes and up in the
galleries, and there was something in the dusky vacancy of that little
play-house, built to amuse the last empress of France, that affected us
almost more than any of the rest of the palace, though it was built not
so long ago and its owner is still alive. It is not used, the custodian
told us--has never been used since Eugénie went away. I believe nothing
at Fontainebleau gave more delight to Narcissa and the Joy than this
dainty theater.
From a terrace back of the palace we looked out on a pretty lake where
Eugénie's son used to sail a miniature, full-rigged ship, large enough,
if one could judge from a picture we saw, to have held the little
prince himself. There was still sunlight on the tree-tops, and these
and the prince's pretty pavilion reflecting in the placid water made
the place beautiful. But the little vessel was not there. I wished, as
we watched, that it might come sailing by. I wished that the prince had
never been exiled, and that he had not grown up and gone to his death
in a South African jungle. I wished that he might be back to sail his
ship again, and that Eugénie might be young and have her theater once
more, and that Louis Napoleon's hunting-parties might still gather in
the painted ball-room and fill the vacant palace with something besides
mere curiosity and vain imaginings.
---------------------
We had meant to go to Barbizon, home of the artist Millet, but we got
lost in the forest next morning, and when we found ourselves, we were a
good way in the direction of Melun and concluded to keep on, consoling
ourselves with the thought that Barbizon is not Barbizon any more, and
would probably be a disappointment, anyway. We kept on from Melun,
also, after buying some luncheon things, and all day traversed that
beautiful rolling district which lies east of Paris and below Rheims,
arriving toward evening at Epernay, center of the champagne district.
We had no need to linger there. We were anxious to get to Rheims.
We were still in the hills when we looked on the valley of the Vesle
and saw a city outspread there, and in its center, mellowed and
glorified by seven kindly centuries, the architectural and
ecclesiastical pride of the world, the Cathedral of Rheims. Large as
the city was, that great central ornament dwarfed and dominated its
surroundings. Thus Joan of Arc had seen it when, at the head of her
victorious army, she conducted the king to Rheims for his coronation.
She approached the fulfilment of her mission, the completion of the
great labor laid upon her by the voices of her saints. Mark Twain tells
of Joan's approach to Rheims, of the tide of cheers that swept her
ranks at the vision of the distant towers.
It was the sixteenth of July that Joan looked down upon Rheims, and now
four hundred and eighty-five years later it was again July, with the
same summer glory on the wood, the same green and scarlet in the
poppied fields, the same fair valley, the same stately towers rising to
the sky. But no one can ever feel what Joan felt, can ever put into
words, ever so faintly, what that moment and that vision meant to the
Domremy shepherd-girl.
Descending the plain, we entered the city, crossed a bridge, and made
our way to the cathedral square. Then presently we were at the doorway
where Joan and her king had entered--the portal which has been called
the most beautiful this side of paradise. How little we dreamed that
destruction and disfigurement lay only a few weeks ahead!
It is not required any more that one should write descriptively of the
now vanished glories of the church of Rheims, it has been done so
thoroughly and so numerously by those so highly qualified for the
undertaking. Fergusson, who must have been an authority, for the
guide-book quotes him, calls it, "perhaps the most beautiful structure
produced in the Middle Ages."
The cathedral was already two hundred years old when Joan arrived in
1429. But it must have looked quite fresh and new, then, for nearly
five centuries later it seemed to have suffered little. Some of the
five hundred and thirty statues of its wonderful portal were
weatherworn and scarred, to be sure, but the general effect of beauty
and completeness was not disturbed.
Many kings had preceded Joan and her sovereign through the sacred
entrance. Long before the cathedral was built, French sovereigns had
come to Rheims for their coronation. Here Clovis had been baptized
nearly a thousand years before.
It was a mighty assemblage that gathered for the crowning of Joan's
king. France, overrun by an invader, had known no real king for
years--had, indeed, well nigh surrendered her nationality. Now victory,
in the person of a young girl from an obscure village, had crowned
their arms and brought redemption to their throne. No wonder the vast
church was packed, and that crowds were massed outside. From all
directions had come pilgrims to the great event--persons of every rank,
among them two shepherds, Joan's aged father and uncle, who had walked
from Domremy, one hundred and twenty miles, to verify with their own
eyes what their ears could not credit.
We are told that the abbot, attended by the archbishop, his canons, and
a deputation of nobles, entered the crowded church, followed by the
five mounted knights who rode down the great central aisle, clear to
the choir, and then at a signal backed their prancing steeds all the
distance to the great doors.
Very likely the cathedral at Rheims had never known such a throng until
that day, nor heard such a mighty shout as went up when Joan and the
king, side by side and followed by a splendid train, appeared at the
great side entrance and moved slowly to the altar.
I think there must have fallen a deep hush then--a petrified stillness
that lasted through the long ceremonial, while every eye feasted itself
upon the young girl standing there at the king's side, holding her
victorious standard above him--the banner that "had borne the burden
and had earned the victory," as she would one day testify at her trial.
I am sure that vast throng would keep silence, scarcely breathing,
until the final word was spoken and the dauphin had accepted the crown
and placed it upon his head. But then we may hear, borne faintly down
the centuries, the roar of renewed shouting that told to those waiting
without that the great ceremony was ended, that Charles VII of France
had been annointed king. As in a picture we seemed to see the
shepherd-girl on her knees saying to the crowned king: "My work which
was given me to do is finished: give me your peace, and let me go back
to my mother, who is poor and old, and has need of me."
But the king raises her up and praises her and confers upon her
nobility and titles, and asks her to name a reward for her service, and
we hear her ask that Domremy, "poor and hard-pressed by reason of the
war," may have its taxes remitted.
Nothing for herself--no more than that; and in the presence of all the
great assemblage Charles VII decreed that by grace of Joan of Arc,
Domremy should be free from taxes forever.
There within those walls it was all reality five hundred years ago. One
did not study the interior to discover special art values or to
distinguish in what manner it differed from others we had seen. For us
the light from its great rose-window and upper arches was glorified
because once it fell upon Joan of Arc in that supreme moment when she
saw her labor finished and asked only that she might return to Domremy
and her flocks. The statues in the niches were sacred because they
looked upon that scene, the altar paving was sanctified because it felt
the pressure of her feet.
Back of the altar stood a statue of Joan unlike any we had seen
elsewhere, and to us more beautiful. It was not Joan with her banner
aloft, her eyes upward. It was Joan with her eyes lowered, looking at
no outward thing, her face passive--the saddest face and the saddest
eyes in the world--Joan the sacrifice of her people and her king.
It may have been two miles out of Rheims that we met the flood. There
had been one heavy shower as we entered the city, but presently the sun
broke out, bright and hot, too bright and too hot for permanence. Now
suddenly all was black again, there was a roar of thunder, and then
such an opening of the water-gates of the sky as would have disturbed
Noah. I turned the car over to the side of the road, but the tall,
high-trimmed trees afforded no protection. Our top was a shelter, but
not a complete one--the wind drove the water in, and in a moment our
umbrellas were sticking out in every direction and we had huddled
together like chickens. The world was blotted out. I had the feeling at
moments that we were being swept down some great submarine current.
I don't know how long the inundation lasted. It may have been five
minutes or thirty. Then suddenly it stopped--it was over--the sun was
out.
There was then no mud in France,--not in the highroads,--and a moment
or two later we had revived, our engine was going, and we were gliding
between fair fields--fresh, shining fields where scarlet poppy-patches
were as pools of blood. How peaceful it all was then, for there is no
lovelier land than the Marne district from Rheims to Châlons and to
Vitry-le-Francois. Yet it has been often a war district--a
battle-ground; it has been fought over time and again since the ancient
allies defeated Attila and his Huns there, checking the purpose of the
"Scourge of God," as he called himself. It could never be a
battle-ground again, we thought--the great nations were too advanced
for war. Ah me! within two months from that day men were lying dead
across that very road, shells were tearing at the lovely fields, and
another stain had mingled with the trampled poppies.
Châlons-sur-Marne, like Rheims and Epernay, is a champagne center and
seemed prosperous. There are some churches there, but they did not seem
of great importance.
It was in July when we were on the Marne. In an earlier chapter I have
told how, only three weeks later, when we had reached Vevey,
Switzerland, the "great upheaval" came, and with what disturbing
consequences. We did not leave Europe with the early rush. For a time
we hesitated about leaving at all. But then uncertainties increased.
With Italy planning war, the possibility of not being able to leave
when we were ready was not comforting. So in October at last we got a
military pass to take the car out of Switzerland, and on one of the
last days of the month set off up the Rhone Valley, down which Cæsar's
armies once had marched, and drove to Brigue, and the next day crossed
the Simplon Pass--up and up more than six thousand feet, where the snow
was flying, and where there are no villages any more, but only a
hospice, and here and there a wayside shelter. Then through a wild,
savage-looking land--down and down, into Italy, arriving in the rain at
Domodossola, glad, oh so glad, for safe shelter and food and beds!
I will not tell here of our month's wanderings in Italy. But one day
our reliable car was loaded on a vessel for home, and a little later we
were aboard the same ship, breasting such storms as made it seem
impossible that only a little while before we had been in a sunny land,
gliding smoothly over a solid surface that did not heave, and toss, and
roar, day and night, without end; then by and by a day came when we
were gliding once more over smooth, solid ground--this time in our own
land, far from the quaint villages, the bright rivers, the ancient
castles, the sunny slopes, and perfect roads of France.
Yet America is not without its glories. And though it has fewer quaint
villages and no ancient castles, it has at least as fair scenery, as
fertile lands, and its roads are growing better and more numerous every
day. Our wayside inns will improve, too, I am sure of it, until
America, like France, may become another paradise. Narcissa and the Joy
were patriotic enough to be gladdened at the sight of New England
shores and hillsides, and, as Narcissa says:
"Well, if we didn't see America first, we'll probably have plenty of
time to see it now."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LETTER-BOXES IN FOREIGN LANDS
BY A. R. ROY
The first letter-box ever used was established in Paris in 1560. It is
true that a kind of letter-box was in use in Italy before that time; it
was not used, however, by the postal service, but as a place for
denunciations directed to the police.
The first letter-box in Germany was established in 1766, in Berlin. At
first the boxes were simple; both for depositing letters and for
removing them the cover was lifted. During the last century a great
many different styles of boxes have been introduced, but the so-called
Swedish system is now in universal use.
In Germany the letter-boxes are highly ornamental, and in many cases
made especially to be in harmony with the architecture of the building
to which they are fastened. They are painted blue, and show the coat of
arms of the empire and that of the postal department, a post-horn with
tassels. The mail is removed by fastening a bag to the bottom of the
box; the bag is slipped in and opens and closes automatically. The
postman does not handle or even see the letters, and cannot get at them.
In London large letter-boxes are placed on the sidewalk, at nearly
every street corner. They have different compartments for city and
country mail, and this, as well as the height of the apertures, makes
them rather inconvenient for any but grown people. While they are
painted a brilliant red and therefore very conspicuous, they are by no
means an embellishment to the city. The letters are taken out by
opening a large door and literally shoveling the mail-matter into a bag.
The letter-box in the general post-office in England is a magnificent
construction. The sign-board is made of brass, on which the directions
are engraved in ink. Large slits provide for the country and colonial
mails, and there is also a different compartment for newspapers and
parcels.
The modern French letter-box has the shape of a pillar, profusely
ornamented with the conventional lily. The whole box or stand is
fashioned after a plant, and the top resembles a bud. The body is
surrounded by floral wreaths or festoons, and the base is formed by
large leaves. The boxes are placed against buildings and have a very
pretty effect.
In Brussels the government keeps pace with the needs of the people, and
has attached postal boxes to the rear ends of cars in the city. This
aids and hastens the delivery of letters and telegrams, as most of
these cars pass the post-offices, where the boxes are emptied. This
street-car letter-box, in fact, virtually takes the place of the
"pneumatic tube" postal system, for which London and Berlin have become
famous.
The Russian post-box is an old-fashioned, awkward-looking box. It looks
something like a peasant hut. The roof is lifted up, and the letters
are taken out from the top. The postman handles the letters as freely
as the sorters themselves. In times past the governmental power in
Russia was so strict that it is believed the post-office officials
frequently opened letters suspected of being connected with plots
against the State, and read them.
The Italian post-boxes are prettily constructed and grouped together in
threes and fours. One box is used for the city, another for the
country, and by the side is a big automatic machine for stamps. A
"penny in the slot" supplies the various kinds of stamps required.
The Amsterdam letter-pillar is of very artistic construction, which is
both pleasing to the eye and practical. The royal arms are
conspicuously and prettily embossed on the face of the box, and below
them are two rosettes of conventional style. There are two
letter-slits, one for the country and one for the city. The top is
crowned with ornamental bowers. Right above the pillar is a board on
which the times of delivery and collection are clearly written.
The Rumanian letter-boxes are all numbered in large letters so as to
help the public to keep track of where they post their mail, and also
the postman in his collection. It is a simple square box which is
placed generally on the walls of large buildings in the main streets.
Throughout the Orient, where the national influences are many and
various, each country has its own post-office. For instance, the
British have their own, and the French and the Germans theirs. The
stamps used by each of these post-offices are, of course, their own,
there not being a universal system for all countries.
Right on the city gate in Tangier we find, in this town of an old
civilization, the convenience of most modern time--a letter-box. Before
the natives were used to them they were considered as wonderful
machines into which a missive once being put was mysteriously conveyed
to its destination, and they were generally feared. To-day the smallest
boy uses them. The style of course varies with the power that puts it
up.
Here we can notice with what expression of wonderment the native posts
a letter. He is only certain the letter will go, but how, he does not
know.
The German post-box is painted blue, and has only German directions
written on it. The directions giving time of delivery and collection
are written in many languages.
The final photograph shows a letter-box on a Moorish gateway in
Tangier, Morocco. And here this convenience of modern days looks
strange in its surroundings of Arabic fresco and characters. No attempt
has been made to harmonize with the Moorish architecture. The letters
are collected from an opening on the other side of the wall.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LOST RHEIMS
BY LOUISE EUGÉNIE PRICKITT
"Rheims, which has been on fire for a week, is now nothing but a great
pile of smoking ruins," I read in the paper of the man who sat next to
me in the subway. With a sick heart I read on: "There are no traces of
streets and thoroughfares, which have disappeared from view under the
accumulation of debris. Ancient buildings in the Place Royal and the
market-place and the Musicians' House, which dates from the sixteenth
century, have been reduced to dust and ashes." With a doubly sad heart
I read it, for to me it is more than an old French city that lies in
ruins, since with it goes the picturesque and historic background of my
early youth. It is the tragic passing of my city of dreams, for there I
dreamed away eight happy years of girlhood.
It is an enviable thing to live in an ancient city like Rheims till its
history becomes a part of the texture of one's mind, till the
background of that history, hangs like a series of distinct pictures in
one's thought, not to be effaced by anything that shall come afterward.
The streets of Rheims as they then stood are photographed clearly on
the retina of my mind's eye, and, dominating all, as it did at my first
sight of it, is the majestic shape of the cathedral. I enter again, in
imagination, those beautiful portals, and feel myself a tiny figure,
and young in the midst of hoary antiquity. The organ music surges
through the building, the choir-boys' voices soar above it. I see again
the slanting fall of colored light across the wide gray floors, the
soft blue smoke of the rising incense, the towering pillars, the
vaulted roof, the dim vistas ending in the splendor of painted windows.
Years and years of patient labor it took to rear this marvel. It
represented the ideality of an age; it was, in fact, that ideality
incarnate, left standing for all posterity to see and take inspiration
from.
It was at sunset one December day that I first entered Rheims. It was
to be my home for the next eight years, for my father had been
appointed by the American Government to be consul there. How eagerly, I
remember, we looked out of the train window as we approached the city.
Long before the town itself became distinct to our eyes, we could
plainly see the cathedral, a superb silhouette, imposing and not to be
forgotten. It was like one's first view of the ocean or the mountains
or the desert.
That night we slept opposite the cathedral in the eighteenth-century
Hôtel Lion d'Or. I recollect the thrill of excitement my sister and I
felt as the big bus rattled into the courtyard of that quaint hostelry
and agile valets in yellow-and-black striped waistcoats ran to open the
door for us. We felt that we were at last to live a storybook life of
adventure and romance.
The deep-toned bells of the cathedral awakened us at dawn, and in the
pale light we rushed to the windows to look out on the sculptured
façade of the wonderful building in order that we might feel again the
strange charm that had so wrought upon us at our first sight of it. In
the open square before us a valiant figure caught our attention, a
figure of bronze that sat upon a spirited charger and held aloft a
spear--Jeanne d'Arc, before the cathedral that had witnessed her brief
hour of glory. The story we knew well, but shape and color it had never
had before. The centuries before ours had been hardly more to us than
Arabian Nights' tales, yet here was the visible evidence of the mighty
procession of people who had existed before our day. We could not take
the shortest walk in the city without being reminded of the dim
perspective of history stretching far back of our youth, for here it
was written in tangible and enduring stone.
At the rear of the Hôtel Lion d'Or we could see the old hotel of the
sign of the Maison Rouge, where the father and mother of Jeanne d'Arc
were housed at the time of the crowning of the dauphin. We could walk
over the cobblestone of the narrow rue de Tambour, which was once, so
history says, one of the largest and most frequented of the streets of
Rheims. We could look up at the Maison des Musiciens, so old a building
that no one knows for what it was originally built. On its quaint
façade how often we curiously examined the broken figures of the
sculptured musicians, for this was the street down which the royal
processions passed on their way to the coronation at the cathedral. The
soldiers in the vanguard had struck and broken the statues with their
spears to make way for the banners and pennants of the brilliant
cavalcade. How full of color and splendor the street must have appeared
then! But that was all past, and the musicians, in our time, looked
down only upon market-women trundling their wares through to the
market-place beyond. The old building, nevertheless, still served to
re-create, in the fancy of two wondering girls, those stately
yesterdays.
In the rue Carnot how often we paused to glance up at a curious archway
supporting two round towers! Old, very old it looked. And no wonder!
for it dated from the Middle Ages. Under the arch we could catch a
glimpse of the walls of the cathedral, gray as frost, and the prison,
with beggars sitting in its grim shadow.
How the past centuries peered out at us from every corner, showing in
quaint portals such as the one on the school of the Petit Lycée, with
its bas-reliefs of a laughing child on one side and a crying one on the
other, known to the "_bons enfants_" since the beginning of the school
as "_Jean qui rit_" and "_Jean qui pleure_." Or that of the old house
of the La Salle family, in the rue de l'Arbalète, with its life-size
figures of Adam and Eve to guard the entrance.
When we walked down the rue Cérès we passed the house where Louis XIV's
famous minister, Colbert, was born, and often pictured him coming out
of the wide doorway, the courtly, velvet-clad figure that the portrait
of him in the art museum had made familiar to our minds: for many a
trip we made to the Hôtel des Ville to see the paintings and the
wonderful illuminated books in the library and the beautiful old
building itself. We would often stop, I remember, to read the list of
marriages posted in the vestibule, the Maries, the Yvonnes, and the
Marguerites, the Jeans, the Marcels, and Pierres who were to "live
happily ever afterward," or so we confidently believed. Several years
later the elder sister came with her lover to read shyly her own, for
the old and dignified Salle des Marriages was to be the background of
her romance, too.