residence in 793; and the following year Charlemagne held a convocation
of bishops and dignitaries of the empire here. The town attained such a
degree of prosperity that in 876, at the death of Lewis the German, it
was looked upon as the capital of the east Franconian Empire. On the
dissolution of the empire in 1806, Frankfort was made over to the
Primate of the Rhenish Confederation, and in 1810 it became the capital
of the grand-duchy of Frankfort.
It was one of the four free cities of the German Confederation, and the
seat of the Diet from 1815 to 1866, in which year it passed to Prussia.
To-day we find it a handsome city of two hundred and twenty-nine
thousand inhabitants, with beautiful streets, stately houses surrounded
by lovely gardens, and fine stores, parks, monuments and many
attractions for the tourist. Here are churches, theatres, libraries and
museums, and an opera house which will accommodate two thousand
spectators.
In the Rossmarkt stands the monument of Gutenberg, which consists of
three figures, Gutenberg in the centre with Fust and Schoffer on either
side, upon a large sandstone pedestal. On the frieze are portrait heads
of celebrated printers, and in the niches beneath are the arms of the
four towns where printing was first practiced: Mayence, Frankfort,
Venice and Strassburg. Around the base are figures representing
Theology, Poetry, Natural Science and Industry. This monument was
erected in 1858.
This is the birthplace of Goethe, and here is the house in which the
poet was born, with its inscription recording that event, (August 28,
1749). The handsome monument of Goethe, erected in 1844, twelve years
after his death adorns the Goethe-Platz. The pedestal of the monument
bears allegorical figures in relief in front, while on the sides are
figures from the poems of the great writer.
There are twenty-three thousand Jews in Frankfort, and in the quarter to
which these people are limited, we are shown the house in which the
Senior Rothschild was born. It is an unassuming brick building of three
stories, in good repair. As I gaze upon this modest dwelling, I think of
the man who from such unpromising beginning, became the founder of the
greatest financial firm the world has known.
There is a stone effigy of Luther not far from the Cathedral, in memory
of a tradition that the great reformer preached a sermon here on his
journey to Worms. It is true that these associations are to be found in
almost every European town; but none the less are we impressed as we
stand before the monuments of the great ones of the earth--the men who
have left their indelible marks--"footprints on the sands of time
"--which the years have no power to efface. These men must have truly
lived.
"He most lives
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best."
The Cathedral of Frankford is a conspicuous edifice towering above the
other buildings, quaint and picturesque in spite of a lack of harmony in
many of its details. From the platform of the tower, one may have a
beautiful view of the city, with its thick border of trees, and of the
fields and meadows beyond along the shining waters of the Main. This
Church of St. Bartholomew was founded by Lewis the German in 852, and
was rebuilt in the Gothic style 1235-39. The different portions
represent various periods. The tower, left unfinished in 1512, now three
hundred and twelve feet high, was completed from the designs of the
architect which were discovered in the municipal archives.
A Prussian Capital and a Fashionable Resort.
_A Prussian Capital and a Fashionable Resort._
We Start for Berlin--Mountain and Valley--Harvesters--Villages--A
Great City--Unter den Linden--Kroll Theatre and Garden--The City
Streets--Ostend--A Fashionable Watering Place--The Promenade--The
Kursaal--On the Beach--Bathing Machines--Studies for an Artist--The
Race Course--Sunday--The Winning Horse--Fickle Dame Fortune--The
English Channel--A Bureau of Information--Queenstown--An Irish
Lass--The Last Stop--The End of the Journey.
The journey from Frankfort to Berlin is through a pleasant and
interesting country. For many miles we look from the car windows upon an
undulating landscape: hills and valleys follow each other in rapid
succession as our train dashes along at the rate of a mile a minute. Now
and then we pass men and women in the fields; and now young girls with
bare feet and short skirts busily raking the hay,--true pictures of
"Maud Muller on a summer day." And here is a whole group of "nut brown
maids" laughing merrily at their work, while over in a corner of the
field is the belle of the countryside listening shyly to the stalwart
young harvester who stands on the border of the adjoining meadow.
"Her tresses loose behind
Play on her neck and wanton with the wind;
The rising blushes which her cheeks o'erspread
Are opening roses in the lily's bed."
Now we pass the harvesters at rest, sitting under the green trees and
hedges with their dinner pails beside them. It is a pleasant, peaceful
picture. Here is a picturesque village with quaint looking houses, and a
little gurgling brook in the foreground. An echo from the distant
mountain answers the shrill whistle of our engine and we can see the
silvery cloud of smoke that follows us wander off to the right, then
fade away in misty fragments. In many of these settlements, there are
shaded nooks where tables and chairs are placed, and here the villagers
are sipping their beer, in happy social converse.
The young people wave their hands and caps to us as we pass, and with
their bright costumes animate the lovely scenes which, although so close
to each other, are of such different character. At last we reach Berlin,
and our great iron horse stands puffing in the station, defying man to
detect upon him any sign of exhaustion.
In this large city entertainment can be found for people of every kind
and taste. The street known throughout the world as Unter-den-Linden is
a splendid avenue, one hundred and sixty-five feet in width, and takes
its name from the double row of linden trees with which it is
ornamented. It is the busiest portion of the city, contains handsome
hotels, beautiful palaces, large shops, and many fine statues of
celebrated men.
The first day or two after your arrival in the city, engage a carriage
and take in the general appearance of the city, its parks and suburbs;
then visit the art galleries, museums, palaces and churches until the
brain becomes accustomed to the bewildering array of subjects which
demand attention. Stroll quietly along Unter-den-Linden stopping now and
then at one of the many stores which line this beautiful avenue. At one
end of this thoroughfare is the celebrated Brandenburg Gate, a sort of
triumphal arch. It is a fine structure, two hundred feet wide and
seventy-five feet high, supported by Doric columns. There are five
entrances, the central one being reserved for the passage of members of
the royal family.
The Kroll Theatre and Gardens are a popular resort for the people of
Berlin. These gardens are illuminated every evening by thousands of
electric lights, arranged in various designs, as flowers, harps and
other graceful forms, and this illuminated scene is the centre of a gay
throng of pleasure seekers, who promenade the paths, or sit about in
groups listening to the music of the fine orchestras stationed at each
end of the spacious grounds. The entertainment is not over until a very
late hour.
There are a number of these gardens throughout the city, which are not,
as may be supposed, frequented by the lower classes of the people, but
by persons of every rank in society. One can hardly appreciate this
scene without having passed an evening amid its light-hearted crowds.
Here may be seen officers of many honors, with conspicuous gold and
silver badges, mingling with the groups gathered around the tables, or
sauntering up and down the garden walks, as well as the private soldier
in his regimentals happily quaffing his beer with his sweetheart by his
side. Title and rank here as well as elsewhere throughout Germany, are
honored and respected by all classes, and the salute is gracefully made
whenever one of the army or navy men meets his superior officer.
[Illustration: "Thousands of fashionably dressed people appear upon this
promenade." (_See page 343._)]
Berlin with its life and gayety, its grandeur and simplicity, its
hospitality and good cheer, captivates our hearts, and we enter
joyously into the many diversions it offers; as we sit among the honest
and kind-hearted people, we feel the charm of their social atmosphere
and wonder why other nations do not allow themselves more time for
relaxation and the simple pleasures which abound here.
The Friedrichs-Strasse is the longest street in the city: it is well
laid out, and contains many handsome stores. Wilhelms-Strasse is a
beautiful avenue, and is considered the most aristocratic street in
Berlin, as it contains the palaces of princes, ministers and other
distinguished personages. A handsome square opens from this avenue,
ornamented with flower-beds and fine statuary.
The museums here are called the Old Museum and the New Museum; they are
connected by a passage gallery. The entrance to the Old Museum is
adorned by handsome statuary, and the grand portico is beautifully
painted with allegorical and mythological subjects: within, the walls
are decorated with frescoes representing barbarous and civilized life,
and in the great rotunda are ancient statues of gods and goddesses. From
this one passes to the Gallery of Gods and Heroes, the Grecian cabinet,
the Hall of the Emperors, and that of Greek, Roman and Assyrian
sculptures. But it is vain to attempt a description of this vast
collection of paintings, and other works of art in the short space I
have to devote to the subject. To appreciate a collection of this kind,
one should visit it in person.
The Thiergarten is a great park, two miles long, beautifully laid out,
and containing many splendid old trees, rustic paths, and artificial
ponds and streams. The grounds are ornamented with statuary, and the
fine zooelogical collection is in good condition and well arranged. But
we must leave fascinating Berlin, and pass on to other scenes.
Now we reach Ostend on the coast of Belgium, one of the most fashionable
watering-places of Europe. During the season it attracts thousands of
visitors, especially from Belgium and Holland. It was originally a
fishing station, but was enlarged by Philip the Good, and fortified by
the Prince of Orange in 1583. In the early part of the seventeenth
century it sustained one of the most remarkable sieges on record,
holding out against the Spanish for a period of three years, and finally
surrendering only at the command of the States General.
[Illustration: "There are many odd and fantastic sights here." (_See
page 347._)]
To-day promenades take the places of the old fortifications, and
handsome residences stand where the simple sturdy fisherfolk once dwelt
in their cottages. The tide of fashion rolls where a simple people
lived their daily life of care and toil. Here congregate people of every
nation, the old and the young; and the cosmopolitan character of the
promenade is a source of great entertainment to the stranger. As we
approach the Digue or chief promenade, which is elevated fully a hundred
feet above the beach, we are struck with the beauty of this grand
esplanade, a hundred feet wide and extending miles along the shore. On
the city side are many handsome buildings; residences, hotels, cafes and
some stores. These buildings occupy a space fully a mile in length, but
the promenade with its tiled pavement skirts the sea for many miles.
Chairs and benches are placed at convenient intervals for the use of the
public, and every day, especially in the afternoon, thousands of
fashionably dressed people appear upon this walk, rejoicing in the
opportunity to display elaborate gowns; some by strolling to and fro
before the benches and chairs, and others by more ostentatiously driving
by in handsome equipages, with coachmen and footmen in appropriate
livery.
Yet it is delightful to sit here on a clear evening, listening to the
harmonious melody of the sea, as it mingles its voice with the strains
of a fine orchestra, and watching the merry throng passing and
repassing. The silent night afar out on the glistening waters seems like
a brooding spirit.
"Thou boundless, shining, glorious sea,
With ecstasy I gaze on thee;
And as I gaze, thy billowy roll
Wakes the deep feelings of my soul."
We extend our walk and take in the Kursaal, a handsome structure of
marble and iron built upon the side of the promenade. It covers a large
area, and within its walls, the sounds of choice music are constantly
heard. Dances, concerts and many other forms of entertainment keep this
fashionable resort in a whirl both day and night. On many of these
occasions the dressing is the most important feature of the affair. The
people who resort thither are families of considerable wealth, and can,
when they choose, run to extremes in paying court to Dame Fashion.
[Illustration: "One's portfolio might soon be filled with interesting
subjects." (_See page 347._)]
Let us descend about noon, by the long low steps, from the promenade to
the beach below, and here we will find a long unbroken line of wagons
facing the sea. These wagons have large numbers painted conspicuously on
their backs: upon one side is a window with a curtain carelessly drawn,
and a pair of strong shafts is attached to each vehicle. The stranger
will wonder what on earth these unsightly things are designed for, and
why they thus mar the beauty of the beach. Have patience; inexperienced
stranger, and you will see these inanimate wagons suddenly break ranks
and now one, now another be hauled rapidly forward, some to the water's
edge, others into the ocean up to the hubs. In explanation of this I
would state that when the bathing hour arrives, a horse is attached to
each wagon, and the occupant or occupants, when it reaches the water's
edge, open the door and spring forth a nymph and her companions, in
their scant bathing robes, ready for the plunge. The costumes of both
men and women are not such as find favor with fastidious mortals, and
many of the scenes witnessed on this beach would not be tolerated at any
of our American watering-places.
It is quite common for men, women and children to remove their shoes and
stockings and wade ankle deep in the surf.
However, there are many odd and fantastic sights here, and many pretty
tableaux on the beach which would delight the eyes of an artist, and I
often think that one's portfolio might soon be filled with interesting
subjects.
As the races are to be held this afternoon at the Course, a mile beyond
the Kursaal, and just off the promenade, we wend our way thither. The
race-course is similar to those in England and France. As the appointed
hour approaches, a throng of fashionable people seat themselves upon the
grand stand, until every place is filled, and even the aisles are
crowded with the elite of Ostend.
I forgot to mention the fact that the day is Sunday, but this seems to
make little difference to these gayety-loving people.
The horses start, and now betting and excitement go hand in hand.
"Some play for gain: to pass time, others play
For nothing; both do play the fool."
I have the peculiar good fortune on this occasion, of predicting the
winning horse a number of consecutive times in my conversation with one
of our party who sits beside me. These lucky guesses attract the
attention of a stranger who is on my other side, and considering them as
so many evidences of remarkable judgment or knowledge, he resolves to
profit thereby. Accordingly before the next running, as the horses walk
slowly before the spectators and the judges' stand, the man quietly asks
me to name the winner in the next race. I quickly make a choice and
mention the horse's name. The stranger bids me good-day and hastens away
to place his "pile" with some bookmaker on the identical horse which I
have named.
[Illustration: "Many typical Irish characters come aboard our vessel."
(_See page 353._)]
With a rush of spirit and courage the noble animals fly over the course,
and every jockey seated in a saddle looks determined to win. Faster and
faster they urge the flying steeds with spur and voice, and the animals
themselves, with distended nostrils and steaming breath dash past the
judges' stand in frenzied effort. The merry jingle of the bell proclaims
that the goal is reached: the great sign-board with the winner's name
upon it is visible to all. What has become of my luck? And what has
become of the stranger who relied on my judgment a few moments ago? My
horse has lost. Goodness! I feel as though I have committed a crime, and
I am very sure that Dame Fortune receives from me in private a score of
epithets, not the most complimentary in the world for her unprincipled
desertion. I feel sure that if I had my instantaneous camera, or pencil
handy, this disappointed man's face would make a foreground in the
picture that would surely be a "_winner_."
We leave Ostend on the steamer La Flandre. The schedule time is 10:40 A.
M. We go on board amid shouts of kindly farewell from our friends on
shore. As it is a clear bright day with a delightful salt breeze, there
is much pleasure in sitting on deck and enjoying the view. The English
Channel is generally a turbulent body of water, noted for its many
victories over the unfortunates who trust themselves in its power, but
to-day it is mild and calm, probably plotting mischief to the next boat
load of passengers that shall come its way.
Indescribable confusion reigns in our hotel, at Liverpool, for more than
a hundred of its guests are on the point of sailing for America.
Innumerable packages, grips, umbrellas and walking sticks line the
corridors. Every one is moving to and fro in hot haste. One lady asks me
if I know at what hour the steamer on which she has taken passage will
sail: another wants information in regard to her steamer: a man with
perspiration trickling down his face begs me to tell him how to send his
five trunks and other baggage to the landing stage. These and many more
annoying and importunate people make life a burden to me. I do not know
why they choose me to share in their misery. Do I look like a walking
bureau of information, I wonder! If I do, I shall learn how to change my
expression. But in truth the faces of these bewildered people are a
study, and I am genuinely sorry for them.
The steamer cuts loose from her moorings, and moves gracefully out into
the great ocean. As we approach Queenstown, we observe the small farms
and dwellings close to the edge of the water. Then the lighthouse and
the forts which guard the entrance to the harbor come into view, and now
we drop anchor and wait for passengers and the mails. A little steam tug
becomes visible, and as she draws nearer, we learn that she is bearing
the mails and passengers to our ship. At last she is close beside us,
and when made fast, the transfer takes place. Now is the time for the
camera or sketch book, for many typical Irish characters come aboard our
vessel, with strange, half-frightened faces, and their worldly
belongings carried on their backs, or clutched tightly in their hands.
Among the group I notice a middle-aged woman with a young pig nestling
peacefully under her arm. Whether it is a pet, or simply a piece of live
stock to begin housekeeping with in the new country, I cannot say, but
with a contented expression on both faces, Bridget and her pig disappear
into the special quarters which are reserved for the emigrants. This
whole scene is very interesting. The old-fashioned black glazed
oilcloth bag and trunk play a conspicuous part in the picture, and here
and there are seen bundles tied in red bandanna handkerchiefs and
carried on the end of a stick, which is slung over the shoulder, while
the corduroy knee breeches, woollen stockings, heavy shoes and
pea-jackets with caps to match give us a fine representation of the
Irishman on his native heath.
Several small boats are floating at our side: from one of these a rope
is thrown to a sailor on our deck, and a bright and comely Irish girl
climbs nimbly up, hand over hand, and stands among the cabin passengers.
With quick, deft movements she pulls up a basket filled with Irish
knickknacks, such as pipes, crosses, pigs, spoons and forks made of
bog-wood; these, with knit shawls and similar articles, she displays on
deck, and it would be difficult to find a prettier, wittier, more
attractive specimen of old Ireland's lasses than this. By means of her
ready tongue she disposes of all her wares, and when the whistle warns
all hands to leave the deck, she glides gracefully down the rope, and
settling herself in her little boat, pulls for the shore.
[Illustration: "Several small boats are floating at our side." (_See
page 354._)]
This is our last stop until we reach New York. The anchor is pulled up,
and away we go steaming on our homeward voyage. The little steam tug
runs along beside us for a time, then the whistles of both vessels
blow a farewell to each other, and our little comrade gradually fades
from our sight.
Suddenly a heavy fog comes up, and the incessant blowing of the fog-horn
is a tiresome sound: but the wind follows up the mist and scatters it
far and wide, and now we have the boundless prospect of the ocean before
us.
"Strongly it bears us along in smiling and limitless billows,
Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and the ocean."
As we gaze upon it day after day, its beauty and grandeur grow upon us
more and more. I can think of no better words than those of Childe
Harold which so beautifully express the thoughts the scene inspires.
"Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll.
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin--his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deeds, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined and unknown."
Then, as if by magic, the huge waves lessen in their angry murmurs, the
surface becomes quiet and calm; evening creeps on, and the glow from a
descending sun illuminates the scene. As I look upon this beautiful and
restful picture, I think how true the words:
"Beyond is all abyss,
Eternity, whose end no eye can reach."
_The reading of this book has no doubt been a pleasure and a profit to
you. Then why not recommend it to your friends? You will find cards on
the inside of the back cover to assist you._
[Illustration: "Beyond is all abyss, Eternity, whose end no eye can
reach." (_See page 358._)]
BY THE AUTHOR OF ODD BITS
British Isles through an Opera Glass
By CHARLES M. TAYLOR, Jr.
Author of "Vacation Days in Hawaii and Japan." With 48 full-page
illustrations, principally from photographs. Crown 8vo, about 350
pages, deckle edge paper, cloth jacket, in box, $2.00.
What is said of "The British Isles"
Mr. Taylor has the knack of making the story of his journeyings
entertaining to the public. The usual descriptions of time-worn scenes
give place to charming personal narrative, and a wealth of incident and
episode gives to the book an exceptional interest. The fine half-tones
of English scenes liberally scattered through the work greatly enhance
its charm.--_The Philadelphia Call._
It is a record of a pleasant tour by the less frequented paths of
travel, not only in England, but in Scotland and Ireland. The author
takes little from the guide books and their familiar histories, but
notes many interesting details that attracted his own attention.
Furthermore he has illustrated his book with a large number of
photographs, both of places and people, that are quite out of the common
run, and the pictures alone would suffice to give the volume
distinction.--_The Philadelphia Times._