every corps would be considered disfigured for life in America. Every
one of them has long sears on his face and head. The restaurant where
we eat is a favorite resort for the corps and we see much of them. It
looks like a shame that every one of those bright young men will have
to go through life with a face like a war map of Manchuria. But they
wouldn’t trade those sears for love nor money. (I am told they are
good for love.) They are the badges of bravery and ability, and are as
highly prized as the bronze button of the Grand Army man. As I have
remarked, some ambitions are very funny, and if the German students
want to be hand-carved in this manner there is no use of a football-,
prize-fight-loving nation making any kick.
[Illustration: THE GERMAN WAY.]
[Illustration]
Heidelberg is a “wet” town. I suppose half the places on the main
street are beer-gardens and some of the others are wine-rooms.
Everybody in Germany drinks beer and wine. There is this difference
between France and Germany: In France the men do most of the drinking
as they sit in the sidewalk cafés watching the women go by. In Germany
the man brings his wife and children and they all sit around the table
in the garden or restaurants and drink beer. They do not seem to get
intoxicated. I haven’t seen anyone drunk, although they drink by the
wholesale. Beer is high in Heidelberg, up to 2½ cents a quart, but
out in the suburbs it is cheaper. I think beer-drinking makes the
Germans have bad forms, for men and women get round and fat. But in
Germany these forms are considered beautiful, so the sylph-like and the
slender are looked down upon. It is an illustration of the fact that it
is a good thing we don’t all think alike about such things as personal
beauty, or some of us would have to always be away back sitting down.
[Illustration]
I have been in Germany a week, and I have not seen a half-dozen men
smoking pipes. I thought Germans were great pipe-smokers, but they
are not in this part. The Heidelberg pipes are mostly made to sell to
Americans and English. The Germans smoke a little the worst cigars I
have ever met. They are cheap in price and the Germans consume them in
large quantities. The kind the high-class Germans use closely resembles
a brand known in our country as “The Pride of the Sewer,” and sells at
about two for 5 cents. An American who is accustomed at home to buying
“a good nickel cigar” can’t find anything that good in Germany, unless
it may be in the big hotels where they cater to American and English
trade. I had always had Germans pictured to me as big fat men with long
pipes in their mouths, sitting around tables on which were large steins
of beer. The beer is here all right, but the men are as bright and
energetic as Americans, and they smoke cigars and not pipes.
Another dream gone up in smoke.
[Illustration]
It is a great country for castles and “legends.” I think the average
yield of legends per acre is larger in Germany than in any other
country on earth, especially in the Black Forest and on the Rhine. That
is one thing our country is short of—legends. Aside from a few old
Indian stories, a tale of woe about the grasshoppers and reminiscences
of the Populists, we haven’t anything that approaches the legends which
hang on almost every tree in the Black Forest and stick out of every
castle-window. And yet Kansas could raise legends as well as Germany,
for a legend is nothing but a lie told so often that nobody knows
where it started; and Kansas has her share of liars. Here is a sample
“legend” from the old castle of Heidelberg which we visited to-day:
A HEIDELBERG LEGEND.
The count of Heidelberg had a beautiful daughter. (They all do—in
legends.) Her reputation for beauty went all over Germany and reached
the shores of Great Britain. The king of England saw the photograph
of the fair lady dressed in her bicycle suit, and instantly fell in
love with her. But he did not want the German beauty to marry him for
his money and title, so he disguised himself as a cook, got a job in
Heidelberg castle and made eyes at the princess. It was a case of
two-hearts-that-beat-as-one, and the princess soon began to make dates
and meet the supposed cook back of the castle and down on the Neckar.
He revealed his real identity to her, but made her promise not to tell.
He then went to the old man and asked him for the hand of his daughter.
The count laughed at the cook, which made the latter mad and so he
blurted out that the maiden loved him. Then the cook skipped out and
the count sent for his daughter. She confessed to being in love with
the cook, but on account of her promise did not tell his right name.
The old count got into an awful rage and ordered his daughter whipped,
and the lash was applied so well that the princess died. Before she
passed away she told her father who the cook really was, and the count
of Heidelberg was truly sorry; but that did no good. A few days later
the king of England with an imposing suite arrived to ask the hand of
the princess, and when he found out what had happened he took the old
man out behind the barn and sliced him up in fine pieces.
There is a song which tells all about this affair, and the music is
about as good as the legend.
WORMS AND OTHER THINGS.
WORMS, GERMANY, July 23, 1905.
People do not laugh in Germany when you pronounce the name of this
town properly. Say the word as if it were spelled Vorms and give the o
the long sound, and you will admit that it is better than the way you
used to say it. For many years I have heard of Luther and the Diet of
Worms, and being at Heidelberg, only a few miles away, we came here to
see Worms, the “Diet,” and to spend Sunday. Four hundred years ago this
was quite a town, one of the free cities of the Rhine owing allegiance
only to the emperor. It was here that in 1524 Charles V., emperor of
Germany, summoned Luther to appear before a congress of princes and
imperial electors, and wanted him to fix up a compromise. The emperor
of Germany was in a ticklish position. About half of his subjects were
loyal to the pope and about half had bolted with Luther. The princes
and dukes were divided, and were fighting each other to prove that they
were right. The German empire was demoralized with internal dissension
and feuds. So Charles thought it would be a smooth thing to get Luther
before the august assemblage, induce him to concede some and get the
Catholics to concede some, and have a sort of “Missouri compromise.”
Luther went to Worms, although he was warned not to do so. As a matter
of fact, Luther did not want to separate from the Catholic Church, and
his claim was that he wanted to reform it. But after the controversy
had continued a few years he kept getting further away, and Charles
had made his move too late. Luther laid down certain doctrines which
he knew the loyal Catholics could not agree to, and then announced
that he took his stand upon them and would not move. The result of the
emperor’s effort at peace-making was that each side was a little more
infuriated than before, and the war went on.
[Illustration]
A hundred years ago Worms had gone down to be a town of only 5,000
inhabitants, but now it has about 40,000 and is a thriving little
city. But in spite of the growth and progress in the last century
there is still a general air of quaintness and age which makes it
very interesting because it is so different. A magnificent monument
to Luther is the show feature of the place. On a massive platform ten
feet high is the figure of the great reformer, over nine feet high,
surrounded by statues of Huss, Savonarola, Wyckliffe and Waldus,
and of princes who befriended Luther. A number of German cities are
represented by allegorical figures or coats of arms, and the entire
group makes an impressive monument and memorial. The palace where
Luther met the emperor and princes has been destroyed, but another
takes its place and with a right good imagination the tourist can stand
where Luther stood, any day between the hours of 11 and 5 o’clock.
Strange to say, the town to which Catholics and Protestants came is
now controlled by the Jews, who dominate the business interests of
Worms as they do those of many other German cities. Worms is on the
Rhine river, and the valley of the Rhine is the garden-spot of Germany.
Coming over the fertile fields of the Rhine valley is a good deal
like riding in the Arkansas valley between Nickerson and Haven, with
its rich farms, great orchards and prosperous communities. But in
the hundred miles I have traveled along the Rhine I have not seen a
reaper or a mower, a sulky rake or any other kind of machinery except
a hand-sickle and a hand-rake. I think there are more women at work in
the fields than there are men. Perhaps the men are off in the army.
Perhaps they are in town drinking beer and talking politics.
[Illustration]
Coming from Heidelberg to Worms we had to change trains twice in an
hour’s time. Changing trains is no easy job in a foreign country. At
Manheim, where the station is as large and as busy as the Union Depot
in Kansas City, our incoming train was late and when we arrived our
outgoing train was due to leave. With the assistance of a porter I was
handling a half-dozen grips and bundles when Mrs. Morgan discovered our
train at the other side of the depot. She promptly started across the
tracks just as she would at home. I thought there was a revolution or a
fire, as a dozen train porters, as many policemen, the station-master
and a lot of assistants set up a yell that fairly made the air tremble.
The station-master rushed after her, caught up and brought her back,
with at least ten men talking vociferously and gesticulating in German.
The fact was she had broken the law of the empire. It is not merely
violating a railroad rule to cross the track, but it is against the
criminal law and punishable by a jail sentence. Of course they didn’t
do anything to Americans, but if a German should cross the tracks
where it was forbidden they wouldn’t do a thing to him! They actually
held that train five minutes after time while we made a circuit of the
station to the other side, when we could have sensibly and reasonably
have been allowed to cross the track in a half-minute.
[Illustration]
Speaking of railroads and the management makes me think of the
conductors. I have ridden first-class, second-class and third-class in
Germany. When the conductor enters the first-class carriage to see the
tickets, he takes off his cap and says in German: “If you please, will
you me your tickets show?” When he comes into the second-class carriage
he says: “Tickets, if you please,” and when you hand them over he gives
them back with a military salute, but keeps his cap on. When he comes
into the third-class carriage he simply says: “Tickets!”
When the train starts out of the station the station-master (dressed in
a gorgeous uniform) stands on the platform at a salute until the last
car passes him. This is a very pretty custom, and I think the station
agents at Hutchinson ought to be required to put on their uniforms and
salute the trains.
The almost universal custom in Germany is to eat out-of-doors in the
summer-time. The hotels have spacious porches or gardens, and there we
eat breakfast, dinner, and supper. (They have dinner at noon and supper
in the evening in Germany.) There are no flies, and there seems to be
but little wind, so you can eat comfortably in the open air and not
swallow too much that is not on the bill of fare. It is a sensible and
delightful custom. After the evening meal at the hotels or restaurants
everybody stays at the table for an hour or so, and there is music by
the orchestra or band. The only good feature I can see to the German
army is that it provides nearly every city with a fine band which gives
concerts frequently. The cities and towns usually support bands, and
most of them own theatres and opera-houses. I think we have attended a
band concert every evening since we entered Germany, and we could go in
the afternoon if we had time.
By the way, right here in Worms, in the part of the city that looks
about as it did in Luther’s time, we were wandering down a narrow
street when we were stopped by familiar music, the popular two-step,
“Whistling Rufus.” The German bands play a great deal of American
music, mostly Sousa’s marches or our “ragtime,” and it always gets
an encore. At Heidelberg the military band played “Hiawatha.” For
two years it has been almost against the law in the United States to
play “Hiawatha.” But the Germans liked it. I don’t think the German
bands play ragtime properly. They go at it seriously, as they do
the selections from Wagner and such like which make up most of the
program. They add a good deal of noise and they do not get the “swing”
that is given by American musicians.
I have discovered in Germany that Wagner and his kind of composers
wrote a lot of good music that never gets across the water, the kind
that has tune to it,—not so much tune as Sousa’s pieces, but a good
deal more than is ever rendered in the United States. And I suppose
the German bands understand Wagnerian music better than the American
bands, just as Sousa can direct a better two-step or march than a
German conductor. A German municipal band or military band, such
as plays every night in one of the public parks in every city, is
as good a band as Sousa or Innes ever took on the road. I am not a
musical critic, I am thankful to say. I like music whether it is good,
bad, or indifferent. I like grand opera some and light opera a great
deal. I enjoy a fine band or a poor one, a selection from Chopin or
a street piano. I will follow a band, a drum corps or a bagpipe all
over town. I am even fond of the “Blue Bells of Scotland.” Probably my
recommendations will not be accepted by all the musical experts at home
after these admissions, but I can’t keep from saying that German band
music is the best in this world to which I have been introduced.
[Illustration]
I have written of the growing use of the English-American language
on the continent of Europe. Here at Worms we are stopping at a very
Dutch hotel. When the waiter came for the first time I went to work in
German. The construction of a supper bill of fare in German is not
easy for me, but I tackled the job bravely. I know enough German to
order meat and potatoes, but my pronunciation is ragged on the edges
and my verbs are not hitched right and the genders of the nouns are
only likely to be right one guess in three. After I had floundered
along for about three minutes the waiter gravely and politely
interrupted: “Won’t you please give me the order in English?” RICH OLD
FRANKFORT.
FRANKFORT, GERMANY, July 24, 1905.
This is one of the old and wealthy cities of Germany, with 300,000
people and a fine country around about. It is the place the Rothschilds
came from. A few years ago when the Populists were pretty much the
whole thing in Kansas and to be against them was to be in the pay of
the Rothschilds and the Great Red Dragon, I was on the Rothschilds’
side, and never having received any compensation I thought I would call
and see what was the matter. It was no trouble to find the Rothschild
house, for it is described in every guidebook and is marked by an
inscription on the front. The morning after we reached the city we
went to formally make a call, and found the place to be an old and
unpretentious building. I rang the bell and asked the little girl who
came to the door if Mr. Rothschild was at home. She ran away and I went
on in and part way up the stairs, when a man appeared and said “fifty
pfennig.” I told him I was an old friend and merely wished to pay my
respects—pay nothing else, not even fifty pfennig. I talked English
and he talked German, but I had no difficulty in understanding that
it would cost me 12½ cents American money to go through the house.
This I declined to do, and unless the gentleman who wanted the fifty
pfennig tells Mr. Rothschild I don’t suppose he will ever know I came.
In fact, I was afterward told that none of the present members of the
Rothschild family live in Frankfort, but have their homes in Vienna,
Paris, and London, where they dictate the financial policy of the
world. Only a little over a hundred years ago the law of Frankfort was
that every night at sundown and on Sundays and feast days all Jews must
stay in their own part of town, and the gates inclosing their section
were locked until the following day. As an illustration of how rapidly
the wheel of fortune turns I was told that now, although comprising
but one-tenth of the population, the Jews handle three-fourths of the
business, own over half the real estate, and hold most of the high and
responsible positions in Frankfort, where their great grandfathers had
no more show than a rabbit.
[Illustration]
Goethe, the great German poet, was born in Frankfort, and we visited
the house of his birth and boyhood. His father was a lawyer, but the
poet could not help that. Young Goethe was a bright lad, and took to
writing poetry as readily as he did to going with the girls; and he
kept at both occupations all his life. A petty German prince took
him under his patronage and Goethe never had to work for a living,
so he went on writing poetry and having a good time until he died
at the age of 83 years. The Germans love Goethe as the Americans do
Longfellow, for he was a poet who loved his country, his countrymen
and his country-women, and his works are full of sweet and patriotic
sentiment as well as being beautiful in construction. Goethe and his
friend Schiller and the literary crowd which followed their lead, made
the German language classical and correct, and occupy the same place in
German literature that Shakespeare does in English. The “Goethe house”
here is under the charge of a historical society, and has been put in
the same shape that it was when Goethe was a boy. It is an interesting
place, for it is not only full of mementoes of the poet but of the time
in which he lived.
[Illustration]
The most interesting public buildings I have seen in Germany are here,
the “Roemer,” a name applied to a group of twelve old and picturesque
houses. In one of these the electors of the German empire (certain
hereditary princes) would assemble to elect an emperor whenever there
was a vacancy. After the election they would have a banquet and the
fountain in the public square would run with red and white wine while
the people cheered and drank the health of the new man. This was
calculated to make the emperor very popular at least that night, but
I wonder if the people were so enthusiastic when the headache came
the next morning. These old buildings are well preserved. In fact,
Frankfort is a city which takes good care of itself and is like a
prosperous man. The most beautiful public garden I have seen is here,
the Palm Garden, and a fine military band gives concerts afternoon and
evening. Frankfort is not only well off, but old enough to enjoy the
fact, and everywhere the city is made to look as handsome and be as
comfortable as possible. The best and cheapest eating in Europe is in
Frankfort, and that fact has made a deep and lasting impression on my
heart.
[Illustration]
It is doubtless repeating what has been said before, but I cannot help
wonder at the industry of the German farmers. Of course they were
raised right on the place, and their fathers and forefathers were
farmers. They probably don’t know anything else, and never expect to
sell out and move to town. In this fertile Rhine country, where there
seems to be a model climate, they irrigate the land as if it were arid
and they fertilize and drain and cultivate with the hoe and rake.
I never believed the story, but it is true. The wealth of a German
farmer can be gauged by the size of the manure-pile in his front yard.
No doubt when a German farmer brags on what he has done he does not
refer to the purchase of a quarter-section of pasture land in the next
township, but points with pride to the large and luxuriant heap of
fertilizing substance which he can call his own. Instead of farming
more land, he tries to get more out of what he has than he did, and his
attempt is a success. He does not have a herd of cattle, but he has one
or a half-dozen cows which live in the other end of the house, and are
curried, fed and looked after as carefully as members of the family,
perhaps more so. The cattle are good-looking, smooth and polished,
evidently well bred, and certainly well taken care of. They are much
better in appearance than the average of American cattle, but the care
bestowed upon them easily accounts for the fact.
Frankfort is geographically in Hesse, the old state from which George
III. hired soldiers to fight the Americans. In the good old times a
little over a hundred years ago, a German prince who was hard up for
cash would rent out his soldiers to fight and be shot at. The pay went
to the prince, not to the soldier. It is hard to believe that such
things occurred only a comparatively short time ago, and yet they did.
The Hessians did not understand American tactics and were not much of a
success in our Revolution, but they were always good fighters in German
wars, and the little state was a powerful one. Frankfort was a “free
city,” and not under the active rule of the Hessian princes. For 500
years it kept its independence of any local prince, but in 1866 it was
annexed to Prussia. The time for the independent cities of Europe was
ended.
Besides Rothschild and Goethe, Frankfort is noted for the Frankfurter
sausages. I was pleased to find that this was no legend. In Bologna,
Italy, I was surprised to find no bologna, but Frankfort stood the
test. There is also a house where it is said Luther preached a sermon
while on his way to Worms. It is a tobacco-shop now.
[Illustration]
In every German city there is an old bridge with a history. The old
bridge at Frankfort across the Main river, which is a good big river
and lined with freight boats, is mentioned in a document of 1222. It
is constructed of red sandstone, and looks as if it would easily stand
700 years more. A bridge like that is really worth more than an art
gallery. The legend connected with the bridge is not so bad. It seems
that the architect who drew the plans and supervised the construction
had made a mistake in his calculations. He came to realize that the
span would not hold weight, and he could see the ruin of the bridge
and his own reputation mighty close at hand. Of course he was in a
terrible state of mind, and when he was at his worst the Devil dropped
in to see him. The Devil offered to show him how the defect could be
remedied, the bridge built and his reputation saved, if he would sign
a contract that the first who crossed the bridge should become the
Devil’s property. The poor architect at first nobly refused, as most
men do when tempted, and then fell, as men occasionally do. He signed
the contract, the Devil pointed out the correction in the plan, and
the great bridge was successfully finished. Then the architect had
remorse (they always do afterward), and nearly went wild with thinking
of what he had done. But the day the bridge was formally finished and
turned over, before the mayor and city council could get into their
carriages after the dedicating speeches, a rooster broke loose from a
chicken-house, ran down the road, across the bridge and went to the
Devil. Of course the Devil kicked, but the architect stood on the
letter of the contract, and they all lived happy forever afterward.
This legend is undoubtedly true, for on the middle of the bridge is an
iron cross with a figure of Christ and on top of the cross is a bronze
rooster.
DOWN THE RHINE.
COLOGNE, GERMANY, July 29, 1905.
The words “Down the Rhine” have a strong significance to everyone who
has read history, poetry, or romance. From the time when Cæsar crossed
the Rhine to punish the warlike tribes for invading Gaul, down to the
Franco-German war of 1870, every European war has been fought more
or less in the valley of the Rhine. And for 2,000 years whenever the
nations of Europe were not marching their armies to the Rhine, the
petty princes, potentates and powers of the valley were fighting one
another. The Rhine is the dividing line in Europe. Those who have read
these letters to The News will appreciate the fact that instead of
going to the large cities of Munich, Berlin and Hanover, we began with
the Rhine as it flowed out of Lake Constance and plunged over the falls
at Neuhausen, and have followed it through the Black Forest and Germany
on its way “down north” to the sea, and will finally watch it mingle
its blue into the great salt water at Rotterdam and The Hague.