Chapter III: Part 3

Most rivers begin in a small way, from springs, creeks and little streams. The Rhine is the outlet of Lake Constance, and rushes out of that inland sea a great river ready-made, and begins with a magnificent waterfall second only to Niagara. It is a wide, deep river, and as soon as it emerges from the Swiss mountains becomes the great highway through Germany and Holland to the ocean. Along its banks are timber, coal and iron, great cities with factories, and fertile lands tilled to the utmost point. The freight rate is the lowest possible, and the productive value of the country is increased by the ease and cheapness with which the markets of the world are reached. Steamboats and barges go up and down in much greater numbers than do the freight trains of America’s greatest railroad. For much of its length the banks are walled, and the cities, towns and villages are almost continuous. In width the river is from 500 to 1500 feet, and it is about 550 miles long. The last 360 miles, from Manheim to the German ocean, has a channel of not less than thirty feet in depth, and in that 360 miles the fall is only 280 feet, the last hundred miles only 33 feet.

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So much for the Rhine from a business viewpoint. This little town of Koenigswinter is on “the picturesque Rhine,” at the foot of the Drachenfels, the last of the big hills or mountains by which the Rhine flows in its course from Manheim to Cologne. We stopped at the little city of Bonn, seat of a good university, and an old town. Beethoven was born in Bonn, and we visited the little house he selected for that event in his life. It was most interesting to see the things used by the great composer, among them the original drafts of many of his great works. Beethoven’s folks were poor, and when only a boy he played the pipe organ at the church and was in the Bonn string band. When 22 years of age he went to Vienna, where he was taken care of financially by the Austrian emperor. He never married. He and a countess fell in love with each other, but her folks did not approve of her marrying a musician. Beethoven’s father sang tenor and his grandfather had led the Bonn brass band, and Beethoven himself was giving lessons. So they could not marry, though I don’t see why the countess did not arrange it later when Beethoven became famous. But he was very deaf and probably very cranky, for he was a great musician, and perhaps the Lady Amelia backed out herself.

* * * * *

This is what is called the picturesque Rhine, for here the river runs through some German mountains, which rise almost abruptly from the banks. The mountain-sides are cultivated as we do first-bottom land. The principal product is the grape, which gets just the proper sunlight on these mountain-sides to make its juice command more money than the wine from the back country. There are also many truck farms, small pastures, patches of alfalfa and wheat, all tilted up from the river at an angle of 45 to 90 degrees. The roads are good and white, the fields just now are green, the sky is a blue like the sky in Italy and Kansas. The little towns with their white-washed houses and red-tiled roofs cluster every mile or so along the river, and the view from the mountains or from the river is one that makes the tickle come around the heart. In this beautiful spot where nature and man have both been busy for so many hundred years we are spending a few days for rest.

* * * * *

Of course I climbed the Drachenfels, the mountain which looms up like a sentinel and has on its top a ruined castle with a view and a legend. Byron told of the great view, and every tourist who stops has to climb the mountain. So we climbed. Mr. Byron was right this time, for the view is grand. Ordinarily I take little stock in Byron’s fits over scenery. He traveled through Europe and had thrills over some very ordinary things. Byron could take a few drinks and then reel off some verses which gave an old ruin or a tumble-down castle a reputation which it will use forever as a bait for tourists. But this time Byron was right, for the panorama of the Rhine valley, made up of the river, the hills, the sky, the shades of growing green, the white-and-red towns, and the boats as noiseless as birds, is one worth more than the twenty-five American cents it takes to make the climb on a cog-wheel railroad.

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The ruined castle, which stands about 1,000 feet above the Rhine and yet so near it seems that one could throw a stone from the parapet into the river, was occupied by a line of the fiercest gentlemen that ever robbed an innocent traveler. For several hundred years no one was safe to go this way unless he paid the robber barons, who had a sort of confederacy or union, in which the Count of Drachenfels was one of the main guys. The name means the dragon’s rock, and comes from the fact that a Dragon once resided in a cave near the top. The legend says that it was customary among the old heathen to feed prisoners to the Dragon, so he would look pleasant and not roar at night. Returning from a trip into the west they brought a number of captives, among them a beautiful Christian maiden. The heathen young men all wanted the girl, so the wise chief decided that she should be given to the Dragon, thus preventing a scrap among the brethren and paying special tribute to the Drag. They formed a procession and marched to the big rock where they were accustomed to lay out provisions for his nibs. The beautiful girl was bound hand and foot, covered with flowers, and then the crowd got back to see the Dragon do the rest. The Dragon came out roaring like a stuck pig, but when the girl held out a crucifix toward him he bolted, ran and jumped from the rock into the river. The best-looking young man among the heathen then rushed forward and released the lady, married her, and they lived happily ever afterward,--so the legend says. And there is no reason to doubt the legend, for there is the rock, there is the river into which the Dragon leaped, and he never did come back.

Along the Rhine

KOENIGSWINTER, August 8.

Next to riding on a Dutch canal comes a trip on the Rhine. The passenger steamers and motor-boats go up and down this part of the Rhine like street cars. Every boat is comfortably equipped with refreshment parlors and restaurants, and the waiters keep trying to please the thirsty traveler by offering him wine and beer. It is hard on a Kansan. What these Germans need is a governor and an attorney-general and a row over the joint question. Poor Germans! they do not know it, and they keep right on drinking beer and growing fat and looking happy. Aside from this unfortunate habit, which does not seem to hurt them as it ought to, the Germans are a fine lot of folks. They are immensely proud of their country, which is a trifle hard on us modest Americans. They really believe Germany can lick the world, and they have a notion that there is no nation so progressive as theirs. In some respects they are right, and in many phases of business and scientific advancement the Germans lead the world.

I am inclined to attribute this to their public-school system, which is superior to ours in some respects. Without going into an extended argument on the subject, I will explain my reason for this opinion. The German system of education is very rigid for the boys and girls. The discipline in the common schools is military. The children go to school more months in the year and they are compelled to learn. There is no foolishness, no excuses from fond parents, no late parties, no indifference, no any-thing-to-get-through. The German teachers are not content with getting the children to pass, but they insist they shall _know_ their studies. This severe training is kept up until the boy or girl goes to the university, and then discipline is relaxed and he or she can do about as they please so far as personal conduct is concerned. In America the parents and the government let the little folks do as they please outside of short school hours, and then tighten up the in high school and university. Our scheme doesn’t work well. Our grade schools turn out indifferent scholars and boys and girls who have not been trained to study. Our course of study is fixed to make it easy, when every one knows that hard work is needed to develop character. If the Germans go ahead of the Americans in the next generation it will be because their school system is better than ours, because it trains the children better for the work to come. The Germans think just as much of their children as do the Americans of theirs, but they do not spoil them,--which is a great American fault and which counts against the children ever afterward.

* * * * *

We rode on the boat to Godesberg, and Rolandseck and Heisterbach, and Johannisberg, and Niersteiner, and all the other places which are recorded on the wine-card at a Kansas City hotel. The very names are enough to make a Kansas man file an information with the county attorney. Each town has its brand of wine, its old castles, its flourishing business, its comfortable hotels, and its legends of olden times. Most of the legends tell of the triumph of True Love, but here is an exception:

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An old knight whose castle at Schoenberg was an important place in the feudal system of tax collection, had seven beautiful daughters. He died; these seven girls ruled in the castle, and all they cared for was a good time. They went hunting, gave late supper parties, and were much talked about; but their beauty and the castle of their inheritance kept them popular with the men. Many knights asked them to marry, but each and every suitor was given the merry ha-ha by the maiden he sought. Knights even fought and killed each other, disputing as to the merits of the sisters, and the ladies made such funerals the scenes of great enjoyment. Finally the knights had a mass meeting, and resolved that the seven sisters be required to select husbands. When this news was conveyed to the sisters they said this was just what they wanted. They proposed that they would give a picnic, to which all the would-be husbands should be invited, and after lunch they would announce the knights of their choice. The picnic day came, and it rained in the morning as it always does on picnic days. The knights came with their swords and their lunch-baskets and stood around throwing balls for the cigars and shaking for the lemonade, until the skies cleared and it was announced that the seven sisters would be in at once or as soon as they had finished dressing. Then came another hour’s wait. Suddenly a boat appeared around the bend, and in it were the Seven, all decked out with big hats and rhinestone buckles. The eldest sister stood up in the boat, screaming as it rocked, and said: “We don’t care to marry any of you country jakes. We are going to Cologne to visit a cousin, and there we propose to have a good time without being obliged to throw down some knight who wants a bride and a meal ticket every so often.” The other sisters joined in singing the old-time version of “Goodby, my lover, goodby,” and the boat sailed for Cologne. The knights cussed, and laid the blame onto each other; but suddenly a storm arose, and the boat began to bob around in the waves. The seven sisters screamed, but it did them no good. The boat upset, and all on board were drowned.

This legend teaches flirtatious young ladies not to trifle with the home boys.

On the spot where the boat went under, seven pointed rocks appear above the surface of the water even up to today. I saw them, and I guess that proves the legend.

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I have always believed that Kansas people make a mistake in neglecting the legend crop. For example, a good legend about Elmdale Park in Hutchinson would cause thousands of people to visit it and pay 10 cents apiece, besides buying post-cards and printed copies of the beautiful story, which might go something like this:

Once upon a time there lived in the First Ward a man and his wife who had an only daughter. They were the only father and mother she had, so honors were about even on that point. They loved this Daughter so much that when she grew up she was not taught to sew or to cook, but to play the piano and to sing “Love Me and the World is Mine.” She was very beautiful as she sat on the front porch reading the latest novel, “The Soul of My Soul,” while her mother fried the beefsteak for supper. Suitors came from far and near, one of them a brakeman on the Missouri Pacific, and another an assistant chief clerk in a hash foundry. But her choice fell upon a handsome young knight she met at Elmdale Park, who wore an open-faced vest and a Brazilian diamond on his shirt front, but who had quit school in order to go to work and then forgot about it. He saw the clean home and he smelled the fried steak and thought the young lady did it all, when in fact the young lady could not boil an egg. They were married, and he at once came to live with his wife’s folks. The old Father developed an unexpected trait, and insisted that the Bridegroom should pay board, which he proudly refused to do, took his bride and went to Wichita. There he was offered a position as chamber-maid in a livery stable and the Girl found it necessary at odd times to do the laundry work for a small boarding-house. Thus they lived for nearly two years, when she borrowed a postage stamp and wrote home: “I have a Divorce and two children.” The father and mother promptly sent her enough money to pay her fare, and she returned to the castle of her childhood. But she had learned a lesson. The next time she got married she did not pick up a friend in Elmdale Park, but made him show her his bank book and his receipt for dues in the Modern Woodmen. At the place in Elmdale Park where she met her first soul-mate she planted a cottonwood tree, which is there yet, and under its shade lovers now meet, remember this legend and buy post-cards which tell the story.

In German Towns

COLOGNE, GERMANY, August 9.

This is the big town of the lower Rhine country in Germany, though it has rivals which may sometime take the title away. It is also the old town, and there have been many hot times in its history. It was started in the first century of the Christian era as a colony by Aggripina, the mother of Nero, and a lot of Roman soldiers were given extra rights for settling in the new town. A couple of hundred years later a bridge was built across the Rhine, and Cologne became of commercial importance. When Christianity was extended to this section it was made the seat of a bishop and then of an archbishop. It grew rapidly and was independent in its tendencies, so when the break-up came of the old Roman empire it became a free city, and with some bossing by the archbishop the people ruled, that is, the wealthier and more important, a sort of aristocracy. Napoleon annexed Cologne to France, but when he was overthrown the city was handed over to the king of Prussia, and it has been Prussian ever since. In the last hundred years Cologne has developed as the great jobbing and commercial city of this section. It is full of quaint old houses, narrow streets, medieval architecture, and has the best cathedral in Europe. Dutch and German cathedrals are generally Protestant, but the Cologne cathedral is Catholic. When the Reformation came the Lutherans especially enjoyed capturing a cathedral, tearing down the images and statues, destroying all the artistic beauty they could, and making the house of God as plain and uncomfortable as possible. On the other hand, the Catholics believed in beautifying and adorning their churches. The present-day Protestants doubtless wish their predecessors had been less zealous and that the beautiful decorations and paintings had not been defaced by whitewash. The Cologne cathedral is the finest specimen of Gothic architecture in the world. Of course it is in the shape of a cross, and is 157 yards long, 94 yards wide, 201 feet to the roof, 357 feet to the tower over the center, and the towers are 515 feet high. These figures give no idea of the impressive and imposing interior; and the exterior, which is a profusion of turrets, gargoyles, cornices, galleries and other decorations, makes the visitor catch his breath as he looks at this great structure. The foundation of this cathedral was laid in 1248 and the work was completed thirty years ago; so there was no rush about the job.

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Twenty-five miles below Cologne is Düsseldorf, also on the Rhine, and the place where the iron and coal development of Germany seeks its market. You know what iron and coal did for Pittsburg, and it is the same with Düsseldorf. It is the growing city of the section, and threatens to pass Cologne. As Düsseldorf is largely modern, having developed since the days of railroads and steel bridges, it has wide streets, beautiful buildings, and its architecture is of the present generation. Düsseldorf is noted for its municipal ownership, and is often called a model city. The town owns the street cars, the light system, the docks on the river, the water plant, a pawn-shop and a lot of other things, including a couple of breweries. Municipal ownership comes easier in the Old World than in the New. It was formerly the custom of the government to own everything, and to lay out parks and provide utilities for the people, who were then too poor to do much themselves. So the modern European government, which is largely popular, succeeds to the power of the ancient monarchical rule, and provides the big things for the people. A strong-handed ruler who can condemn private property, and wisely put the good of the entire community above the property and welfare of individuals, does these public works much better than our own municipal governments, which have restricted powers and which have to do what the people want rather than tell the people what they ought to do. Generally speaking the public ownership of utilities is a good thing, provided the government has the power and the integrity to do the business right. Düsseldorf has a mayor and twelve salaried aldermen, a common council of 56 members, and over 5,000 city employés.

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One great difference between Germans and Americans is the regard in which they hold the law. Unfortunately, our new civilization has brought about a general feeling that the law is meant for the other fellows and we obey it if we have to. For that reason it is easier for a German municipality to manage business than it is for an American--and especially for a Kansan. Imagine what would happen in Hutchinson if the city owned a couple of breweries like the city of Düsseldorf. The next spring election the candidates would be running on the beer issue, and there would be all kinds of opinions. In Düsseldorf they hire expert brewers, sell the product, and the city takes a good profit. In Hutchinson the First Ward would be kicking because they didn’t like the head brewer, the Sixth Ward would demand a reduction in the price of beer, and the Third Ward would make the candidates pledge themselves to another beer garden in the south part of town, where it would be poor business. The final result would be that Mayor Vincent and Dr. Winans and the rest of the commission would be charged with favoritism and defeated for reëlection, and their successors would make beer at a loss and nobody would be satisfied. The curse of American municipal affairs is this playing of politics with every petty question. The Germans take the wiser method of cutting out politics, selecting their best men for public office, giving great respect to them personally, and accepting the laws they enact. When the mayor of Düsseldorf comes out for a walk everybody he meets takes off his hat and salutes. In our country everybody the mayor meets has a kick about something, and as for taking off his hat to the mayor--the American citizen would see him in Halifax first.

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A Kansas man, Clarence Price, of Pittsburg, stirred up all kinds of trouble in the German empire recently. Price has a moving-picture show, travel scenes and such, and is in Europe to get some of the best and see the local color. He thought it would be a fine thing to compliment the German army with a picture; so he had his machine at one of the forts of Berlin taking views of the drill of an artillery squad. The police saw him, and he nearly spent the night in the Hotel de Jail. It was all the American Consul and the Associated Press could do to save him, for the police believed he was a French spy, and as they could not understand the Pittsburg language and Price could not talk their German, it was only with difficulty that he got word to his friends and was finally released. A German jail is not fitted up for pleasure and comfort, but to make people sorry they get there, and as the picture machine had been confiscated there was not even the consolation for the Kansas showman of being able to present to the American public the sight of German justice administered on the spot.

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Everywhere in Germany the load the people are carrying is militarism. The young men of the country lose several of the best years of their life in their army service, and heavy taxes burden business and industry. The people are patriotic, and this army is necessary, for there is always the prospect of a war, and of course they want to lick the other fellow. But the newspapers are praising Taft and urging that arbitration and disarmament are practicable if the course marked out by the United States is followed. It makes an American really proud of his country and his President when he hears the praise that is everywhere bestowed on both for taking the lead in the most important movement of the times. There has been a marked change in sentiment toward Americans among the educated and upper classes the last few years. The poor people always were strong for us. But the business men and the newspapers, as well as the brass collars, sneered at Americans as mere money-makers. McKinley brought the change when the United States jumped into a war with Spain to help Cuba. Dewey at Manila pounded it into their heads with language the Europeans could understand. Roosevelt’s dashing policies and his stand for peace between Japan and Russia impressed them wonderfully. And now Taft’s policy of arbitration instead of war is receiving the commendation of uppers and lowers, and they recognize the statesmanship in the treaties. To use one of Roosevelt’s favorite words, it is bully to be an American and travel in Europe, just to see how much better it is at home and to feel the respect paid to our great nation and its leaders.

Arriving in Paris

PARIS, August 11.

Paris is a good deal like a circus, a three-ringed one which strains the rubber in your neck trying to see all you can before the acts change. Even the arrival is theatrical. As the train pulled into the Gare du Nord, after making the last forty-five miles in fifty-five minutes, I passed our hand baggage out through the open car window to a porter, and, going out the door myself, told him in a confident tone “voiture,” which is the foolish French word for cab. He understood, piloted us through the big station and called a little victoria with a seat for two. The driver wears a white celluloid plug hat and a red face. He drives a horse which probably fought with Napoleon. He nods assent to the name of the hotel as I mispronounce it, takes our three grips on his seat, and away we go down the street, the Lord and the cabby only knowing where. On the sidewalks are busy people talking French, walking French, and gesturing French. The stores and shops are attractive, for the French shopkeeper puts his best stuff in the front window, whether he is selling hats or sausages. Big busses, with people on top as well as inside, motor cars and motor busses with horns and honks, loaded wagons drawn by heavy Norman horses, street sweepers with brooms, policemen in red-and-blue uniforms, maids in cap and gown, porters with their work shirts outside their trousers, restaurants and little cafés with tables and chairs on the sidewalk and French men sipping absinthe or cold coffee, buildings almost uniformly six stories high, built with courts in the center which are often seen through open doors, and everybody talking, gesticulating and screaming in a language you cannot understand,--that is the confusion through which we drive for two miles and for which journey the cabman takes off his hat when I pay him 35 cents, which includes a 4-cent tip for himself. The hotel porter, or chief clerk, the head waiter, the pages, the manager and several assistants meet us at the hotel door, and in response to inquiries assure us that there is a bath-room in the hotel and that they have a “very nice” room. As an additional and decisive argument why we should stop there the chief clerk asserts that they have ice-water, and the entire company falls back in an ecstatic gesture which evidently means “What do you think of that?” We examine the room, agree upon a price, and then and not till then do we dismiss the cabman and proceed to get settled. We are in Paris, the dirtiest and prettiest city in the world.

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Of course the first thing to do is to get out and see the sights, but of course it is not. The first thing is to get the mail and the next is to clean up. After traveling eight hours on a fast train through a country which has had no rain for two months, one really does not care for the wonderful things which the world talks about. Then comes the French dinner, which is something of an affair. A dinner in France goes like this: Soup, fish or eggs, veal, beef or mutton, and a vegetable and salad, cakes or tarts, fruit or ice. No coffee is served with the meal, but it is usually taken later and is an additional charge. Any attempt to vary this bill of fare is regarded as insane. I tried my best to get string beans served with my veal course, but I couldn’t. The waiter said “Oui,” then went and called the other waiters, and I could see them looking at the crazy American. That made me persistent, and I sent for the head waiter and told him I wanted beans--and I knew they had them ready. The head waiter said “Oui” and disappeared, and soon the clerks from the office strolled by and looked in. By this time the veal was cold, and I realized that any further attempt might result in calling the police, so I gave it up. No one refused to get my beans, but each time I was told “oui,” which means “yes” and is pronounced “we,” and each time nothing further happened except the sympathizing and curious mob. Once I traveled in Europe with a friend named McGregor, who wanted his coffee served with his meal, as it is in Illinois. He was willing to pay any price and he would put in his order hours ahead of mealtime. Did he get it? Certainly not. Coffee is not served with the dinner in France, and that is all there is to it.

American travelers have won on one point--ice. Every hotel and restaurant which caters to American trade advertises ice-water. No Frenchman will drink it, but in some way the managers found that ice could be procured in the summer-time, and as a special favor to Americans, at a small increase in rates, the hotels give us ice-water.

No real French hotel has a bath-room, to say nothing of a room with bath. I suppose the French, who look clean, either go to the creek or swim in the washbowl. Again the American influence is felt. First-class hotels now have bath-rooms, or a bath-room, and when it is used the charge appears on the bill, so much for a “grand bath.”

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After dinner we went for a walk on the boulevards, just as every Frenchman who can, does every evening. The boulevards are the wide streets which run through the city in different directions, and were constructed at first for military purposes. In the little narrow streets of old Paris it was easy to start a revolution by merely throwing a barricade across a “rue,” prying up cobblestones for weapons and stationing a few old women on the housetops with pots of scalding water, which are harder on soldiers than leaden bullets. The revolution habit got so strong in Paris that the boulevards were constructed so the soldiers could march through the city without being stopped by barricades and mobs. They are likely to be used for that purpose again sometime, but just now the boulevards are largely for parades in which French millinery and hosiery are placed on exhibition every afternoon and evening. The sidewalks are occupied by cafés, miles of them it seems to me, and for the price of a drink, from one cent up, and in substance from coffee down, a Frenchman can occupy a comfortable seat and observe the wonders of art and glimpses of nature which pass by. An American can do the same, only a real American can never put in a whole evening consuming one small cup of coffee or whatever other beverage he can call for in the French language.

So when I say we “went for a stroll,” we did so in the Parisian sense. We went for a sit, and let the promenaders do the strolling. Here and there an orchestra was playing some frivolous air, the street lights flashed from the lamp-posts, old ladies sold newspapers and post-cards, and the chattering but musical French language filled the air with a suggestive touch of the bohemian accent. The later the hour the larger the crowd, until midnight came, and then the Parisians went to the dances and parties and the American visitors to the hotels.

The French Character

PARIS, August 13.

It is a little hard to take Paris seriously, because Paris refuses to take herself that way. There is a cheerfulness and a playfulness about the French folks that is hard to appreciate from the calm viewpoint of an Englishman or American. Our standards are different along so many lines that comparisons are unfair without explanations; and who cares for long-winded explanations? According to all the rules that are laid down in the books of American etiquette, the people of this city should be behind the rest of the world in all the serious and necessary works of life. And yet French generals have fought and defeated larger armies with their French soldiers, French engineers have performed marvelous feats, French scientists are authority, French musicians command the highest prices, French business men do great things, the French people are wealthy, and when it comes to literature and art we in America are really small potatoes. The fact seems to be that the Frenchman who promenades the boulevard and the French lady who startles the Puritan in us, are accomplishing just as much with somewhat limited resources, as we do, and we are the greatest people on earth as we admit ourselves.

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The show place in Paris is the parallelogram along the Seine, consisting of the Champs-Élysées, the Place de la Concorde, the Tuileries gardens, and the Louvre art gallery. This district is about three miles long and averages a quarter of a mile wide. It contains the Champs with beautiful gardens and woods intersected by wide avenues, then the Place de la Concorde, one of the most beautiful squares in the world, the Tuileries’ commodious public playgrounds, with ponds and fountains; palaces with pictures, statues and monuments historical and allegorical; and the end is in the Louvre, which is said to be the greatest collection of art in existence. There is not a chord in the human mind and heart which is not touched beautifully and effectively by some part of this magnificent public place, which belongs to the people and is used by them. The more one thinks over this feature, the more he must realize that although the French do not conform to our methods they are certainly able to reach many of our best ideals, and whether they go around or cross-lots to get there depends upon the viewpoint of the critic.

* * * * *

The old Bourbon kings of France understood their people. While they made it hard for the common people to get a living they made it easy for them to have a good time. Whenever the public kicked on taxes, the king laid out a new park and gave a fête with free drinks and fireworks. The Bourbons would probably be reigning yet if Louis the Sixteenth and his wife, Marie Antoinette, had had any sense. Antoinette was German and did not understand the French ways, Louis was a poor politician, and when a storm came they lost their heads figuratively and then lost them actually. The republic lasted a few years and then Napoleon, who was as great a player to the grandstand as he was a general, became emperor, and only his foolish desire to conquer everybody lost him his job. The Bourbons came back as kings, but they had no sense. The French people want to be fooled, and these kings couldn’t fool anybody. So there was another republic, and then Napoleon the Third came to the front on the reputation of his uncle, the great Napoleon. He worked the French people to a finish, built palaces, boulevards and playgrounds until he had everybody for him, and then got captured by the Germans, lost his reputation and throne, and France became a republic for the third time. This was in 1871, and the republic has lasted forty years, much longer than expected, but in fact the government has been wisely conducted and has understood the French character well. There is another Napoleon, by the name of Victor, who is likely to come back, and sometime when the government does an imprudent thing the people will remember the good old times of Napoleon and return to a monarchy. Victor married the daughter of the old Emperor of Belgium, and has a big campaign fund.

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Of course everybody knows these facts, and I have recited them to illustrate the French national character. The French are not false, but they are fickle. They like a change, a novelty, an excitement. A revolution, or a new government, appeals to their sense of enjoyment just as does a new picture, a new hat, or a new coiffure. In spite of this trait they have done great things in all the great lines of advancement and progress. Theoretically they should be failures, but in fact they are successful. They consider Paris the greatest city of the world, and the way the people of other countries come here and add to the circulating medium seems to prove they are right. They practically refuse to learn any other language, but all other countries study French. Thousands of English and American Puritans come to Paris every year, but the Frenchman who travels for pleasure is unknown. Why is it? I give it up, unless we have some French tastes along with our English standards.

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The French people are the most temperate, most economical and most saving of any of the peoples of Europe--or America. With all their fun they love money, and never forget the necessity of having some in their old age. Get off the Parisian boulevards, which are spoiled by visitors, and you see the French, pure and simple, though not so very pure and not at all simple. They will bargain and figure down to the “sou,” the popular coin, worth two American cents. Every French family figures on spending less than it makes, and does it. There are practically no savings banks and no one much has a bank account, but as soon as a little money is saved it is invested in government bonds or municipal or railroad bonds, which bear four per cent interest. Every family has government bonds, and this habit of investing in securities is the reason which makes France so great and strong financially. The people pile their savings into the government treasury, the only bank they know. The family, which is always small in France, must save for the daughter’s dot, or she will never be married, and for the last years of the parents’ lives. There are practically no abjectly poor people in France. It is not fashionable to be poor, and French men and French women must be fashionable.

The Place de la Concorde is a wonderful square, larger than a couple of our city blocks. In the center is an obelisk, presented by Mohammed Ali when he was viceroy of Egypt and before the bargain sale of obelisks took place. It is a block of red granite, 75 feet high and covered with hieroglyphics which tell the deeds of an Egyptian gentleman named Rameses. The obelisk is surrounded by large fountains with mermaids and Tritons and dolphins spouting water into lower basins. Around the square are statues representing the eight principal cities of France. Since the monuments were erected one of these cities, Strassburg, has been taken by the Germans. This was forty years ago, but the monument still stands, and it is draped in mourning. In any other country the statue would have been quietly removed, but the French are not built that way. They hang their wreaths around Strassburg, swear vengeance on the Germans, and have a good time.

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This mourning habit is very popular in Paris. The ladies who are called upon to mourn do so with proper regard for appearances. As near as I can figure it out the death of a second cousin puts all the female members of a family into deep black. A mourning-gown with a very hobble skirt, with the hoisery and millinery to match and with plumes and décolleté neck to strengthen the effect,--well, it does not detract from the human interest one naturally takes at such a time.

The Latin Quarter

PARIS, August 15.

As everyone knows, the city of Paris is cut into two parts by the river Seine, which runs through it from east to west and with its curves is about seven miles in length within the town. The river is crossed by many bridges, all stone and substantial, many ornamented by statues. Little steamboats run up and down like street cars, and the banks are covered with massive stone walls. About half-way through the city are two islands, one called the Cité and the other the Isle of St. Louis. The Cité is the most ancient part of Paris, and was a town in the time of Cæsar. The coming of Christianity was marked by the erection of a church, and about the 12th century by the present cathedral Notre-Dame, one of the famous buildings in Europe, but not one of the finest cathedrals. By this time the city had spread out on the banks, and the organization of France into a kingdom with Paris as the capital was followed by a removal of the royal residence and of most of the activities to the sides of the stream. On the south side developed the university, the artists’ studios, and eventually the military establishments. Big business, the large residences and industrial enterprises went to the north bank. The Latin Quarter, as the educational and artistic section is known, on the south, while equipped with large stores, palaces and public buildings, is a most interesting and quaint place, and though still Bohemian is very respectable, from a Parisian viewpoint.

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The University of Paris, the original part of which was the Sorbonne, now an immense structure, has about 15,000 students. It differs from American universities in many respects. There are no recitations. The instruction is given by lectures, and a famous authority on law, or philosophy or science, can lecture to hundreds as easily as to a small class. There are no dormitories, no fraternities, no football clubs, no spring parties, no classes, no sports, no colors, no badges, none of the essential parts of American higher education. Students of any age or previous training may enroll and become members of the University, go to the lectures they desire, or not go at all if they prefer. The public can attend the lectures and the University is open to women, though the proportion of women students is not large. The most efficient instruction and the greatest sources of information are open to the students--if they desire. The Sorbonne was erected in 1629 by Cardinal Richelieu, and named for Robert de Sorbonne, who started a school for the education of poor boys in theology about 1250. It has been rebuilt and enlarged until it is a vast pile 800 feet long and 300 feet wide. This building houses the schools in literature and science, the schools of law and medicine occupying buildings near by.

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Although the students at the University of Paris do not have the fun in athletics and society that the students do in the University of Kansas, they have a good time in the French way. The quarter is filled with cafés, large and small, where students and artists congregate and eat, drink and make merry. The back room of the café is something of a club, and discussions on art and science mingle with the perfume of tobacco and fermented grape-juice. While there is a lack of co-eds there is no scarcity of ladies, who constitute a part of the course taken by many of the students, not leading to a degree, not even to matrimony. All of this, which would be regarded with horror in Lawrence, is quite the thing in Paris and seems to work out most satisfactorily to the University authorities, for even the professors do not hesitate to mingle with their students at the evening sessions in the joints of the Latin Quarter. The men take examinations and degrees and go their way to promote the advancement of learning, while the ladies stay and aid in the instruction of the next generation of students. The original of the old college story took place in the Sorbonne. A father who had graduated many years before came for a visit with his son, who had matriculated as a student. The son had gone to the same lodging-place which his father had occupied in the years gone by. The old man was recalling his student days, looking over the familiar place, noticing the changes and the old scenes. “The same old beamed ceiling, where I carved my name, and here it is,” he exclaimed with delight. “The same old view from the window. The same old furniture--” and just then the back door opened and a dashing lady appeared. “Same old girl,” he cried with rapture. The boy tried to explain that she was a friend of a friend. “Same old story,” was the happy comment, “Same old game.”

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Near the Sorbonne is the Pantheon, originally built for a church, in the shape of a Greek cross, located on a hill which is the highest place on the south side of the river, and with a noble dome that can be seen for many miles. This is a new building, having been constructed in the eighteenth century. It was dedicated to Saint Genevieve, the patron saint of Paris. The revolution converted it into a memorial temple and named it the Pantheon. It has been a church a couple of times since then, but is now not used for religious purposes. It is the burying-place of great Frenchmen. Here are buried Victor Hugo, Mirabeau, Rousseau, Carnot, and others distinguished in literature and statecraft. You can see the last resting-place of these great men by securing an order from the Government or by tipping the custodian: the latter way I always find the easiest and best. The Pantheon is beautifully decorated, and the interior with Corinthian columns and mural paintings is most effective. If it makes any difference to these men where they are buried they should be glad, for it is the finest memorial building in Europe.

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That leads me to a rather grave subject. As a matter of fact, funerals are very important events in France. Three or four directors in black clothes and three-cornered hats march ahead, and the hearse is heavily draped. If the departed was a man of prominence there are a number of orations delivered, the crowd goes away excited over the condition of the republic, and is likely to break windows and show its feeling toward the political opponents of the deceased. When Zola was buried a hundred thousand people marched in the procession, and there were a number of street fights and duels as a climax.

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But the biggest thing in the Latin Quarter so far as American tourists are concerned is the Bon Marché, I suppose the largest retail general store in the world. In most ways it is like our department stores, and announces that it has made its success by reason of faithful dealings with the public and by advertising. It has been running about fifty years; the original proprietor is dead, but the business moves on smoothly. The corporation has a method of division of profits among employés who have been with the store more than ten years. It also pensions its old employés, provides lectures and amusements for its workers, and has a paternal and cöoperative side that is interesting, although the corporation is in fact controlled by a few heavy stockholders.

Somehow I had the idea that our own country was the leader in the big department store business. But the Bon Marché and others in Paris took the idea out of me. It has many clerks who speak foreign languages, and it is said that a native of Timbuctoo or Arkansas could slip into the store and find some one who could speak his language.

The clerks in the Bon Marché get from $3 to $6 a week, with the exception of a few who have special qualifications. So I guess the old-age pension business is necessary. That is the ordinary wage paid store clerks in Paris.

It was at the Bon Marché that the ancient joke happened to me. I was looking at a price-mark, and, not understanding the figure, inquired in my pigeon French, “Est sees [6] auter set? [7].” The clerk answered “It is six.”

My French is a joke. From necessity I have learned enough French words to order a meal, buy a ticket and ask how much. I have found that a good bluff, plenty of signs and the throwing in of French and German words on the subject generally get about what I want. But often I fall down. The word for potatoes in French is “pommes.” I told a waiter I wanted “fried pommes,” and as the word for cold is “froid,” I got cold potatoes.

I went for a ride in the underground tube. Bought my tickets and got onto a train I knew was in the right direction. It stopped, everybody got out, and the porter insisted that I go too. I knew something was wrong, and I tackled the platform boss with good English. He couldn’t understand a word, so he waved his hands and clawed the air and talked French for a couple of minutes. Then he tried to walk off, but I hung on. I was away down below the surface of the ground and didn’t even know straight up. “Correspond” he kept saying, and I assured him I would be glad to do so if he would give me his address, but first I wanted to know where I was “at.” I knew he was swearing, but it was French swear and I didn’t mind. Finally he took me by the arm and walked me through a couple of passages and pointed to another platform. A light broke in on me, and I took the train which soon came. I learned afterward that “correspond” is French for “transfer.”

The Boulevards of Paris

PARIS, August 18.

The boulevards of Paris are one of the wonders of the world. Strictly speaking there are a number of broad avenues which are called boulevards, but usually “the boulevards” is a phrase which means the one long wide boulevard extending for several miles, from near the Place de la Concorde to the Place de la Bastille, built in a semi-circle on the north of the old city and on the fortifications which defended the city in the Middle Ages. Of course later walls and fortifications were built farther out, and the “grand boulevards” are through the heart of the present Paris. The boulevard--for it is one continuous highway--changes its name every few blocks, a fact that is characteristically French and somewhat confusing to the stranger. The beginning is a short distance from the Place de la Concorde at the church of the Madeleine, the fashionable church of Paris. The building is in the style of a Roman temple, and has an imposing colonnade of Corinthian columns. The interior decorations are very good, and include a large fresco above the altar in which Christ, Napoleon and Pope Pius the Seventh are classified more or less together. The boulevard is called The Madeleine for about 200 yards, when the name changes to the Capucines and sticks for a couple of blocks until the grand opera house is reached. Along this short stretch are some of the wildest music halls and the greatest cafés of the world. The greatest is the Café de la Paix, where everybody who visits Paris goes for at least one drink of ginger ale or cold coffee.

The Opera is the largest theatre in the world, covering about three acres. The site alone cost $2,000,000 and the building over $7,000,000. The materials are marble and costly stone, and there are statues of Poetry, Music, Drama, Dance, with other figures, medallions and allegorical statuary until your head swims. The front of the roof is sculptured with gilded masks and with collossal groups representing Music and Poetry attended by the Muses and Goddesses of Fame. Apollo with a golden lyre and two Pegasuses occupy the dome. The interior has a grand staircase of marble with a rail of onyx, and the rest of the interior is be-columned and be-frescoed to match. It is the most beautiful building in Paris, and could hardly be surpassed if the attempt were made regardless of expense. I would not try a detailed description, for it would not convey the real effect, best described by the word gorgeous.

From the Opera a street runs southerly called the Avenue de l’Opera, the great shopping street of Paris, and at another angle goes the Street de la Paix, where the most expensive jewelry stores and millinery establishments are located. The name of this street is properly pronounced de la Pay.