Chapter II: Part 2

In company with four detectives, I visited the "Seven Dials" of London, and the experience of those nights spent in scenes of horror, vice and degradation would fill volumes. Picture to yourself a small narrow street, with low wooden houses of two stories on either side. There are dim glimmering lights at intervals of about fifty feet. The hour is two o'clock in the morning, as one tourist attended by four officers wends his way through an atmosphere filled with dread and horror. We enter some of the houses which present scenes of indescribable squalor and confusion. A perfect bedlam of tongues reigns here. Men and women hurl abusive epithets at each other, from windows and doors, as well as from one end of the street to the other. The entire neighborhood enters into the quarrel, and the transition from words to blows is sudden and fierce. The street is filled in an instant with ragged, and almost naked beings, whom one can hardly call human, and the battle which ensues with clubs, knives and fists is beyond imagination. Cut heads, broken limbs, bruised bodies, bleeding countenances appear on every side, and it is quite evident that many are scarred for life. The sight is loathsome, yet it makes one's heart ache. Such scenes are of frequent occurrence in the slums of nearly every large city, where drink and depravity count their victims by thousands. In these vile abodes are the haunts of the thief, the smuggler, the fallen, and the pictures once seen, are indelibly impressed on the memory, with the long train of reflections awakened by such sights, and the inevitable query: Why is not something done to render such scenes impossible in this age of civilization?

At last the great Derby Day has arrived, and the whole atmosphere is filled with the importance of the occasion. The sprinkling rain does not dampen the ardor and enthusiasm of the true Englishman, for I am told that the races have never been postponed on account of the weather. After breakfast we stroll to the street corner where stands our tally-ho in readiness for the day's excursion. Having engaged our seats the previous day, we take our places and start forth, drawn by four spirited horses under the guidance of an experienced driver. The whip is cracked, the horn sends forth its musical signal, and away we go amid the cheers and applause of numerous spectators. Swiftly we roll over the well paved streets, and the high spirits of the company, accompanied by the frequent winding of the horn, render the ride extremely pleasant. The race-course is about eighteen miles out of London, and our road is through a beautiful portion of the country. Every lane and avenue is thronged with people, walking, driving, or on bicycles, but all going to the Derby. We stop for refreshment at the old Robin Hood Inn, an ancient hostelry, established, we are told, in 1409. Here we have a beverage, supposed to be soda water or milk, but which is in truth a stronger concoction, to brace us for the mental and physical strain of this exciting day. "All aboard," cries the coachman, and there is a general scramble for places. At last we are all seated, and proceed on our way, changing horses when half the distance is covered.

We take the main thoroughfare within three miles of the Epsom grounds, and now a wonderful sight bursts upon us. Thousands of pedestrians of both sexes and every age are flocking toward the race course: hundreds of carriages, vans, dog carts, tally-hos, vehicles of every description throng the road. Enormous trains are constantly arriving, bearing their thousands to the Downs, now covered with a vast moving mass. London empties itself on this all-important day, and proceeds to Epsom by every possible means of locomotion. The grand stand, a handsome and commodious structure, is quickly filled to overflowing. There are numerous other stands. The appearance of the Downs, with the countless booths and the waving multitude which cover it as far as the eye can reach, is a spectacle that cannot fail to thrill the soul of the most phlegmatic. No other event in England can concentrate such an amount of interest and excitement as is found on the scene of the Derby. Every one is in high spirits: young and old, men, women and children all seem merry and happy, laughing, singing, dancing along on this one great day of the year. Behold the party on our right. A large wagon contains ten or more men and women, who are singing and laughing in great glee, and who invite us to join them. Here a group of a half dozen men with musical instruments at their sides are singing to their own accompaniment. The dust rises in clouds, and we are covered from head to foot with it as with a garment: we all wear veils pinned around our heads to protect our eyes.

At last we reach Epsom Hill, and here we pay two guineas for the admission of our party and conveyance. We are also entitled to a place anywhere on the hill which overlooks the race-course. Our horses are picketed after being taken from the wagon, and our two attendants spread before us a most sumptuous repast. Coaches of every kind are so thickly jumbled together that for a vast distance the hill seems covered with a coat of dark paint.

Thousands and thousands of men, women and children are assembled upon this hillside, while tens of thousands fill the stands and encircle the race-course. It is estimated that no less than from one hundred thousand to one hundred and fifty thousand persons are massed together at these races.

The race-course is not like those in the United States, but is a sodded strip extending about half a mile in a straight line. The ringing of a bell announces the commencement of the races, and the mass of humanity surges to and fro in great excitement. Now is the book-maker's time, and he passes hither and thither, shouting his offers to the enthusiastic multitude, who accept or reject his propositions with eagerness or scorn, corresponding with their knowledge or ignorance of the horses ventured. Gambling and betting are at their height: vast sums of money change hands at the conclusion of the races, and many inexperienced as well as reckless ones leave the field at night ruined men. Meanwhile the confusion is indescribable.

But these sounds drop away, and silence prevails as five slender well-shaped racers appear, ridden by jockeys, but when the wild mad race begins in which each endeavors to outdo the others, the excitement and tumult know no bounds: shouts, groans, cheers fill the air, and every eye is strained along the course: one could readily believe that a whole world of mad spirits has been let loose to fill the air with their hoarse discordant sounds.

As the winning horse reaches the goal, a placard of large dimensions, on which his number is conspicuously painted, is raised within full view of the swaying crowd. The shouts and cheers burst forth afresh, and jubilee and pandemonium mingle their extremes in a scene to be imagined only by those who have experienced it.

As the first excitement cools, bets are paid, and accounts squared. Again the bell rings: another race, and a repetition of the previous scene, and so it continues for several hours.

But the racing is not the sole attraction, as is evidenced by the crowds surrounding the refreshment booths and side tents, where for a small fee one may see the Fat Woman, the Skeleton Man, or the Double-Headed Boy; or listen to the colored minstrels who charm the soul with plantation melodies; or have his fortune told in the gypsy tent by a dark-eyed maid in gorgeous attire, who will tell of a wonderful future which is "sure to come true." Or you may have your photograph taken on the spot, and finished while you wait. Here is a phonograph representing a variety entertainment, and the little group around it are laughing heartily at the jokes of the "funny man," the ventriloquist, and the story-teller. Here are fine bands of musicians, and dozens of oddities, and curious tricksters: and the whole forms one grand panorama of human life, the counterpart of which is to be seen nowhere else in the world.

At five o'clock, the horses are harnessed to our tally-ho, and with smiling but dusty and sunburned faces we bid farewell to the scene of gayety and start for home. Every road and byway in the surrounding country is swarming with people, and the scale of pleasure, disappointment, grief, hilarity and fatigue is reflected in the countenances of riders and pedestrians. Here is a group, overheated, weary, dejected, trudging slowly along the way, interchanging scarcely a word with each other: here a merry party, filled with life, singing, laughing, recounting the events of the day, as they wander on, arm in arm. Now a little lame boy smiles in our faces from the tiny cart which his sister pushes cheerily forward, and now a gay belle dashes by in a carriage drawn by fast horses, holding the ribbons and whip in correct style, while her companion leans back, indolently enjoying the situation.

The countenances of the men tell various tales, as the triumphs or failures of the day are expressed in their faces. Some few wear a stolid, impassive air, while others talk, talk, talk, as though they have never had an opportunity till now. As we ride along amid the stupendous throngs, many thoughts are aroused, and many a picture is put away in the recesses of memory to be brought forth and pondered over on a future day.

With the shades of night the curtain falls upon a scene of such magnitude that the brain is weary of contemplating it, and is glad to find temporary forgetfulness in "tired nature's sweet restorer." And so ends the great Derby Day.

Scenes in the Gay Capital.

_Scenes in the Gay Capital._

Dover to Calais--Paris--The Gay Capital by Night--Boulevards--Life in
the Streets--Champs Elysees--Place de la Concorde--Arc d'Etoile--Place
Vendome--Louvre--Opera House--Palais Royal--Church of the
Invalides--Versailles--Notre Dame--Jardin Mabille--The Madeleine--The
Pantheon--The Banks of the Seine--French Funeral Ceremonies--La
Morgue--Pere Lachaise.

We travel from London to Dover by train, thence by steamer to Calais. The chalky cliffs of Dover with their high precipitous sides are a pleasant and restful farewell picture of the shores of old England. A short run of an hour or more lands us amid scenes so different from those of the past few weeks that we feel that the magician's wand has again been exercised and the "Presto, change," has transported us to a region of maliciously disposed genii, who will not understand us, or allow us to comprehend their mysterious utterances; and the transformation scene is complete as we enter Paris, the home of the light, the gay, the fantastic.

Let the lover of the bright, the gay, the jovial, visit the broad boulevards of Paris by night, especially the Avenue des Champs Elysees, which seems to be the favorite promenade of the populace. Upon both sides are groves of trees, brilliantly illuminated by myriads of colored lights, and here amid these bowers is to be found every variety of entertainment for the people. Games of chance are played in the gay booths, Punch and Judy shows attract crowds of children, wonderful feats of horsemanship are performed, singers in aerial costumes draw many to the Cafes Chantants, and the lights of innumerable cabs and carriages flit to and fro in every direction like will-o'-the-wisps. Here is fine military music, as well as exhibitions of skillful playing on almost every known instrument.

The wide boulevards are long, straight and marvels of beauty, with their lovely gardens, handsome houses, and fine shops.

There are strong contrasts in the lives of those one sees upon these streets under the gaslight. I think Dante's three realms are pretty clearly represented along the avenues of Paris, beneath the starry dome of heaven, and within these gayly decorated booths and cafes. Here may be seen the high and the low, the rich and the poor, the grave and the gay, the innocent and the hardened in guilt, the adventurer and his unsuspecting victim. And this heterogeneous throng, this careless pleasure-loving crowd, may be seen drifting from one point to another till the cock crows the warning of approaching dawn. The streets of Paris by night afford abundant material for the artist, the photographer, the poet, author and clergyman; as well as the adventurer. Here indeed, if anywhere, one may

"read the human heart,
Its strange, mysterious depths explore.
What tongue could tell, or pen impart
The riches of its hidden lore?"

The Place de la Concorde is the most beautiful square in Paris. From its centre are magnificent views of the grand boulevards and many of the handsome public buildings, and here are the great bronze fountains marking the historic spot upon which stood the guillotine during the French Revolution. The lovely walks, the sparkling waters, and the statues and monuments, the obelisk, the merry strollers, and picturesque tableaux seen at every turn are positively enchanting. Up the broad vista of the Champs Elysees the eye rests upon the wonderful Arc d'Etoile, one of the most conspicuous monuments in Paris. It stands in the Place d'Etoile, one of the most fashionable sections of the city, and is surrounded by elegant residences and pleasant gardens. From this point radiate twelve of the most beautiful avenues in Paris, and from the summit of the arch one can see for miles down these grand boulevards. The magnificent arch of triumph, commenced in 1806 by Napoleon, was not finished until 1836. It is a vast structure, rising one hundred and fifty feet from the ground. The great central arch is ninety feet high and forty-five feet wide, and is crossed by a spacious transverse arch. Upon the outside of the arch are groups of splendidly executed statuary, representing scenes of conquest and allegorical figures. A spiral staircase leads to the platform on top, where one beholds this superb prospect which well deserves its world-wide celebrity.

We come upon the Place Vendome through the Rue de la Paix, and here stands the great historic column, erected by the first Napoleon in commemoration of his victories over the Russians and Austrians. The monument is constructed of twelve hundred pieces of cannon, captured in the campaign of 1805. Upon the pedestal and around the shaft which is one hundred and thirty-five feet high, are bas-reliefs representing warlike implements and the history of the war from the departure of the troops from Boulogne to its end on the famous field of Austerlitz.

In front of the central entrance to the court of the Tuileries, in the Place du Carrousel, is the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, also erected by Napoleon I., in 1806, in imitation of the triumphal arch of Severus at Rome. In the garden of the Tuileries, with its old-time atmosphere, its statues, fountains and pillars, its groves and terraces, its historic ruins, its lovely flower-beds, we find a quaint and charming picture of a past age; yet when these groves and paths resound with the hum of human voices, when the many chairs and benches are filled with joyous human beings, the link between the past and present is established, and we are in one of the favorite resorts of the Parisians of to-day.

Between the Tuileries and the Louvre is Napoleon's triumphal Arc du Carrousel--or rather between the courtyards of the two famous piles, which now form one continuous structure of magnificent architectural design, whose facade is adorned with Corinthian columns, elaborate sculptures and lofty pavilions. Groups of statuary, representing the most distinguished men of France, allegorical figures, floral designs and other decorations on a vast scale ornament these magnificent pavilions. The space enclosed by the old and new Louvres and the Tuileries is about sixty acres.

Some of the most beautiful of the architectural designs of the Louvre were completed by Napoleon I.,--to whom it owes much of its restoration,--from the drawings of Perrault, the famous author of Bluebeard, and the Sleeping Beauty.

We cross a square and quickly find ourselves in the garden of the Palais Royal, once the Palais Cardinal, and the home of Richelieu. The ground floor of the palace is occupied by shops. The garden which is enclosed by the four sides of the square, is about a thousand feet long and nearly four hundred feet wide. Here is a quadruple row of elms, also long flower-beds, shrubbery, a fountain and some statues. A military band plays here in the afternoon, but the garden presents the gayest scene in the evening, when it is brilliantly illuminated, and the chairs under the elms, as well as the long walks are filled with gay pleasure-seekers.

There is a magnificent opera house near the Grand Hotel, whose vast exterior is ornamented with beautiful statuary, medallions, gilding and other rich decorations.

In the Church of the Invalides we find the tomb of Napoleon I., who in his will expressed a desire that his ashes might rest on the banks of the Seine, in the midst of the French people whom he had loved so well. The open circular crypt is beneath the lofty dome, whose light falls upon it through colored glass, and with a wonderful effect. The pavement of the crypt is a mosaic, representing a great crown of laurels, within which are inscribed the names of Napoleon's most important victories; and twelve colossal figures symbolizing conquests, surround the wreath. The sarcophagus rests upon the mosaic pavement within the crypt, which is twenty feet in depth. This is an enormous block of red sandstone, weighing more than sixty tons, which surmounts another huge block supported by a splendid rock of green granite. The scene is solemn and grandly impressive, the faint bluish light from above, producing an effect wholly indescribable. In the higher of the two cupolas, directly over the crypt, is a painting, with figures which appear of life-size even at this great distance, of Christ presenting to St. Louis the sword with which he vanquished the enemies of Christianity.

Here is Versailles, with its "little park of twelve miles in extent, and its great park of forty," with its beautiful fountains and grottos, its wonderful groves and flower-beds. Here are velvety lawns adorned with fine statuary, green alleys, shrubberies and terraces, in which art and nature are so cunningly intermingled that they are often mistaken for each other. The fountains are representations of mythological characters, and the figures are carried out in their immediate surroundings. Apollo is in his grotto, served by seven graceful nymphs: while close by the steeds of the sun-god are being watered by tritons. Again, the basin of this god appears surrounded by tritons, nymphs and dolphins, with Neptune and Amphitrite in the centre, reposing in an immense shell.

Latona, Apollo and Diana are represented by a fine group: the goddess is imploring Jupiter to punish the Lycian peasants who have refused her a draught of water, while all around her, in swift answer to her appeal, are the peasants, some partially transformed, others wholly changed into huge frogs and tortoises, condemned here to an endless penalty of casting jets of water toward the offended deity.

Here is the famous old cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris with which Victor Hugo has made the world familiar. This grand Gothic structure was commenced in the twelfth century, and finished in the fourteenth. We view its exterior from a position facing the fine west facade, with its wonderful rose window between the huge square towers. The three beautiful portals are ornamented with rich sculptures and imposing statuary. These doors form a succession of receding arches, dating from the early part of the thirteenth century. The central portion is a fine representation of the Last Judgment. The interior is vast and impressive with its vaulted arches and long rows of columns. The ancient stained glass of Notre Dame is represented by three magnificent rose windows. From the summit of the tower there is a glorious view of the Seine and its picturesque banks and bridges: indeed one of the loveliest views in Paris.

Another famous and beautiful edifice is the Madeleine, or church of St. Mary Magdalene, which stands in an open space not far from the Place de la Concorde. It is in the form of a Grecian temple, surrounded by Corinthian columns, and the flight of twenty-eight steps by which one approaches the church, extends across its entire breadth. The great bronze doors are adorned with illustrations of the ten commandments. Within, the walls and floors are of marble richly ornamented, and the side chapels contain fine statues, and paintings of scenes from the life of Mary Magdalene. The high altar is a magnificent marble group representing angels bearing Mary Magdalene into Paradise. This whole interior is indescribably beautiful, and to enter into its details one would require a volume. From this sublime spectacle we pass to the Church of St. Genevieve, the protectress of the city of Paris, familiarly known as the Pantheon. This also is a magnificent structure, with three rows of beautiful Corinthian columns supporting its portico. The handsome pediment above this portico contains a splendid group of statuary in high relief, representing France in the act of distributing garlands to her famous sons. The central figure is fifteen feet in height. The edifice is in the form of a Greek cross, surmounted by a majestic dome, two hundred and eighty feet high.

Within the church the spacious rotunda is encircled by Corinthian columns which support a handsome gallery, and he who ascends to the dome will have an opportunity of observing closely the wonderful painting, covering a space of thirty-seven hundred square feet, which represents St. Genevieve receiving homage from Clovis, the first Christian monarch of France, Charlemagne, St. Louis, and Louis XVIII., while the royal martyrs of the French Revolution are pictured in the heavenly regions above. In the gloomy vaults below we behold the tombs of a number of eminent men, among them those of Rousseau, Voltaire, and Soufflot, the architect of the Pantheon. In the middle of the vaults is an astonishing echo. The roll of a drum here would sound like the thunder of artillery; a board dropped upon the pavement is like the report of a cannon, and the reverberations are repeated over and over again as though these subterranean spirits are loth to resign the opportunity of speech so seldom afforded them.

The tourist in Paris rarely fails to spend at least one evening in the Jardin Mabille; that is the male tourist, who is curious to behold life in all its phrases, and whom the fame of the garden attracts as the candle draws the moth. This is a pretty spot, with bowery paths, gay flowers, sparkling fountains, arbors and sheltered corners where lovers and others may enjoy tete-a-tetes undisturbed, and refreshments may be ordered to suit purses of all dimensions. There is a good orchestra on the brilliantly illuminated stand, and here the soubrette is in the height of her glory, while the better class of the visitors are as a rule, only spectators. There is some pretty gay dancing here, but order is preserved. On certain nights fine displays of fireworks attract many spectators. But the great feature is the dance, and the proprietors generally employ some girls distinguished by peculiar grace, beauty, or other characteristics who serve as magnets to the light and pleasure-loving throngs.

But why attempt to give even a faint idea of the innumerable attractions of the city whose abundant resources bewilder the tourist whose time is limited. It teems with life. It is overflowing with beauty, passion and love. Wandering along its gay boulevards, whether in the bright sunshine, or beneath the starry vault of night, with picturesque mansions or gay shops on either side, or amid the bowery paths and bewitching avenues, the gardens, statues, music and laughter, one feels that he is in an enchanted land, where high and low, rich and poor share alike in the universal beauty and happiness.

The charming banks of the Seine offer endless attractions. Here are many beautiful bridges, from which one may have picturesque views of the lovely gardens and palaces. These bridges are handsomely ornamented with statuary, bronzes, and reliefs, and bear interesting inscriptions. Floating bathing establishments are to be seen along these banks, and swimming schools for both sexes. Here are also large floats or boats capable of accommodating at least fifty women, who wash their clothing in the Seine. It is quite interesting to watch these robust girls and women, as they pat and slap the heaps of muslin with the large paddles provided for this purpose.

When a death occurs in a family of the middle class in Paris, it is customary to drape the whole lower story of the house with black, and place the body of the deceased in the front room. Holy water is placed at the head, also candles and a crucifix, and any one may enter and view the body, or sprinkle it with holy water, and offer a prayer for the soul of the departed.

The men who pass a house so distinguished reverently uncover their heads: they also take off their hats on the appearance of a funeral, and remain so until the procession has passed.

For him who is interested in such sights, the morgue presents a curious but sad attraction. Here lie on marble slabs, kept cool by a continuous stream of water, the bodies of unknown persons who have met their death in the river or by accident. Their clothing is suspended above their heads, and any one may enter and view these silent rows. After a certain period, if not identified, they are buried at the public expense. I behold many pathetic sights here, as broken-hearted relatives find their worst fears realized and lost and erring ones are recognized. Sad, sad are the pictures to be seen at the morgue. Here is a fair young girl, of not more than twenty years, resting peacefully upon her marble bed, her troubles in this world over forever. Her body was found yesterday floating on the Seine.

"One more unfortunate
Weary of breath,
Sadly importunate,
Gone to her death.

"Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

"Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful:
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful."

Pere Lachaise, once an old Jesuit stronghold, is now the largest cemetery in Paris. It is said that there are more than eighteen thousand monuments here. The older part is much crowded, and we find here famous names connected with every age and profession.

Here is a granite pyramid, here one of white marble, and here the love of a nation commemorates with flowers the grave of a man whose resting-place no lofty monument marks, but who "lives forever in the hearts of the French people." Here a monument whose sides exhibit bas-reliefs of the fable of the fox and stork, and the wolf and lamb, is surmounted by the figure of a fox carved in black marble. This is the tomb of Lafontaine. The little Gothic chapel yonder is the tomb of Abelard, whose effigy lies upon the sarcophagus within, and beside it is that of Heloise. This double monument is very lovely, although the signs of neglect and decay are plainly visible.

The military chiefs of Napoleon's day sleep in this cemetery, and here lie the mortal remains of St. Pierre, the author of Paul and Virginia, of the great painter, David, of Pradier, the sculptor, the actress Rachel, and hundreds of others with whose names we are all familiar. The grounds are picturesque with winding paths, and cypress groves, and wreaths and flowers everywhere testify to the loving remembrance in which the dead are held by the living. The elevated position of Pere Lachaise gives one a fine view of the city. The grounds when first laid out in 1804, covered upward of forty acres; they now extend over more than two hundred acres, and it is said that $25,000,000 have been expended in monuments since this cemetery was opened.

Antwerp and the City of Windmills.

_Antwerp and the City of Windmills._

From Paris to Antwerp--Along the Route--Thrifty Farmers--Antwerp--Dogs
in Harness--The River--Old Churches--Chimes--An Inappreciative
Listener--Steen Museum--Instruments of Torture--Lace Industry--Living
Expenses--Hospitality--The City of Windmills--Watery Highways--A City
of Canals--The Maas River--The Houses on the Canals--Travel by
Boats--Novel Scenes--Costly Headgear--Dutch Costumes--Powerful Draught
Horses--No Bonbons--Chocolate Candy--In the Market-Place--The Belle of
the Market--Photographs--Wooden Shoes--Drawbridges--Blowing the
Horn--Ancient Relics--The Sword of Columbus.

The country between Paris and Antwerp is delightful, and very different from the lovely landscapes of England. Farms, towns, villages, all present a novel aspect, and the people speak a language very strange to our ears. The great fields along the road are not fenced in but are only distinguished from one another by the difference in the appearance of the crops. In England, as I have said, there are beautiful hedges everywhere separating the fields and meadows.

Here are strong men and women working side by side in the fields. Here are buxom country lasses, rope in hand, one end of which is attached to the horns of the leader of a herd of cattle. These are glowing pictures, and the clean farmhouses, fields and roads are abundant evidences of the industry and thrift of the people.

Antwerp may well be termed a city of charms and fascinations. It is the most attractive and interesting town in Belgium, and at the same time one of the strongest fortresses in Europe. Our first impression of this place is of clean orderly streets, paved with the square Belgian blocks which endure so well the wear and tear of constant travel. The houses and shops are of a quaint, ancient style of architecture, and very picturesque effect. During the middle ages, Antwerp was a very important, as well as wealthy city, and its splendid docks, its wonderful cathedral, its magnificent paintings all testify that a period of exceptional prosperity has been granted to it in the past.

A strange sight are the heavy freight wagons, with their broad wheels and various loads, drawn by large powerful dogs. In many cases the dogs, of which there are sometimes two or three, are strapped under the body of the wagon by a kind of leather harness, or, if the owner be too poor, rope is substituted. A man or woman assists in drawing the load, which is frequently so massive as to appear disproportioned to the combined strength of man and beast. The dogs are bred and trained for their peculiar vocation, and are never allowed to shirk their part of the burden imposed upon them. Should they attempt to do so, they are quickly recalled to their duty by a small whip, hence the maximum result may be obtained from their labor. Their muscular limbs show plainly that they possess great strength and endurance. Large powerful draught horses with well defined muscles are also used. These horses must weigh fully from twelve to sixteen hundred pounds, and when four or six are harnessed abreast, tons of merchandise may be moved in one load. Antwerp, a city of about 260,000 inhabitants, is one of the greatest seaports of Europe, having splendid facilities for ships of every size, and huge warehouses for the landing and storage of immense quantities of merchandise. It is finely situated on the Schelde, which is at this point one third of a mile wide and thirty feet deep, and serves as an outlet for the commerce of Germany as well as Belgium. The town was founded in the seventh century, and has passed through many vicissitudes, attaining the summit of its glory under the Emperor Charles V., about the close of the fifteenth century. At that period it is said that thousands of vessels lay in the Schelde at one time, and a hundred or more arrived and departed daily. Its decline began under the Spanish rule, when the terrors of the Inquisition banished thousands of its most valuable citizens, who sought refuge in other countries, especially in England, where they established silk factories, and assisted greatly in stimulating the commerce of the country. After scenes of war and frightful devastation, varied by brief seasons of prosperity, the tide of success once more returned to the old harbors about 1863, and since then its commerce has increased in a greater ratio than that of any other European city. The Flemish population predominates, and its characteristics are those of a German town.

We enjoy many lovely views along the river frontage, where dozens upon dozens of ships lining the banks, offer a variety of pictures to the lover of water scenes, besides the fine prospect of the town from the river.

That the Cathedral is the first attraction for the tourist goes without saying, and those are well repaid who climb far up into its magnificent spire, even beyond the great group of bells that captivate the soul with their wonderful sweetness and melody. At a height of four hundred feet, the vast prospect spread out before one is indescribably beautiful. This Cathedral, the largest and handsomest Gothic church in the Netherlands, was begun in 1352, but was not completed until about 1616. The chimes consist of ninety-nine bells, the smallest of which is only fifteen inches in circumference, while the largest weighs eight tons. The chimes are rung every fifteen minutes, a musical reminder that the soul of man, no matter what his occupation, should be elevated by continual aspiration toward the living God. Oh, these beautiful chimes! What wondrous harmony they peal forth, and what a multitude of loving thoughts they gather up and waft hourly to the very gates of heaven!

A stranger in the town, and a traveller, made the remark to me that these bells must be very annoying, ringing at such short intervals, and especially at night. "It is worse than a swarm of mosquitoes," he said, "for one can escape the attentions of these insects by placing a net over his couch, but the piercing sounds of these monstrous bells penetrate one like the chill of zero weather." This reminded me of a man who shared our compartment in one of the French railway cars, who interrupted my enthusiastic remarks on Westminster Abbey, its exquisite associations, and the sacred atmosphere which impressed all who came within its hallowed walls, by an eager question regarding the luncheon to be served an hour later.

The interior of the Cathedral impresses one with its grand simplicity, and the long vistas of its six aisles present a fine effect. Here is Rubens' famous masterpiece, the Descent from the Cross, and his earlier painting, the Elevation of the Cross, both magnificent works, remarkable for the easy and natural attitudes of the figures. The high altarpiece is an Assumption by Rubens, in which the Virgin is pictured in the clouds surrounded by a heavenly choir, with the apostles and other figures below.

There are many other paintings here; also stained glass windows, both ancient and modern. The tower is an open structure of beautiful and elaborate design, from which lovely views may be seen during the journey to its summit.

Another interesting landmark is the "Steen" originally forming part of the Castle of Antwerp, but in 1549 Charles V. made it over to the burghers of Antwerp. It was afterward the seat of the Spanish Inquisition. It is now occupied by the Museum van Oudheden, a collection of ancient and curious relics from the Roman times till the eighteenth century. Within this building one may view the identical instruments of torture so mercilessly used by the Spanish inquisitors in the name of religion. It would not be difficult to photograph these diabolical inventions, for many of them are quite free from the surrounding objects, and not encased. In this collection we see also specimens of antique furniture, and a variety of ornaments, coins, costumes, tapestry curtains, ancient prints and engravings, and many other objects well worthy of observation.

In Antwerp we have the opportunity of seeing some exquisite laces and embroideries. A visit to one of the many establishments here cannot fail to interest the stranger. At one of the shops we are conducted to a room in which a dozen girls are at work upon a delicate piece of lace. They have been engaged upon this masterpiece for about three months, and the proprietor tells us that as much more time will be required to finish it. The design is a huge web, in the centre of which is the sly spider apparently watching the victims who have strayed beyond the line of safety. A number of handsome and rare specimens of this valuable handwork are exhibited in the shop window, and one's desire to possess them may be satisfied by a moderate expenditure of money.

Antwerp is the city of Rubens. We find his tomb in the beautiful church of St. Jacques, rich in carvings and noble paintings, not far from the fine altarpiece painted by his hand. He lies in the Rubens Chapel, and here too are monuments of two of his descendants. The house in which the illustrious artist died stands in a street named for him, and in the Place Verte, formerly the churchyard of the Cathedral, stands a bronze statue of Rubens, thirteen feet in height upon a pedestal twenty feet high. At the feet of the master lie scrolls and books, also brushes, palette and hat; allusions to the talented diplomatist and statesman, as well as to the painter.

One need not feel alarmed as to his expenses in this charming old town, for comfortable accommodations and good board may be enjoyed at less than moderate rates. I love this dear city, not only for its magnificent Cathedral, its rare paintings, its picturesque surroundings; but also for the remarkable hospitality of its people, their genial manner, their smiling faces. Their candor and honesty win the admiration and the heart of the tourist, and the stranger is quickly at home, and able to enjoy most fully the many attractions which the place affords.

But the time has come to bid it adieu; we take the train and in two hours find ourselves in the ever quaint and picturesque town of Rotterdam, fitly named the "City of Windmills."

Comfortable quarters may be found here at the Maas Hotel. Rotterdam, whose population is something over two hundred thousand, is the second city in commercial importance in Holland. Among its numerous attractions are art galleries, parks, gardens, the markets, bridges and canals, without mentioning the many windmills which wave their arms in blessing over the city. The place is intersected everywhere by canals, all deep enough for the passage of heavily laden ships, and with such names as the Oude Haven, Scheepmakershaven, Leuvehaven, Nieuwe Haven, Wynhaven, Blaak, and Haringvliet.

Our hotel is situated upon the bank of the Maas River, and our windows overlook this body of water, which is in reality a highway. Instead of wagons drawn by strong muscular horses, however, barges, schooners, sail boats, and every kind of small craft, overflowing with fruits, vegetables and other produce, traverse the river as well as the canals. Looking over these watery roads, the mind is confused by the hundreds of boats which seem inextricably mingled in one great mass, and appear to form a blockade as far as the eye can reach. Rotterdam might fitly add to its title of "City of Windmills," that of the "City of Canals." Houses, stores and other buildings are built directly upon the banks, and in fact, the foundations of these form the sides of the canals. In many cases the balconies of residences overhang the water, and passages are made beneath, by means of which produce, freight and other articles are conveyed to and from the buildings by boats, much as the wagons deliver goods in our cities from the streets to the houses.

All these novel sights impress the visitor with the great difference between the manners and customs of this nation and our own; the result of the peculiar environment of the two countries. A stroll about the city affords abundant opportunity for interesting observations. Here one sees hundreds of Dutch women in their costly headgear of gold and silver, heirlooms of many generations. These head ornaments sometimes cover the entire scalp, and have curious filigree additions extending over the ears and temples. The head is first covered with a scrupulously clean and beautiful lace cap, upon which the gold or silver ornament is placed. These heirlooms are valued beyond all price, and I have handled some which are two hundred years old, and which are held as sacred charges to be transmitted to posterity.

As we traverse the streets of this quaint city, we feel indeed that fashion has stood still here for many years. The custom is universal throughout Holland for the natives of the different provinces, as Volendam, Marken, Brock, etc., to wear in public, and especially when travelling, the costume peculiar to their own province, and it is by no means uncommon to see many odd and quaintly dressed women in close proximity to one another, each one representing by some peculiarity, a different province or section of the country. For instance; when I see the skirt of blue homespun made in full folds, and worn with a jacket of striped red and white, and the peaked bonnet trimmed with red and white tape, I know that the wearer is a native of the island of Marken. These various costumes, all gay and picturesque, are the source of great pleasure to the stranger, and add new life and interest to his travels in this country.

Here also we notice the huge, powerful draught horses, with their massive hoofs and shaggy legs, drawing strange looking wagons laden with curious boxes and furniture. The wooden shoes worn by the working classes also attract our attention and many other novel sights and customs give us the impression that we have chartered one of Jules Verne's original conveyances and wandered off to a country not located on this earthly planet.

Wishing to purchase some bonbons, we enter a candy shop and ask the fair maid behind the counter to put up a pound of this confection: our amazement is great when she replies that this form of sweetmeat is not to be found in Rotterdam. "What," I exclaim, "no sweets for the sweet girls of Holland?" "No, only chocolate candy." And this indeed is the only kind of bonbon to be had in Rotterdam. The sweet chocolate is moulded into various shapes. It is delicious, excelling in purity and flavor that which is made in any other part of the world.

Our guide is very attentive and energetic; and anxious to show us everything of interest about the town, he conducts us through the numerous market-places. At one of these some amusement is excited by my photographs and sketches of the market people and the buyers. The market man stands beside his wares with a happy, good-natured face that seems to say that the cares and worries of this world affect him not at all. The whole scene is like some vividly colored picture, and I think as I look upon it that this life bears with it pleasures of which we of the outside world know nothing. Apparently the people of this country possess the rare blessing of contentment with the lot which God has bestowed upon them.

An old man and woman are particularly anxious for me to photograph their daughter, who they assure me is the belle of the market. This assertion, I think, may be true without much compliment to the girl, for a homelier set of human beings it would not be easy to find. After some preliminaries relating to posing and keeping back the curious country people who crowd closely around me and the camera, I finally succeed in making a good picture of the Belle of the Rotterdam Market, with her father and mother on either side. They are all as proud as Punch of this performance, and seem quite "set up" by the occasion.

One day being near to a manufacturer of the wooden shoes worn by the peasants, our party of four slips within the shop, and are fitted after trying on at least a dozen pairs, to the apparent delight of Meinherr. It is necessary to wear a heavy woollen stocking to secure comfort in these shoes. The ordinary American stocking would soon be rubbed into holes by the hard surface of the shoe. Indeed it is quite a feat to be able to walk rapidly and gracefully in this clumsy footwear.

Over many of the watery streets of the city drawbridges are built, which are opened at intervals to allow the streams of boats to pass. The incessant blowing of a trumpet or horn similar to that of the tally-ho notifies the watchman of the approach of boats. This sound may be heard at all hours of the day or night in any part of the city, and is at first, especially at night, rather disturbing to the stranger, but like other annoyances which are inevitable, the exercise of a little patience and endurance will enable one to eventually like the trumpet, or else to become as deaf to them as old "Dame Eleanor Spearing."

I know of no place in which the lover of the antique, whether he is a collector of ancient coins, jewels, china, furniture, or a seeker after rare curios and relics, can experience greater delight than in this old city of Rotterdam. Here are hundreds of shops, whose proprietors devote their whole lives to the accumulation of such objects, and it is needless to say that their stock is rich and unique, and possesses abundant variety. We visit a number of these establishments, and I succeed in gathering up a large assortment of old swords which please my fancy. One of these is said to have been owned by Christopher Columbus(?). The shopkeeper vouches for the truth of the statement, and as I am willing to believe it, in the absence of proof to the contrary, I label it as the sword of the great navigator who added a new hemisphere to our globe. The remaining swords have been the personal property of lords, generals or other warlike celebrities, and again I take comfort in the thought that if the records are not truthful, it is a minor consideration when taking into account the moderate prices which I have paid for the articles.

The artist will find in Rotterdam a wealth of material both for figure subjects, and odd and picturesque bits of landscape. Here too are wonderful interiors, with all the quaint associations of a bygone age. Here are scenes on the canals, the bridges, and the ever changing life on the river. By all means visit Rotterdam if you desire original studies for your sketch book.

A City of Many Islands.

_A City of Many Islands._

Amsterdam--The People of Holland---Amstel River--Merry
Excursionists--Interesting Institutions--Origin of the City--Source of
Prosperity--A Cousin to Venice--Ninety Islands--Beams and
Gables--Block and Tackle--Old Salesmen--Street
Markets--Haarlem--Railway Travel at Home and Abroad--Ancient
Buildings--Historic Associations--In the Canal--Groote Kerk--The Great
Organ--Picturesque Subjects--Zandvoort--Eau de Cologne--The
Beach--Dutch Sail Boats--Seamen--Hooded Chairs--Peddlers--Music in
Holland and Germany--Gypsies--We Meet an Artist--Hospitality--A
Banquet.

Amsterdam, the commercial capital of Holland, is but a short ride from Rotterdam, and like all the other "dam" cities of this region, possesses many attractions of its own, besides being the centre or hub from which radiate trips to many picturesque towns and other points of interest.

These irreverent sounding terminations do not by any means imply that the cities so called are steeped in wickedness and crime. On the contrary they are remarkable as being towns of exceptional purity and honesty, possessing churches, libraries and schools which bear witness to the good and loving aspirations of a conscientious Christian people.

The natives of Holland are kind and peaceable in disposition, and fair in their dealings with one another. They are personally very attractive on account of the natural simplicity of their everyday lives, and the high principle of honor and morality upon which they conduct their business transactions. They train their children in accordance with these principles, and the visitor cannot fail to appreciate their virtues, and rest securely in the confidence that he will receive fair and courteous treatment from both young and old.

The Amstel River, viewed from the windows of our hotel, presents a beautiful picture. Upon the opposite bank are handsome residences, of substantial, square and regular architecture, while in slow, calm motion on the river may be seen boats of every description, many of them with a cargo of human beings; and the gay national flags and other brilliant bunting floating in the fresh breeze have a gala appearance as the boats steam or row past our hotel. Merry songs and happy laughter drift back to our ears, and it seems as though we have at last reached a land exempt from the cares and sorrows of the everyday world.

The Dutch people are as a class happy and satisfied, with a cheerful manner, and a cordial and genuine welcome.

Amsterdam is indeed a great city, with numberless points of interest for the visitor, without mentioning its museums, art galleries, theatres, libraries, churches and other institutions; its botanical garden, university, parks and tramways.

The town was founded by Gysbrecht II., Lord of Amstel, who built a castle here in 1204, and constructed the dam to which it owes its name. In the fourteenth century it began to increase in importance, becoming at that time a refuge for the merchants who were banished from Brabant. At the close of the sixteenth century, when Antwerp was ruined by the Spanish war, and many merchants, manufacturers, artists and other men of talent and enterprise fled from the horrors of the Inquisition to Holland, Amsterdam nearly doubled its population, and the conclusion of peace in 1609, and the establishment of the East India Company combined to raise the town within a short time to the rank of the greatest commercial city in Europe. Its population in 1890, excluding the suburbs, was 406,300.

Amsterdam is generally at first sight compared with Venice, which it certainly resembles in two points. Both cities are intersected by numerous canals, and the buildings of both are constructed upon piles; but there the similarity ends. There are wide, bustling thoroughfares in Amsterdam, traversed by wagons and drays which could have no place in the city of gondolas and ancient palaces.

The canals, or Grachten, which intersect Amsterdam in every direction, are of various sizes, and divide the city into ninety islands; and these are connected by nearly three hundred bridges. There are four principal, or grand canals, which are in broad, handsome avenues, bordered with trees, and with sidewalks for pedestrians. The other canals intersect these and serve to connect one part of the town with another, as short streets cross wide highways and main thoroughfares in other places. Rows of fine-looking houses line the banks of these watercourses, and as all the buildings are constructed on foundations of piles, the old quotation of "a city whose inhabitants dwell on the tops of trees like rooks," is not without considerable truth. The quaint old architecture of the stores and houses is of itself a source of great interest to the visitor. We have seen so many pictures of these odd gabled and tiled roofs overhanging the windows, that at first one has the impression of awakening from a dream to its reality. Remarkable order and cleanliness prevail everywhere, adding to this feeling, for the wear and tear of daily living do not seem to affect the almost immaculate atmosphere of the place. Windows are as clear as crystal, and the woodwork of the houses everywhere looks as if freshly scrubbed and sanded. Projecting from the attic windows of many buildings may be seen a pole or beam, from which hangs a block and tackle used to hoist furniture and other heavy or bulky articles from the sidewalk to the upper stories. These things are not carried up the winding stairway, as with us, scratching and defacing the walls and paint, as well as the furniture, and resulting in much vexation and the utterance of unseemly swear words. All this is avoided by the methods of the people of Holland, and the citizens of America would profit by adopting them, if only as a means of avoiding the temptation to express one's feelings in violent and irreligious language.

Among the thousand and one attractions of this interesting city, the curious-looking old junks, or salesmen and women stationed at various points on the streets, are not unworthy the notice of the photographer or artist. Their wares consist of old scrap iron, rusty saws, perhaps toothless, hammers without handles, nails of every size, files, beds and other articles of furniture apparently dating back to scriptural ages. Such markets, where odds and ends of every imaginable kind are gathered into piles and sold to the poorer classes of the people, seem to be sanctioned by the authorities, and sometimes present a very active and thriving appearance. They are not unpicturesque in their odd combinations of color, attitude and expression.