Chapter VI: Part 6

There is an Englishwoman of rank, whom we have met recently in our wanderings,--exactly where I dare not tell. She comes every day to _table d'hote_ with a new bonnet, and each bonnet is more marvellously self-assertive than its predecessor. She bears a well-known name. She is my Lady E----ton; but if she were only Mrs. Stubbs from Vermont, I should say she had more bonnets, more impudence, and more vulgar curiosity than any woman I had ever seen. She seized the small boy of our party in her clutches at dinner, where an unlucky chance placed him by her side, and questioned him minutely and mercilessly during the six courses. Who was his father? Who was his mother? Had he a sister? Had he a brother? What did his father _do_? Where did he live, and how? Where did we come from? Where were we going? How long were we going to stay? And what were all our names? Was the young lady engaged to be married to the young man? How old was the child's mamma? How old were we all? And so on _ad infinitum_. The boy, though old enough to feel indignant, was not old enough to know how to escape, and so helplessly, with painful accuracy, answered her questions; but on the very delicate point of age we were providentially protected by a childish, honest "I don't know." Some of us who are more worldly-wise and wicked than the little victim heartily regretted fate had not given us instead of him to our lady of the bonnets. It would have been so delicious to make her ribbons flutter with amazement at the astonishing tales told by us in reply! Certainly, under such circumstances, it is legitimate to call in a little imagination to one's aid.

Our cousins, the English, whom we meet on the Continent, are very much like the little girl of the nursery-rhyme,--when they are good they are "awfully good," and when they are bad they are "horrid." (No one is more truly kind, refined, and charming than an agreeable Englishman or Englishwoman; no one more utterly absurd than a disagreeable one.) Possibly this impresses us the more strongly on account of the cousinship. Aren't our own unpleasant relatives invariably a thousand times more odious to us than other people's?

I saw a pantomime the other day which, though brief, was full of meaning. A German lady and gentleman, quiet-looking, well-bred people, were walking through a long hotel corridor. The gentleman stepped forward in order to open the door of the _salon_ for the lady. From another door emerges an Englishman with an unattractive face and dull, pompous manner. He is also _en route_ for the _salon_, and, not noticing the lady, steps between the two. The German throws open the door and waits. The burly Englishman, solemn but gratified, accepting the supposed courtesy as a perfectly fitting tribute from that inferior being, a foreigner, to himself and the great English nation, pauses and makes in acknowledgment a profound bow, which, being utterly superfluous and unexpected, strikes the lady coming along rapidly to pass through the doorway, and, naturally imagining the second gentleman, too, was waiting for her, literally and with force _strikes_ her and nearly annihilates her. The Englishman turns in utter wonder and gazes at the lady. The three gaze at one another. Everybody says, "I beg your pardon." The Englishman, as the facts dawn upon his comprehension, has the grace to turn very red, but has not the grace to laugh, which would be the only sensible thing to do,--too sensible, apparently, for a man who goes about thinking strange gentlemen will delight in smoothing his path and opening doors for him. Of course, he ought to have known instinctively, there was a lady in the case, as there always is. The two Germans were too polite to laugh unless he would. But he did not even smile, which proclaimed his stupidity more clearly than all which had gone before; and presently three very constrained faces--one red and sullen, two with dancing eyes and lips half bitten through--appeared in the _salon_, which, this time, the lady entered first. It isn't so very funny to tell, but the scene was so funny to witness, it really seemed a privilege to be the solitary spectator.

From Zurich on to Lucerne, with pretty pictures all the way from the car windows. We anticipated feeling romantic here, but so far all we know is that Lucerne looks very drab. It rains in torrents, a hopeless, heavy flood. The lake does not smile at us, or dimple or ripple, as we have read it is in the habit of doing. The mountains we ought to be seeing don't appear. The streets are shockingly muddy. We cannot go to see the Lion; and as to the Rigi, upon which our hopes are set, there is small chance that it will at present emerge from its clouds, and allow us to behold from the Kulm the wonderful sunrise and sunset which many go out for to see, but most, alas! in vain.

Great Pilatus tells us to hope for nothing. He is the barometer of the region. He is very big and rugged and inspiring, and stands haughtily apart from the other heights:--

"Overhead,
Shaking his cloudy tresses loose in air,
Rises Pilatus with his windy pines."

A popular rhyme runs to the effect that when Pilatus wears his cap only, the day will be fair; when he puts on his collar, you may yet venture; but if he wears his sword, you'd better stay at home. To-day he wears cap, collar, sword,--in fact, is clothed with clouds, except for a moment now and then, to his very feet. There are many old legends about Pilatus and its caverns. One of the oldest is, that Pontius Pilate, banished from Galilee, fled here, and in anguish and remorse threw himself into the lake; hence the name of which the more matter-of-fact explanation is _Mons Pileatus_, or "capped mountain." If there were sunshine, we would believe the latter simple and reasonable definition. Now, in this dreary rain, we take a gloomy satisfaction in the dark tale of remorse,--the darker, more desperate and tragic it is made, the better we like it.

Pilatus and the skies and wind and barometer, and fate itself, apparently, are against us. But the Rigi is still there. Behind the cloud is the sun still shining,--patience is genius, and--we wait.

BY THE LAKE OF LUCERNE.

Who was so wicked as to call Lucerne "drab"? If it were I, I don't remember it, and I never will acknowledge it, though the printed word stare me in the face. After the rain it shone out in radiant colors,--the pretty city with its quaint bridges, and the Venice-look of some of the stone houses that rise directly from the lake; the water plashing softly against their foundations, the little boats moored by their sides. People who have seen Venice are at liberty to smile in a superior way if they wish. We, who have not, will cherish our little fancies until reality verifies them or proves them false.

And the lake,--

"The Lake of the Four Forest Cantons, apparelled
In light, and lingering like a village maiden
Hid in the bosom of her native mountains,
Then pouring all her life into another's,
Changing her name and being,"--

how lovely it is! Roaming there at sunset was an ever-memorable delight:--the happy-looking people under the chestnut-trees on the shore, the little boats dancing lightly about everywhere, the pleasant dip of the oars, the chiming of evening bells; on one side, the city, with its old watchtowers and slender spires; over the water, the piled-up purple mountains, with the warm opaline sunset lights playing about them; behind, the long range of pure-white peaks, catching the last rays of the sun, glistening and gleaming gloriously, while the lower world sinks into gloom, and even they at last grow dim and vague, and still we float on in drowsy indolence.

The narrow covered bridges, the one where the faded old paintings represent scenes from Swiss history, and the Muehlenbruecke with the "Dance of Death" picture described in the "Golden Legend," were both interesting. Prince Henry and Elsie seemed to go by with all the stream of life,--the soldiers, and peasant-girls, and monks, and workingmen in blouses, and children with baskets on their backs; and queer old women we met as we stood by the little shrine in the middle of the bridge, peered in and saw the candles and flowers and crucifixes, or looked out through the small windows upon the swift waters beneath. So faint and obscure are many of the paintings, yet we found the ones we sought, and saw the

"Young man singing to a nun
Who kneels at her devotions, but in kneeling
Turns round to look at him; and Death, meanwhile,
Is putting out the candles on the altar."

The old church with the celebrated organ, which may be heard every afternoon, has some carved wood and stained glass that people go to see. Its churchyard, so little, so old, so pitifully crowded, is a sad place, like all the cemeteries I have yet seen here. With their colored ornaments and tinsel, their graves crowding one against another, and the multitude of sad, black, attenuated little crosses that have such a skeleton air, they are positively heartbreaking: they seem infinitely more mournful and oppressive than ours at home, with their broad alleys, stately trees, and the peace and beauty of their surroundings. There are two new-made graves in the pavement here. You can't help feeling sorry they are so very crowded. They are covered with exquisite fresh flowers, which the passer-by sprinkles from a font that stands near, thus giving a blessing to the dead. We have had ample opportunity to observe all the old monuments and epitaphs without voluntarily making a study of the churchyard, for the way to and from our chalet led through it. To one very ancient stone we felt positively grateful because its inscription was funny:--

"Here lies in Christ Jesus
Josepha Dub
Jungfrau
Aged 91."

We were glad to have Miss Dub's somewhat prolonged life of single-blessedness to smile over, so heavy otherwise was the atmosphere of that little churchyard.

The celebrated Lion of Lucerne we found even more beautiful than we had anticipated. It was larger and grander, and the photographs fail to convey a true idea of it, and of the exact effect of the mass of rock above it. It all comes before you suddenly,--the high perpendicular sandstone rock, the grotto in which the dying Lion lies, pierced through by a broken lance, his paw sheltering the Bourbon lily; the trees and creeping plants on the very top of the cliff, at its base the deep dark pool surrounded by trees and shrubs. The Lion is cut out of the natural rock, a simple and impressive memorial in honor of the officers and soldiers of the Swiss Guard who fell in defence of the Tuileries in 1792. They exhibit Thorwaldsen's model in the little shop there, which is one of the beguiling carved wood-ivory-amethyst places where, I suppose, strong-souled people are never tempted, but we, invariably. There are lovely heads of Thorwaldsen here, by the way, the most satisfactory I have seen.

We live in a _pension_, a chalet on the banks of the lake. It has, like most things, its advantages and disadvantages. From our balcony we look out over shrubs and little trees upon the lovely lake and the mountains. The establishment boasts numerous retainers, mostly maids of all work; but our attention is drawn exclusively to a small, pale girl, whom we call the "Marchioness," and a small, pale boy, whom we call "Buttons." Why need such mites work so hard? Buttons is only fourteen, and he drags heavy trunks about and moves furniture and does the work of two men, besides running on all the errands, and blacking all the boots, and waiting at the table.

If you ask him if things are not too heavy he smiles brightly and says, "No, indeed!" with the air of a Hercules, so brave a heart has the little man. So he goes about lifting and pulling and staggering under heavy loads, and breathing hard, and he has a hollow cough that it makes the heart ache to hear from such a child; and it does not require much wisdom to know what is going to happen to _him_ before long,--poor little Buttons!

UP AND ON AND DOWN THE RIGI.

Truth is mighty. We have been up the Rigi Railway, and in spite of the beauty before our eyes, instead of experiencing grand and elevated emotions, instead of remembering the words of some noble poet, instead of doing anything we ought to have done, we could only, prompted by a perverse spirit, say over and over to ourselves,--

"General Gage was very brave,
Very brave, particular;
He galloped up a precipice,
And down a perpendicular."

Our Rigi experience, taken all in all, was an agreeable and a very amusing outing. We had waited long till skies were fair enough for us to venture, but at last Pilatus looked benign, and we had the loveliest of sails across that lovely lake, Lucerne; happy sunlight falling on blue water and exquisite shores, shadows of floating clouds reflected in the depths; and all the noble army of mountains thronging before us, and beside us, and behind us; bold barren hills rising sharply against rich and varied foliage; superb white heights afar off. At Vitznau we waited a short time for our train, and employed ourselves happily in watching a great group of fruit-sellers, who stood with huge baskets of fine grapes, and poor peaches, and figs, before the bench where we were sitting. After the fashion of idle travellers, we audibly made our comments upon the pretty scene:--

"If I had not already bought this fruit, I should buy it of that little boy; I _always_ like to buy my fruit of little boys."

"And if I had not already bought mine, I should buy it of the man with the long tassel on his cap: I dote on buying fruit of good-looking young men with tassels on their caps."

Who could dream that this utterly inane conversation would be understood? But the face of the youth with the tassel--he looked Italian, although he was speaking German--suddenly gleamed and sparkled mischievously, and showed a row of white teeth, as he pointed at his head and touched his tassel and said, "Cap! cap!" with huge satisfaction and pride. Not another English word could he say, but the similarity between this and the German _Kappe_, and his quick intuition, told him that we were alluding, and not unpleasantly, to him.

Traveller, beware! Don't buy fresh figs at Vitznau. We each pursued one to the bitter end; then politely presented what remained in our paper to a small fruit-seller, to devour if she liked, or to sell over again to the next guileless person who has never eaten fresh figs, and wants to be Oriental. This civility on our part was received with laughter by the whole group of men, women, and children, who all seemed to perfectly appreciate the point of the joke. It at least was consoling. Being cheated in buying fruit is an evil that can be borne, but it is an utterly crushing sensation when people won't smile at your jokes.

The carriage which was to take us up the precipice we surveyed with curiosity and pleasure,--one broad car with open sides, affording perfect command of the views, the seats running quite across it and turned towards the locomotive, which, going up, runs behind. Between the ordinary rails are two rails with teeth, upon which a cog-wheel in the locomotive works. The train runs very slowly, only about three miles an hour, which is both safe and favorable to enjoyment of the scenery, and in case of accident the car can be instantly detached from the locomotive and stopped. No one need think that I am giving these few facts as information, the very last thing one wants to find in a letter from Europe. I would not presume,--and of course almost everybody knows how the Rigi Railway works; only, it happens, _I_ did not know, and I mention these things merely to refresh my own memory.

So far as views are concerned, it is of course preferable to make the ascent on foot. But where one is bewildered by the affluence of beauty in Switzerland, one feels willing to sacrifice something of it to the new experience of this curious ride. Some people, it is true, like to _say_ they walked up the Rigi. But why shall we indulge in so small a vanity, when we can easily indulge in a greater one,--several thousand feet greater, in fact? When any one boasts, "I walked up the Rigi," we shall return quietly, "We ascended Piz Languard in the Engadine." For all the world knows the Rigi is only 5,905 feet high, and Piz Languard is 10,715 feet. We felt that we could afford to ride up the Rigi, then.

It was all extremely spirited and enjoyable, and we could never forget how strongly we resembled General Gage. The views were beautiful and ever varying. The atmosphere was slightly hazy, so that the dark Buergenstock beyond the lake, which lay in loveliness before us, became more and more shadowy as we ascended; and the Stanserhorn and Pilatus, and all the Alps of the Uri, Engelberg, and Bernese Oberland, though distinct, had yet the thinnest possible veil before their faces; and the precipice above us was amazing to see, and the perpendicular reached down, down into deep ravines, where the narrow waterfalls looked like silver threads among the trees and bushes and gray, jagged rocks.

Reaching the hotels that stand on the tip-top of the Kulm, we went to the one that had stoves, which is the Schreiber, for "bitter chill it was." We had barely time to see the whole magnificent prospect, before the clouds closed in upon us, enveloping us in such a thoroughgoing way that we could only allude to the sunset with shrieks of laughter. And up to the time of the arrival of the latest train came pilgrims from every quarter, also bent on seeing the sunset from the Rigi Kulm. Group after group came up through the mist from the little station to the hotel, everybody very merry over his own blighted hopes. Towards evening it rained heavily, and there was nothing to do but amuse one's self within doors. This is not difficult at the Schreiber, an unusually large and well arranged hotel. To find such spacious, brilliant _salons_ up here is a surprise; and when you look about in them and see persons from many different grades of society, many nations, and hear almost every language of Europe, and realize that you are all here together on a mountain-top and fairly in the clouds, it is quite entertaining enough without the books and papers which are at your service. There were even two Egyptian princes there. The small boy of our party, whom every one notices and pets, and who, though speaking absolutely nothing but English, has a miraculous way of being understood and of conversing intimately with Russians, Poles, Greeks, etc., was on friendly terms with the Egyptians at once, and, after five minutes' acquaintance, had made his usual demand for postage-stamps. By the grace of childhood much is possible.

Truly this Rigi Kulm is a curious place. It is said the spectacle of sunrise rarely deigns to appear before the expectant mortals who throng there to see it. Half an hour before sunrise, in fair weather, an Alpine horn rouses the sleepers, and people rush out, often in fantastic garb, with blankets round them and a generally wild-Indian aspect. There is actually a notice on every bed-room door in the Rigi Kulm House, requesting guests to be good enough not to take the coverings from the beds when they go to see the sunrise.

A strange, wild place was the Kulm as the night advanced. The wind howled, and shrieked, and moaned, and witches on broomsticks flew round and round the house and tapped noisily on our window-panes. If you don't believe it, stay there one night in a storm, and then you will believe anything. But though storm and night and cloud encircled us, we saw vividly, as we sank into our dreams, the whole superb landscape,--forests, lakes, hills, towns, villages, plains, the waves of mist in the valleys, the ever-changing light and shade, the little fleecy clouds wreathing the glistening snowy peaks, the sunshine and the glorious sky. The wide, calm picture was before us still.

It was a night of witchy noises, of starts and fears that we should oversleep and so lose the sunrise, which, in spite of the storm, the predictions of the weather-wise, and the promptings of common-sense, it was impossible for our party not to confidently expect, so strong an element in it was the sanguine temperament. From midnight on, one figure or another might have been seen standing by the window, two excited, staring eyes peering wildly through the shutters, anxious to discern the first glimmerings of dawn; and from every restless nap we would awake with a start, thinking we surely heard that "horn." If the other people were as absurd as we, they were quite absurd enough. That Rigi sunrise, whether it comes or is only anticipated, is enough to shake a constitution of iron.

But no horn sounded, and the lazy sun only struggled through the clouds as late as eight o'clock, when the view once more opened before us, grand and beautiful in the sudden gleam of morning sunshine. The Bernese Alps magnificently white,--the Jungfrau, Finster-Aarhorn, many well-known peaks in raiment of many colors; the lakes of Lucerne and Zug directly below, and seven or eight more lakes visible,--in all, a beautiful prospect, and remarkable from the fact that the gaze sweeps over an expanse of three hundred miles.

Very soon the clouds rolled in again. Not a vestige of view remained, and a persistent drizzle sent several car-loads of disappointed but amused beings down the mountain. We all began to be sceptical about that Rigi Kulm sunrise which we had heard described in glowing words. We were inclined to doubt whether any one, even the oldest inhabitant, had ever seen it.

Some writer says it is dismal on the Kulm in wet weather. I think if there were only one poor, drenched, frozen mortal up there aspiring to gaze upon the glory that is denied him, it would be dismal in the extreme; but when so many, scores, hundreds, go, and so few attain their object,--for the summit of the Rigi is often surrounded with clouds, even in fairest weather,--it is not in the least dismal; on the contrary, highly enlivening, and the trip well worth taking, though it end in clouds.

In the language of a young Russian gentleman who is learning English, "I have made a little tripe, and enjoyed my little tripe delicious."

A KAISER FEST.

We have been having in Stuttgart what an intensely loyal newspaper-pen calls "Kaiser days." That is, days in which the city has been glorified by the imperial presence. We have been having, too, "Kaiser weather," for they say the hale old man whenever he comes brings with him sunshine and clear skies. Before his arrival all was flutter and expectation. Festoons and wreaths and inscriptions, waving banners, bright ribbons and flowers, were everywhere displayed, giving the whole place a happy, welcoming air. The decorations were extremely effective and graceful. Koenigstrasse, the chief business street, looked like a bower. Lovely great arches were thrown across it, and every building was gay with garlands, flowers, and flags. The variety of the designs was as noticeable as their beauty. Sometimes the colors of the Empire and those of Wuertemberg--the black, white, and red, and black and red--floated together. Sometimes to these was added the Stuttgart city colors, black and yellow. Many buildings displayed, with these three, the Prussian black and white, while other great blocks had large flags of Prussia and Wuertemberg and the Empire as a centre ornament, and myriads of little ones, representing all the German States, fluttering from every window. One saw often the yellow and red of Baden, the green and white of Saxony, the white and red of Hesse-Darmstadt, and the pretty, light-blue and white of Bavaria, that always looks so innocent and girlish, amid so much warlike red and bold yellow, as if it were meant for dainty neckties and ribbons, and not for the colors of a nation. Many good souls mourn that even now, after its consolidation, the German Fatherland is so very much divided into little sections. Let them take comfort where it may be found. Were not the rainbow hues of banners and ribbons a goodly sight in the pleasant September sunshine? Ribbons, too, have their uses, and these, of many colors, were a thousand times more effective than any one flag duplicated again and again, even the stars and stripes. Pretty and joyous were they, floating on the breeze: they told tales of the different lands they represented, and it was no light task at first to understand their languages, there were so very many of them, such multitudes of brave little banners of brilliant hues, and all to welcome the Kaiser.

"Hail to our Kaiser!" said one inscription,--"Welcome to Suabia!" Poems, too, in golden letters fitly framed, were here and there waiting to meet him and do him honor. But the prettiest greeting was the simplest: "To the German Kaiser a _Schwaebisch Gruess Gott_," which was over an evergreen arch in the Koenigstrasse, and looked so very sturdy and honest in the midst of all the pomp and the grand inscriptions that called him Barbablanca, Imperator, and Triumphator. The house of General von Schwarzkoppen, commander of the Wuertemberg troops, and the house of the Minister of War also, displayed, with the national colors, stacks of arms of every description, from those of ancient times down to the present day, at regular intervals between the windows, under long green festoons. At the American Consul's the flags of Germany hung with the stars and stripes. Ears of corn and cornflowers, which are the Kaiser's _Lieblingsblumen_, were woven into the wreaths on one house. Everywhere were evidences of busy fingers and happy ideas. At 4 P. M. of the 22d, while a salute was thundering from the Schutzenhaus, the imperial extra train entered the city. Even the locomotive looked conscious of sustaining unwonted honors, proudly wearing a garland of oak-leaves round the smokestack, and a circle of little fluttering flags.

At the moment the train came into the station the band accompanying the guard of honor gave a brilliant greeting, to which was added the "Hoch" of welcome. His imperial majesty the Kaiser descended from the car and embraced his majesty the king, who was waiting on the platform to receive him. While the crown prince, the grand dukes of Baden and Mecklenbuerg-Schwerin, Prince Karl of Prussia, Prince August of Wuertemberg, and other distinguished persons were coming out of the train, the Kaiser stepped in front of the soldiers and greeted the generals, ministers, and all the gentlemen of the court who were there, cordially.

Then the _Oberbuergermeister_, with committees in black coats and white rosettes behind him, in behalf of the city, made his little speech, which I will not quote because we all know what mayors have to say on such occasions, and this was quite the proper thing, as mayors' addresses always are. Indeed, if I only venture to give the first half-dozen words, I fear that people who are not used to the German form of expression will be alarmed, and will say gently, "Not any more at present, thank you."

"Allerdurchlauchtigster grossnaedigster Kaiser and Konig allerguaedigster Herr!" This is the glorious way it began. Isn't it fine? Can any one look at that "allerdurchlauchtigster" without involuntarily making an obeisance? Aren't these words entirely appropriate to head a huge procession of aldermen, and other pompous municipal boards, and do credit to a great city? And wouldn't you or I be a little intimidated if any one should say them to us?

The Kaiser is, however, accustomed to having such epithets hurled at him. He was therefore not dismayed, and replied somewhat as follows:--

"This is the first time since the glorious war of the German
nation that I have visited your city. I accept with pleasure the
friendly reception which you have prepared for me, and heartily
unite with you in the good wishes for our German Fatherland
which you in your greeting have expressed. Until now we have
only sowed, but the seed will spring up. In this I rely upon
your king, who has ever loyally stood by my side. [Here he
turned and extended his hand to the king. This as a dramatic
'point' was very good indeed.] Assure the city that I rejoice to
be within its walls."

After which were more and more "Hochs," and then the _illustrissimi_ seated themselves in the carriages which were waiting to convey them slowly through the crowded streets. Along the whole route where the procession passed were fire-companies with glittering helmets, different clubs and vereins, school-children,--the girls in white, with wreaths of flowers to cast before the emperor,--and soldiers, all stationed in two long lines. Through the alley so formed the carriages passed, and, behind, the dense crowd reached to the houses.

The people seemed very eager to see the Kaiser, but their curiosity was more strongly manifested than their enthusiasm, this first day of his visit, at least so it appeared to us. The loyal Tagblatt, however, says that the cries of the multitude rose to the skies in a deafening clamor, or something equally strong. But our eyes and ears told us that while the people continuously cheered, they were very temperate in their demonstrations. There was more warmth and volume in the voices when they greeted the crown prince. But Moltke alone kindled the real fire of enthusiasm. They cheered him in a perfect abandonment of delight. Hundreds of his old soldiers gave the great field-marshal far more homage than they accorded the Kaiser. As soon as he came in sight there was instantly something in the voices that one had missed before.

In the procession, first, were some of the city authorities, police and city guard, mounted, preceding the carriage in which the Kaiser and king rode. This was drawn by six white horses, with outriders in scarlet-and-gold livery. The two sovereigns chatted together, and the Kaiser looked in a friendly way upon the people, often acknowledging their greetings by a military salute.

Next came the crown prince,--"the stately, thoroughly German hero, with his dark-blond full beard," says the German reporter,--and with him were the grand duke of Baden and Adjutant Baldinger. Many carriages followed, full of celebrities. Prince Karl of Prussia was there, Prince August von Wuertemberg, Prince of Hohenzollern, Princes Wilhelm and Hermann of Saxe-Weimar. In the sixth carriage sat the great, silent Moltke, with his calm face, received with storms of cheering, and he would put up his hand with a deprecating gesture, as if to appease the tumult his presence created. There were, besides, magnates and dignitaries of all descriptions in the long train. Generals and majors and hofraths, counts and dukes, men with well-known names, men recognized as brave and brilliant soldiers; but it is scarcely expedient to tell who they all are. My pen has so accustomed itself to-day to writing the names of sovereigns, and to linger lovingly over the beautiful six-syllable words that cluster round a throne, it has imbibed from these august sources a lofty exclusiveness. It says it really can't be expected to waste many strokes on mere dukes. "Everybody of course cannot be born in the purple," it admits,--this it writes slowly with long, liberal sweeps,--"no doubt counts and dukes are often very estimable people, but really, you know, my dear, one must draw the line somewhere"; and it does not deny that it feels "a certain antipathy towards discussing persons lower than princes,"--which impressive word it makes very black and strong,--"except in the mass." And then it waves its aristocratic gold point in a way that completely settles the matter. I am very sorry if anybody would like to know the names, but it is such a tyrant I never know what it will do next; and I really don't dare say anything more about those poor dukes, except to mention briefly that there were seventeen carriages full of manly grace and chivalry, uniforms and decorations, scarlet, and blue, and crimson, and gold, and white, blond mustaches, plumes, swords, and titles.

When the line of carriages had passed over the appointed route, and all the people had gazed and gazed to their heart's content, the procession approached the Residenz where Queen Olga received her imperial relative and guest. He gave her his arm, and they vanished from the eyes of the _ignobile vulgus_. This was an impressive and elevating moment; but it is not curious to remember that after all, if the truth be told, _allerdurchlauchtigster_ though he be, he is only her--Uncle William.

In the evening was a brilliant and large torch-light procession, and all the world was out in merry mood. The illuminated fountains, the statues and flowers in the pretty Schloss Platz, shone out in the gleam of Bengal lights, which also revealed the sea of heads in the square in front of the palace. A stalwart young workman stood near us with his little fair-haired daughter perched on his shoulder. They did not know how statuesque they looked in the rosy light, but we did. Much music, many _Hochs_, and the edifying spectacle of all their majesties and royal highnesses in a distinguished row on the balcony, for the delectation of the masses, completed the joys of the evening.

If any one imagines for an instant that all this very valuable information was obtained without much effort, and heroic endurance of many evils, he is entirely mistaken. At such times, if you wish to see anything, you must either be in and of the multitude, or you must look from a window, which affords you only one point of view and curbs your freedom, and doesn't allow you to run from place to place in time to see everything there is to be seen. At these dramas enacted by high-born artists for the purpose of touching the hearts and awakening the zeal of the lowly, there are no private boxes and reserved seats. We scorned the trammelling window, and chose to mingle with our fellow-men, with our fellow-butcher-and-baker boys, as well as with little knots of intrepid, amused women, like ourselves. Upon the whole, we enjoyed it. We made studies of human nature, and of policeman nature, which is often not by any means human, but, as Sam Weller says, "on the contrary quite the reverse."

Policemen everywhere are glorious, awe-inspiring creatures. German policemen are particularly magnificent. They wear such gay coats, and are often such imposing, big blond men, it is impossible to look at them without admiration. The way they thrust and push when they want to keep a crowd within certain bounds is as ruthless as if they were huge automata, with great far-reaching limbs that strike out and hew down when the machinery is wound up. Practically they are successful; the only trouble is, it is the innocent ones in front, pushed by the pressure of the crowd behind, who are thrust back savagely, with a stern "Zurueck!" by the mighty men, and who are treated like dumb, driven cattle. A friend who is always dauntless and always humorous, feeling the weight of a heavy hand on her shoulder, and hearing a tempestuous ejaculation in her ear, calmly looked the autocrat in the face, and with gentle gravity said, "_Don't_ be so cross!" at which the great being actually smiled.

After that we thought perhaps these petty officials dressed in a little brief authority only put on their crossness with their uniforms. Perhaps at home with their wives and blue-eyed babies they may be quite docile. They may even, here and there,--delicious idea!--be henpecked!

This was the sentiment expressed by a loyal German at the close of the day: "Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for I have seen my Kaiser."

THE CANNSTADT VOLKSFEST.

It rained, in the first place, which was very inconsiderate of it; rained on the race-course, on the school-girls in white muslin with wreaths of flowers on their heads, on the peasants in their distinctive dresses, making their full, white sleeves limp and shapeless, spotting the scarlet-and-blue bodices of the maidens from the Steinlach Thal and Black Forest; rained on the monkey-shows and negro minstrels, the Punch and Judys, the beer-shops, booths, and benches, on the country people in their best clothes, the city people in their worst, upon all that goes to make up the Cannstadt Volksfest,--in short, upon the just and the unjust.

It was a beautiful experience to sit there in a waterproof, holding an umbrella and seeing thousands of other people in waterproofs holding umbrellas, on the raised circular seats that extended round the whole great race-course, while, occupying the entire space, within the track was a mass of men standing, also with umbrellas; but on account of our elevated position we could see very little of the men, while the umbrella effect was gigantic. It was like innumerable giant black mushrooms growing in a bog.

And all the time the band opposite the empty royal pavilion played away with great energy, while without this enclosure for the races, among the surrounding booths and "shows," country people were plunging ankle-deep in the mud, and the violins that call the world to see the Fat Woman, the accordion which the trained-dog man plays, the turbulent orchestras of the small circuses, and the siren tones of the girl who sings for the snake-charmer, united to make an ineffable Pandemonium.

This Volksfest was founded fifty years ago by Wilhelm, father of the present king of Wuertemberg, who did much to promote the agricultural interests of his people, taking great personal interest in everything appertaining to farming, stock, etc., giving prizes with his own hand for the best vegetables and fruits, the largest, finest cattle,--for excellence, in fact, in any department. Since then, it is an established national event, that happens every year as regularly as September comes; always attracting many foreigners, to whom it is amusing and interesting, in the rare opportunities it affords of seeing many distinctive features of Suabian peasant-life. It should be visited with thick boots and no nerves, for the ground is as if the cattle upon a thousand hills had come down in a great rage and trampled it into pits and quagmires, and the noise is--utterly indescribable. To say that the Volksfest combines the peculiar attractions of the Fourth of July, St. Patrick's Day, a State Fair, and Barnum, gives, perhaps, as correct a notion of the powwow that reigns supreme, as any elaborate description that might be made.

Yes, it is like entertainments of a similar grade with us,--like, yet unlike. The elephant goes round, the band begins to play, the men in front of the different tents roar and gesticulate and try to out-Herod one another, the jolly little children go swinging round hilariously on the great whirligigs, the man with the blacked face is the same cheerful, merry, witty personage who charms the crowd at home. Indeed, they are all quite the same, only they talk German, they are jollier and fatter, they take their pleasure with more abandon, and there is one vast expansive grin over the whole throng. Instead of the tall, thin girl in book-muslin, who comes in from the country to see the circus, clinging tight to her raw-boned lover's hand, both looking painfully conscious and not so happy as they ought, we have here, too, the country sweethearts, but of another type. The peasant-girl and her _Schatz_, broad, blissful, rosy, the most delicious personifications of unconsciousness imaginable, go wandering about among the clanging and clashing from the tents, the beer-drinking, the shouts and rollicking laughter, and find it all a very elysium. Their happiness is as solid as they themselves; and if there are other eyes and ears in the world than those with which they drink in huge draughts of pleasure as palpably as they take their beer from tall foaming tankards, they, at least, are oblivious of them.

But we left it raining heavily, cruelly blighting our hopes. A Volksfest with rain is a heartless mockery of fate, and a rainy Volksfest, when there is a Kaiser to see, unspeakably aggravating. But the obnoxious clouds being in German atmosphere naturally knew what etiquette demanded of them, and respectively withdrew just as the pealing of the Cannstadt bells announced his majesty's approach; and as he and his suite rode into the grounds, the sun, who had made up his mind to have a day of retirement and was in consequence a little sulky about appearing, had the courtier-like grace to try to assume a tolerably genial expression, since he had burst unwillingly into the imperial presence.

The pavilion for the people of the court was filled with ladies in brilliant toilets, with their attendant cavaliers, as the glittering train rode towards it; the city guard in front, according to an old custom, then the Kaiser and king side by side, and, after them, all the princes and grand dukes, etc., whom we have had the honor of mentioning more than once of late, and of seeing them often enough to look at them critically and search for our individual favorites as they gallantly gallop by. The enthusiasm of the multitude was immense, and the shouting proved that peasants' lungs are powerful organs.

After the horsemen came a line of open carriages, in the first of which was the empress and her majesty Queen Olga; the latter looking, as usual, pale, stately, gracious, and truly a queen. Princess Vera, the Grand Duchess of Baden, and other ladies followed, and they all went into the pavilion, while the Kaiser and king rode about among the people, looking at models, machinery, animals,--and being scrutinized themselves from the top of their helmets to their spurs, it is needless to say.

Upon joining the ladies the crown prince took off his helmet, kissed the queen's hand, then his mother's, which amiable gallantry we viewed with deep appreciation and interest. The next thing to see was the prize animals, which were led over the course past the pavilion, wearing wreaths of flowers. Some vicious-looking bulls, their horns and feet tied with strong ropes, and led by six men, regarded the scarlet of the officers' uniforms very doubtfully, as if they had half a mind to make a rush at it, ropes or no ropes. There were pretty, white cows, who wore their floral honors with a mild, bovine grace: and sheep with ribbons floating from their tails, and a coquettish rose or two over their brows, were attractive objects; but _pig_ perversity and ugliness so adorned was too absurd.

The event of the day was the "gentlemen's races," as they are called, being under the direction of a club, of which the Prince of Weimar is president, and Prince Wilhelm a member. They were interesting, and the whole picture gay and pleasing,--the flying horses, with their jockeys in scarlet, yellow, and blue silk blouses; the pavilion full of bright colors, the hundreds of banners waving in the breeze; beyond the grounds, pretty groves, and the little Gothic church at Berg, well up on the hill: but, as the Shah of Persia said when they wanted to have some races in his honor at Berlin, "Really, it isn't necessary. I already know that one horse runs faster than another."

There were two structures there which deserve special notice. When I tell you that they were composed of ears of corn, apples, onions, etc., you will never imagine how artistic was the result, and I quite despair of conveying an idea of their beauty. One was the music-stand, having on the first floor an exhibition of prize fruits; above, the military bands from the Uhlan and dragoon regiments; yet higher, a platform with tall sheaves of wheat in the corners, and in the centre, upon a large base, a column sixty feet high, perhaps, bearing on its summit a statue of Concordia. But the walls of this little temple, and the lofty column too, were all of vegetables, arranged with consummate skill on a firm background of wood covered with evergreen. Imagine, if you can, a kind of mosaic, with arabesques in bright colors; sometimes a solid white background of onions, with intricate scrolls and waving lines of deep-red apples, seemingly exactly of a size, ingeniously designed and perfectly executed. It was quite wonderful to observe how firm and compact and precise this vegetable architecture was; and surprising enough to discover old friends of the kitchen-garden looking at us proudly from this thing of beauty. Golden traceries of corn, elaborate figures in cranberries, aesthetic turnips and idealized beets,--all the products of Wuertemberg soil, in fact,--utilized in a masterly way, and all as firm and sharp in outline as if carved out of stone. A broad triumphal arch fashioned in the same way was quite as much of a marvel, and most effective as one of the gates of entrance.

After the races the Kaiser rode away in an open carriage with the king, and that was the last we saw of this attractive old gentleman, with his genial, kindly, honest face, and simple, soldierly ways,--in his freshness and strength certainly a wonderful old man, whatever newspapers and political writers may say of him. They say his private life is simple in the extreme; that his library is only a collection of military works; that he carefully keeps everything that is ever given him, even sugar rabbits that the children in the family give him at Easter. It is said that once, in Alsace, in the midst of the excitement over him and the celebration, he noticed a little boy all alone in the streets crying bitterly, and called to him. "What's the matter, little man?" said the Kaiser.

"Matter enough," replies the exasperated child. "This confounded emperor is the matter. They're making such a fuss about him, my ma's gone and forgotten my birthday." The next day the boy received a portrait of the Kaiser, richly framed, with the inscription,--

"From the Emperor of Germany to the little boy who lost his birthday."

After the line of carriages drove off, the cavalcade formed again, led this time by the crown prince and the Grand Duke of Baden; and they galloped over the course and out of the west gate in a very spirited way, to the great delight of the people, who shouted and cheered most frantically. Is anybody weary of hearing about these distinguished riders? We are a little tired of them ourselves, it must be confessed, goodly sights though they be. But now they are quite gone, and the last remembrance we have of them is the fall of their horses' hoofs, the glittering of metal, and the waving of plumes as they swept through the pretty arched gateway, stately and effective to the last.

The rollicking spirit of the Volksfest at evening, stimulated by unlimited beer, was a wonderful thing to observe. We stayed to see it by lantern-light, in order to be intimately acquainted with its merriest phases, and the noise of it rings in our ears yet, though now the _Fest_ is quite over, the _Volks_ are gone to their homes, the hurly-burly's done.

IN A VINEYARD.

Our milkwoman is a person of importance in her village. This we did not know till recently, though we were quite aware of our good fortune in getting excellent milk and rich cream daily; and we had had occasion to admire her rosy cheeks and broad, solid row of white teeth,--in fact, had already laid a foundation of respect for her, upon which a recent event has induced us to build largely. A very comely, honest woman we always thought her; but when she came smilingly one morning, and invited us, one and all, out to her vineyards, to eat as many grapes as we could, to help gather them if we wished, to see her _Mann_ and all her family, and to investigate the subject of wine-making, we were unanimously convinced her equal was not to be found in any village in Wuertemberg, and the invitation was accepted with enthusiastic acclamations.

We were much edified to learn that the condition of things demanded a certain etiquette. We were to visit people of inferior station, we were told, and, in return for their hospitality, must take unto them gifts. The idea struck us, of course, as highly commendable, and we declared ourselves ready to do the correct thing. But we were quite aghast to learn that a large sausage should be offered to our hostess,--in fact, that this object would be expected by her; that it actually was lurking behind the pretty invitation to come to see her under her own vine and fig-tree. A sudden silence fell upon our little party at the breakfast-table. It really did seem as if something else might more fitly express our grateful appreciation and kind wishes.

One little lady spoke:--

"A horrid sausage! Why can't we take something nice,--cold tongue, and chocolate-cakes with cream in them, for instance?"

"O, yes, _do_," says our German friend, with a sardonic expression. "By all means give our Suabian peasants chocolate-cakes; but then what will they have to _eat_?" she demands, grimly.

"Why, chocolate-cakes, to be sure," says Miss Innocence. With a withering air of half-concealed contempt, the very clever German girl endeavors to present to the mind of the little lady from New York--who lives chiefly on sweets--the reasons why chocolate-cake and the Suabian peasant are, so to speak, incompatible. Among other things, she remarked that he could devour a dozen cakes and be quite unaware that he had eaten anything; that his hard-working day must be sustained by something solid; that the sausage was a support, a solace, a true and tried friend; and, last and strongest argument, he _liked_ sausage better than anything else in the world.

We felt disturbed. There was a great disappointing discrepancy somewhere. Going out to the vineyards, even in anticipation, had a ring of poetry in it, while sausage--is sausage the world over. Nevertheless, to the sausage we succumbed, and a hideous one, as long as your arm and as big, was a carefully guarded member of our party to the vineyard the next day. Fireworks, too, we carried,--why, you will see later; and so, _dona ferentes_, we went out to Untertuerkheim by rail, a ride of fifteen minutes from Stuttgart.

The smile, teeth, and cheeks of our hostess were visible from afar as we drew near the station. She beamed on us warmly, and led us in triumph through the village, which was everywhere a busy, pretty scene; long yellow strings of ears of corn hanging out to dry on nearly every house, and the narrow streets full of the unwonted bustle incident to the vintage-time.