By the Way: Travel Letters Written During Several Journeys Abroad

We landed at eleven o'clock and I went immediately and sent a cable to you. In the paying for it—my first money transaction in England—I was given too little change, which stamps me fresh from America and not up in shillings, pence, and ha'-pennies.

The contents of our letters made it necessary to change some of our plans. A telegram to Ruth from Lady S—, compelling her to go north for a few days, will separate us for a time. Ruth begged me to accompany her, but my plans lead elsewhere, so this merry family of ours parts to meet—(?)

You are a very satisfactory sort of correspondent, for you bid me tell how one should go to London from Liverpool, what to see and any little details not known to the stranger, not forgetting the necessary expenses. Ruth has been here many times, and knows every spot of interest, and she has mapped out a route for me to take until she can join me.

After going through the Customs, which, by the way, is easier in European countries than in America, we started at once for London, via the Great Western Railway. Speaking of the Customs, they have sort of aisles, in which the trunks are arranged, and one is not allowed to enter until all is ready. Hanging in conspicuous places are the letters of the alphabet, and a man at the door asks your name, and you are directed to the proper aisle. The officer first looks you over, then says: "Have you any spirits" (not ghosts, but liquors), "cigars, or English copyrighted books?" I answered, "No," of course, and the blue chalk mark was placed on my luggage without further question, after which a splendid porter was called to carry it to my carriage.

The woman behind me, too, said "No," just as I did, but she, it seems, had a man all her own, and the officer said,

Apparently the Customs officers have a way of finding out things, and I wish you could have seen the contents of those trunks! There were bottles and bottles, and cigars and tobacco—everything but books. That was the first time I was sorry my name began with —, for had it been otherwise I should have been spared the sight of the discomfort of that poor woman.

As I was leaving, the second officer said to her, "Please call your husband, madam." Now, how do you suppose they knew she had a husband with her?

Oh, dear! Oh, dear! That ocean seems, somehow, awfully wide today with you on the other side.

CHESTER:

We purchased in Liverpool an "American tourists' stop-over ticket," over what is known as the "Garden Route," for 16/6, which, being interpreted, signifies sixteen shillings and sixpence, or slightly over four dollars.

We are at The Blossoms, an inn over four hundred years old. We have been to Hawarden Castle, the beautiful home of the late Mr. Gladstone. It is in Wales, but five miles from here. On our return we visited Eaton Hall, the magnificent "place" of the Duke of Westminster.

Chester is one of the oldest towns in England, and some of the old Roman wall, built over one thousand years ago, is yet standing. The "Old Rows," two-story shops, with some above and some below the sidewalk, are quaint. The beautiful drive is called the "Roodee," a contraction of the French word rue and the River Dee, on the banks of which the old town is situated. Here is a cathedral which presents every style of English mediÆval architecture, from the early Norman to the last Perpendicular.

I count this a remarkable day. I have seen my first English cathedral, my first English estate, and have stood, for the first time, in the cloisters of an abbey.

LEAMINGTON:

We arrived at Leamington at "ten to five" last evening. The people of the Manor House were expecting us, as we had written from Chester. We chose this inn from our guide-book, and because it had a garden. I have learned that, in England, when in doubt about an inn, "lead" with a garden, and you will rarely make a mistake.

This has been a damp journey so far. The rain began in Chicago, and has kept pace with me all the way. Notwithstanding, we strolled, after tea, over the little spa and a good five miles of beautiful meadow to Guy's Cliff, the handsome countryseat of Lord Percy, and back in time for eight o'clock table d'hÔte. The number of times these English cousins of ours eat is remarkable. They breakfast anywhere from eight to eleven, lunch from twelve to four, have tea always at five, and dinner from eight to eleven at night.

This morning, at eight, dressed in our short walking skirts and heavy boots, with every warm garment we possess under our jackets, we started for Warwick. It was bitterly cold—but—did you ever see a castle?

Imagine me standing outside the castle wall, gazing up in silent awe. This wall is one hundred and twenty-five feet high and ten feet thick, built around a square of two miles, the gray walls of the castle itself forming one side of the square.

I wonder if other people are moved to tears by grandeur in nature or in art? Do you recall how the tears would come the day I caught my first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean from Mt. Lowe? So today, while others were "ohing" and "ahing," I was dumb with joy; and if I have said once, I have said a hundred times, "If you were only here to enjoy it with me!"

As we left the embattled gateway we passed through a road deeply cut out of the solid rock, the walls of which were covered with vines. A sudden turn brought us abruptly into the vast open court, when there burst upon our vision a fortress, mighty and magnificent, and this was Warwick Castle! No matter how many embattled castles you see, the one seen first will be stamped forever upon your memory, and I hope it will be beautiful Warwick. We were shown through the state apartments, but they were as nothing compared with my first glimpse of the massive fortress of the feudal barons of Warwick—the old king-makers. After dinner we drove to Kenilworth and viewed the stately ruins by moonlight.

STRATFORD-ON-AVON:

The sun shone today, and it was a welcome sight. We came here to rest over the Sabbath, and we have wandered over the simple old town to all the haunts of the poet, where we met Americans, Germans, Frenchmen, Italians—all doing him honor. As we walked "Across the field to Ann" in the twilight, I recalled Dr. Richard Burton's beautiful poem of that title.

OXFORD:

Thackeray was certainly right when he said of Oxford, "It is a delight to enter, but despair to leave." Should you ask me to tell you candidly how long one should remain in Oxford in order to see it perfectly, I should reply, "A lifetime." It is charming. Of course the college buildings, with their quads and cloisters, the churches, the Sheldonian Theater and Bodleian Library, are all teeming with historic interest, but it is the beauty of the outdoor part of Oxford—of all England, in fact—that most appeals to me. Well may this be called the "Garden Route," for all nature is alive with flowers and foliage, with green of all shades, and odors sweeter than honey. Everything here is freely accessible to the visitor. No wonder the English women are good walkers. One cannot see the beauties of these glorious gardens, both public and private, unless one walks miles, as I have this day.

WINDSOR:

I have been repaid a thousandfold for that awful ocean voyage. The massive walls of Windsor Castle are just outside my window, and as I write, I count ten guards abreast upon them. It is the Queen's birthday, "God bless her!"

I was up with the lark and entered the embattled gateway as soon as it was open to visitors. The terraces, the grand parterre, the royal stables, St. George's Chapel where the royal marriages are celebrated, the State Apartments, the Round Tower, and Albert Memorial Chapel—all, all are beyond my power of description. It was with difficulty that I tore myself away, bade good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. W., caught the train for Paddington Station, reached London in time to take a cab to my bankers, where I found your blessed letters, and then went to my new home.

LONDON:

Laurence Hutton says: "London has no associations so interesting as those connected with its literary men." I do not entirely agree with him.

Not half has been told of dear, delightful, dirty, dreary London. I should be the last person to call her dreary, for she put on her best behavior for me, and the sun shone nearly every day those first weeks. It was June:

You will remember that the American statesman-poet wrote the poem containing this line in London.

The first and last place to visit in London is Westminster Abbey. The church is in the form of a Latin cross, and the poets' corner is in the south transept, a wing off the organ-room. When you enter it, you seem to be in a chapel with pews and an altar like any place of worship, but it appears to grow larger as one continues to gaze. The walls and every available space are filled with marble busts or bas-reliefs.

It is worthy of note that Longfellow is the only American whose bust adorns the poets' corner. There is a service of song here every afternoon at four, and the harmony of those sweet voices is yet ringing in my ears.

The Houses of Parliament are across the street from the Abbey. They contain over a thousand apartments, more than a hundred staircases, and a dozen courts. The art in these buildings rivals anything of the kind in the world. The paintings, sculptures, and the mosaic pavements are beautiful. They are open to the public only on Saturdays, from ten to four.

One should take a boat from the Tower Bridge to get the view of the Parliament buildings from the river, and sail away down past the embankment, where are many of the finest hotels.

There are some beautiful water trips about London. One particularly pleasant is from London Bridge to Kew. If you have time, stop at Chelsea and see the home of Carlyle, which is now fitted up as a memorial and open to visitors. Go on to Kew, where you disembark and take a char-a-bancs, or the top of an omnibus, to Hampton Court and walk through the grounds.

To me one of the greatest delights of London is Hyde Park. I cannot understand why one hears so much about Paris and so little of London. Hyde Park is to London what the Tuileries are to Paris, and the marble arch at the Victoria Street entrance, erected by George the Fourth, is as beautiful as the Arc de Triomphe, while the massive archway and iron gates at the Piccadilly end are imposing. One gets the best idea of Hyde Park by taking a 'bus at Piccadilly Circus—and, by the by, do you know what Piccadilly Circus is? Well, it is only a street, or rather a widening of the place where Regent Street ends and where Piccadilly turns west. Piccadilly itself is a prominent street, but only about half a mile in length, beginning at Haymarket and ending at Hyde Park.

To go back to Hyde Park—I repeat, take a 'bus at Piccadilly Circus, ride to Kensington Gore, and walk back through Kensington Gardens, past the Albert Memorial and the marble statue of the Queen, done by her daughter, Princess Louise. One is obliged to walk, as carriages are not allowed in Kensington Gardens, and there is no other way to see the beauty of the rare old trees, the fountains, the lakes, the bridges and the glorious array of blossoms. Try to get to Rotten Row in Hyde Park by four, for at that time the "drive" begins, and one may see London's lords and ladies at their best.

Another delightful day may be spent in St. James' Park. Aim to arrive there for the "guard mount," at nine each morning, and if you go on a Wednesday, and the King and Queen happen not to be in town, you may be shown through the palace.

Make a day of the Crystal Palace at Norwood. If you cannot take the continental trip, a very good idea of the works of art of Switzerland, Germany, France and Italy may be obtained in this "miniature world," as the Crystal Palace is sometimes called.

You should go to the theaters, and go some time when they do not "book stalls." This experience is apt to test your disposition. The Haymarket Theater, for instance, does not book seats on Saturday afternoons and the highest priced seat is but four shillings. It seemed strange that Ruth insisted on our lunching so early the Saturday we were to attend, but I thought the performance began at twelve like the Wagnerian cycles at Covent Garden. When I saw the pretty, well-behaved young women sitting there in line on camp-stools, it struck me as very funny. I lost my "place" time after time stepping out to gaze at them. There were few men present, and the low voices of the women never rose high or shrill when arguing about their right to a place.

But best and most fascinating of all is the National Gallery, and after that the British Museum. I like the English school of art: Landseer, Turner, Reynolds, Hogarth and Gainsborough.

If I could have but one picture, and that of my own choosing, I'd take, without hesitation, Landseer's "A Distinguished Member of the Royal Humane Society," not because the largest crowd is always before it, nor because the easel space is full with artists copying it, but because it appeals to my heart. One should go several times to the National Gallery that the knowledge gained may be properly digested. On the first visit especially, a guide should be taken.

BOURNE END:

I have had a most delightful opportunity to see something of the country life of England, and one that the casual traveler cannot experience, unless she has friends living here. It was on a house-boat at Bourne End, and the memory of that charming week will live long after paintings and sculptures have faded from my mind. It was the last week in June. The Thames was in gala dress for the boat races, and the banks were lined with house-boats—veritable bowers of plants and blossoms—ready for the Henley regatta. These house-boats are really flatboats supporting summer cottages. They are seldom moved except for the races, and are then towed up the Thames to Henley or Oxford by little tugs.

The scene is one of unsurpassed loveliness—the banks lined with these floating bowers, the water dotted with thousands of small boats each flying some college colors, the fresh-looking English maidens in holiday array, the stalwart fellows in white duck, the bands of music, the gaiety and flowers—flowers everywhere. If you have read the description of an Oxford regatta in "The Handsome Humes," you will agree with me, I am sure.

I shall not soon forget those who have been faithful and have written me every little while. No one knows, save those who have experienced it, what a letter means to one traveling in a strange country.

I am having the desire of my life. Every one is lovely to me. I am seeing picturesque England, literary England and historical England. I am having an ideally perfect time amid elegance and luxury, yet you can little realize the courage it takes not to throw the whole thing up and go home. I feel as though I'd like to gallop—run is too tame—right off to the docks and take the first thing that crosses that big ocean. Never fear, though; I'm going to brave it out, and I'll be a better and a wiser woman in consequence of it.

LONDON, July Fourth:

The dear maid brought me eleven letters, each with a little flag on it, and each intended to reach me this day.

Ruth and I took two young American girls with us to the Ambassador's reception this afternoon at four.

There is a spirit of patriotism in the breast of social leaders which perhaps is seldom equaled by those in the humbler walks of life. The firing of gunpowder in its various forms, the drinking of all sorts and conditions of drinks, the noise of the numerous and senseless yells on our nation's natal day, do not necessarily stamp the doer with boundless national love.

When one is far from one's native land the feeling of love for that home land is of too deep and sacred a nature to admit of jocular demonstrations. I saw society today with statesmen and men of letters and foreign representatives at the Ambassador's reception, and the heart swelled with patriotic emotion, and many eyes were moist with tears as some one unfurled the Stars and Stripes, while the band played the Star-spangled Banner. All this was done without sound of any sort, save the sweet strains of the music, or the deeper drawing of the breath, and yet the men of other nations uncovered their heads in respectful acknowledgment of the fact that they stood before the representatives of the truest and most patriotic country on earth.

So many things crowd to the place where the gray matter should be that I gasp for breath. I wonder if every woman who comes over here is possessed with the wild desire to write letters. I go to places now, that I may tell you about them, and am uneasy until I reach my little sky-parlor in order to begin the telling.

Can I ever make you understand how much, how very much, I appreciate all the delights you are making it possible for me to enjoy? Were I to be stricken blind and deaf, and then live a thousand years, I have enough of beauty of color, of sound and of fragrance to enable me to live happily through it all. And yet, I am going to say, "I told you so."

You never did so unwise a thing as to induce me to bring those trunks. We have discarded them, and have each purchased an English "hold-all" and a dress basket. This last we send to the place where we are to be at the week's end, and there we are laundered, and away it goes to our next resting-place.

I find that one can get her linen washed quickly, cheaply and well in all parts of England. You give your soiled clothes, with a thru'pence, to your maid at night, and you will find them at your door, along with your shoes, in the morning—shoes and all having been thoroughly washed.

There is a system of "carted luggage" here by which one may send any large piece of luggage that can be locked (it will not be taken otherwise) from one's door and find it in one's room at the hotel or lodgings in the next city. The cost is nominal. Unless one comes to visit or for social duties, only the bare necessities should be taken. Other articles are an extra bother and expense. We have learned, too, to write in advance, in time for a reply, before venturing to hotels or lodgings. Women unaccompanied by men do not receive the best attention in Europe unless "expected."

FRESHWATER, ISLE OF WIGHT:

In coming to the Isle of Wight we journeyed from London to Portsmouth by rail, and from Portsmouth to Ryde by boat across the Solent. The Spithead, as this part of the Solent is called, is the naval rendezvous of the world. Portsmouth harbor is filled with historic interest. It is here that Nelson's famous flagship Victory, now a schoolship, is anchored. Off to the northward are many basins lined with factories. A monstrous floating bridge carries multitudes of passengers and vehicles, and the smaller ferries and boats of every description make a wonderful scene of activity.

The ride was all too short. It seemed but a moment until we were stepping from the boat into the train at Ryde which was to carry us the entire length of the island to Freshwater, twenty-three miles away.

We arrived at Freshwater at sunset just as the bells were ringing for vespers, and we walked with the country folk the half mile from the station to the inn. Stopping long enough to leave our bags and wraps, we continued across the meadows to Farringford, the beautiful home of Tennyson. This was the realization of one of my cherished desires.

The house possesses no architectural pretensions, but is singularly attractive. It is a long, low, rambling structure absolutely covered with creeping vines. I sat in Tennyson's chair, held his pen, leaned on his desk and touched the books he loved. This was a privilege because the public is not admitted since the young Lord Tennyson has taken up his residence there.

Afterwards, I stood on the rustic bridge where Tennyson often stood to watch the sea, seen far away through the trees. I sat in the bower where he wrote "Enoch Arden," and strolled along the lanes which wind over the three hundred acres comprising the estate.

It was with difficulty that I dragged myself away from this restful spot, but I hope that I caught a bit of the inspiration that he found there.

Another day from the top of a coach we saw the beautiful country through which we had been whirled at dusk some days before. We drove to the rocks at the "bottom of the island," called the Needles; we wound through the cluster of cottages forming the village of Freshwater—then on we went through a succession of flowers on the hillside, flowers in the valleys, flowers by the sea, for the Isle of Wight is composed of blossoms and all the variations of green, with ever the blue sea as a background.

We had our tea in the garden of the little inn which nestles under the wall of Carisbrooke Castle. After we had climbed to its tower for the view and had returned to earth again, we continued on to Newport and Ventnor.

If you ever arrive at that part of Ventnor called "Bonchurch," stay there. Whoever named it must have been color-blind.

STOKE POGES:

A delightfully restful day has been spent at Stoke Poges, in that peaceful old churchyard which inspired Gray's Elegy. The whole place remains the same as in the poet's time—1717, except "Yon ivy-mantled tower," which has been spoiled by a modern spire. But the ivy refuses to "mantle" it, and with strange perverseness stops at the tower, leaving the spire bare and "unloved" by the vine.

As you sit under the yew tree where Gray sat and dreamed, you will realize the significance of his immortal lines:

The scenery along the Thames Valley, from London to Slough, is pleasing. On leaving the train at Slough, one finds all sorts of carriages waiting to carry one to Stoke Poges, and on to Burnham Beeches.

LAKESIDE, WINDERMERE, WEST VIEW VILLAS:

We left London, St. Pancras Station, via the Midland Railway, stopping en route at Chesterfield long enough to see the "Twisted Tower" of the cathedral. It was built in the fourteenth century, and the book says, "A curious twist to the spire was caused by the warping of the wood." The poor ignorant people say it was the devil. It is very odd, whatever did it.

We left the train at Leeds to see the ruins of Kirkstall Abbey, catching the next through train by driving to Skipton, and here began the most picturesque scenery I have found in England.

The valley of Craven consists of meadows similar to those of Chester and Warwick, but they are softer and greener; the same hedges, but darker, higher, and more velvety. The woods behind them set them off to advantage, and here and there, sparkling in the sunlight, are little lakes. The winding white roads and beautiful roses are everywhere. We passed a caÑon cut in the rocks, with cliffs as high as one can see, then the blue hills of Cumberland burst on our vision.

This mountain region, called the English Lake District, is said by the English to be the most beautiful spot in the British Isles, but the Scotch and the Irish each claim the same superlative. I shall see them all, and shall give you an unprejudiced opinion, but certain it is that within these limits lies a wealth of scenery not to be very far surpassed anywhere.

Have you the slightest idea what an English meadow is like? I had not, until today. This one has hills on either side with the clear blue Windermere at their feet. The white roads wind in and out, with this cluster of villas all covered with roses, and an old rustic bridge near by. I am writing this in the sweetest and cleanest of rooms, from the window of which I see the purple hills in the west and the sun just sinking behind them.

EN ROUTE:

The sail on Lake Windermere was delightful. The boat touched at a number of picturesque places once frequented by Scott, Wordsworth, Shelley and Southey, landing us at Ambleside about ten in the morning. Here the coach was waiting to take us on one of the loveliest drives in Great Britain. All the way we glided over the same smooth roads, with mountains on one side and Lake Grasmere at our feet. We visited the cottage where Wordsworth lived, the one in which Coleridge died, and the home of Harriet Martineau. What wonder that these dear people wrote so poetically! One must find expression for one's dreams in this land of beauty.

We reached Keswick just in time to board the train for Penrith, where we changed for Carlisle. Here we took time to visit the old castle and the really fine cathedral before leaving for Melrose, Scotland.

It is a mistaken idea that the English people sneer at or slight Americans. Every well-informed Englishman acknowledges the United States to be the most progressive nation on earth. Everything American is sought after, and American ideas command the highest price.

I have found the better class of English the most charming of people, and their hospitality knows no limit. My stay here, away from my native land, has been one bright dream of pleasure, made so particularly by a dear old English couple, and by the family on the house-boat.

EDINBURGH:

What a world of meaning those words hold for me! What a wealth of history those ruins contain! Their story must be read before coming, for the custodian's daughter, who was our guide, like Stockton's Pomona, had learned her story by heart, and no amount of questioning would bring forth any other facts save those in the "book."

This morning Ruth and I hired wheels and rode to Abbotsford. The beautiful home of Sir Walter Scott is after the style of many castles we have seen, walled in with gardens, terraced lawns, parks and drives. We plucked a bit of the ivy and holly hedge planted by Sir Walter's own hand, and walked in the gardens he loved so well.

Imagine, if you can, a city of three hundred thousand inhabitants, having in its heart an immense rock, with a castle on top of it.

Edinburgh is rich in landmarks, in spite of the fact that it has been burned to the ground twice since 1300. Its natural beauty surpasses that of either London or Paris. It is built upon two ridges, divided by a valley, which is now a park. The new town is situated to the north of the park, and in this portion are found the modern buildings and principal hotels. From my window I look out on the marble features of Scott, whose monument is at the end of the park.

The picturesque "Old Town" begins with the castle on its huge embankment and slopes down toward the south. It is here one finds the historic landmarks crowding each other in dramatic interest. Here, too, is brought vividly to mind the sad story of poor Queen Mary.

In the valley between the old and new towns is found a wealth of art and architecture not duplicated anywhere, for these Scots are strong in their originality.

It was from the esplanade overlooking one of the perpendicular sides of the castle rock, but which is now used as a drill-ground for the soldiers in the barracks, that I had my first view of that man-devised wonder, the Forth Bridge. I crossed it afterwards en route to Glasgow.

A few days is but scant time to do justice to the landmarks of Edinburgh, and it puzzles one to choose from among those orthodox and those otherwise. St. Giles, the old Gray Friars and John Knox vie with the haunts of Burns, Scott, Johnson and Boswell. The shops, too, form no small part of the attractiveness of the street scene, and the windows filled with articles done in plaids of the different clans are alluring.

GLASGOW:

The chief difference, I find, between the English and Scottish castles lies in the fact that the former are simply residences—walled to be sure—while the latter are strongholds, generally perched on some gigantic rock, and, incidentally, royalty resided in them long enough to have their heads under the guillotine. Stirling Castle is no exception to the rule, and it is therefore not visited by many women.

There is a long, hard climb up the hill leading to the fortifications, for Stirling is still a garrisoned town, and the castle stands on the edge of a steep, isolated rock overhanging the Forth. Here are the steps where Mary, Queen of Scots, stood to survey her possessions, the window out of which the body of Douglas was thrown, and the raised dais, on the battlements, from which Queen Victoria reviewed her troops. From the battlements there is a fine view of the country for miles around, with the statue of Wallace to be seen in the far distance. Just before crossing the drawbridge at the entrance to the castle stands a bronze Robert Bruce, whose features, even in iron, bring back the foremost of Scottish chiefs.

When a Scotchman tells you to do or see anything, he invariably adds, "If the day be fine," and true enough much depends on the "fineness" of the day in a country where it rains a little every day. The good wishes had been so many and so fervent that we might have a fine day for the coach drive through the Trossachs that nature put on her brightest smile and never shed a tear until we were under shelter.

The name Trossachs signifies "bristly country," and Scott, in his "Lady of the Lake," tells how it "bristles" with beauty and romance. That old story is, after all, the best guide to the lake region of Scotland.

The big red coach, with its four white horses and red-coated driver, meets the passengers as they alight from the traveling carriages, and dashes away almost before they are seated. Then follows in quick succession pictures of white roads bordered with purple heather, with a background of the dark green of the mountain; of a stone bridge spanning the blue waters of a salmon stream; of a wild bit of mountain scenery, with a road seemingly straight up its rugged sides; and last comes the view of the calm waters of Loch Katrine.

The boat Rob Roy receives the party from the coach and rounds Ellen's Isle, sailing almost the entire length of the beautiful loch. When it finally lands, there is another coach waiting to carry us across the mountains, and on to Inversnaid, where, after visiting the waterfall, the train is taken for Glasgow.

Glasgow is not a picturesque town—in fact, the Clyde is the prettiest thing about it—but it is modern and progressive, and it has two attractive public buildings, the cathedral and university.

AYR:

Burns's land lies between Glasgow and the sea, and from the moment that one alights from the train, at each step is found some haunt of the much-loved poet. It takes but a short time to peep through the window into the room where Burns was born, and to compare the humble cot where he lived his life with the magnificent place he occupies in death. His tomb is set high up on a hill in the midst of a park whose sides slope down to the bonnie Doon.

The shortest sea voyage between Scotland and Ireland is from Stranraer to Larne. Stranraer is a short ride from Ayr, but the S. S. Princess Victoria was five hours crossing the channel. It was cold and rough, and many of the passengers were ill.

One of the most fascinating of trips is that to the Giant's Causeway. From Larne the road takes its way through a number of thriving towns, and the country looks neat and has an air of the well-to-do.

At Portrush the scene changes, and becomes, almost at once, one of wild ruggedness. The cliffs rise high on one side, and the steep precipice at the edge of the tramway goes down to the sea on the other. This is an extraordinary coast. The action of the waves and the tides on the limestone has made the rocks take on fantastic shapes. The ocean is always tempestuous. It must be beautiful from the water, but nothing save small boats can venture here, so the view is almost unknown. This sort of scene continues until we reach Dunluce Castle.

Perched on the summit of an isolated rock, not far from the shore, is this picturesque fortress, separated from the mainland by a deep chasm. The castle is reached by a drawbridge, while beneath, the waves beat madly against the sides of the rock, black with the age of centuries.

The word "causeway" means paving, and these Irish giants paved well. Basaltic rock is plentiful along the north coast, but this particular district alone embraces these odd varieties of form. The caves along the coast can be seen only by means of rowboats. These are manned by strong and trustworthy sailors. The sea is very rough, and the boatmen delight in making the trip seem even more hazardous than perhaps it really is. After the caves have been explored the boat is rowed to the extreme end of the Causeway, and it is during the walk back that we get the best idea of these wonderful formations, and have a hair-raising experience on a narrow path three hundred and twenty feet in air. At first it was delightful—high, of course, but with a broad path. On turning a sharp corner, suddenly we came to a narrowing of the way, with nothing but rocks and sky above, and rocks and sea below. We dared not turn back, and we walked that terrible pass until we came to a widening in the path—it seemed hours—and then Ruth and I sat down and cried from sheer exhaustion. It cost us ten shillings to enter by the sea and six to make our exit by land.

KILLARNEY:

I wish I were a poet! But even the poet laureate, who recently visited here, says, "Words cannot do justice to this sweet, sad scene." His word "sad" pleased me, for I said yesterday to Ruth that the scenery of Ireland has a tenderness about it that makes one be quiet and think things.

We started at nine-thirty in a four-horse coach with a bugler. The road lies along the north side of the lower lake, and it wasn't long before the exquisite mountain scenery came into view. The Purple Mountains grew more interesting at every step. Presently we came to Kate Kearney's cottage, and our Irish guide turned and asked, in the richest of brogues:

Further on we struck the mountain pass, where the coach could not go. We dismounted and were placed on ponies. I thought at first I could not ride one, but I soon got used to the saddle, and I would not have missed the wild, weird pass over the mountain for anything. There was nothing "sad" or "tender" about that. It was fearful, awesome and mysterious.

We left the ponies at the foot of the mountains and paid toll into Lord Brandon's estate in order to reach the boats. Lunch was served on the banks of the upper lake.

These lakes have to be explored in rowboats, on account of the narrows, a pass between the rocks not more than ten feet apart. Such varied beauty I have seen nowhere else. The tender grace of the heather-strewn valley against the background of hills, the frequent change from the gentle to the stern, the calm-flowing waters, the smiling cascades turning into dashing cataracts over dangerous piles, are a never-ending source of surprises.

The upper lake is more placid and less changeable, but the lower has every change, from smooth, glass-like waters to the rapids, which we "shoot" in no fearless manner. Finally we alight on Innisfallen Island to see the ruins of the abbey; then we cross to Ross Castle. Here another coach and four was in waiting to carry us home. After ten miles by coach, five on horseback and thirteen by boat, I actually dress for dinner.

We were up with the larks this morning, packed everything very carefully, sent the basket off by carted luggage, and nearly came to blows with the stupid paddy at the station over the settlement.

After breakfast the coach came dashing up, and away we flew again, over the purple hills, through shady lanes, past the wee farms and the hovels, catching glimpses of castles, churches and ruins. The most beautiful of all is Muckross Abbey. I had no idea we could possibly repeat the pleasures of yesterday, but in some respects we exceeded them. Our road today wound up and around Eagle Nest Mountain, in the dark recesses of which the eagle builds its nest. Here, too, is the home of the famous Killarney echo. The effect produced by the notes of a bugle is almost supernatural.

The coachmen have a clever manner of talking to the echoes. For instance, ours called out, "Pat, were you drunk last night?" and the confession came back from a thousand hills, "Drunk last night, drunk last night, drunk last night."

The literary Killarnian claims for this beautiful region that it was the ruins of the old castle on the shores of the Middle Lake which called forth Tennyson's masterpiece, "The Bugle Song."

The Purple Mountains take their name from the purple of the heather. One can see every shade, from the light pink-lavender to the dark, almost red, purple.

We arrived at Glengariff just as the sun was sinking. The valley, the lakes, the mountains, the red coach, with its four big horses darting in and out of the winding road, and finally galloping up to the exquisite little inn at Glengariff, high on a knoll overlooking the blue waters of the Bay of Bantry, are among the delightful details of today's picture.

The shore line of this attractive bay can be appreciated only when one is taken in a small boat, threading one's way through the numberless private yachts that dot its waters. One of the gentlemen of our party, thinking to have some sport with the boatman, said that only one lady could go in each boat, and that he must choose the one he wished to go with him. After a critical survey the answer came, "Divil a step will I go without the both of yez!" and he handed us both into the boat, and left the gentlemen to seek a boat by themselves.

CORK:

We left the coach at Bantry and took an observation car to Cork. After a rest of a few hours and a dainty luncheon a jaunting-car "shook" us over the road to Blarney Castle. The road lies through a beautifully cultivated country. There is a charm about the sweet old castle that is indescribable. The view from the top is superb, taking in the valley of the Lee, with the old Roman bridge in the far distance.

When any one tells you that he kissed the Blarney stone, take it with several grains of salt. It is a physical impossibility for one who wears petticoats.

Cork is, to my mind, the prettiest town in all Ireland. It lies in the midst of limestone quarries, and is white to a degree. I had not read Thackeray's "Sketch Book" before I came here, and I wondered why some one had not raved over this magnificent part of the world. I have since been delighted to find that he did rave—I use the word advisedly—as no one but Thackeray can.

Cork has more well-known landmarks than any other place in Ireland. In a little three-storied bell-tower in the center of the town hangs the chime of bells made famous by Francis Mahony in his—

One of the pleasant drives from Cork takes one to Sir Walter Raleigh's home at Youghal. For more than four hundred years it has stood with but little change. Attached to the grounds is the garden where Raleigh experimented with the potato, which here was first grown in Ireland.

We were a rather solemn lot on the drive to Queenstown, for all but Ruth and me were to sail from there for home. This seeing people off isn't what "it's cracked up" to be, especially when they are off for the land where "some one loves you and thinks of you far away," but we wished them bon voyage, and Ruth and I turned our hard-set faces northward.

And so this all too happy summer must come to a close. I remain here to study, and Ruth goes to Iceland. We shall meet in the spring, when I shall have taken my degree (?), and go to sunny Italy together.

It is said that to travel through Europe with one and still remain friends, stamps both as remarkably amiable persons. Without wishing to seem egotistical, I'd like you to know that before bidding Ruth good-bye she invited me to join her later in this jaunt through Italy.

I was sitting on the deck of the ship that was to carry Ruth away from me, looking at the lights out over Dublin Bay, when some one touched me on the shoulder, and, on turning around, there stood dear Miss B., who was with us for a time at Killarney. I met her father on the street the other day, and told him of Ruth's intended departure. They were very good to come to us that night, and I shall never forget their kindness in helping me over these first days without my blessed Ruth. Through them I have made some charming friends who occupy the time before I start in to study.

I have had a delightful outing, one which enabled me to see, and in an uncommon manner, certain out-of-the-way places where the casual tourists rarely go, and it has all been due to the friends of Miss B. These Irish know how to do things well.

We started away, a regular cavalcade, with most of the women in the coach and a few on horseback. The servants went ahead with the wagons carrying the viands and rugs, and, oh, a hundred things we Americans would never think of.

Dublin has more pleasure resorts at her door than any other city in the world. We drove out through Phoenix Park, passing the summer home of the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. We made our first stop at Killiney Castle to get the fine view of Dublin Bay. It was from this spot that the poet wrote:

Then we dashed away to Bray and Bray's Head, along the Esplanade, through the Scalp, a wild bit of country in the county of Wicklow, and the Dargle, which is a romantic glen. We never go slowly—the horses are either galloped, or stopped altogether. Then on we flew through Enniskerry, a lovely little village, where everybody stopped or ran to the door to watch us go by, with a wave of the hand, and always a "God bless ye!"

I could not believe such magnificence was possible in Ireland as was found at Powers Court had I not seen it with my own eyes. It is the finest private mansion I have seen in all my travels. The Vale of Avoca, which called from Moore these lines,

did not appeal to me so much as did Killarney.

The city of Kilkenny, called the "Marble City," impressed itself on me. The streets are paved with marble of their own quarrying, and what is better, the inhabitants have fire without smoke, from a peculiar coal found in that district. They also claim to have water without mud, and earth without bog, and however true these boasts may be, it is a wonderfully clean city. The coach was sent back from this place by the servants, and we returned by train.

It all seems very tame in this telling of mine, but the trip, every moment of it, was delightful. Sometimes we would all get out and walk; sometimes the ladies would exchange with the men and ride horseback; or when it would rain for a few moments the men would crowd into the coach. Then there would be good fun, and I could get an idea of their thoughts. They are great story-tellers, these Irish, and have such warm hearts. And the songs they sang, when shall I ever hear such again? And yet there was not a young person, that is, one under thirty, in the party.

There is a pathos about the love of an Irishman for his country that is most touching, and each county vies with the others in patriotic loyalty; and let me whisper in your ear, that the Irish gentry are far and away ahead of "what the world thinks" they are. In fact, they are "deloitful."

I suppose you have noticed the number of "Kills" which form some part of many of the names I have referred to. "Kil" is the Gaelic for "church."

One of my Irish friends told the story of an Englishman who went over to Ireland and fell upon the following conversation between two tough-looking natives:

The frightened Englishman concluded not to tarry in such a bloodthirsty country, and stood not upon the order of his going.

Since writing that last letter I have been very busy getting in trim for work, and at last I'm "fit."

I have been taking my afternoons to see this wonderful city. I told you, did I not, that because I am in these blessed petticoats, I am obliged to recite "apart"—not apart from the petticoats, but apart from the unpetticoated sort.

My home is in quite a good-looking house, and it is well furnished, but the landlady is away, and the maidens do it up when and how they please. I have a large room "front," and as I study here every morning, and write much of the remainder of the time, my room is "tidied" only when I ask for it, and then, of course, it is an extra.

Will you believe me when I tell you that nowhere in Europe have I seen more lovely or better dressed women than right here on Sackville Street? I have accounted for it, in some degree, by the fact that our Irish cousins follow the American styles more closely than do any of their immediate sisters. The Irish woman is always in good form. One never sees her wearing any sort of jewelry before luncheon. She is usually found in the morning in a short, tailored skirt, a chic blouse and hat; some dainty confection of lace and muslin in the afternoon; and, almost without exception, the middle class, as well as the gentry, "dress" for dinner; then it is one sees the beautiful jewels handed down by their forebears.

The college buildings are delightfully quaint, with multitudes of old-fashioned wee window-panes which stud their faces. Statues of two of Ireland's beloved sons, Burke and Goldsmith, are on either side of the entrance. Opposite is the famous Bank of Ireland, beautiful in design, and the general post-office. Statues of "Hibernia," "Mercury" and "Fidelity" adorn the latter.

For some reason an Irishman, in his native country, will not admit ignorance on any subject. He would rather tell you wrongly than to say, "I don't know."

Some one asked a "jarvey" what those statues I have just mentioned were. Pat hadn't their names handy in his mind, so he drew on his imagination, and replied: "Thim's the twelve apostles, sur."

"Twelve apostles," shouted the inquirer; "why, man, there are only three of them!" To which Pat, not to be caught by such a trifle, said:

"Sure, an' yer honor wouldn't have thim all out in this dom rain, would ye? The rest of 'em are inside sortin' o' the letters."

The first day I was shown over Dublin my guide, in pointing out the college, said: "This is the Library, and an institute for learning." I asked, "How far does the Library extend?" meaning, which was the Library and which the Institute. The honest, but thick-headed, paddy replied, "To the roof, mum."

The comparative neglect by tourists of a country like Ireland, where nature has lavished her charms with such wonderful profusion, can only be explained by its hitherto unsettled condition, and its long-a-dying notoriety for inferior accommodations and modes of transportation. But whatever difficulties and discomforts may have existed to deter the traveler in former days, it seems to me that little now is wanting to render a tour through Ireland all that the rational traveler can desire.

It is well nigh impossible to tell of the exquisite scenery of the beautiful island without seeming fulsome. Almost every county so teems with prehistoric remains, and the island is so begirt with varied attractiveness, that it is as alluring to the student and artist as it is to the pleasure seeker.

SORRENTO:

How splendid it seems to be free again! And yet I do believe it does one good—having been out of the habit of studying—to take a few months every year or so and to give close application to some subject.

I was glad when the time came to end traveling and to begin study; and now I am glad that I can cease my studies and again begin sight-seeing.

Ruth, as you know, found it necessary to return to America before rejoining me. She sailed from New York the 18th and I met her at Ponta Delgada. Ponta Delgada is the chief city of the island of San Miguel, which, in turn, is the principal island of the Azores, and it is prominent for having the most beautiful gardens in the world.

Among the passengers who boarded the ship with me at Ponta Delgada was a delightful Portuguese family—the mother, son and his wife—who came with us to Italy. They are cultured people, and speak English perfectly, though the mother and wife had never before been off the island.

We left the Azores on the 27th of April, passing Gibraltar on May Day. Gibraltar is not so frowning as I had imagined, for the graceful rock smiled down on us as if in greeting.

All that has been written about the blue Mediterranean is true. It is blue as nothing else is. The sky, those days, was greenish pink, and you know what a delight to the eye is the blending of these colors. But the one bright memory that stands out clearest when I think of the Mediterranean is the sunset. I remember one night in particular. The good captain told me to hasten from dinner. I drew my chair close to the rail, and out beyond the horizon I saw a city of fire. The beautiful mansions, and cathedrals, and castles, with turrets and towers, were all ablaze. Through the streets people in fiery red draperies were flying from the flames. Sometimes an old man with flowing beard appeared in the midst of them, and with outstretched hands, would seem to call aloud. The flames turned to a greenish gold, the smoke rolled away, and far beyond appeared a Moorish village, the temples carved of alabaster. Suddenly, through the lace-like pillars, came the faintest tint of pink, growing dimmer and dimmer, until only the outlines could be discerned. A great billowy sea of foam rolled over the village, and divided on either side of a world of golden fire, and, as I gazed, it dropped into the black water.

A voice said, "Come, dear, the captain wants you to see the moon come up out of the sea." It was my blessed Ruth.

"Did you see that burning city and Moorish village?" I asked, as soon as I had returned to earth. "Yes, dear," she replied, and there were tears in her eyes, too.

This morning we were called at five o'clock to see the sun rise over Vesuvius. The same ball of golden fire which went down into the sea that night crowned for a brief moment the wonderful Mount.

The Bay of Naples is unlike anything else on earth. On one side are the castles, or villas, or pleasure resorts, whichever it be that comes to your gaze as you glide past; on the other, the turquoise-blue water; and far in the distance, like a camel with two humps, rising out of the sea, is Capri. The air is filled with music, and the scene is one of the wildest confusion. Every sort of craft that sails the seas, every sort of flag, every sort of sound, causes you to wonder if you will ever get through that throng. The ship is stopped, the steps are let down the side, and the doctor and the purser with the mail come on board.

While we were busy with our letters from home, one of the party with whom we were to go through the Blue Grotto had bargained with a boatman to take us to the ship that goes to Capri.

The mode of going ashore here at Naples is different from that of any other port where I have landed. Hundreds of stout row-boats come from the various hotels, just as the omnibuses meet the trains in the smaller cities at home.

The Blue Grotto must be visited on a clear, calm day, and some old travelers advised us, if the day was fine, to go directly from the ship before landing. The captain allowed us to leave our luggage on board, as the ship will stay in Naples for several days to unload freight. There were six of us, then, transferred to the German Lloyd S. S. Nixe.

As we sailed away, Vesuvius and Sorrento were to the left, the city of Naples behind us, and the outlines of Capri ahead. We went directly to the Grotto, or rather as near as the large boat goes. Here, again, we took to the row-boats, two in each.

The Grotto itself is a cavern in the side of the huge rocks of Capri. It is necessary to lie flat in the boat to get through the tiny opening. I could readily see why the authorities do not permit visitors on stormy days, for the sea was rough even on this quiet morning. The interior of the cave is high, and the effect of the reflection of the sun on the blue waters is indescribable. Everything under water takes on a silvery hue, and the echo is weird.

On board the ship once more, we sailed away from this real fairies' abode to the town of Capri, arriving at high noon, and as the town is on the side of a mountain, we climbed up a good part of its side to get a lunch. It was my first Italian meal, and it was delicious. Of course there was macaroni in the Italian style, with beef-stock and tomatoes, and fried fresh sardines.

The dessert was a fruit, something like our California plum, which I tasted for the first time at the Azores,—the nespera.

After the repast we hired a carriage for Anacapri. The road, hewn out of solid rock, lies along the mountainside, giving us a magnificent view of the bay, with Vesuvius always in sight.

We caught the Nixe on her return trip to Sorrento. Here, again, the little boats meet us, each bearing the name of its hotel on a silken banner. The boatman shouts out the name of the one he represents until a passenger calls, in turn, his choice. We were going to the Cocumella, and I wish you might have heard the boatman call, in his soft, musical voice, "Co—ceh—m-e-l-l-a! Co—ceh—m-e-l-l-a!" The steward helped us into the boat, and we were rowed to an opening in the cliff. The town lies on the top of perpendicular rocks, and we struggled up five hundred steps cut in a tunnel through the mountain, coming out at the top into the lovely garden of this hotel.

The Cocumella was once a monastery, and its situation is ideal. Here is a place where I should be willing to spend the remainder of my days.

NAPLES:

Ruth is such a brick! She is not afraid of her shadow, and she likes to be alone some time each day. That remark was called forth by the number of tourists one meets who are worn to the bone by companions who are afraid to room alone or to look out of the window alone—to eat, sleep, walk, talk, or pray alone—and who must have some one close by them every moment of the time.

Last night, on our walk about Sorrento, we called at the house of Mr. Marion Crawford.

This morning in two carriages, for there were eight of us, we went for the drive from Sorrento to Amalfi. The road, cut out of the rock, with a balustrade of stone to protect the traveler from the precipice, is regarded as one of the finest pieces of engineering in existence. Sometimes a viaduct, perhaps five hundred feet high, will span a chasm. The road winds up and around the mountain, and the view, with the Bay of Naples at its feet, is sublimely picturesque. The almost perpendicular sides of the mountain, on the different levels, are terraced and planted with olive, lemon, or other fruit trees.

The drive was ended at Vietri about five, and we returned to Naples by train, having our first glimpse of Pompeii and our first ride on an Italian railway.

It rained in torrents all day, but, nothing daunted, we started for the Customs. That sounds very commonplace and innocent, but it spells a mad, wild sort of a time. In the first place, we had to beg, borrow, and finally to steal a facchino (porter), and induce him to get a boatman to fetch our luggage from the ship, fully a mile out in the bay. We paid him first to show there were no hard feelings, again to get a tarpaulin to cover the luggage, and again and again for—I know not what.

Then we sat down and waited—stood up and waited—purchased all the postcards in the little cafÉ and wrote to every one we knew—waited some more, and, finally—yes, they came. There was another transferring of coins—always from my hand into that of the facchino—then the Customs with its fees, and the cabman with his, and all the time I had to take their word for the change, for I had not mastered the lira.

Before leaving Naples we visited Pompeii. I was disappointed at first with these wonderful ruins. There is much that one must imagine. One must take the word of the guides for everything, and they have a little way of "space-filling" which has lost its charm for me. But Pompeii grew on me each moment of my stay. We were taken in a sedan chair carried on the shoulders of two strong peasants. The general appearance is that of a town which has been swept by a tornado, unroofing the houses and leaving only the walls standing. It is on these walls that one finds the exquisite bits of coloring which has given us the Pompeian tints.

The charm of Naples lies in the wonderful scenery surrounding it, and in its street scenes, with the noise and clatter of its street vendors. Life in the poorer quarters is like that in no other city, being free and open to public gaze. All the duties of the household are performed in the street.

ROME:

The first thing to learn in Rome is the pronunciation of the name of the street and the number of your pension, in order that you may be able to get home. Our pronunciation is set-tahn-tah dew-ey vee-ah sis-teen-ah, and the manner with which we hop into a cab and say it to the cocchiere stamps us as old Italians.

Our home here is at the top of the Scala di Spagna (Spanish steps), right in the heart of the new town. We walk down the steps every morning as we start out to the American Express office to get our letters, but we come up the "lift"—for ten centimes.

It is absolutely necessary to be driven about Rome accompanied by a guide, whether one's stay is to be of long or short duration. In no other manner can one comprehensively grasp this vast array of ancient and modern art, nor the colossal expanse of architecture, both standing and in ruins. After having been shown the important places, it is well to return alone, and at leisure ponder over those things which most appeal to the heart as well as to the senses.

I have had a careful explanation of the significance of that much-used word—"basilica." Originally it was a portico separated from some public building, not unlike the peristyle at our Columbian Exposition, save that it need not, of necessity, be near any body of water; in fact, it rarely was in the old Roman days. The basilicas of the old forums were really walks under cover. In later days these porticos were inclosed and made into churches. The name "basilica" still clung to them, and now the oblong space forming the main body between the pillars in any church edifice, without regard to the style of architecture, is so called.

I have read somewhere, in the reveries of a bachelor (not Ik Marvel's), that "style is born IN a woman and ON a man." I wonder how he knew—perhaps he had been in Rome.

The style of the greater number of foreign tourists of the female persuasion must be "in," as there is little visible to the naked eye. But the style of these Italian soldiers is "on," indeed, and they are on dress parade the livelong day. I have used all my superlatives, but really in no city on earth does one see such gloriously, exquisitely dressed little men as are the soldiers of Italy, and especially of Rome. The Bersaglieri form the Élite corps, and wear a large round hat, with a multitude of cock's plumes, tipped far on one side of the head. This tribute to the swagger appearance of the soldiers is also applicable to the young priests, monks and students, and even to the butlers and footmen.

On a fÊte day we went to St. Peter's, and were repaid by meeting our Portuguese friends, who took us to drive through the beautiful parks and grounds of the Villa Borghese, returning to luncheon with us at our pension. This home of ours is a very attractive place, but it tries my patience to be forced to go through a ten-course dinner each night, when I am anxious to get out. The words "change" and "haste" are unknown here, and it is only endurable because the dinner is so exquisitely prepared and served.

We have some interesting and clever people at our table—a family from Boston, two girls from Washington, a brother and sister from Philadelphia, who have lived here for years, and a beautiful Canadian. The last named sits next me, and our sotto voce conversations have brought out the fact that her heart is full of love for all things. She is Canadian only by birth, and among the array of smartly dressed Americans in the pension, she leads.

I do not wish to be put on record as one who judges a woman solely by her clothes; but oh, the American woman here is incomparable. I agree with Lilian Bell, that the women of no other race can compare with her in dress, or taste, or carriage. She is bewitching! She is a type! I believe I once told you that we had no type. I take it back. We have, and so glorious a one that I am proud to claim kinship with her.

You will be shocked, I am sure, when I tell you that I do not agree with Mr. Howells, nor yet with my beloved Hawthorne, for I love modern Rome. To be sure, Hawthorne wrote of Rome in 1858, and Mr. Howells in 1864, and it may be the shops were not so altogether enticing in those early days, or it may be because they were not women that the shops had no charm for them; but if they had known Castellani, the goldsmith on the Piazzi di Trevi, who executes designs from the old Grecian, Etruscan and Byzantine models, or Roccheggiani's exquisite mosaics and cameo carvings, it is probable their opinions would be modified.

Michelangelo's "Moses" is not in the big St. Peter's of the Vatican, but in St. Peter's of Vincoli. This was a surprise to me, for I had supposed to the contrary. I had asked many times, to no avail, why Michelangelo put horns on his "Moses," until a learnÈd monk told me that, in an early translation of the Scriptures, the word "horns" was incorrectly given for "skin." Notwithstanding the disproportion of its outlines, the gigantic statue is, to me, the most wonderful thing ever cut from a block of marble.

We have an ascensor in our pension. The big concierge puts me in, locks the door, unlocks the catch, and lets it go. When it gets to my floor it is supposed to stop, and in the same breath to have its door unfastened, and all I have to do is to walk out. Sometimes, however, it stops midway between floors, and then I wish I had walked up. I find Roman and Spanish steps just as fatiguing to climb as any others, and patronize the ascensors with vigor.

We went by appointment one day to the Rospigliosi Palazzo to return the visit of our Portuguese friends, Signor and Signora A., and were taken into another part of the palace to see Guido Reni's "Aurora." The picture is painted on the ceiling, and there is an arrangement of mirrors by which one can view it without having to tire the neck with looking up so constantly. It is the greatest painting that has been done in the last two hundred years. In the evening we all went to hear "Gioconda" at the TeÂtro Adriano. The Italian audience seemed, by the uproarious applause that greeted each aria, to appreciate the music, but talked continually through it all.

We have revisited many of the places which most interested us during our three days' drive with the cicerone, and have whiled away many delightful mornings in the shops. We rest a little in the early part of each afternoon, and then, almost invariably, we drive on the Corso and to the Pincian Gardens, where the band plays from five until an hour after Ave Maria. Here one sees the smart Romans, and in fact people of nearly every race on earth, in their best attire, on pleasure bent.

It is needless to tell you that we take a carriage sans numero, for the private parks of the best palazzos allow only carriages without numbers to enter.

The scene on the Pincio is just what it was in Hawthorne's day. Read his description of it in the "Italian Note Book," and you will see it more clearly than I can make you understand. It is a continual fÊte champÊtre.

One day, while we were obliged to stop on account of a jam in the ring of carriages that move slowly round and round the circle where the band plays, Ruth stepped from the vehicle to get nearer the beautiful fountain of Moses to make a little sketch of it. I sat alone listening to the glorious Italian band. And while my thoughts were thousands of miles away, and very near the one to whom this message goes first, some one spoke to me in French, and asked if I would have the goodness to go to his madame. It was the serving-man of our fellow-voyager, she of the same initials as my own. I looked in the direction he indicated, and there, not ten carriages back, she was, so hemmed in that it was impossible to drive alongside.

As I left my seat and walked over to her, she met me with the radiant face and smiling greeting of an old friend. She is beautiful, with that inimitable something about her that attracts one, and I wondered if I should ever know what her given name is. I knew for a certainty that I should never ask. She is not old, but gives one the impression that she has lived long enough to have "gathered the fruits of experience where once blossomed the flowers of youthful enthusiasm."

The bells for Ave Maria had rung. The musicians were picking up their music. The Pincian Hill was deserted. Ruth sat alone in her carriage as this woman's hand grasped mine in reluctant parting.

You recall my telling you of Mrs. F. on the ship—she whom I met on the Pincian Hill—and her invalid son? Well, he was not her son. He is her—husband.

It will be no breach of confidence to tell you the story, for I have her permission—withholding her name, of course.

It seems that the husband, in his youth, was rather "rapid"; and, in a most idiotic will, the father left him a large fortune, provided that before his twenty-fifth year he had been married to a woman at least ten years his senior. It was stipulated that the woman was not to know the conditions of the will until after the marriage, so that she might be some one of worth and character, capable of caring for the money.

No wonder it sobered the poor young man. He swore that he would never marry, and that those who were ready to grasp the fortune, should he fail to "keep the bond," might have it, and be—happy.

One vacation time found him at the home of a classmate in one of the eastern college towns, where he met and fell in love with this woman whom I have described to you. He had no idea she was older than himself until he had made her a proposal of marriage. She, of course, refused what she conceived to be a foolish boy's fancy. He sent for his mother, and together they set themselves to win the lady of his choice, after the mother had "looked her up"—and down—as mothers of precious boys are wont to do.

In the meantime the young man was taken very ill, in his delirium calling for his love, who finally, at the physician's urgent request, went to him, and, with his mother, cared for him.

It was the day before his twenty-fifth birthday. The mother was frantic at the thought that her son was to lose his fortune. He cared little for the money, save that it would enable him to shower favors upon this love of his. He begged her to marry him that night to save him from some great trouble—if she ever regretted it for one moment she should be free—that he could not in honor tell her why it was so necessary that the marriage be solemnized at once. She had grown fond of him, yet naturally hesitated to do either him or herself injustice. Finally his helplessness and his mother's agony proved too much for her, and just before the midnight they were married at his bedside.

Who can account for the vagaries of a woman's fancy? The foolish conditions which she made a part of this contract were: that they should live abroad where they were not known, and that she should be known as his mother.

His own mother, otherwise a strong, sensible woman, agreed to everything, so great was her anxiety about her son.

In another week they had started for Europe, and I have accounted to you the strange manner in which their names appeared on the ship's register. It served as a safeguard against inquisitive people, and every one took it for granted that they were mother and son—and she a widow.

Immediately they landed they met an old friend of hers, and thus began a series of explanations, for her friend knew she had no son.

Fortunately this woman was a brave, true friend, and her advice was so heroic that the bride was speechless before such fearlessness.

She said to her: "You must stop all this foolishness at once. There is absolutely no excuse for such deceit. One falsehood paves the way for hundreds of others. It has already cost you the loss of your peace of mind and it is the cause of your husband's continued illness. How can you expect him to be strong, while living a lie?"

This last statement was pretty hard to accept, but it proved that her liking for her young husband had grown into love, for her one desire was to see him well and strong.

Her pride, however, stood in her way and she must have advice. Everything else the friend said was true, for already her day had become a hideous nightmare with this constant fear of meeting some one whom she knew. And this is why she sent her footman for me the day of the concert in the Pincian Gardens.

She explained that she had heard Ruth and me discussing points in ontology on the ship, and wanted to ask me if what her friend said was true. She told me the story just as I have told it to you, not naming herself. I divined at once it was her own, but did not let her feel that I had perceived it, and for answer I said:

"How I should love to meet that friend! Most assuredly she is right. Falsehood and deceit bring nothing but suffering. Send word to that poor foolish woman at once that you too are opposed to her living a lie any longer."

It was listening to this tale that made me forget the crowd, the perfume of the flowers, and even the exquisite music of the King's band.

How glad I am that I saw dear old England first, for it seems very young when compared to Rome. Everything here is twenty centuries or more old, therefore you may imagine that, by comparison, things only a few hundred years old are yet in their infancy.

Apropos of age, while at Oxford a student told us, with much solemnity, that Magdalen College "was built in 1490, before you were discovered." The doctor said, "Well, what of it?" I was shocked at the good doctor, and was much impressed by the great age; but I understand the doctor's sarcasm now, for he had recently returned from Rome.

The "oldest church in Rome," however, reminds one of "the favorite pupil of Liszt." I am meeting with them still.

The most magnificent place in Rome, after the Vatican, is the Villa Borghese (bor-gay-zay), not only on account of the beautiful park which contains numerous ornamental structures, little temples, ruins, fountains and statues, but also on account of the collection of antiques in its casino, or gallery. It is here that Canova's marble statue of Pauline Borghese is exhibited—to me the most beautiful marble in Rome. Here, too, is Titian's first great work, "Sacred and Profane Love." I fancy that Titian saw life from many view-points.

Imagine one going from the sublime to the ridiculous—from the gorgeous Borghese Villa to a Rag Fair. A Rag Fair is an open-air sale of everything that can be thought of, from a garter clasp to a diadem. We went for old brass candlesticks of the seven-pronged, sacred variety, afterwards continuing on to St. Peter's, where we were repaid for mounting an incline of 1,332 feet up through the dome by the view of all Rome, the Vatican gardens and the tops of the "seven hills."

Mrs. F. joins us often now. She went with us again Thursday to the church San Paola alle Tre Fontane (St. Paul of the Three Fountains). It is kept by Trappist monks, a silent order. They never speak to each other, but make up for it when visitors come. We had a dear "brother" show us the objects of interest, and he presented each with a wee drinking glass to measure out the Eucalyptus wine which they make there.

The three fountains are flowing clear as crystal, and whether or not the head of St. Paul jumped three times on these spots, as tradition has it, it matters little; but the simple faith of the sweet-faced sisters who knelt and drank from each spring and arose freed from some claim was touching, and far from provoking the mirth that some people feel toward these devout pilgrims.

En route home we stopped at the English cemetery and plucked a flower from the grave of Keats and of Shelley and of Constance Fenimore Woolson.

We saw Hilda's Tower, too, that day. I had occasion to thank Hawthorne for "The Marble Faun" and "Italian Note Book," otherwise I should not have been able to relate the story of Hilda and her tower. In truth, all Italy would have remained as a closed book to me had it not been for my three "H's," as Ruth calls them—Hawthorne, Howells and Hutton. The latter says, in his "Literary Landmarks of Rome," that the "Italian Note Book" is still the best guide to Rome that has ever been written, and that one should read it before coming, again while here, and yet once more after returning home.

I shall say the same about the Landmarks, for without them much of the charm I have found here would have been lost.

Yesterday we bade St. Peter's good-bye on our way to Sant'Onofrio. Here, again, a bright young frÈre showed us over the church made most interesting from its association with Tasso. There are some excellent paintings in the lunettes under the colonnade of the cloisters.

It is a great pleasure to show Mrs. F. anything, as her appreciation is keen. She knew little of the literary landmarks which she passed each day, and I pointed out to her the house where Keats lived, on the left as one goes down the Spanish steps, the house of Shelley on the right, with the lodgings occupied by Byron almost directly opposite.

On our return from Sant'Onofrio, she inquired of the coachman if the horses were fit, and upon his answering that they were good for several hours, she turned and in a low voice asked me to remain with her as long as possible. I understood. From a list of streets and numbers which I had with me, we selected such as we wished to visit.

On the Via di Bocca di Leona we found the home of the Brownings; close by, the house that sheltered Thackeray in Rome; and not far away, the place where Adelaide Sartoris lived. In rapid succession, then, we made "little journeys" to the Italian homes of Louisa Alcott, Helen Hunt Jackson, George Eliot, and the house where Mrs. Jameson held Sunday soirÉes in a wee two-by-four room. Mr. Hutton and I did good work, for after all other sights had failed to interest, our (?) literary landmarks succeeded in saving the day.

ORVIETO:

After the rather strenuous day, the account of which closed my last letter, we settled up our affairs in Rome, heard for the last time the Pope's angel choir, sent off our luggage, purchased our tickets, with innumerable stop-overs, and, hardest of all, bade good-bye to our friends.

Just before we were leaving, Mrs. F.'s footman brought to the door of our compartment in the traveling-carriage an armful of roses and a letter. The flowers brightened all the hot dusty day, but the letter—oh, that letter will brighten all the years that may come to me, and I have tucked the precious words away in the warmest corner of my heart, to be taken out on the rainy days of life, and fondled like some of childhood's memories.

I did not see her again after she left me at the door that evening, nor had she spoken one word to indicate that she knew that I knew. She paid me the highest tribute of friendship—silence.

"The Catholic Church has not a monopoly of 'ears that hear yet hear not, eyes that see and are blind,' for I find in you one who is built fine-grained enough not to mistake silence for stupidity, nor to consider the absence of an interrogation mark as lack of sympathy. The very evident fact that your beautiful companion knows nothing of my sorrow stamps you as a splendid friend, and I want you for such.... Your going has taken away my strongest staff. You have been bravely permitting me to lean on you, too hard I fear, these last days, but you understand, and, understanding, forget.

"I should come to you in person to bid you good-speed, but I should break down and perhaps not be able to let you go, so I am sending instead this message. I have determined to be brave, to end this deceit, to go away from Rome; to begin aright in some other place; to live the truth."

I left the eternal city with a light and happy heart, for my new heart's sister (new if we count by that false estimate—time) is free. I still do not know what her given name is, as all her notes have been signed with her initials, and her surname does not resemble mine in the least.

No wonder Mrs. Ward sent her weakest heroine here to hide. If you ever lose me, and suspect that I am in hiding, hunt for me in Orvieto. I had heard nothing of the place until I read "Eleanor," but now, if I were a guide-book, I'd put five asterisks before it and six in front of its cathedral. You will understand how I feel about it when I tell you that most of the guide-books never use more than two stars to indicate the superlative. Loomis, in his wildest flights, sometimes uses three, so I think five would about fit my estimation of the Orvieto of today.

The town is on the top of a mountain, up the almost perpendicular sides of which it is reached by a funicolare.

SIENA, ITALIE—Signora Elvina Saccaro's, Pension Tognazzi, via Sallutio Bandini 19.

I wish I might live here, on this street and in this pension, and have it all on my visiting-cards, and write it in my best style at the top of my letters. If it were engraved on my visiting-cards, and you should wish to come to see me, you would simply have to say to the cabman, "See-nyee-o-rah—Al-vee-nyee-ah—Sah-chah-ro—Pe'n-see-yo'—Tog-natz-zee—Vee-ah—Sal-lut-chio—Bahn-dee-nee—Dee-chee-ah-no-vay," but the entire address doesn't include the beautiful cloisters into which my windows open, for the place is an old monastery.

The first I ever knew of Siena was from one of Lilian Whiting's books. She spoke of Symonds' history and Mrs. Butler's "Biography of Katherine of Siena," and straightway I devoured them both. How little I thought then that I should walk the same streets and kneel at the same altar at which that saint knelt. I like her the best of all the saints "I have met," for she loved to be alone and build castles.

Siena is a rival of Rome and Florence in mediÆval art and architecture. The churches are wonderfully beautiful, and filled with the choicest works of ancient and modern artists. The marble pavement and the carved white marble pulpit in the cathedral cannot be equaled.

FLORENCE:

Three weeks in the art center of the world and not one letter written! The note-book, however, is getting so fat that it begs to be put on paper and sent away to you. My bank account is correspondingly lean, made so partly by the purchase of pretty carte-postales which carry the telegraphic messages across the sea, just to show that I'm thinking and that a letter is coming some fine day.

If my porte-monnaie were not so trÈs maigre, I'd buy many copies of Howell's "Tuscan Cities," Hutton's "Literary Landmarks of Florence," Ruskin's "Mornings in Florence," Mrs. Oliphant's "Makers of Florence," and Mrs. Browning's "The Casa Guidi Windows," and send to each of you with this inscription: "These are my sentiments."

It was with a sense of lazy delight that we wandered about Siena, watching the peasant women in their picturesque head coverings, inhaling the atmosphere of mediÆval art and the restfulness that comes with it. In the same leisurely manner, armed with numerous Leghorn straws, we turned our faces northward, and found pleasant rooms awaiting us here.

Our windows look out on the Arno, and to the right I see the Ponte Vecchio; to the left, a bella vista which ends at Fiesole.

The new Florence is broad and white and glistening; the old is narrow, dark and massively rich.

The Arno, like the Tiber, is a yellowish green. Its eight bridges are unique, ancient and historic.

The Lungarno, down which we walk each morning, is odd and fascinating. It has on the Arno side a marble balustrade; on the other, little shops displaying jewels and precious stones which would tempt the soul of a female angel Gabriel. The display of turquoise, of which stone Florence is the home, is ravishing, yet sometimes—once, I think—we really went by without entering. The day we did not go in, however, we went by appointment to one of the shops on the Tornabuoni, where were arrayed some gorgeous ancient chains and rings of scarabs, the cartouch of which proved them to belong to some Egyptian potentate.

The Piazza della Signoria forms the center of Florence. It is surrounded by the Palazzo Vecchio, the Uffizi, and the Loggia dei Lanzi. In the center is the fountain of Neptune. It was in this piazza that Savonarola was burned.

In the buildings just named, each a masterpiece of architectural beauty, are found many of the chefs-d'oeuvre of the world. Florence overflows with so much that is ornate, it was difficult to make selections. Like poor Helen—

Sometimes I think if I could have but one of these gems of architecture, I'd choose the Duomo, with its graceful faÇade and its campanile; but when I cross the street to the Baptistery of San Giovanni, and gaze at its bronze doors, I change my mind, and give it first place.

Now it is Santa Croce, with its wondrous wealth of marbles, where Ruskin—and I—spent many happy hours; but soon Santa Maria Novella has outshone them all, until the loveliness of the Medicean Chapel wins my heart anew.

Alas, so weak am I, that all the cathedrals sink into obscurity when the Uffizi Palazzo, with its Tribune, is seen. It holds the one perfect woman—the Uffizi Venus. The Pitti Palace and the Boboli Gardens; the Bargello, with its unique staircase and court; the Riccardi—in truth, all the wealth of incomparable grandeur of artistic Florence have their places in my affections.

The wealth, beauty and royalty of Florence are seen on the fashionable driveway. The Cascine is to Florence what the Pincio is to Rome. There, in the late afternoon, society drives back and forth along the bank of the Arno, listening to the music of a military band.

It is of little consequence how the artist gives expression to his dream—whether by pencil, pen, brush, chisel or voice, in marble, painting, song or story—Florence is the home of them all.

And Fiesole, ah, Fiesole by moonlight! I have walked up the Fiesolian Hill, and taken the little electric tram, but last night I took you with me in a carriage. The others did not know you were there, so you and I "cuddled down" on the back seat. You held my hand and said never a word, but by that same blessed silence I knew you were drinking in the beauty of it all.

As the strong horses pulled up the mountainside, you and I looked back at Florence. She lay off in the distant shadows, with the Arno at her feet—the Arno, no longer a yellow, muddy stream, but a glistening, silvery ribbon, with the moonbeams dancing merrily on its phantom-like bridges. The towers and turrets were transformed into marble lace; the statues to golden cupids; the chimney-tops formed bas-reliefs; and the whole, a misty shadow-picture. Even Florence was improved by the witchery of "that old man in the moon." The silvery unrealness of it cast a spell over us, making—

When the top was reached we looked only at the fairyland in the distance. It is difficult to idealize an ordinary little village, even if it be Tuscan, and this one has nothing to recommend it but a cathedral and some picturesque beggars.

Returning another way, we passed Boccaccio's villa, and in fancy saw his merry party of lords and ladies seated in the arbors looking out toward Belle Firenze over the now golden River Arno.

Thus it was I left you in Florence. I could not find you when Ruth called out, "Are you going back with the cab, honey?"

VENICE:

If Florence was left behind in a memory of purple mist, the highroad between it and Bologna would awaken the most poetic. The word "highroad" is a little creation of my own in this connection, but I feel sure you will believe it to be "high" when I tell you that Florence lies at the foot of the Apennines and Bologna at the summit; and that the railway is, by some miracle of engineering, built up through and around these mountains. We threaded forty-five tunnels, swung around numberless viaducts, crawled over heart-stilling trestleworks connecting one peak with another, and finally came out on top, much dirty and more tired.

We arrived in Venice at 12 o'clock, midnight, at the full of the moon. It cannot be compared with my Florentine dream, for while they are both exquisitely lovely, they are different. There is nothing on earth quite like Venice by moonlight.

All things lose perspective at close range, or in the glare of the sun's rays, and Venice shares this disenchantment. It matters little what or how much one has read of Venice—to realize its charm, its color scheme and its uniqueness it must be experienced. For Venice is not a thing, it is an experience.

We owned a gondola,—for a week. We lived in it, and I, sometimes, slept in it while we were being wafted from one place to another.

There is the usual—oh, no! there is nothing usual in Venice—cathedral, as in all cities, but St. Mark's stands out first and forever as The Church of all churches. My first glimpse of this pile of precious stones was unexpected and most dramatic to me.

There were no letters that morning, and I was just walking—I did not care where or on what. What's beauty and loveliness compared to One letter? An arcade blocked the way, and not knowing—not caring—where it led, I passed in and through it. Chancing to look up, I found myself in the light of day, and straight before me, ablaze with the sunlight full on its faÇade, was a structure of lavish Oriental magnificence.

"San Marco!" answered a number of soft, musical voices in unison; and there stood by my side a little crowd of Italians, their dark eyes sparkling and white teeth showing, evidently pleased at my adoration.

"San M-ahr-co, San M-ahr-co!" they drawled in delight. For once their pleasure was real; they did not break the spell upon me by holding out the hand for a pourboire.

St. Mark's is Moorish in design, and has a coloring both gorgeous and subdued. The richness of jewels and costly stones does not seem out of place here as in many Roman churches. Nothing could be too precious, too sumptuous, too rare, for this temple magnificent.

The piazza of St. Mark's is a square paved with trachyte and marble. It has the church on one side, and on the other sides, old white marble palaces, in the arcades of which are now found shops of world-wide renown. The piazzetta leads one, between the Doge's palace and Libreria Vecchia, to the Grand Canal.

Every evening a military band plays in the square, and it is like a vast, open-air drawing-room with a huge masquerade ball in full tilt.

We climbed the Campanile and saw, besides a beautiful sunset, the Alps, the Adriatic, and in the dim distance the Istrian Mountain rising out of the sea.

With but a day to give to Venice, or with a year at your disposal, there is only one thing to do—dream! Whether you rest in a gondola on the Lagune, drifting past the Bridge of Sighs, the Rialto, the Ghetto, or the Lido, listening to the gondolier calling out the names of the palaces as the boat glides by, or whether you stroll idly through the miles of churches and galleries containing the paintings, or sit in wondering awe before the vast area of mosaics in St. Mark's—it matters little—dream!

In truth, one cannot well avoid it, amid the "subtle, variable, inexpressible coloring of transparent alabaster, of polished Oriental marbles and of lusterless gold," as Ruskin puts it.

AU BORD DU LAC COMO:

Heavens! Just think of me writing "Como" at the top of my letters! I have pinched myself to see if I am really here. The unreality of it all recalls what Mr. Howells said after reading Ruskin: "Just after reading his description of St. Mark's, I, who had seen it every day for three years, began to doubt its existence." So I am beginning to doubt my own existence.

The morning we left Venice I was nearly arrested by a man in a cocked hat, all on account of two other men in sailor hats. In short, I overstepped the etiquette of the gondolier most woefully. Our train left at the fetching hour of six, so I made an appointment with our trustworthy Pietro to come for us in time. I think I have told you that the word "haste" is an unknown quantity here, and when Pietro was not at the door ten minutes before the time to start, I had the clerk call another gondola. As we were about to step into the boat, Pietro was seen drifting idly toward our hotel.

He wasn't very indolent when he saw what was going on, and those two "sunsets" (I think that is my own, for in a sunset, do you not see the day-go?) danced several kinds of jigs up and down and sidewise before me. Several others came to their assistance, among them the aforesaid cocked-hatted individual.

I told the clerk to tell them that I wished to conform to the rules, and to settle it their way. A summer breeze could not have been calmer than all became in the twinkling of an eye, but the cause of the calm was apparent when I settled the bill. Their understanding of "settling it their own way" was to pay each of them, including the cocked-hat, but that was better than languishing in a dungeon for ever so little a time, n'est-ce-pas, mon cher?

Since then Milan has been visited—Milan, with its mammoth marble cathedral, done in Irish-point pattern and with a papier-mÂchÉ interior—but beautiful withal. Several days were spent at Menaggio on this lovely lake; another at Villa Carlotta, where Canova's original and divinely beautiful marble, "Cupid and Psyche," stands in all its purity; many more, sailing up and down these enchanting waters, made green by the reflection of the forest on the mountains surrounding, and by the grounds of the wealthy Milanese, whose summer villas line its banks.

Vineyards are scattered along the mountainside in terraces, and the brilliant green of the chestnut and walnut trees is blended with the dull grayish green of the olive and laurel.

Lake Lugano and Lake Maggiore are beautiful sheets of water, but they lack the romantic atmosphere of Como. I can recall no other description so pleasing to the heart as well as to the fancy as the eulogy to these lakes in Mrs. Ward's "Lady Rose's Daughter."

DOMODOSSOLA:

Rural Italy, to be appreciated, must be seen by tram, by boat, by steam, by old-fashioned diligence, and on foot. Its lakes and mountains, its valleys and vineyards, have been a source of continual surprise to me, and it is with a feeling of keenest regret that our last place in Italy is reached. I feel with Browning as I say farewell to—

LUCERNE:

Ah, Kate! dear old friend of my childhood! How little I thought that night in June, when you stood up and told the audience, "Beyond the Alps lies Italy," that some day those same Alps would lie between us. We have not only been "beyond," but over them.

The soft pink glow of the early dawn hung over the village of Domodossola as the start was made for Switzerland.

Our caravan consisted of four diligences, two luggage vans, and a mounted guide, who knew every inch of the pass. He galloped from coach to coach, hurling his instructions to occupants and drivers.

Above the blowing of horns, the ringing of bells, and the answering shouts from the coaches, this guide's last command rang out loud and clear: "Keep close together! Follow me! Come!"

It was all as uncertain as life itself. How blindly and with what enthusiasm we enter the race, knowing nothing of what the day may bring!

The creaking diligences started away with their freight of human souls, to follow—follow to what? God only knows.

Again, as in life—up and up, on and on, higher and higher—until the summit is reached at noon-day, and as the shadows lengthened in the waning of the day, we began the descent.

That morning as the purple village was left behind, the road grew narrow and clung close to the mountainside. So close it was, did we but stretch the hand ever so little, we would touch its ruggedness. Sometimes the road widened into a mountain village, but ever and always on the other side was the deep, dark abyss. It varied in depth and blackness, or was filled with some mountain torrent, but the gloom was always there.

The mountains themselves often smiled down on us, or laughed outright, as some sparkling, bubbling cascade could no longer keep within the channel time had worn for it in the rocky slope; yet the same rippling waterfall that had danced right merrily down from its snowy source, became stern and cruel after it had crossed the road under us and joined the somberness of the cavern.

If the glare of the sun partially dispelled the glamour the moon had cast over Venice, how vastly more does close proximity to the Alpine village of song and story dissipate its charm. As every gleam of sunshine must cast a shadow somewhere, so the splendor of the Alps must needs be balanced by the materiality of its inhabitants.

Of the forty miles from Domodossola, Italy, to Brigue, Switzerland, the first ten perhaps are inhabited. These people live on the road, their huts snuggling close to the mountain. The little patches of ground that are tilled lie straight up the mountainside, and upon these sides, too, their sheep graze. One of the witcheries of the region is the tinkling of the tiny bells tied around the necks of the sheep.

Before reaching Iselle, where the Customs are paid, the longest of the Simplon tunnels is passed through, and a block of granite marks the boundary line between the two countries.

Along the route the drivers had often to call out, that the women and children might make way for the coaches. The children, offering fruit or flowers, would run along with the vehicles and call out the little English that had been picked up: "Good-a-bye!" "Kiss-a-me!" "Hur-rah-up!" But the smiles soon turned to tears if no pennies were thrown to them.

Sometimes in the distance there seemed to be a mammoth pile of rock or debris obstructing the roadway, which, on being approached, was found to be part of an avalanche tunneled out for the passageway. These are termed "galleries" to distinguish them from the usual tunnels.

Away up on a high point is an old hospice which can be reached only by pedestrians,—a refuge for the mountain climbers.

Far up among the clouds is a bridge resembling a tiny toy. Long hours afterwards, when the summit of the peak is reached, and when the road seems to end abruptly, the bridge comes into view again spanning some yawning gulf.

Once while crossing from one peak to another, the gorge below seemed filled with white smoke. It was the clouds. Some thousands of feet below, these same clouds had been above us—we were now above them.

The sensation was awful. "Look! Look!" cried the guide, pointing down into the moraine. The clouds had separated, and the rain could be seen pouring on a little village far below, while the sun shone bright on us.

The sunshine is not warm among these snow-clad peaks. It was bitterly cold. The crunching of the snow under the iron hoofs of the horses was the only sound to be heard.

At the village of Simplon where luncheon was served, and where the horses were changed, the luggage vans were raided for warm wraps and rugs.

Half a mile from the village of Simplon the remains of a big avalanche were encountered. Men were at work clearing the roadway, and the guide ordered every one to dismount and walk across, the drivers leading the horses.

When "the road grew wider," it should not make a mental picture of a broad roadway. It is wide only in comparison with the narrow mountain pass, cut out of the side of the cliff, making a sort of ridge of sufficient width to permit but one vehicle at a time. There are places cut deeper into the rock so that two may pass. A stone parapet runs along the ledge next to the precipice to prevent accidents should the wheels come too near the edge.

At the highest point this parapet was broken. The workmen who were repairing the wall had been called to assist in clearing the lower road of the avalanche over which we had been obliged to walk.

It was at this point that one of our horses balked. The road, so narrow that it scarcely permitted the passage of the diligence,—the parapet entirely gone for a distance of many feet—the gorge, deep and black, with a roaring torrent, too far down to be seen—the very heavens weeping at our misery,—here it was the horse chose to become unmanageable.

The two in the box seat behind the driver did not realize what was happening until a shriek from some one in the body of the coach caused the entire party to turn. The driver yelled, "Jump! Jump toward the mountainside!"

God grant that rarely on human sight may dawn such a scene, horrible only to those who had occupied the coach a second before. The back wheels were over that fearful ledge, the diligence just tottering. One moment more, made heavy by its human load, one quiver of the now terrified beasts, and the whole would have been engulfed in the depths of that seething torrent.

We had jumped at the first word of command—jumped as one body. One second and it would have been too late. And the old coach, relieved of its burden, had balanced itself in an almost human manner, as if it, too, clung to life.

We stood crouching away from the gorge against the wet side of the rock, the driver unnerved, one horse unruly and the leader balky. The entire cavalcade had begun the descent, and there was no stopping when once under way until a valley was reached some seven miles below. There was nothing to do but wait, and pray that the guide would miss us and send help.

The awesomeness of that scene had time to imprint itself on my very soul, for the hours spent on that Alpine peak I count as the most stirring years of my life.

Help came, or I should not be writing this. But, grateful and overjoyed as we were to see a fresh horse and two men on its back coming to our aid, the result was even more terrifying than the past experience.

The guide had missed us when, as was his wont, at the first stop, he galloped back from coach to coach. Fortunately it was near a hospice, where he procured two men and a powerful horse, and sent them after us. Surely God had—

The driver and his helper had hardly dismounted from the back of the new horse when the wild creature reared around, and started on a mad gallop down the slope. He tripped, thank heavens, on a strap that had become loosened from his trappings, and was caught.

That the new driver was a fiend was apparent from the cruel manner in which he treated the runaway. I am still uncertain what his excuse was for living. He was so hideous he was unique. After he had pounded the horses he turned his attention to the passengers.

Ruth and I were ordered out of the box seat into the coach. It was impossible to crowd us all inside, and he was obliged to submit to our remaining above. The hood was closed, the boot drawn up, and we were strapped securely to our seats. The doors were locked on those inside. These were his instructions from the guide.

The three drivers mounted in front of us, and, while we were thankful to be in the open air and to be able to view the wonderful scenery around us, we were also compelled to witness the inhuman treatment of the animals.

The fiend had the reins and the long whip, the others had prods, and used them on the horses. The fresh horse took the lead, dragging the others after him. On, and on, and on we flew, now under wild-roaring cataracts, whose waters thundered down on the rocky roof of the tunnels under them—now over frail bridges, which trembled with our speed—now down slippery, ice-covered stretches. They did not stop at the first plateau, fearing, I suppose, they would never get the horses started again.

The fiendish shouts of the drivers, the cries of the occupants locked inside the coach, the swaying and groaning of the old diligence, and the almost human moans of the horses blended with the warning cries of the natives, who stood aside, aghast at our mad speed.

Down, down, down! The white peaks grow fainter and fainter, until they are lost in the blue mist. The incline becomes less steep. The little farms look like window-panes set up in air, and the sun sinks behind the purple mountains. The beautiful valley of the Rhone spreads out below, like a celestial vision.

Suddenly, after a long curve has been rounded, the Rhone, bathed in a flood of golden fire, comes into view. Across the yawning gulf the mountains, on the other side, take on the same glorious hue.

Yet on and down we go, never stopping the wild pace until the horses dash into the courtyard of the inn at Brigue!

Switzerland is one of the places whose charm is enhanced by the glare of the sun. But Switzerland does not have many opportunities to endure glare of anything, for it rains almost continually. The "weeping skies of Ireland" cannot compare with it.

Lake Geneva, as it winds around Lausanne, is extremely pretty, and Lake Lucerne has quite the most picturesque surroundings possible. It nestles down among the Alps, with Rigi on one side and the beautiful town on the other. And Lucerne is a beautiful town, built in a curve in the Alps, with towers and battlements on its walls. Sailing away from it, it presents a picture altogether different from anything else I have seen.

It took some days for me to recover from that mad ride down the mountains. After the effects of it had passed, I could but think how very near the ludicrous is the sublime.

Death by climbing up or falling down these Alpine heights would be, perhaps, romantic; but to be backed over a precipice by a common balky horse could not be otherwise than ignominious.

Now, too, I recall some of those senseless questions women ask. One woman cried, "Oh, where will we go if that harness breaks?"

"We will go right on from the heights to which our thoughts have risen", answered a beautiful voice from within the diligence. It was Mrs. F.'s friend, she who had first told her how foolish it was to live a lie. Now I know why the old coach had kept up.

AMSTERDAM:

I have actually found some places that I do not like, and it is well, for I have used up all my adjectives and exclamations. I did not care for Zurich, and many of the Rhine towns found no favor in my eyes. I saw most of them only from the river about which we have heard so much that, naturally, it failed in the realization of my anticipations,—besides, it rained much of the time.

I overheard a conversation between two American girls on the boat up—or down—the Rhine. Every time I say "up" the other person says, "Down, wasn't it?" and when I change it to "down," I am asked, "Up, wasn't it?"

"Ah, indeed! How long a time did you spend in Rome? You know, do you not, that there are over four hundred churches there?" sarcastically asked the other.

"Four hundred!" shouted the first girl, never noticing the sarcasm, "four hundred! I'll bet I tramped through a thousand!"

The cathedral at Cologne is very fine. It is built in two distinct styles of architecture. The legend runs that the first architect sold his soul to the devil for plans unlike any other church in the world. When he had it half finished he disappeared, and the plans with him.

I suppose he and the devil became too well acquainted with each other, and perhaps he ran in to see him every day—which is enough to tire even the devil himself—so he put the architect out of the way. Be that the case or not, the church was commenced in 1248, and finished only recently in a modern fashion.

What a difference it makes to have a friend residing in a foreign city! I posted a letter to Marie from Cologne, and as I was breakfasting the morning of my arrival here her visiting-card was brought to me. She has made our stay in this quaint city a bright green spot in the oasis of hotel life and hustling for oneself.

She has driven us over this picturesque old town and taken us to the palaces, and to the Royal Rijks Museum. We have walked with her through her favorite haunts in the parks. She has made a martyr of herself and shown us through the shops,—and have you ever heard of the lovely shops of Amsterdam? But, best of all, we have had a bit of home life, and Marie, bless her heart! has given us the first cup of real coffee we have had since we left home.

I cannot tell you much in detail about the splendid school of art here, for—let me whisper it to you—I did not get a guide-book of Holland. Marie and her good husband left little for us to glean. But this I do know, that, in all our travels, no more comprehensive and beautiful collection of art treasures have we found.

The building itself is magnificent, and the masterpieces are all Flemish. Rubens' "Helena Fourment," Rembrandt's "The Night Watch," and a portrait by Van Dyke are among those which I recall.

Holland is a quaintly picturesque country. Everything that Mr. F. Hopkinson Smith, that exquisite word-etcher as well as painter, has said of it is true.

Now, I call Ruth a brilliant woman, and one vastly above the average intellectually; and you know that, while I'm not an expert accountant, I can do "sums" once in a while. Well, neither of us has learned to pronounce, nor do we yet know, the value of the thing which takes the place of the franc. It is spelled g-u-l-d-e-n—most Americans call it gilder, but it is no more like that than it is like "horse." In fact, it is not unlike the last word, when a native gets his tongue around it.

As to its value! I have taken goods for it to the value of a penny and of a half-dollar. I simply take the change given me and go. The other, like Thoreau's friend, has both the first word and the last. How awful! A woman can never talk back in this language.

BRUSSELS:

Elbert Hubbard tells, in one of his "Little Journeys," how, when his ship landed in Antwerp at eleven o'clock in the morning, he walked to the hotel and awakened the landlord from his early morning nap in order to get some breakfast. I cannot speak from experience as to what hour they arise, but I do know, from very close association with the people, that they do not know what sort of money they use.

At the door of the cathedral, where we went to see Rubens' chef-d'oeuvre, "The Descent from the Cross," the woman at the door refused to take one of those coins of which I do not know the value; but when I tried a little dramatic action, and turned to go, she took it very readily, and permitted us to enter. The same scene was enacted at the door of the really exquisite museum; but it did not work at the station.

We were using all our Belgian coins before going into France, and had saved enough for the porters at the station where we had left our hand luggage. The porter who brought our luggage from the train into the station had accepted the coin we gave him. The one we secured to carry them out to the train had reached our compartment, and demanded his money.

I counted out the coins. He refused them. We had no other money. I tendered him a book, and finally my watch. He still refused, and would not permit us to put the things in the compartment. There was no woman in sight, and foreign men are so different from our countrymen that we could not bring ourselves to ask aid from them; besides, we did not speak Flemish.

It was absolutely necessary for us to reach Brussels that night, and had we gone back to get the money changed, it would have necessitated our remaining over Sunday in Antwerp, where we had exhausted everything of interest. We were becoming desperate, when good fortune smiled on us in the form of a pair of girlish black eyes.

I made known our dilemma, and she very sweetly settled with the facteur for about half the amount he had demanded of me.

Who shall say there is not a free masonry among women? There, in a strange country, with not a cent of that country's coinage in my pocket, knowing no word of its language, came to my assistance a woman of yet another country, speaking nor understanding no word of my mother tongue, and, in yet another language, which we both spoke indifferently, I asked and she gave aid with that same grave politeness which marks the noblesse oblige everywhere.

The next morning, dressed in our bravest, we had the concierge call the shiniest cab he could find, with the tallest-hatted cocher, and with the loveliest basket of roses that could be procured, we drove in state to the address she had given us. We had a cordial greeting, but somehow I fancy she had been in doubt as to whether or not she would ever see those few francs again.

You may rest assured that we have had sufficient money changed here, and that we have found numerous ways in which to spend it. Next to Venice, the lace shops are the finest in the world.

LIVERPOOL: