FROM FREIBURG TO BADEN-BADEN—THROUGH THE WOODS TO GERNSBACH—SUPERB ROADS—PEOPLE OF THE BLACK FOREST—CROSSING THE DANUBE—CUSTOMS REGULATIONS AS TO AUTOS—AN OLD SWISS MANSION—THE RIDE TO GENEVA AND AIX-LES-BAINS

The ride from Freiburg to Baden lies along the foot of the Black Forest Mountains through the Rhine valley and is hot and dusty, rough and without interest of any kind until we enter the valley of Baden-Baden, and find that lovely spa nestled under the shadow of the mountains. All the world knows the town. The portion which man has made is just like a hundred other resorts in Europe; an old section full of curious structures and a new part all great hotels, casinos, and pagodas.

On entering the grounds of the HÔtel Stephanie, George takes a wrong turn and brings up on one of the fancy foot-bridges in the park. For an instant we are in dismay as to whether the structure will hold the great weight of the car, but it does, and George does not allow of any change of mind but backs promptly off on to safer ground. In Baden-Baden the traveller falls at once into the clutches of hotel porters and waiters, each of whom levies some sort of blackmail. This HÔtel Stephanie, for charges, quite surpasses any other of my tour. For a simple dinner of soup, roast beef, mashed potatoes, and asparagus, I pay $2.50. As usual, the dining-room is hermetically sealed, such is the dread of fresh air, and what air there is, is rent and tattered by the noise of the Hungarian band.

The surrounding mountains are very beautiful, very romantic. Many of the crags hold ruined castles, which the people have had the good taste not to restore, simply preserving them as best they may. That of the Alten Schloss is especially romantic. The view from its tower embraces the Rhine Valley with the Vosges to the west and the Black Forest to the east; and there I spend an hour or more talking to the custodian who interlards his description with bits of personal history, until things are somewhat mixed.

The sun has set beyond Strasburg and the mountains become dense in shadow before I seek the carriage. The woods of the Black Forest cover these mountains so thickly that only the light of the moon shows from above and it is far past the dinner hour before we reach the hotel, where the usual dinner parties are in full swing, and the fact that I do not order almost everything on the bill of fare causes the waiters to regard me as of little moment and not to be greatly bothered over. The spirit of the mountains abides too strongly to make the dining-room agreeable and I soon retire, and then for the next three hours am forced to regret that this is not a Moslem country. How softly on this delicious night air the voice of the muezzin would mingle with the sound of falling waters and music of the winds in the neighbouring forest over which the moon is sending downwards her cascades of silver light! How beautiful the scene is! How rudely the whole beauty is destroyed by the harsh tones of the brazen bells of the neighbouring church! Not only are the quarters marked with a double chime, but the full hours are struck twice on different bells in the same steeple. The clangour and noise is such that sleep is an impossibility until utter weariness compels it. Such things are a stupid nuisance, a menace to health, and a death to any religious feelings one might possess. They should be suppressed. There is nothing more beautiful than a soft-toned bell or more discordantly disagreeable than harsh tones jangled out of tune. Those bells drive me out of Baden.

The auto is at the door at nine o'clock and, though the day threatens rain, we are off and away through the woods. Our route lies via Gernsbach and Forbach to Freudenstadt, over these picturesque mountains. The road is good and well marked, and we swing along at a rapid pace, sailing upwards and downwards with a most intoxicating motion. The ride to Freudenstadt is very beautiful, all the way by a rushing stream, past the Schwarzenberg and through the forest, with glimpses of old castles high above us and red-roofed villages in the green valleys far down the distance.

In Freudenstadt in WÜrtemberg, at the Schwarzwald Hotel which I have all to myself apparently, I am served by the host who talks English all the time. He says that while he does not approve of the French distaste for children he considers that Germany is overdoing in that respect, that there are too many,—they are "eating each other" so to speak. Well, they are sending one thousand a month, generally those who have been trained as soldiers, to Brazil, and they will be ready to meet us when that question arises.

Freudenstadt is a quaint old town, high up in the hills. It has an antique market square and is somewhat of a watering-place. It was founded by Duke Frederick as a refuge for Protestants expelled from Salzburg.

Our host here proves of service in directing our route onward as one can easily get lost in these mountains without watchfulness. While the routes are marked, the charts are not nearly so excellent as in France. That republic is divided into squares, each numbered and with a chart of the same number for each square, showing distinctly first the roads, then the rivers and towns and all so simply that a child can understand at once, whereas the German charts are like an ordinary map with all its colours, mountains, etc., and the route not so plainly marked. The chart is too elaborate. However, both are good, only one is better, so do not growl.

Our afternoon's ride takes us through the finest section and over the best roads of the Black Forest, and includes an extra spurt of some forty versts caused by our having lost our way during an animated discussion between George and myself over the comparative merits of American and French women.

About that time two of our pneumatics give up the ghost in rapid succession, announcing that act by a report which makes George say things. We are near a secluded village around which the forest closes in thickly and, it being Sunday, we are shortly surrounded by all the children of the place; and what a lot of them there are, good-natured, respectful, little, yellow heads, whose chubby faces try to become solemn, as a funeral cortege approaches, but with little success, and I must say that shortly that cortege was diminished by half, said half coming to inspect my machine. I feel as though I were the owner of a successful rival show. These new comers are all men and all interested in my car, not superficially, but with comprehension of its parts. They tell me that they live here or hereabouts, and when I ask if they do not desire to go to Berlin or Munich they look at me wonderingly and ask, Why? There spoke the hope of Germany. This was near Triberg where we lost the route and we may as well go forward via Furtwangen and Villingen and so to Donaueschingen. When once you know the Hartz Mountains and the Black Forest you understand where these people got their knowledge of fairies and elves, witches, Christmas trees, and music. The woods are to my imagination full of funny little people who hurry away as this machine advances, and if I stop to listen I find the brooks are singing all sorts of carols to which the pine trees furnish the undertones; also I doubt not if you put a crank to yonder funny little white church its windows will glow with lights. Take the top off that pink house and you will find it full of candy. All this is because there are children everywhere and because of the children there are homes and home life—a gain—the hope of Germany.

It is getting cold as we roll into Donaueschingen where we cross the Danube, but as we are assured that it is down hill all the way to Schaffhausen and a splendid road, we speed onward, only to find shortly some of the steepest grades of our tour, one so steep that George turns the auto around and runs it up backwards, then stopping, he arranges matters and that will not have to be repeated.

At the Swiss frontier, we deposited two hundred francs, which will be returned when we leave the country, and so passing Schaffhausen we draw up for the night at Neuhausen, having made two hundred and eighty kilometers during the day. When such a day is finished, there is little inclination left one save for dinner and bed, and I am soon through with the one and in the other.

We had been told on paying that one hundred francs when we entered Germany, that it would be repaid whenever we left the Empire, but, on demanding it in Schaffhausen, the pompous officials in the German Custom House informs us that our papers stated that we would leave from some other town than Schaffhausen, and consequently he will not repay the money. When we assure him that the error, if error it is, is not ours and that our seal on the machine shows that we have not left the country since we paid that money, he waves us off and will say no more. We must write to the town where we entered and so may get back the cash. I may state here that I turned the papers over to George and understand that he never did get it back. The whole thing was absurd and most irritating and kept me kicking my heels for hours around the post-house before they would decide one way or the other.

While the town of Winterthur aside from its quaintness is not of much interest, there stands on its outskirts an ancient and curious Manor House called "WÜlflingen," a stately stone structure somewhat back from the highway. We visit it on our way to Zurich and the ancient dame in charge seems delighted that any one from the outer world should take an interest in her beloved old charge. She appears to be the only soul in the house and was I believe born here. It is deserted now by the family whose ancestors built it at a period when castles had ceased to be of importance and the protection of a town more to be desired. "WÜlflingen" became the home of the Steiner family about 1620 A.D., when their castle on the mountains was deserted for this more cheery habitation. We enter through a curious old doorway into a large square hall wainscotted and ceiled in oak blackened by the flight of years, and we can hear the mice in the walls scamper away as the unusual sound of foot-steps breaks the profound silence. Opposite the doorway a tall old clock built into the wall has grown weary with telling of the flight of time and given up its work—useless work now that it is deserted by all those whose lives it regulated and whose faces were friends to it. A stately staircase with carved balustrade mounts to the floor above, but before going thither we inspect the lower rooms. Both are large square apartments entirely encased in polished oak; but the old dame draws us on and upward to what she claims were the state apartments. Of these also there were two of large size and interest connected by a large square hall like the one below. In that on the left the walls and ceiling are heavily panelled and black with time. Each panel is decorated with Swiss scenes and there are some antique brass drop-lights. In one corner stands one of those great porcelain stoves of elaborate make which are found all through Germany and Russia; this one we are told, is one hundred years older than the house, having been brought from the castle on the mountains when the family migrated. It is very curious and interesting and one discovers that the panels of the room have been decorated to correspond with those of the stove. This was evidently the state apartment, if one may use the term here, yet, for the day in which it was built and for a Swiss house, "WÜlflingen" was considered a great mansion. In the Switzerland of three hundred years ago, the family who could produce sufficient funds to abandon one house and build such another as this were people of wealth and importance. In passing again into and across the upper hall one notes the arms of the family carved over the doorways—they are also found in the great hall of the Castle of Chillon on Lake Geneva. Entering the other room, an apartment occupying the entire side of the house and evidently at one period a salon or ball-room, one meets the questioning gaze of some old family portraits. Crossing the polished floor, which causes my foot-falls to resound through the empty house with a solemn sound, I throw open the window and let in the flickering sunshine and the song of birds, and seating myself on the sill, turn to these faces on the walls. There are several of them but I note especially a stately dame and an old gentleman whose eyes meet mine in a questioning gaze seemingly demanding the reason for my intrusion upon their solitude, time was when open-hearted hospitality reigned supreme here, but in these later days visitors have been few and far between and my violation of their solemn state does not appear altogether welcome. However I whisper a fact or two which produces an expression of lively interest. It was either this or the flickering sunshine drifting over their faces. Who or what yonder ancient dame in the high cap was, there is no record, but beneath the portrait of the old gentleman one reads in Latin the following: "Henricus Steinerius Med. Doct. Poliater, Inspector Scholae et Bibliothecarius Ano 1730, Aet 55." And what, my dear Sir, may "Poliater" mean? The rest is plain enough.

In one corner of this portrait are his family arms, a steinbock on a white shield; above, a coronet on a closed helmet with a steinbock pawing the air, as crest. I am not versed in heraldry or I might read much from this coat-of-arms. The owner wears a suit of black velvet, a great white ruff and vast yellow curly wig. His hands, delicate and shapely, rest on a pile of books and are shaded by lace ruffles. He wears two signet rings. The custodian tells me that he was born in this house and also that his nephew, the Rev. John Conrad Steiner, also born here in 1707, was sent by the great council of the Reformed Church to that Church in Philadelphia in 1749, and I discover later that that church stood in what is now Franklin Square in that city. He was also in charge in Frederick, Maryland, but returning to Philadelphia to the same church, he died there in 1762, and was buried in what is now Franklin Square—in company with Wesley "Winkhams" and "Hendal" some ten feet below the surface on the north-east side of the fountain, they alone being left there when the place was changed into a public square. It certainly required great fervour in religion on the part of a young man with a family to leave a home like this in sunny comfortable Winterthur and face the ocean and the blackness of America in 1750. He should have his reward now in a brighter land than either Europe or America. This old Herrenhaus smiles down upon us in a friendly manner as we leave its portal and as our car speeds off into the greater world, the ancient dame who cares for it waves us an adieu with the hope that we may return to "WÜlflingen."

Our route lies hence through Zurich to Geneva and so on to Berne. While we have no rain, it is chilly and disagreeable, and as for mountains, if I had not seen them often before, I should not believe that in Switzerland there were any, for from first to last we do not get a glimpse of their grandeur.

The roads are good at all times, and the peasants friendly, but it rains heavily as we reach Berne, and the shelter of the hotel is not objectionable.

The following morning, George comes in and announces that the incoming chauffeurs proclaim the route from here to Geneva is so deep in mud that I had better go on by train, as he may be stuck anywhere and delayed. I decide at first to do this, and then my distaste for the train overcomes all and I order the auto. That ride proved that you cannot trust these statements. There was little or no mud, the roads were excellent, the ride delightful, and we rolled into Lausanne and so on down to Ouchy in ample time for luncheon.

From there on to Geneva the sun shone all the time and by three o'clock we descended at the HÔtel Beau-Rivage. Not a drop of rain during the whole day, no dust, and no mud.

Here I find some friends and together we go to Aix-les-Bains.

There are few more beautiful rides than that from Geneva to Aix-les-Bains, and, especially on the return, one is impressed with the enchanting vistas over mountain, valley, and lakes. The roads are both good and indifferent. The former in France, the latter in Switzerland, and one is again impressed with the belief that France is the land for auto touring.

To the lover of flowers this section is fairy-land just now; especially is the wisteria beautiful; such masses of it over almost every cottage and church, and the terrace at the HÔtel Splendide in Aix is festooned from end to end with the dainty fragrant blossoms. Masses of lilacs bank the houses, while apple blossoms are abroad over all the land round about.

Lake Bourget gleams like a vast emerald framed by the shadowy mountains, and there are some glimpses of the greater glory of the snows.

The auto sings and hums and rushes down the slopes into the streets of Geneva, and swirls up before the door of the Beau-Rivage and the long tour is over. In my memory it will rank with that winter on Old Nile in a dihabiah.

To-day as George came in to say goodbye and as I watched my red carriage rush off and disappear down the streets of Geneva, I felt a positive bereavement, even as though a friend had vanished forever, and truly that car has been a friend. It has carried me safely nearly seven thousand kilos. The journey has been all sunshine and pleasure; rushing over broad highways, under the shadows of stately mountains, by fair rivers, through smiling meadows; pausing here to loiter in an old chÂteau, or again to wander the streets of a mediÆval city full of romance and story; yet again amidst the beauties and glories of the capital and then off to the mountains and forests; all joy, all delight, yet I do regret that old dog dead down on that long dusty highway under the shadows of the Pyrenees.