The story of a European tour

Introduction

The European trip which is described in this little story was the culmination of a lifetime of hopes and anticipations. I realize that impressions of so brief a journey will seem extremely crude and "scrappy," particularly to those who have spent years upon the same ground. I have told the story as it actually occurred, not assuming to know, where I did not know, and endeavoring not to take up space with details and facts to be easily found elsewhere.

My husband and myself made up the party "conducted by ourselves," and the experiences are individual. The story was begun as a simple journal of the trip, with no thought of its ever being published in book form.

My largest hope for it is that it may inspire some to "see for themselves." Of course, in "seeing for oneself," many things are disappointing, but on the whole there will be added to life that which can be added in no other

way - . J. O. H.

Sioux City, Iowa, August 17, 1900.

contents.

Chapter

I. Getting Started. The Boundless Ocean. Shakespeare's Home.

II. Oxford. First Impressions of London.

III. Old Westminster and Its Stories. St. Paul's. •

IV. Some Things in the Museums. England's His-

toric Prison.

V. Queen Victoria and Windsor Castle. Hampton Court.

VI. Woman's Clubs of London. A Woman in the

House of Commons.

VII. The Picture Galleries. Miscellaneous Objects of

Interest.

VIII. Hyde Park. White Chapel. Across the Channel. IX. A Delightful Trip on the Historic Rhine. Wiesbaden. Heidelberg.

X. Heidelberg University, and Some Other Experiences. BlacK Forest and Falls of the Rhine. XI. Zurich. Entrancing Beauties About Lucerne. The Ride up Mount Rigi.

XII. Leave Switzerland for Historic Italy. Cathedral and Other Art Works of Milan.

XIII. Venice Fulfills Highest Anticipations. The Ar-

rival.

XIV. Piazza of St. Mark's. Bridge of Sighs. The Old

Bell Tower.

Contents

CHAPTER

XV. Delights of a Visit to Florence. How We

Reached the City.

Chapter I

GETTING STARTED. THE BOUNDLESS OCEAN. SHAKESPEARE'S HOME.

There are few places more full of active interest than the wharf of a great ocean steamer upon the eve of its departure. The ship hands, with their peculiar intonations, are intent upon loading on the cargo. Baggage is arriving constantly. Passengers are running hither and thither to discover and identify their own particular property.

We arrived at the dock in the midst of this exciting scene, and, being anxious to make a study of its details, our own baggage having been duly arranged for, we seated ourselves upon an innocent looking steamer trunk, which happened to be convenient, and proceeded to do so. When tired of this occupation, we rose and walked on, all unconscious of the fact that I had been sitting upon a wet label, which, when I got up, remained affixed to the back breadth of my gown. My

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husband, striding on ahead, and peering through his glasses at the sights around him, failed entirely to observe that his spouse was advertised in large red letters as "not wanted." I might have worn this uncomplimentary legend to the end of the voyage had not the gentlemanly room steward smilingly asked permission to remove it. Our experience in "being abroad" began early, for we sailed in an English ship, and I shall never forget the entirely unlooked for feeling of remonstrance which filled me when I discovered that it was not "Old Glory" which was waving over me. Just a word about the wonderful experience of finding oneself for the first time out in mid-ocean. Nothing but the vast heaving undulating prairies of gray water stretching out until they meet the gray skv coming down to meet them from above. The ship is but a speck in the midst of it all. The motion of the ship reminded me of an animal springing. It takes three plunges bow down, stern up, then stops and quivers as if getting ready for another spring. Then the plunging and quivering is repeated, and the process goes on hour after Hour, day and night, until the wonder is, not that peo-

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pie are seasick, but that any human constitution should be able to endure the unnatural motion. I noticed the remarkable popularity among the passengers of the refrain, u Oh, Mister Captain, stop the ship; I want to get off and walk."

When the wind blows a gale, the gray prairies are transformed into white-capped hills. It seemed to me that the stoutest heart must quake a little when the great mountains of water come rolling down upon the ship> with a crash and a roar. It is peculiar how large the steamer seemed when she lay at the dock. It hardly seemed like leaving the land to walk on to the commodious deck. But when in mid-ocean how tiny she is! The waves had a fascination for me, which I confess I never tried to resist. They were so constantly in motion that it seemed as if they must be living things.

I loved to stand and w T atch them as they curled and broke around the bow of the steamer, and I wished that I might see a mermaid rising" from the depths, with, her streaming hair, or* rolling in those delightful little cradles which keep making and unmaking themselves. It seemed to me that a mermaid

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would not be any more wonderful than the other things about us. It rained part of the time, and the waves blew up so that you could taste the salt water on your lips, and still there was an irresistible fascination about being out on the deck, just as near the great billows as it was possible to get.

By the time we had begun to feel as if we had never been anywhere all our lives except tossing about in an ocean steamer, we reached Liverpool. Liverpool is a very interesting city from a commercial point of view, being, I believe, the second largest shipping point in the world. But historically it is of much less interest than many other places in England, so w T e went at once to Warwick, a typical old time English village, and interesting to Americans on account of the beautiful castle there w T hich has been kept in a perfect state of preservation, and is occupied by the present Earl of Warwick. The castle is a magnificent stone structure, built around a central square where the visitor is greeted by the sight of an extensive lawn, broken by broad walks and brilliant flower gardens. A guide showed us through a number of rooms which were beautiful with ele-

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gant tapestry and antique wood carving, and the rarest of china, upon which the kings and queens of England have dined. There were also beautiful paintings by such artists as Holbein, Teniers, Rubens, Vandyke and others. The part which interested me most of all was the remains of the old moat which surrounded the entire castle, and which was kept filled with water in the stormy days of England's history. The draw-bridge is now overgrown with vines and moss. We visited the ancient castle of Kenilworth, which is in the vicinity, upon the same day. The latter castle is built upon very much the same plan as Warwick, but at the present time is a rapidly decaying ruin. As we peered into its dark cells, towers, and subterranean chambers, we were obliged to supply with our imaginations what the tooth of time had so ruthlessly destroyed. But the weird surroundings made it easy to bring back those regal days before Cromwell took it into his head to batter down the baronial strongholds of England. From Kenilworth we rode to Stratford-on-Avon through a country so beautiful as to suggest the existence of a continuous private park. The roads are broad and

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perfectly kept, and the meadows were at that time (early in July) brilliant with scarlet poppies. These flowers, which grow wild in great profusion in many parts of England, are a great nuisance to farmers, but add immensely to the beauty of the scene for those who are simply there to enjoy the beautiful things wherever they are to be found. Shortly after noon we found ourselves driving up the long street where stands the house in which the immortal Shakespeare was born. The house looks exactly like the pictures of it which are familiar to all lovers. and students of Shakespeare. A cord comes out from somewhere above the door which the visitor pulls in order to gain admission. The interior of the house impressed me much more than did the outside. The apparent age of the structure was the most interesting part. The floors throughout, which the attendant assured us were the very same upon which Shakespeare himself had trod were rugged and uneven. The ceiling and walls were propped and buttressed in order to keep them from falling down upon the heads of the enthusiastic devotees who come in crowds to worship there. Climbing a pair of rickety stairs, we saw the

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room in which the poet was born. No furniture remains there but a table and a couple of chairs, and the original floor of this room has been overlaid, with coarse planks similar to the original, but still not the same as the ones upon which the baby feet of the great dramatist first learned to carry their owner about. Upon the small panes of glass in the window may be seen the names of the great personages who at different times have been visitors to this historic spot. The names of Thomas Carlyle and Walter Scott were pointed out to us, but they were so dim that I hardly think we should have discovered them unaided. In another part of the house (for an extra fee) we saw a number of the personal effects of Shakespeare, such as his ring, watch, chair and so forth. There were also some original manuscripts, a copy of every edition of his works which has ever been printed, and a large number of portraits of himself and different members of his family. I must confess, however, that these things did not move or thrill me. I was much disappointed that they did not, for the sensation of being thrilled is always a pleasant one, and I am sure is always considered one of the attractions of a

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trip abroad. When I came to reason with myself as to why I was not thrilled by the sight of these souvenirs of greatness I decided that it was because I had Jieard so much about them that they seemed old, and further, because there was a feeling in my heart all the time that many of them were not genuine. There were so many years during which Shakespeare was neither appreciated nor understood that it seems altogether improbable that there should be so many original Shakespeare souvenirs in a good state of preservation.

From the house we walked to what is known as "Shakespeare's Church," which is also his burial place. This is a building which has been very much idealized by the pictures of it. It is not beautiful from an architectural standpoint, and it is very much discolored with age. It is surrounded by a cemetery full of moulding tombstones. The river Avon, however, which flows back of the church, is extremelv pretty, and the popular view, which contains a portion of the church peeping from among the trees and a little glimpse of the Avon in the foreground, is certainly attractive. The modern memorial

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to Shakespeare, a handsome theater, is one of the "sights" of the city, although one cannot but wonder where the people come from to patronize so vast a structure. Ann Hathaway's cottage, which is well represented by the pictures of it, is about a mile and a half beyond the town. I confess to have been interested in the little shops, w T hich abound in knick-knacks, adapted to attract the verdant tourist. I would fain purchase a "bust" of Shakespeare, but as we had many miles of travel before us I thought that it would probably "bust" before we reached home. But when I found that the price of the "bust" was only a sixpence, I decided to invest, feeling that Ave would not be "bust" even though the "bust" did "bust." ' On the whole, the town, itself contained more of interest for me than any particular thing in it.

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Chapter II

OXFORD. FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF LONDON.

We had only planned one more stop in England before going to the. "great city" — London. This stop was to be at the historic town of Oxford, whose world-wide reputation as a college center always attracts the American tourist. Besides the college, or rather the group of twenty colleges, which has made this English town so famous, it was the scene of the great religious conflict of the sixteenth century, which resulted in the burning at the stake of Bishops Latimer, Bidley and Cranmer. We were shown through St. Mary's church, where these noted men were tried and condemned to death. It is here, also, that the unfortunate Amy Eobsart, whose story has been made familiar to American readers through Scott's "Kenilworth," is said to be buried. These historical matters were faithfully expounded to us by a chubby little woman who was cleaning the church when we went in. In return for her information she

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gratefully pocketed the sixpence which was offered her. Later we repaired to that street where the iron cross sunk into the pavement marks the identical spot where the bishops suffered martyrdom, while in a finely located position a short distance from the cross stands the beautiful monument which has been 'erected to their memory. The monument is a tall, tower-like structure, upon the top of which, looking in three different directions, stand the figures of the three bishops. The name of each is inscribed below his form in letters so large that all who wish to read them may do so. The citizens of Oxford all seem familiar with the history connected with these memorials, and take great pride in pointing them out to the visitors. To return to the college — one little incident in connection with our search for it will illustrate some of the difficulties of travelers, and at the same time illustrate the exceeding slowness with which some minds adjust themselves to an unfamiliar form of expression. We were exploring the town on foot, and at the same time making our way in what we supposed to be the direction of the college. We w^ere in fact directly opposite one of the college buildll

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ings. So unlike a college did this building appear that we were constrained to ask a shopkeeper standing in front of his store if he would direct us to "Christ's College." He looked at us in blank amazement, shook his head and said there was no such building in town. We looked at each other and debated as to what was the matter with our question, for we knew we must be very near the building we were seeking. Finally it occurred to us that it was sometimes called "Christ's Church College," and we repeated our former question, putting in the word "church." The face of the shopkeeper brightened up at once, and he pointed across the way to an expanse of dingy, discolored wall, which reminded me more of soldiers' barracks than of college buildings. An old man was at the door who, for a compensation, w r ould be glad to show us through all of the buildings and describe them to us. We accepted his services, and the next two hours were spent in wandering through the historic halls, chapels and galleries of old Oxford. The different colleges are strung along together, the walls of one joining closely to the walls of that next to it. Each college is built around a beautifully

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kept quadrangle. We never could have understood just what the arrangement was if we had only obtained a view from the ground. But we climbed to the top of the "Camera," which is the reading room of the famous "Bodlian Library," where we obtained a beautiful and comprehensive view of all of the buildings, as well as of the rest of the city. I suppose that there exists nowhere upon this round earth literary relics and treasures of more intrinsic value than those which repose under the strictest watch and guard within the w^alls of the Bodlian Library. So precious are many of the things which are kept in the "Camera" that notices are kept posted about the building imposing the strictest fine and penalty upon any one who shall bring either fire or light into it. And this, too, although the building is composed entirely of stone and iron. One has to be exceedingly learned to appreciate the things which are found at Oxford. I felt that I knew very little, and wished that I could sit down and study about some of the things, but it is quite unnecesssary to say that I did not do this, for it was time to go to London. As the stuffy little compartment

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cars which obtain throughout Europe bore us on — not so very swiftly — to the great metropolis which, though not the end of our journey, still was in a sense the Mecca of our desires, I experienced a most curious sensation. It was probably a touch of that feeling which is wont to come to the mind when a desire which has existed in the heart for a lifetime is about to be fulfilled. It is a mixture of reluctance, hesitation and fear; an unexpected desire to postpone the fulfillment of the hope just upon the eve of its realization.

But the cars did not stop for that, although they seemed to stop for nearly everything else, so slow was their progress. The good American custom of "calling the stations" is not indulged in on European roads, and the traveler is left to the delightful experience of finding out for himself at what station the train may be stopping. It was just in the early twilight of a July afternoon that we discovered by the bustle both inside and outside of the train that we were actually approaching the "biggest city* in the world." As we stepped out upon the platform I drew a long breath, not exactly knowing what to expect

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in London. But there was nothing unusual or impresssive about the appearance of the station. A long line of the characteristic English cabs were drawn up near, while beyond was a "perfect swarm" of 'buses. The first thing which one notices about the London 'buses is that there are seats upon the top, which enable the person riding to obtain a good view of the streets and the crowds which swarm through them at all hours of the day and night, while the 'bus trundles along upon its leisurely way — for no one in London is in a hurry.

We had previously learned that a favorite rendezvous for transient tourists was "Russell Square." Accordingly, as we neared this locality we clambered down from our elevated position of observation on top of the 'bus. We had no trouble in finding the long row of houses where every door bears the legend, in English fashion, "Board and Besidence," and soon found ourselves partaking of a bountiful dinner upon w T hich meal the English landlady particularly prides herself. As some daylight still remained after dinner, we again betook ourselves to the street, and, hailing the first 'bus which we met, rode

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until far into the night. The streets* are well lighted, and the experience was most novel and interesting. When we returned to our room and retired for our "first night in London/' we were somewhat overawed, I confess, by all we had seen and heard during the few short hours since we had set foot in London. But there was a sense of triumph in that very feeling of awe, because we felt that if we should die that night we should not have to go to the next world without having seen the largest city in this one.

THE STORY OP A EUROPEAN TOUR.

Chapter III

OLD WESTMINSTER AND ITS STORIES. ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL.

The next morning, when consulting as to which of the many interesting and important portions of the city we should visit first, it seemed to make very little difference to me. I felt that "most any old sight" would do, so long as it was in London. We found, upon consulting^ the guide book (our most constant friend during our weeks of travel) that tourists usually went first to "Westminster Abbey". Of course, we did not want to be out of fashion, so we decided we would go to "Westminster Abbey" first, too. This historic structure is a long way from Russell Square, and we were obliged to get on and off of three different 'buses before we reached the "English Temple of Fame," situated upon the low grounds on the left bank of the Thames. When we finally entered its sacred precincts the regular ten o'clock services had begun. We walked in at the door of the north

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transept, and took our seats among the quiet worshipers, quite a number of whom were carrying red guide books like ourselves. I am frank to say that my first impression of " Westminster Abbey" was one of the keenest disappointment. As the organ played, and the vested choir chanted its responses, there was plenty of time for the impression to sink deeply into my mind. The interior seemed to me to be dark, dingy and stuffy. The walls, pillars and floors are dark and discolored with age. The statuary, with which the place is almost crowded, is so poorly arranged and lighted that one could hardly enjoy it no matter how fine it might be, and some of it is very far from being fine. In my disappointment, my criticism went to the extreme, and I declared to myself that it was suitable neither for a church or an art gallery, but was merely a dingy old cemetery, which compared very poorly with the beautiful places filled with flowers, fountains .and sunshine, where we lay our dead away in America. The "Poets' Corner," which we examined duly after the service was over, seemed so small as to be ridiculous in comparison with the ideal which I had formed of it in my own mind. It was

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only after visiting the Abbey a number of times, occasionally when there was almost nobody else there, and after reviewing by myself the part which this building has played in the history of England, that I came in any degree to appreciate it I learned to realize that the very reason why it was so interesting was because it was so dark and dingy and old. I learned that if a thing were only old enough, it was not necessary for it to be beautiful in order to command respect and attention. Its very ugliness only added to its importance. We visited the Abbey many times and studied its various details with care and conscientiousness. After having done this, I am free to say that there is no place in all England which I recall more frequently or with more pleasure than this.

Among the things which impressed me the most strongly was thQ plain stone in the floor at the north transept marked "William Ewart Gladstone, died 1898. " After a good deal of hunting we found the stone in the floor of the main portion of the church which bears the words, now somewhat worn, "O rare Ben Jonson." The day was unusually dark, but by the help of the guide book we

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located the spot and peered through the gloom until we had read the words in full. Robert Browning's name is on the floor of the poets' corner not far from the graves of Dickens, Spencer, Chaucer and others, w T hile there are statues to the memory of Addison, Macaulay, Thackeray, Goldsmith, Shakespeare, Burns, Southey, Campbell, Bacon, Milton, Dryden and many more. Our American poet, H. W. Longfellow, has the distinguished honor of a place among these noted English men of letters. Jenny Lind Goldschmidt, represented by a medallion portrait head, and a mask of Queen Elizabeth were the only tributes to women which I was able to discover in the "Poets' Corner." At the back or east end of the church are a series of rooms called the "Royal Chapels." They bear the names of different kings and contain some of the most precious historical relics in all England. There is on exhibition the chair in which all the sovereigns of England have been crowned since the year 1660, and the famous r ^Stone of Scone" upon which the Scottish kings used to receive their coronation. I remember that my mind went back to the school days when I studied English history, and was attracted

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by the euphony of that expression. Little did I then think that the interesting original was in existence, and that it would ever be my lot to see it. Very many of the royal personages of England lie buried in these chapels, among them the far famed sovereign, Queen Elizabeth. I was constrained to linger for some time before the marble figure of this wonderful woman, with which her tomb was adorned, as I f have learned to look upon her, with all of her weakness and strength, as one of the epoch makers in the history of the world. I seemed to see behind those clear cut features and that high forehead, something of the power which made her the force she was in her time. A statue of Elizabeth's sister Mary lies upon the tomb of the latter lady side by side with the statue of the Queen. We went aw^ay from Westminster Abbey w T ith the feeling that if we only knew all that had happened in, and in connection with, this noted sanctuary we would indeed be historians to be proud of. But we were filled with the vague fear that even what we had gleaned that day, added to our previous study in this connection, would be crowded out of our minds by the many things which we were

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planning to see before our journey should -be at an end.

After exploring Westminster Abbey it seemed natural that our next visit should be to London's other great church, St. Paul's Cathedral. Of course, before we started, we knew the things which the guide book tells about the building, and which almost everyone knows whether he ever goes to London or not. Among these items of information were the following: that it is the third largest church in the world; that it was designed by Sir Christopher Wren; w T as begun in 1675 and completed in 1710; that it is in the form of a Latin cross surmounted by a large dome, admitted to be the most beautiful in the world. We also knew that there was a crypt down below, and a whispering gallery above somewhere, besides other things which we had read about, but could not remember. We had heard that most tourists consider it dark and bare. But these details mean comparatively little until one has seen the real things for oneself. We found it quite true, as the guide book had said, that the cathedral is so hedged in by other buildings that it is

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impossible to secure a satisfactory view of the exterior except from one or two points some distance away. Directly in front of the church is a large and handsome statue of Queen Anne, with England, France, Ireland and America at her feet. What impressed us most about this statue, which incidentally was very beautiful, was the spectacle of America at th^e feet of a queen. However, we easily consoled ourselves with the assurance that as long as America was not at the feet of Queen Anne or anybody else, the statue did not cut much figure. The exterior and even the beautiful dome are so discolored with age and weather as to be much less beautiful than they had been represented. The interior is very vast and imposing, although bare, as had been suggested. We soon recognized the fact that the military heroes of England were honored at St. Paul's as were the literary heroes and statesmen at Westminster. The regular ten o'clock service began shortly after we entered the church, and in conformity with the numerous placards about the w T alls requesting visitors not to move about at such times, we took our seats and listened. The atmosphere of the church was cool and quiet,

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and the thick walls made the hum and bustle of the city seem a long way off. There were very few people there and the order of service was exactly similar to what we had listened to the day before. The organ is said to be one of the very finest in the world, but to our uneducated ears it sounded the same as other organs. As we sat in the worshipers' seats we had an excellent view of the magnificent windows which fill the entire end of the apse. We were seated directly under the great dome, and as we looked up we could get the full effect of its wonderful height. The distance was so great that it was impossible to discern the nature of the decorations with which the interior was embellished, and I was impressed with a peculiar sense of littleness and incapacity to appreciate the exterior "bigness." As we had been frankly informed that the statuary, with which the church was not crowded, was for the most part bad, we did not spend much time upon it in the tour of exploration which we took after the service was over. I remember the most distinctly a bronze figure of the Duke of Wellington. The hero was represented lying upon a lofty sarcophagus, overshadowed by a rich marble