Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

CASTELLO MEZZATORRE
[Page 162]

BY THE WAY

Travel Letters Written
During Several Journeys Abroad
Describing Sojourns in England, Scotland, Ireland
France, Germany, Austria-Hungary
Italy, Greece, and European
and Asiatic Turkey

BY
AGNESS GREENE FOSTER

Author of
"You & Some Others"
"A Royal Road"
"Blessings"
Etc.

Illustrated

PAUL ELDER & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS ··· SAN FRANCISCO

REVISED AND ENLARGED
EDITION

New material has been added in this edition including sojourns in Turkey, Greece, Austria-Hungary and Germany. While not intended in any way as a guide-book, this volume will be found especially helpful to those contemplating a first journey across the Atlantic. Attention is called to the list of pensions and to the bibliography.

Copyright, 1903
by Agness Greene Foster

Copyright, 1910
by Paul Elder and Company

The Author's Apology

MY DEAR:

"When at the first I took my pen in hand

Thus for to write, I did not understand

That I at all should make a little book

In such a mode; nay, I had undertook

To make another, which, when almost done,

Before I was aware I this begun.

... But yet I did not think

To show to all the world my pen and ink

In such a mode; I only thought to make—

I knew not what: nor did I undertake

Thereby to please my neighbor; no, not I,

I did it mine own self to gratify."

* * * * * * * *

And thus it was, one bright September day,

Full suddenly I finished "By The Way."

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

BY WAY
OF PREAMBLE

Ah me, ah me, that I should be

So torn by my inconstancy;

I fain would go—I tarry so,

But see the world, I must—heigh-ho.

WASHINGTON:

Indeed, and in truth, one is rarely natural save under deep emotions. After all my resolutions and determinations, I found I was not able to part from those I love with any degree of composure.

I assure you that I did not stay composed very long, for as the cruel train pulled out, and I saw, through a mist of tears, that dear form fade from sight, I broke down, and remained "down" all the afternoon and evening. With this morning's bright sunshine, however, I am a man (?) again.

The first sound I heard this morning was, "Here's a message for you, Miss" and straightway that porter's name goes rattling down the rocky road of history as a discerning and right-minded person. What married woman of, well, let's say thirty, does not enjoy being called "Miss"? But to go back to my telegram,—it served as my déjeuner à la félicité. From that moment I was happy, and peace has taken possession of me since the coming of that dear message.

PHILADELPHIA:

The ship was so white and clean, and I was so pleased over our stateroom, that I forgot for a moment the big lump in my throat; but I do not understand why people allow those near and dear to them to come to see them off. Nothing could have kept me on that boat had my nearest and dearest been standing on the dock.

Ruth and Suzanne are here at last.

I am sending these lines back with the pilot.

I wish he were to take me instead of the letter.

How I envy it!

ON BOARD SHIP:

There has been no writing on board this ship for the past four days, and very little sleeping, and less eating. Every one seemed sick except Ruth, a few of the men and myself. Those of us who were able to crawl up on deck were lashed to our steamer chairs and the chairs lashed to the deck.

The pilot left at six in the evening. Every one on board rushed to the side to see the sailors lower him into his little boat, and I watched him as far as the eye could see, for he carried with him my last message to you.

We no sooner struck the breakwater than the ship began to roll, and the tossing has continued for four days without cessation, for we are following in the wake of a storm.

You asked me to tell you every little detail of life on board ship. You little know the task you set me; and right here I desire to put myself on record as begging the pardon of all writers on this subject for my unkind thoughts of them. I see now, after only five days on shipboard, why all descriptions are so unsatisfactory to those who have never experienced a voyage.

In the first place, the word "deck" is most inadequate. One naturally thinks that a deck is an open space on the top of a ship, similar to that of a river steamboat. The decks are in reality wide piazzas—when the sea is quiet. On them the passengers congregate—when all is well with them and with the elements. I say "up on deck," when it is only "out on the veranda." Flights of easy stairs connect the various floors. These stairs are dancing continually, but one soon gets used to it if one has his "sea legs," and usually arrives safely. This ship is similar to an oval house of several stories, with galleries or verandas running completely around each story, and any number of basements and sub-basements; but with these we have nothing to do.

As I crossed the gangplank I landed on the saloon deck and entered the only door on that side. I found myself in a small hallway, out of which opened the ladies' saloon and the writing-rooms, and from which the stairs descend to the floor where the dining-room and most of the berths are situated. My stateroom is on the top story, so I have only to step from our hallway on to the main deck.

I read the description which I have just written to the captain, and I wish you could have heard him shout. He begged me to permit his "tiger" to make a copy of it for him, and I did, but I was sorry the moment it left my hands, for I know it is most absurd, and it was intended for you only. Nevertheless, I'll venture the assertion that those who know will readily see the picture, and those who do not know will get a pretty good idea of how a ship looks.

MID-ATLANTIC:

Every one is out today, and as it is cold, the entire saloon deck is lined with a much-wrapped, many-rugged assembly, whose chairs are fastened to the house-side of the deck, while those who have their sea legs are marching to and fro in front of the line of chairs. The deck steward has the chairs placed for us each morning on the side free from the winds. Most of the time these past days I have been sitting in my chair looking at my feet, first with the sea and then with the sky, as a background.

OFF QUEENSTOWN:

Oh, blessed day! We saw land for a few moments, and I have your dear letters—two happy events. I ran away with my letters and have written answers to them which are for your eyes alone. That reminds me to say, that I think it would be better for me to write on one sheet of paper a wee bit of a letter to you, telling you a few of the many nice things I think of you, but which will interest no one but you. On another sheet I will tell of the places I see and the people I meet, and this you may send to the friends who are self-sacrificing enough to say they would like to read about this little journey of mine.

I found on this ship the usual number of wise—and otherwise—passengers, a few of whom are most interesting. Mr. and Mrs. P., of Philadelphia, who are well-known philanthropists; an Englishman, whose care and attention to an invalid wife and child forever clear his countrymen from the contumely of indifference to their families; Mrs. F. and her son; and a most charming Canadian gentleman, who has made the voyage a delight for us.

Ruth and I are seated at the right and left of the dear old captain. The table is served bountifully, and the viands are delicious. We really try not to ask too many questions, but I fancy our endeavors are a failure. Were I a captain of one of these ocean liners, I'd have something like the following hung in each stateroom, along with "How to put on this life-preserver when drowning."

First. This ship is fireproof, waterproof, and mal de mer proof.

Second. We will positively land on the — day of —, or on the next day, or surely the next.

Third. The captain is (or is not) married, as the case may be. (I should advise that it be written "is" in either case, to save trouble.)

These liners carry much freight, and are slow, taking usually nine days for the ocean voyage, which together with the day down the Delaware, another up the channel, and the delay caused by the storm, will keep us on board thirteen days. It is because of the slow speed and the limited number of passengers that this line is patronized by such a delightful class of people who go chiefly for the quiet obtained on the sea.

ST. GEORGE'S CHANNEL:

"Floating around in my ink-pot" are many things which I intend to tell you some day, but with the unsteady condition of this writing-table, not now. Just a word today about my fellow-travelers.

Mrs. F., of Boston, reminds me of the Arabian proverb: "He who knows not, and knows not that he knows not, is a fool; shun him. He who knows not, and knows that he knows not, is simple; teach him. He who knows, and knows not that he knows, is asleep; wake him. He who knows, and knows that he knows, is wise; follow him."

Mrs. F. is one whom I should be willing to follow. She has with her an invalid son, who looks older than she. She did not appear on deck for many days, and kept entirely to herself. She came up one of those days when I was alone on the deck. Joe, our deck steward, placed us in Ruth's two chairs, one of which she had just vacated, while he and the lady's servant fetched our chairs. When the chairs appeared they were identical, and with the same initials on them. Joe knew mine well, and the lady's servant knew hers. As the chairs were brought neither of us spoke, but our eyes met and we laughed.

After a few moments, "I wonder," said she, "if they are spelled the same, too." "I doubt it" I replied. That was all. The servants stared in wonder and left. She smiles and bows each time we meet, and I must confess I'd like to know what her given name is. On the sailing list it is Mrs. Wilburn Godfrey F— and maid, and Mr. W. G. F— and servant.

We missed the tide, so the boat will not be able to land us at the dock, but instead, we shall be compelled to go in on the tender, which is approaching in the distance.

Part I.

This other Eden, demi-paradise;

This fortress built by nature for herself,

Against infection and the hand of war;

This happy breed of men, this little world,

This precious stone set in the silver sea.

Shakspere, Richard II,

Act II, Scene 1, Line 42.

ENGLAND

Oh, to be in England

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

In England—now!

Robert Browning.

LIVERPOOL:

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,

"I will have to trouble you to open the trunks for me."

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?

I have! Today!

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.

LIME WALK, OXFORD

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:

"And what is so rare as a day in 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.

NATIONAL GALLERY, LONDON, FRONTING TRAFALGAR SQUARE

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:

Hurrah for the red, white, and blue!

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.

VENTNOR

TENNYSON'S HOUSE

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.

SHANKLIN, ISLE OF WIGHT

STREET IN BONCHURCH

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:

"Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

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.

STOKE-POGES, WHERE GRAY'S "ELEGY" WAS WRITTEN

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.

And now, good-bye, bright, fragrant and flowery England!

SCOTLAND

I canna thole my ain toun, sin' I hae dwelt i' this;

To bide in Edinboro' reek wad be the tap o' bliss.

Yon bonnie plaid aboot me hap, the skirlin' pipes gae bring,

With thistles fair tie up my hair, while I of Scotia sing.

Kate Douglas Wiggin.

EDINBURGH:

Melrose Abbey by moonlight!

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.

NATIONAL GALLERY, EDINBURGH, CASTLE ON HILL IN BACKGROUND

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.

DRYBURGH ABBEY, WHERE SIR WALTER SCOTT IS BURIED

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.

IRELAND

When the glass is up to thirty,

Be sure the weather will be dirty.

When the glass is high, O very!

There'll be rain in Cork or Kerry.

When the glass is low, O Lork!

There'll be rain in Kerry and Cork.

* * * * * *

And when the glass has climbed its best,

The sky'll be weeping in the west.

Kate Douglas Wiggin.

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.

How is that for the downtrodden Irish?

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.

DUNLUCE CASTLE

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:

"Oh! have you ever heard of Kate Kearney?

She lived at the Lakes of Killarney;

One glance of her eye would make a man die;

And have you never heard of Kate Kearney?"

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—

"With deep affection and recollection

I often think of the Shandon bells."

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.

DUBLIN—Great Denmark Street: