Introductory material (continued 4)

But if Vienna is an old city, it is also a new one. In revisiting Germany, I am constantly struck with the contrast between what I see now, and what I saw in 1858. Then Vienna was a pleasant, old-fashioned city, not too large for comfort, strongly fortified, like most of the cities of the Middle Ages, with high walls and a deep moat encompassing it on all sides. Now all has disappeared—the moat has been filled up, and the walls have been razed to the ground, and where they stood is a circle of broad streets called the Ring-strasse, like the Boulevards of Paris. The city thus let loose has burst out on all sides, and great avenues and squares, and parks and gardens, have sprung into existence on every hand. The result is a far more magnificent capital than the Vienna which I knew seventeen years ago.

Nor are the changes less in the country than in the capital. There have been wars and revolutions, which have shaken the Empire so that its very existence was in danger, but out of which it has come stronger than ever. Austria is the most remarkable example in Europe of the good effects of a thorough beating. Twice, since I was here before, she has had a terrible humiliation—in 1859 and in 1866—at Solferino and at Sadowa.

In 1858 Austria was slowly recovering from the terrible shock of ten years before, the Revolutionary Year of 1848. In '49 was the war in Hungary, when Kossuth with his fiery eloquence roused the Magyars to arms, and they fought with such vigor and success, that they threatened to march on Vienna, and the independence of Hungary might have been secured but for the intervention of Russia. Gorgei surrendered to a Russian army. Then came a series of bloody executions. The Hungarian leaders who fell into the hands of the Austrians, found no pity. The illustrious Count Louis Batthyani was sent to the scaffold. Kossuth escaped only by fleeing into Turkey. Gen. Bem turned Mussulman, saying that "his only religion was love of liberty and hatred of tyranny," and served as a Pacha at the head of a Turkish army. It is a curious illustration of the change that a few years have wrought, that Count Andrassy, who was concerned with Batthyani in the same rebellion, and was also sentenced to death, but escaped, is now the Prime Minister of Austria. But then vengeance ruled the hour. The bravest Hungarian generals were shot—chiefly, it was said at the time, by the Imperious will of the Archduchess Sophia, the mother of Francis Joseph. There is no hatred like a woman's, and she could not forego the savage delight of revenge on those who had dared to attack the power of Austria. Proud daughter of the Cæsars! she was yet to taste the bitterness of a like cruelty, when her own son, Maximilian, bared his breast to a file of Mexican soldiers, and found no mercy. I thought of this to-day, as I saw in the burial-place of the Imperial family, near the coffin of that haughty and unforgiving woman, the coffin of her son, whose poor body lies there pierced with a dozen balls.

But for the time Austria was victorious, and in the flush of the reaction which was felt throughout Europe, began to revive the old Imperial absolutism, the stern repression of liberty of speech and of the press, the system of passports and of spies, of jealous watchfulness by the police, and of full submission to the Church of Rome.

Such was the state of things in 1858; and such it might have remained if the possessors of power had not been rudely awakened from their dreams. How well I remember the sense of triumph and power of that year. The empire of Austria had been fully restored, including not only its present territory, but the fairest portion of Italy—Lombardy and Venice. To complete the joy of the Imperial house, an heir had just been born to the throne. I was present in the cathedral of Milan when a solemn Te Deum was performed in thanksgiving for that crowning gift. Maximilian was then Viceroy in Lombardy. I see him now as, with his young bride Carlotta, he walked slowly up that majestic aisle, surrounded by a brilliant staff of officers, to give thanks to Almighty God for an event which seemed to promise the continuance of the royal house of Austria, and of its Imperial power to future generations. Alas for human foresight! In less than one year the armies of France had crossed the Alps, a great battle had been fought at Solferino, and Lombardy was forever lost to Austria, and a Te Deum was performed in the cathedral of Milan for a very different occasion, but with still more enthusiastic rejoicing.

But that was not the end of bitterness. Austria was not yet sufficiently humiliated. She still clung to her old arbitrary system, and was to be thoroughly converted only by another administration of discipline. She had still another lesson to learn, and that was to come from another source, a power still nearer home. Though driven out of a part of Italy, Austria was still the great power in Germany. She was the most important member of the Germanic Confederation, as she had a vote in the Diet at Frankfort proportioned to her population, although two-thirds of her people were not Germans. The Hungarians and the Bohemians are of other races, and speak other languages. But by the dexterous use of this power, with the alliance of Bavaria and other smaller States, Austria was able always to control the policy and wield the influence of Germany. Prussia was continually outvoted, and her political influence reduced to nothing—a state of things which became the more unendurable the more she grew in strength, and became conscious of her power. At length her statesmen saw that the only hope of Prussia to gain her rightful place and power in the councils of Europe, was to drive Austria out of Germany—to compel her to withdraw entirely from the Confederation. It was a bold design. Of course it meant war; but for this Prussia had been long preparing. Suddenly, like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, came the war of 1866. Scarcely was it announced before a mighty army marched into Bohemia, and the battle of Sadowa, the greatest in Europe since Waterloo, ended the campaign. In six weeks all was over. The proud house of Austria was humbled in the dust. Her great army, that was to capture Berlin, was crushed in one terrible day, and the Prussians were on the march for Vienna, when their further advance was stopped by the conclusion of peace.

This was a fearful overthrow for Austria. But good comes out of evil. It was the day of deliverance for Hungary and for Italy. Man's extremity is God's opportunity, and the king's extremity is liberty's opportunity. Up to this hour Francis Joseph had obstinately refused to grant to Hungary that separate government to which she had a right by the ancient constitution of the kingdom, but which she had till then vainly demanded. But at length the eyes of the young emperor were opened, and on the evening of that day which saw the annihilation of his military power, it is said, he sent for Deak, the leader of the Hungarians, and asked "If he should then concede all that they had asked, if they would rally to his support so as to save him?" "Sire," said the stern Hungarian leader, "it is too late!" Nothing remained for the proud Hapsburg but to throw himself on the mercy of the conqueror, and obtain such terms as he could. Venice was signed away at a stroke. In his despair he telegraphed to Paris, giving that beautiful province to Napoleon, to secure the support of France in his extremity, who immediately turned it over to Victor Emmanuel, thus completing the unity of Italy.

The results in Germany were not less important. As the fruit of this short, but decisive campaign, Austria, besides paying a large indemnity for the expenses of the war, finally withdrew wholly from the German Confederation, leaving Prussia master of the field, which proceeded at once to form a new Confederation with itself at the head.

After such repeated overthrows and humiliations, one would suppose that Austria was utterly ruined, and that the proud young emperor would die of shame. But, "sweet are the uses of adversity." Humiliation is sometimes good for nations as for individuals, and never was it more so than now. The impartial historian will record that these defeats were Austria's salvation. The loss of Italy, however mortifying to her pride, was only taking away a source of constant trouble and discontent, and leaving to the rest of the empire a much more perfect unity than it had before.

So with the independence of Hungary; while it was an apparent loss, it was a real gain. The Magyars at last obtained what they had so long been seeking—a separate administration, and Francis Joseph, Emperor of Austria, was crowned at Pesth, King of Hungary. By this act of wise conciliation five millions of the bravest people in Europe were converted from disaffected, if not disloyal, subjects, into contented and warmly attached supporters of the House of Austria, the most devoted as they are the most warlike defenders of the throne and the Empire.

Another result of this war was the emancipation of the Emperor himself from the Pope. Till then, Austria had been one of the most extreme Catholic powers in Europe. Not Spain itself had been a more servile adherent of Rome. The Concordat gave all ecclesiastical appointments to the Pope. But the thunder of the guns of Sadowa destroyed a great many illusions—among them that of a ghostly power at Rome, which had to be conciliated as the price of temporal prosperity as well as of eternal salvation. This illusion is now gone; the Concordat has been repealed, and Austria has a voice in the appointment of her own bishops. The late Prime Minister, Count Beust, was a Protestant. In her treatment of different religious faiths, Austria is so liberal as to give great sorrow to the Holy Father, who regards it as almost a kingdom that has apostatized from the faith.

The same liberality exists in other things. There is none of the petty tyranny which in former days vexed the souls of foreigners, by its strict surveillance and espionage. Now no man in a cocked hat demands your passport as you enter the city, nor asks how long you intend to stay; no agent of the police hangs about your table at a public café to overhear your private conversation, and learn if you are a political emissary, a conspirator in disguise; no officer in the street taps you on your shoulder to warn you not to speak so loud, or to be more careful of what you say. You are as free to come and go as in America, while the restrictions of the Custom House are far less annoying and vexatious than in the United States. All this is the blessed fruit of Austria's humiliation.

It should be said to the praise of the Emperor, that he has taken his discipline exceedingly well. He has not pouted or sulked, like an angry schoolboy, or refused to have anything to do with the powers which have inflicted upon him such grievous humiliations. He has the good sense to recognize the political necessities of States as superior to the feelings of individuals. Kings, like other men, must bow to the inevitable. Accordingly he makes the best of the case. He did not refuse to meet Napoleon after the battle of Solferino, but held an interview of some hours at Villafranca, in which, without long preliminaries, they agreed on an immediate peace. He afterwards visited his brother Emperor in Paris at the time of the Great Exposition in 1867. Within the last year he has paid a visit to Victor Emmanuel at Venice, and been received with the utmost enthusiasm by the Italian people. They can afford to welcome him now that he is no longer their master. Since they have not to see in him a despotic ruler, they hail him as the nation's guest, and as he sails up the Grand Canal, receive him with loud cheers and waving of banners. And he has received more than once the visits of the Emperor William, who came to Vienna at the time of the Exposition two years since, and who has met him at a watering-place this summer, of which the papers gave full accounts, dwelling on their hearty cordiality, as shown in their repeated hand-shakings and embracings. It may be said that these are little things, but they are not little things, for such personal courtesies have a great deal to do with the peace of nations.

In another respect, the discipline of adversity has been most useful to Austria. By hard blows it has knocked the military spirit out of her, and led her to "turn her thoughts on peace." Of course the military element is still very strong. Vienna is full of soldiers. Every morning we hear the drum beat under our windows, and files of soldiers go marching through the streets. Huge barracks are in every part of the city, and a general parade would show a force of many thousands of men. The standing army of Austria is one of the largest in Europe. But in spite of all this parade and show, the military spirit is much less rampant than before. Nobody wants to go to war with any of the Great Powers. They have had enough of war for the present.

Austria has learned that there is another kind of greatness for nations than that gained in fighting battles, viz., cultivating the arts of peace. Hence it is that within the last nine years, while there have been no victories abroad, there have been great victories at home. There has been an enormous development of the internal resources of the country. Railroads have been extended all over the Empire; commerce has been quickened to a new life. Great steamers passing up and down the Danube, exchange the products of the East and the West, of Europe and Asia. Enterprises of all kinds have been encouraged. The result was shown in the Exposition of two years ago, when there was collected in this city such a display of the products of all lands, as the world had never seen. Those who had been at all the Great Exhibitions said that it far surpassed those of London and Paris. All the luxurious fabrics of the East, and all the most delicate and the most costly products of the West, the fruit of manifold inventions and discoveries—with all that had been achieved in the useful arts, the arts whose success constitutes civilization—were there spread before the dazzled eye. Such a Victory of Peace could not have been achieved without the previous lesson of Defeat in War.

Still further learning wisdom from her conquerors, Austria has entered upon a general system of education, modelled upon that of Prussia, which in the course of another generation will transform the heterogeneous populations spread over the vast provinces, extending from Italy and Germany to Turkey, which make up the thirty-four millions of the Austrian Empire.

Thus in many ways Austria has abandoned her traditional conservative policy, and entered on the road of progress. She may now be fairly reckoned among the liberal nations of Europe. The Roman Catholic religion is still the recognized religion of the State, but the Pope has lost that control which he had a few years ago; Vienna is much more independent of Rome, and Protestants have quite as much liberty of opinion, and I think more liberty of worship, than in Republican France.

Of course there is still much in the order of things which is not according to our American ideas. Austria is an ancient monarchy, and all civil and even social relations are framed on the monarchical system. Everything revolves around the Emperor, as the centre of the whole. We visit palace after palace, and are told that all are for the Emperor. Even his stables are one of the sights of Vienna, where hundreds of blooded horses are for the use of the Imperial household. There are carriages, too many to be counted, covered with gold, for four, six, or eight horses. One of these is two hundred years old, with panels decorated with paintings by Rubens. It seems, indeed, as if in these old monarchies the sovereign applied to himself, with an arrogance approaching to blasphemy, the language which belongs to God alone—that "of him, and through him, and to him, are all things."

Personally I can well believe that the Emperor is a very amiable as well as highly intelligent man, and that he seeks the good of his people. He has been trained in the school of adversity, and has learned that empires may not last forever and that dynasties may be overthrown. History is full of warnings against royal pride and ambition. Who can stand by the coffin of poor Maria Louisa, as it lies in the crypt of the Church of the Capuchins, without thinking of the strange fate of that descendant of Maria Theresa, married to the Great Napoleon? In the Royal Treasury here, they show the cradle, wrought in the rarest woods, inlaid with pearl and gold, and lined with silk, that was made for the infant son of Napoleon, the little King of Rome. What dreams of ambition hovered about that royal cradle! How strange seemed the contrast when we visited the Palace at Schonbrunn, and entered the room which Napoleon occupied when he besieged Vienna, and saw the very bed in which he slept, and were told that in that same bed the young Napoleon afterwards breathed his last! So perished the dream of ambition. The young child for whom Napoleon had divorced Josephine and married Maria Louisa, who was to perpetuate the proud Imperial line, died far from France, while his father had already ended his days on the rock of St. Helena!

But personally no one can help a kindly feeling towards the Emperor, and towards the young Empress also, as he hears of her virtues and her charities.

Nor can one help liking the Viennese and the Austrians. They are very courteous and very polite—rather more so, if the truth must be told, than their German neighbors. Perhaps great prosperity has been bad for the Prussians, as adversity has been good for the Austrians. At any rate the former have the reputation in Europe of being somewhat brusque in their manners. Perhaps they also need a lesson in humiliation, which may come in due time. But the Austrians are proverbially a polite people. They are more like the French. They are gay and fond of pleasure, but they have that instinctive courtesy, which gives such a charm to social intercourse.

And so we go away from Vienna with a kindly feeling for the dear old city—only hoping it may not be spoiled by too many improvements—and with best wishes for both Kaiser and people. They have had a hard time, but it has done them good. By such harsh instruments, by a discipline very bitter indeed, but necessary, has the life of this old empire been renewed. Thus aroused from its lethargy, it has shaken off the past, and entered on a course of peaceful progress with the foremost nations of Europe. Those who talk of the "effete despotisms" of the Old World, would be amazed at the signs of vitality in this old but not decaying empire. Austria is to-day one of the most prosperous countries in Europe. There is fresh blood at her heart, and fresh life coursing through her aged limbs. And though no man or kingdom can be said to be master of the future, it has as fair a chance of long existence as any other power on the continent. The form of government may be changed; there may be internal revolutions; Bohemia may obtain a separate government like Hungary; but whatever may come, there will always be a great and powerful State in Eastern Europe, on the waters of the Danube.

We observed to-day that they were repairing St Stephen's, and were glad to think that that old cathedral, which has stood for so many ages, and whose stone pavement has been worn by the feet of many generations, may stand for a thousand years to come. May that tower, which has looked down on so many battle-fields, as the tide of war has ebbed and flowed around the walls of Vienna, hereafter behold from its height no more scenes of carnage like that of Wagram, but only see gathered around its base one of the most beautiful of European capitals—the heart of a great and prosperous Empire.

CHAPTER XVI.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.—OUT-DOOR LIFE OF THE GERMAN PEOPLE.

Vienna, August 13th.

No description of Germany—no picture of German life and manners—can be complete which does not give some account of the out-door recreations of the people; for this is a large part of their existence; it is a feature of their national character, and an important element in their national life. To know a people well, one must see them not only in business, but in their lighter hours. One may travel through Germany from the Baltic to the Adriatic, and see all the palaces and museums and picture galleries, and yet be wholly ignorant of the people. But if he has the good fortune to know a single German family of the better class, into which he may be received, not as a stranger, but as a guest and a friend—where he can see the interior of a German home, and mark the strong affection of parents and children, of brothers and sisters—he will get a better idea of the real character of the people, than by months of living in hotels. Next to the sacred interior of the home, the public garden is the place where the German appears with least formality and disguise, and in his natural character.

Since I came to Europe, I have been in no mood to seek amusement. Indeed if I had followed my own impulse, it would have been to shun every public resort, to live a very solitary life, going only to the most retired places, and seeking only absolute seclusion and repose. But that is not good for us in moments of sorrow. The mind is apt to become morbid and gloomy. This is not the lesson which those who have gone before would have us learn. On the contrary, they desire to have us happy, and bid us with their dying breath seek new activity, new scenes, and new mental occupation, to bind us to life.

Besides, I have had not only myself to consider, but a young life beside me. In addition to that, we have now a third member of our party. At Hamburg we were joined by my nephew, a lieutenant in the Navy, who is attached to the Flagship Franklin, now cruising in the Baltic, and who obtained leave of absence for a month to join his sister, and is travelling with us in Germany. He is a fine young officer full of life, and enters into everything with the greatest zest. So, beguiled by these two young spirits, I have been led to see more than I otherwise should of the open-air life and recreations of these simple-hearted Germans; and I will briefly describe what I have seen, as the basis of one or two reflections.

To begin with Hamburg. This is one of the most beautiful cities in Germany. One part is indeed old and dingy, in which the narrow streets are overhung with houses of a former century, now gone to decay. But as we go back from the river, we mount higher, and come into an entirely different town, with wide streets, lined with large and imposing buildings. This part of the city was swept by a great fire a few years ago, and has been very handsomely rebuilt. But the peculiar beauty of Hamburg is formed by a small stream, the Alster, which runs through the city, and empties into the Elbe, and which is dammed up so as to form what is called by courtesy a lake, and what is certainly a very pretty sheet of water. Around this are grouped the largest hotels, and some of the finest buildings of the city, and this is the centre of its joyous life, especially at the close of the day. When evening comes on, all Hamburg flocks to the "Alster-dam." Our hotel was on this lake, and from our windows we had every evening the most animated scene. The water was covered with boats, among which the swans glided about without fear. The quays were lighted up brilliantly, and the cafés swarmed with people, all enjoying the cool evening air. Both sexes and all ages were abroad to share in the general gayety of the hour.

Some rigid moralists might look upon this with stern eyes, as if it were a scene of sinful enjoyment, as if men had no right thus to be happy in this wicked world. But I confess I looked upon it with very different feelings. The enjoyment was of the most simple and innocent kind. Families were all together, father and mother, brothers and sisters, while little children ran about at play. I have rarely looked on a prettier scene, and although I had no part nor lot in it, although I was a stranger there, and walked among these crowds alone, still it did my heart good to see that there was so much happiness in this sad and weary world.

From Hamburg we came to Berlin, where the same features were reproduced on a larger scale. As we drove through the streets at ten o'clock at night we passed a large public garden, brilliantly lighted up, and thronged with people, from which came the sound of music, and were told that it was one of the most fashionable resorts of the capital; and so the next evening—after a day at Potsdam, where we were wearied with sight-seeing—we took our rest here. Imagine a vast enclosure lighted up with hundreds of gas-jets, and thronged with thousands of people, with three bands of music to relieve each other. There were hundreds of little tables, each with its group around it, all chatting with the utmost animation.

The next day we drove to Charlottenburg, to visit the old palaces and the exquisite mausoleum of the beautiful Queen Louise, and on our return stopped to take our dinner at the Flora—an enclosure of several acres, laid out like a botanical garden. A large conservatory, called the Palm Garden, keeps under cover such rare plants and trees as would not grow in the cold climate; and here one is in a tropical scene. This answers the purpose of a Winter Garden, as great banks of flowers and of rare plants are in full bloom all the winter long; and here the rank and fashion of Berlin can gather in winter, and with the air filled with the perfume of flowers, forget the scene without—the naked trees and bitter winds and drifting snows—while listening to musical concerts given in an immense hall, capable of holding several thousand people. These are the festivities of winter. But now, as it is midsummer, the people prefer to be out of doors; and here, seated among the rest, we take our dinner, entertained (as sovereigns are wont to entertain their royal guests at State dinners) with a band of music in the intervals of the feast, which gives a new zest, a touch of Oriental luxury, to our very simple repast.

At Dresden we were at the Hôtel Bellevue, which is close to the Elbe, and there was a public garden on the bank of the river, right under our windows. Every evening we sat on the terrace attached to the hotel, and heard the music, and watched the pleasure boats darting up and down the river.

But of all the cities of Germany, the one where this out-door life is carried to the greatest perfection, is here in Vienna. We arrived when the weather was very hot. For the first time this summer in Europe we were really oppressed with the heat. The sun blazed fiercely, and as we drove about the city seeing sights, we felt that we were martyrs suffering in a good cause. We were told that the heat was very unusual. The only relief and restoration after such days was an evening ride. So as the sun was setting we took a carriage and made the circuit of the Ring-strasse, the boulevards laid out on the site of the old walls, ending with the Prater, that immense park, where two years ago the Great Exposition was held, and where the buildings still stand. This is the place of concourse of the Viennese on gala days, when the Emperor turns out, and all the Austrian and Hungarian nobility, with their splendid equipages (the Hungarians have an Oriental fondness for gilded trappings), making a sight which is said to be more dazzling than can be seen even in the Hyde Park of London, or the Bois de Boulogne at Paris. Just now, of course, all this fashionable element has fled the city, and is enjoying life at the German watering places. But as there are still left seven or eight hundred thousand people, they must find some way to bear the heats of summer; and so they flock to the Prater. The trees are all ablaze with light; half a dozen bands of music are in full blast, and "all the world is gay." It is truly "a midsummer night's dream." I was especially attracted to a concert garden where the band, a very large one, was composed of women. To be sure there were half a dozen men sprinkled among the performers, but they seemed to have subordinate parts—only blowing away at the wind instruments—while all the stringed instruments were played by delicate female hands. It was quite pretty to see how deftly they held the violins, and what sweet music they wrung from the strings. Two or three young maidens stood beside the bass-viols, which were taller than themselves, and a trim figure, that might have been that of a French vivandière, beat the drum. The conductor was of course a woman, and marshalled her forces with wonderful spirit. I don't know whether the music was very fine or not (for I am not a judge in such matters), but I applauded vigorously, because I liked the independence of the thing, and have some admiration, if not sympathy, for the spirit of those heroic reformers, who wish to "put down these men."

But the chief musical glory of Vienna is the Volksgarten, where Strauss's famous band plays, and there we spent our last night in Vienna. It is an enclosure near the Palace, and the grounds belong to the Emperor, who gives the use of them (so we were told) to the son of his old nurse, who devotes them to the purpose of a public garden, and to musical concerts. Besides Strauss's band, there was a military band, which played alternately. As we entered it was executing an air which my companions recognized as from "William Tell," and they pointed out to me the beautiful passages—those which imitated the Alpine horns, etc. Then Strauss came to the front—not Johann (who has become so famous that the Emperor has appropriated him to himself, so that he can now play only for the royal family and their guests), but his brother, Edward. He is a little man, whose body seems to be set on springs, and to be put in motion by music. While leading the orchestra, of some forty performers, he was as one inspired—he fairly danced with excitement; it seemed as if he hardly touched the earth, but floated in air, his body swaying hither and thither to the sound of music. When he had finished, the military band responded, and so it continued the whole evening.

The garden was illuminated not only with gas lamps, but with other lights not set down in the programme. The day had been terribly hot, and as we drove to the garden, dark masses of cloud were gathering, and soon the rain began to come down in earnest. The people who were sitting under the trees took refuge in the shelter of the large hall; and there, while incessant flashes of lightning lighted up the garden without, the martial airs of the military band were answered by the roll of the thunder. This was an unexpected accompaniment to the music, but it was very grateful, as it at once cleared and cooled the air, and gave promise of a pleasant day for travelling on the morrow.

I might describe many similar scenes, though less brilliant, in every German city, but these are enough to give a picture of the open-air life and recreations of the German people. And now for the moral of the tale. What is the influence of this kind of life—is it good or bad? What lesson does it teach to us Americans? Does it furnish an example to imitate, or a warning to avoid? Perhaps something of both.

Certainly it is a good thing that it leads the people to spend some hours of every day in the open air. During hours of business they are in their offices or their shops, and they need a change; and anything which tempts them out of doors is a physical benefit; it quiets their nerves, and cools their blood, and prepares them for refreshing sleep. So far it is good. Every open space in the midst of a great population is so much breathing space; the parks of a city are rightly called its lungs; and it is a good thing if once a day all classes, rich and poor, young and old, can get a long draught of fresh, pure air, as if they were in the country.

Next to the pleasure of sitting in the open air, the attraction of these places is the music. The Germans are a music-loving people. Luther was an enthusiast for music, and called any man a fool, a dull, heavy dolt, whose blood was not stirred by martial airs or softer melodies. In this he is a good type of the German people. This taste is at once cultivated and gratified by what they hear at these public resorts. I cannot speak with authority on such matters, but my companions identified almost every air that was played as from some celebrated piece of music, the work of some great master, all of whom are familiar in Germany from Mozart to Mendelssohn. The constant repetition of such music by competent and trained bands, cannot but have a great effect upon the musical education of the people.

And this delightful recreation is furnished very cheaply. In New York to hear Nilsson, opera-goers pay three or four dollars. But here admission to the Volksgarten, the most fashionable resort in Vienna, is but a florin (about fifty cents); to the Flora, in Berlin, it was but a mark, which is of the value of an English shilling, or a quarter of a dollar; while many of the public gardens are free, the only compensation being what is paid for refreshments.

One other feature of this open-air life and recreation has been very delightful to me—its domestic character. It is not a solitary, selfish kind of pleasure, as when men go off by themselves to drink or gamble, or indulge in any kind of dissipation. When men go to these public gardens, on the contrary, they take their wives and their sisters with them. Often we see a whole family, down to the children, grouped around one of these tables. They sit there as they would around their own tea-table at home. The family life is not broken by this taking of their pleasure in public. On the contrary, it is rather strengthened; all the family ties are made the closer by sharing their enjoyments together.

And these pleasures are not only domestic, but democratic. They are not for the rich only, but for all classes. Even the poor can afford the few pence necessary for such an evening, and find in listening to such music in the open air the cheapest, as well as the simplest and purest enjoyment.

The drawbacks to these public gardens are two—the smoking and the beer-drinking. There are hundreds of tables, each with a group around it, all drinking beer, and the men all smoking. These features I dislike as much as anybody. I never smoked a cigar in my life, and do not doubt that it would make me deadly sick. Mr. Spurgeon may say that he "smokes a cigar to the glory of God"; that as it quiets his nerves and gives him a sound night's sleep, it is a means of grace to him. All I can say is, that it is not a means of grace to me, and that as I have been frequently annoyed and almost suffocated by it, I am afraid it has provoked feelings anything but Christian.

As for the drinking, there is one universal beverage—beer. This is a thin, watery fluid, such as one might make by putting a spoonful of bitter herbs in a teapot and boiling them. To me it seemed like cold water spoiled. Yet others argue that it is cold water improved. On this question I have had many discussions since I came to Germany. The people take to beer as a thing of course, as if it were the beverage that nature had provided to assuage their thirst, and when they talk to you in a friendly way, will caution you especially to beware of drinking the water of the country! Why they should think this dangerous, I cannot understand, for surely they do not drink enough of it to do them any harm. Of course, in passing from country to country, one needs to use prudence in drinking the water, as in other changes of diet, but the danger from that source is greatly exaggerated. Certainly I have drunk of water freely everywhere in Europe, without any injury. Yet an American physician, who certainly has no national prejudice in favor of beer, gravely argues with me that it is the most simple, refreshing, and healthful beverage, and points to the physique of the Germans in proof that it does them no injury. Perhaps used in moderation, it may not. But certainly no argument will convince me that drinking it in such quantities as some do—eight, ten, or a dozen quart mugs a day!—is not injurious. When a man thus swills beer—there is no other word to express it—he seems to me like a pig at the trough.

But of course I do not mean that the greater number of Germans drink it in any such quantities, or to a degree that would be considered excessive, if it is to be drunk at all. I was at first shocked to see men and women with these foaming goblets before them, but I observed that, instead of drinking them off at a draught as those who take stronger drinks are wont to do, they let them stand, occasionally taking a sip, a single glass often lasting the whole evening. Indeed it seemed as if many ordered a glass of beer on entering a public garden, rather as a matter of custom, and as a way of paying for the music. For this they gave a few kreutzers (equal to a few pence), and for such a trifle had the freedom of the garden, and the privilege of listening to excellent music.

But if we cannot enter into any eulogium of German beer at least it has this negative virtue: it does not make people drunk. It is not like the heavy ales or porters of England. This is a fact of immense consequence, that the universal beverage of forty millions of people is not intoxicating. Of course I do not mean to say that it is impossible for one to have his head swim by taking it in some enormous quantity. I only give my own observation, which is that I have seen thousands taking their beer, and never saw one in any degree affected by it. I give, therefore, the evidence of my senses, when I say that this beer does not make men drunk, it does not steal away their brains, or deprive them of reason.

No reader of any intelligence can be so silly as to interpret this simple statement of a fact as arguing for the introduction of beer gardens in America. They are coming quite fast enough. [If I were to have a beer garden, it should be without the beer.] But as between the two, I do say that the beer gardens of Germany are a thousand times better than the gin shops of London, or even the elegant "sample rooms" of New York. In the latter men drink chiefly fiery wines, or whiskey, or brandy, or rum; they drink what makes them beasts—what sends them reeling through the streets, to carry terror to their miserable homes; while in Germany men drink what may be very bitter and bad-tasting stuff, but what does not make one a maniac or a brute. No man goes home from a beer garden to beat his wife and children, because he has been made a madman by intoxication. On the contrary, he has had his wife and children with him; they have all had a breath of fresh air, and enjoyed a good time together.

Such are the simple pleasures of this simple German people—a people that love their homes, their wives and children, and whatever they enjoy wish to enjoy it together.

Now may we not learn something from the habits of a foreign people, as to how to provide cheap and innocent recreations for our own? Is there not some way of getting the good without the evil, of having this open-air life without any evil accompaniments? The question is one of recreation, not of amusements, which is another thing, to be considered by itself. In these public gardens there are no games of any kind—not so much as a Punch and Judy, or a hand-organ with a monkey—nothing but sitting in the open air, enjoying conversation, and listening to music.

This question of popular recreations, or to put it more broadly, how a people shall spend their leisure hours—hours when they are not at work nor asleep—is a very serious question, and one closely connected with public morals. In the life of every man in America, even of the hard-worked laborer, there are several hours in the day when he is not bending to his task, and when he is not taking his meals. The work of the day is over, he has had his supper, but it is not time to go to bed. From seven to nine o'clock he has a couple of hours of leisure. What shall he do with them? It may be said he ought to spend them in reading. No doubt this would be very useful, but perhaps the poor man is too jaded to fix his mind on a book. What he needs is diversion, recreation, something that occupies the mind without fatiguing it; and what so charming as to sit out of doors in the summer time, in the cool of the evening, and listen to music, not being fixed to silence as in a concert room, but free to move about, and talk with his neighbors? If there could be in every large town such a retreat under the shade of the trees, where tired workmen could come, and bring their wives and children with them, it would do a great deal to keep them out of drinking saloons and other places of evil resort.

For want of something of this kind the young men in our cities and in our country villages seek recreation where they can find it. In cities, young men of the better class resort to clubs. This club life has eaten into the domestic life of our American families. The husband, the son and brother, are never at home. Would it not be better if they could have some simple recreation which the whole family could enjoy together? In country villages young men meet at the tavern, or in the street, for want of a little company. I have seen them, by twenty or thirty, sitting on a fence in a row, like barnyard fowls, where, it is to be feared, their conversation is not of the most refined character. How much better for these young fellows to be somewhere where they could be with their mothers and sisters, and all have a good time together! If they must have something in the way of refreshment (although I do not see the need of anything; "have they not their houses to eat and drink in?"), let it be of the simplest kind—something very cheap, for they have no money to waste—and something which shall at least do them no injury—ices and lemonade, with plenty of what is better than either for a hot summer evening, pure, delicious cold water.

I have great confidence in the power of music, especially in that which is popular and universal. Expensive concerts, with celebrated singers, are the pleasure of the rich. But a village glee-club or singing-school calls out home talent, and no concert is so like a country fête as that in which the young folks do their own singing.

With these pictures of German life and manners, and the reflections they suggest, I leave this subject of Popular Recreations to those who are older and wiser than I. I know that the subject is a very delicate one to touch. It is easy to go too far, and to have one's arguments perverted to abuse. And yet, in spite of all this, I stand up for recreation as a necessity of life. Recreation is not dissipation. Calvin pitching quoits may not seem to us quite as venerable a figure as Calvin writing his Institutes, or preaching in the Cathedral of Geneva; and yet he was doing what was just and necessary. The mind must unbend, and the body too. I believe hundreds of lives are lost every year in America for want of this timely rest and recreation.

Some traveller has said that America is the country in which there is less suffering, and less enjoyment, than in any other country in the world. I am afraid there is some truth in this. Certainly we have not cultivated the art of enjoying ourselves. We are too busy. We are all the time toiling to accumulate, and give ourselves little time to enjoy. And when we do undertake it, it is a very solemn business with us. Nothing is more dreary than the efforts of some of our good people to enjoy themselves. They do not know how, and make an awkward shift of it. They put it off to a future year, when their work shall be all done, and they will go to Europe, and do up their travelling as a big job. Thus their very pleasures are forced, artificial, and expensive. And little pleasure they get after all! Many of these people we have met wandering about Europe, forlorn and wretched creatures, exiles from their own country, yet not at home in any other. They have not learned the art, which the Germans might teach them, of simple pleasures, and of enjoying a little every day. This American habit of work without rest, is a wretched economy of life, which can be justified neither by reason nor religion. There is no piety in such self-sacrifice as this, since it is for no good object, but only from a selfish and miserly greed for gain. Men were not made to be mere drudges or slaves. Hard work, duly intermixed with rest and recreation, is the best experience for every one of us, and the true means by which we can best fulfil our duty to God and to man.

Religion has received a great injury when it has been identified with asceticism and gloom. If there is any class of men who are my special aversion, it is those moping, melancholy owls, who sit on the tree of life, and frown on every innocent human joy. Sorrow I can understand (for I have tasted of its bitter cup), and grief of every kind, penitence for wrong, and deep religious emotion; but what I cannot understand, nor sympathize with, is that sour, sullen, morose temper, which looks sternly even on the sports of children, and would hush their prattle and glee. Such a system of repression is false in philosophy, and false in morals. It is bad intellectually. Never was a truer saying than that in the old lines:

And it is equally bad for the moral nature. Fathers and mothers, you must make your children happy, if you would make them good. You must surround them with an atmosphere of affection and enjoyment, if you would teach them to love you, and to love GOD. It is when held close in their mothers' arms, with tender eyes bent over them, that children first get some faint idea of that Infinite Love, of which maternal fondness is but the faint reflection. How wisely has Cowper, that delicate and tender moralist, expressed the proper wish of children:

Such a happy childhood is the best nursery for a brave and noble manhood.

I write on this subject very seriously, for I know of few things more closely connected with public morals. I do not argue in favor of recreation because seeking any indulgence for myself. I have been as a stranger in all these scenes, and never felt soberer or sadder in my life than when listening for hours to music. But what concerns one only, matters little; but what concerns the public good, matters a great deal. And I give my opinion, as the result of much observation, that any recreation which promotes innocent enjoyment, which is physically healthy and morally pure, which keeps families together, and thus unites them by the tie of common pleasures (a tie only less strong than that of common sorrow), is a social influence that is friendly to virtue, and to all which we most love and cherish, and on the whole one of the cleanest and wholesomest things in this wicked world.

Often in my dreams I think of that better time which is coming, when even pleasure shall be sanctified; when no human joy shall be cursed by being mixed with sin and followed by remorse; when all our happiness shall be pure and innocent, such as God can smile upon, and such as leaves no sting behind. That will be a happy world, indeed, when mutual love shall bless all human intercourse:

CHAPTER XVII.

THE PASSION PLAY AND THE SCHOOL OF THE CROSS.

Ober-Ammergau, Bavaria, Aug. 22d.

My readers probably did not expect to hear from me in this lonely and remote part of the world. Perhaps some of them never heard of such a place as Ober-Ammergau, and do not know what should give it a special interest above hundreds of other places. Let me explain. Ober-Ammergau is a small village in the Bavarian Alps, where for the last two hundred years has been performed, at regular intervals, the Passion Play—that is, a dramatic representation, in which are enacted before us the principal events, and particularly the closing scenes, in the life of our Lord. The idea of such a thing, when first suggested to a Protestant mind, is not only strange, but repulsive in the highest degree. It seems like holding up the agonies of our Saviour to public exhibition, dragging on the stage that which should remain an object of secret and devout meditation. When I first heard of it—which was some years ago, in America—I was shocked at what seemed the gross impiety of the thing; and yet, to my astonishment, several of the most eminent ministers of the city of New York, both Episcopal and Presbyterian, who had witnessed it, told me that it was performed in the most religious spirit, and had produced on them an impression of deep solemnity. Such representations were very common in the Middle Ages; I believe they continued longest in Spain, but gradually they died out, till now this is the only spot in Europe where the custom is still observed. It has thus been perpetuated in fulfilment of a vow made two centuries ago; and here it may be continued for centuries to come. A performance so extraordinary, naturally excites great curiosity. As it is given only once in ten years, the interest is not dulled by too frequent repetition; and whoever is on the Continent in the year of its observance, must needs turn aside to see this great sight. At such times this little mountain village is thronged with visitors, not only from Bavaria and other Catholic countries, but from England and America.

This is not the year for its performance. It was given in 1870, and being interrupted by the Franco-German war, was resumed and completed in 1871. The next regular year will be 1880. But this year, which is midway between the two decennial years, has had a special interest from a present of the King of Bavaria, who, wishing to mark his sense of the extraordinary devotion of this little spot in his dominions, has made it a present of a gigantic cross, or rather three crosses, to form a "Calvary," which is to be erected on a hill overlooking the town. In honor of this royal gift, it was decided to have this year a special representation, not of the full Passion Play, but of a series of Tableaux and Acts, representing what is called the School of the Cross—that is, such scenes from the Old and New Testaments as converge upon that emblem of Christ's death and of man's salvation. This is not in any strict sense a Play, though intended to represent the greatest of all tragedies, but a series of Tableaux Vivants, in some cases (only in those from the Old Testament) the statuesque representation being aided by words from the Bible in the mouths of the actors in the scene. The announcement of this new sacred drama (if such it must be called) reached us in Vienna, and drew us to this mountain village; and in selecting such subjects as seem most likely to interest my readers, I pass by two of the most attractive places in Southern Germany—Salzburg which is said to be "the most beautiful spot in Europe," where we spent three days; and Munich, with its Art Galleries, where we spent four—to describe this very unique exhibition, so unlike anything to be seen in any other part of the world.

We left Munich by rail, and, after an hour's ride, varied our journey by a sail across a lake, and then took to a diligence, to convey us into the heart of the mountains. Among our companions were several Catholic priests, who were making a pilgrimage to Ober-Ammergau as a sacred place. The sun had set before we reached our destination. As we approached the hamlet, we found wreaths and banners hung on poles along the road—the signs of the fête on the morrow. As the resources of the little place were very limited, the visitors, as they arrived, had to be quartered among the people of the village. We had taken tickets at Munich which secured us at least a roof over our heads, and were assigned to the house of one of the better class of peasants, where the good man and good wife received us very kindly, and gave us such accommodations as their small quarters allowed, showing us to our rooms up a little stair which was like a ladder, and shutting us in by a trap-door. It gave us a strange feeling of distance and loneliness, to find ourselves sleeping in such a "loft," under the roof of a peasant among the mountains of Bavaria.

The morning broke fair and bright, and soon the whole village was astir. Peasants dressed in their gayest clothes came flocking in from all the countryside. At nine o'clock three cannon shots announced the commencement of the fête. The place of the performance was on rising ground, a little out of the village, where a large barn-like structure had been recently erected, which might hold a thousand people. Formerly when the Passion Play was performed, it was given in the open air, no building being sufficient to contain the crowds which thronged to the unaccustomed spectacle. This rude structure is arranged like a theatre, with a stage for the actors, and the rest of the house divided off into seats, the best of which are generally occupied by strangers while the peasant population crowd the galleries. We had front seats, which were only separated from the stage by the orchestra, which deserves a word of praise, since the music was both composed and performed wholly by such musical talent as the little village itself could provide.

At length the music ceased, and the choir, which was composed of thirteen persons in two divisions, entered from opposite sides of the stage, and "formed in line" in front of the curtain. The choir takes a leading part in this extraordinary performance—the same, indeed, that the chorus does in the old Greek tragedy, preceding each act or tableau with a recitation or a hymn, designed as a prelude to introduce what is to follow, and then at the close of the act concluding with what preachers would call an "improvement" or "application." In this opening chant the chorus introduced the mighty story of man's redemption, as Milton began his Paradise Lost, by speaking

It was a sort of recitative or plaintive melody, fit keynote of the sad scenes that were to follow. The voices ceased, and the curtain rose.

The first Biblical characters who appeared on the stage were Cain and Abel, who were dressed in skins after the primitive fashion of our race. Abel, who was of light complexion and hair, was clad in the whitest and softest sheep's wool; while Cain, who was dark-featured, and of a sinister and angry countenance, was covered with a flaming leopard's skin, as best betokened the ferocity of his character. In the background rose the incense of Abel's offering. Cain was disturbed and angry; he spoke to his brother in a harsh voice. Abel replied in the gentlest accents, trying to soften his brother's heart and turn away his wrath. Father Adam, too, appears on the scene, using his parental authority to reconcile his children; and Eve comes in, and lays her light hand on the arm of her infuriated son, and tries to soothe him to a gentler mood. Even the Angel of the Lord steps forth from among the trees of the Garden, to warn the guilty man of the evil of unbridled rage, and to urge him to timely repentance, that his offering may be accepted. These united persuasions for the moment seem to be successful, and there is an apparent reconciliation between the brothers; Cain falls on Abel's neck, and embraces him. Yet even while using the language of affection, he has a club in his hand, which he holds behind him. But the fatal deed is not done upon the stage; for throughout the play there is an effort to keep out of sight any repulsive act. So they retire from the scene. But presently nature itself announces that some deed of violence and blood is being done; the lightnings flash and thunders roll; and Adam reappears, bearing Abel in his aged arms, and our first parents together indulge in loud lamentations over the body of their murdered son.

This story of Cain and Abel occupied several short acts, in which the curtain rose and fell several times, and at the end of each the chorus came upon the stage to give the moral of the scene.

In the dialogues the speakers follow closely the Old Testament. If occasional sentences are thrown in to give a little more fulness of detail, at least there is no departure from the general outline of the sacred narrative. It is the story of the first crime, the first shedding of human blood, told in a dramatic form, by the personages themselves appearing on the stage.

These scenes from the Old Testament were mingled with scenes from the New, the aim being to use one to illustrate the other—the antitype following the type in close succession. Thus the pendant of the former scenes (to adopt a word much used by artists when one picture is hung on a wall over against another) was now given in the corresponding crime which darkens the pages of the New Testament history—the betrayal of Christ. But there was this difference between the scenes from the Old Testament and those from the New: in the latter there was no dialogue whatever, and no action, as if it was all too sacred for words—nothing but the tableau, the figures standing in one attitude, fixed and motionless. First there was the scene of Christ driving the money-changers from the temple. Here a large number of figures—I should think twenty or thirty—appeared upon the stage, and held their places with unchanging look. Not one moved; they scarcely breathed; but all stood fixed as marble. All the historic characters were present—the priests in their robes (the costumes evidently having been studied with great care), and the Pharisees glaring with rage upon our Lord, as with holy indignation He spurns the profane intruders from the sacred precincts.

Then there is the scene of Judas betraying Christ. We see him leading the way to the spot where our Saviour kneels in prayer; the crowd follow with lanterns; there are the Roman soldiers, and in the background are the priests, the instigators of this greatest of crimes.

In another scene Judas appears again overwhelmed with remorse, casting down his ill-gotten money before the priests, who look on scornfully, as if bidding him keep the price of blood, and take its terrible consequences.

As might be supposed, the part of Judas is one not to be particularly desired, and we cannot look at a countenance showing a mixture of hatred and greed, without a strong repugnance. There was a story that the man who acted Judas in the Passion Play in 1870 had been killed in the French war, but this we find to be an error. It was a very natural invention of some one who thought that a man capable of such a crime ought to be killed. But the old Judas is still living, and, off from the stage, is said to be one of the most worthy men of the village.

Having thus had set before us the most sticking illustrations of human guilt, in the first crime that ever stained the earth with blood, and in the greatest of all crimes, which caused the death of Christ, we have next presented the method of man's redemption. The chorus again enters upon the stage, and recites the story of the fall, how man sinned, and was to be recovered by the sacrifice of one who was to be an atonement for a ruined world. Again the curtain rises, and we have before us the high priest Melchisedec, in whose smoking altar we see illustrated the idea of sacrifice.

The same idea takes a more terrible form in the sacrifice of Isaac. We see the struggles of his father Abraham, who is bowed with sorrow, and the heart-broken looks of Sarah, his wife. The latter part, as it happened, was taken by a person of a very sweet face, the effect of which was heightened by being overcast with sadness, and also by the Oriental costume, which, covering a part of the face, left the dark eyes which peered out from under the long eyelashes, to be turned on the beholders. Everything in the appearance of Abraham, his bending form and flowing beard, answered to the idea of the venerable patriarch. The couleur locale was preserved even in the attendants, who looked as if they were Arabian servants who had just dismounted from camels at the door of the tent. Isaac appears, an innocent and confiding boy, with no presumption of the dark and terrible fate that is impending over him. And when the gentle Sarah appears, tenderly solicitous for the safety of her child, the coldest spectator could hardly be unmoved by a scene pictured with such touching fidelity. It is with a feeling of relief that, as this fearful tragedy approaches its consummation, we hear the voice of the angel, and behold that the Lord has himself provided a sacrifice.

But all these scenes of darkness and sorrow, of guilt and sacrifice, are now to find their culmination and their explanation in the death of our Lord, to which all ancient types converge, and on which all ancient symbols cast their faint and flickering, but not uncertain, light. As the scenes approach this grand climax, they grow in pathos and solemnity. Each is more tender and more effective than the last.

One of the most touching, as might be supposed, is that of the Last Supper, in which we recognize every one of the disciples, so closely has the grouping been studied from the painting of Leonardo da Vinci and other old masters with whom this was a favorite subject. There are Peter and John and the rest, all turning with an eager, anxious look towards their Master, and all with an indescribable sadness on their faces. Again the scene changes, and we see our Lord in the Garden of Gethsemane. There are the three disciples slumbering, overcome with weariness and sorrow; and there on the sacred mount at midnight

Again the curtain falls, and the chorus, in tones still more plaintive and mournful, announce that the end is near. The curtain rises, and we behold the Crucifixion. Here there are thirty or forty persons introduced. In the foreground are three or four figures "casting lots," careless of the awful scene that is going on above them. The Roman soldier is looking upward with his spear. The three Marys are at the feet of their Lord; Mary Magdalen nearest of all, with her arms clasped around the cross; Mary, the mother of Christ, looking up with weeping eyes; and a little farther Mary, the wife of Cleophas. The two thieves are hanging, with their arms thrown over the cross-tree, as they are represented in many of the paintings of the Crucifixion. But we scarcely notice them, as all eyes are fixed on the Central Figure. The man who takes the part of the Christus in this Divine Tragedy, has made a study of it for years, and must have trained himself to great physical endurance for a scene which must tax his strength to the utmost. His arms are extended, his hands and feet seem to be pierced with the nails, and flowing with blood. Even without actual wounds the attitude itself must be extremely painful. How he could support the weight of his body in such a posture was a wonder to all. It was said that he rested one foot on something projecting from the cross, but even then it seemed incredible that he could sustain such a position for more than a single instant. Yet in the performance of the Passion Play it is said that he remains thus suspended twenty minutes, and is then taken down, almost in a fainting condition.

Some may ask, How did the sight affect me? Twenty-four hours before I could not have believed that I could look upon it without a feeling of horror, but so skilfully had the points of the sacred drama been rendered thus far, that my feelings had been wound up to the highest pitch, and when the curtain rose on that last tremendous scene, I was quite overcome, the tears burst from my eyes, I felt as never before, under any sermon that I ever heard preached, how solemn and how awful was the tragedy of the death of the Son of God. So excited were we, and to appearance all in the building, that it was a relief when the curtain fell.

As if to give a further relief to the over-wrought feelings of the audience, occasioned by this mournful sight, the next scene was of a different character. It was not the Resurrection, though it might have been intended to symbolize it, as in it the actor appears as if he had been brought back from the dead. It is the story of Joseph, which is introduced to illustrate the method of Divine Providence, by which is brought "Light out of Darkness." We see the aged form of Jacob, bowed with grief at the loss of his son. Then comes the marvellous succession of events by which the darkness is turned to light. Bewildered at the news of his son being in Egypt, at first he cannot believe the good tidings, till at length convinced, he rises up saying "Joseph my son, is yet alive; I will go and see him before I die." Then follows the return to Egypt, and the meeting with him who was dead and is alive again, when the old man falls upon his neck, and Joseph's children (two curly-headed little fellows whom we had the privilege of kissing before the day was over) were brought to his knees to receive his blessing. This was a domestic rather than a tragic scene, and such is the natural pathos of the story, that it touched every heart.

The last scene of all was the Ascension, which was less impressive than some that had gone before, as it could of course only be imperfectly represented. The Saviour appears standing on the mount, with outstretched hands, in the midst of his disciples, but there the scene ends, as it could go no further; there could be no descending cloud to receive him out of their sight.

With this last act the curtain fell. The whole representation had occupied three hours.

Now as to the general impression of this extraordinary scene: As a piece of acting it was simply wonderful. The parts were filled admirably. The characters were perfectly kept. Even the costumes were as faithfully reproduced as in any of those historical dramas which are now and then put upon the stage, such as tragedies founded on events in ancient Greek or Roman history, where the greatest pains are taken to render every detail with scrupulous fidelity. This is very extraordinary, especially when it is considered that this is all done by a company of Bavarian peasants, such as might be found in any Alpine village. The explanation is, that this representation is the great work of their lives. They have their trades, like other poor people, and work hard for a living. But their great interest, that which gives a touch of poetry to their humble existence, and raises them above the level of other peasants, is the representation of this Passion Play. This has come down to them from their fathers. It has been acted among them for two hundred years. There are traditions handed down from one generation to another of the way in which this or that part should be performed. In the long intervals of ten years between one representation and another, they practice constantly upon their several parts, so that at the last they attain a wonderful degree of perfection.

As to the propriety of the thing: To our cold Protestant ideas it seems simply monstrous, a horrid travesty of the most sacred scenes in the Word of God. So I confess it would appear to me if done by others. Anywhere else what I have witnessed would appear to me almost like blasphemy; it would be merely acting, and that of the worst kind, in which men assume the most sacred characters, even that of our blessed Lord himself.

But this impression is very much changed when we consider that here all this is done in a spirit of devotion. These Bavarian peasants are a very religious people (some would prefer to call it superstition), but whatever it be, it is universal. Pictures of saints and angels, or of Christ and the Virgin Mary, are seen in every house; crosses and images, and shrines are all along the roads. Call it superstition if you will, but at least the feeling of religion, the feeling of a Divine Power, is present in every heart; they refer everything to supernatural agencies; they hear the voice of God in the thunder that smites the crest of the hills, or the storm that sweeps through their valleys.

And so when they come to the performance of this Passion Play, it is not as unbelievers, whose offering would be an offence, "not being mixed with faith in them that did it." They believe, and therefore they speak, and therefore they act. And so they go through their parts in the most devout spirit. Whenever the Passion Play is to be performed, all who are to take part in it first go to the communion; and thus with hearts penitent and subdued, they come to assume these sacred characters, and speak these holy words.

And so, while the attempt to transport the Passion Play anywhere else would be very repulsive, it may be left where it is, in this lonely valley of the Bavarian mountains, an unique and extraordinary relic of the religious customs of the Middle Ages.

But while one such representation is quite enough, and we are well content that it should stand alone, and there should be not another, yet he must be a dull observer who does not derive from it some useful hints both as to the power of the simplest religious truth, and the way of presenting it.

Preachers are not actors, and when some sensational preachers try to introduce into the pulpit the arts which they have learned from the stage, they commonly make lamentable failures. To say that a preacher is theatrical, is to stamp him as a kind of clerical mountebank. And yet there is a use of the dramatic element which is not forced nor artificial, which on the contrary is the most simple and natural way of speaking. The dramatic element is in human nature. Children use gestures in talking, and vary their tones of voice. They never stand stiff as a post, as some preachers do. The most popular speakers are dramatic in their style. Cough, the temperance lecturer, who has probably addressed more and larger audiences in America and Great Britain than any other man living, is a consummate actor. His art of mimicry, his power of imitating the expression of countenance and tones of voice, is wonderful. And our eloquent friend Talmage, in Brooklyn, owes much of his power to the freedom with which he walks up and down his platform, which is a kind of stage, and throws in incidents to illustrate his theme, often acting, as well as relating them, with great effect.

But not only is the dramatic element in human nature, it is in the Bible, which runs over with it. The Bible is not merely a volume of ethics. It is full of narrative, of history and biography, and of dialogue. Many of the teachings of our Saviour are in the form of conversations, of which it is quite impossible to give the full meaning and spirit, without changes of manner and inflections of voice. Take such an exquisite portion of the Old Testament as the story of Ruth, or that of Joseph and his brethren. What an outrage upon the sacred word to read such sweet and tender passages in a dull and monotonous voice, as if one had not a particle of feeling of their beauty. One might ask such a reader "Understandest thou what thou readest?" and if he is too dull to learn otherwise, these simple Bavarian peasants might teach him to throw into his reading from the pulpit a little of the pathos and tenderness which they give to the conversations of Joseph with his father Jacob.

Of course, in introducing the dramatic element into the pulpit, it is to be done with a close self-restraint, and with the utmost delicacy and tenderness. But so used, it may subserve the highest ends of preaching. Of this a very illustrious example is furnished in the annals of the American pulpit, in the Blind Preacher of Virginia, the impression of whose eloquence is preserved by the pen of William Wirt. When that venerable old man, lifting his sightless eyeballs to heaven, described the last sufferings of our Lord, it was with a manner adapted to the recital, as if he had been a spectator of the mournful scene, and with such pathos in his tones as melted the whole assembly into tears, and the excitement seemed almost beyond control; and the stranger held his breath in fear and wonder how they were ever to be let down from that exaltation of feeling. But the blind man held them as a master. He paused and lifted his hands to heaven, and after a moment of silence, repeated only the memorable exclamation of Rousseau: "Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a God!" In this marvellous eloquence the preacher used the dramatic element as truly as any actor in the Passion Play, the object in both cases being the same, to bring most vividly before the mind the life and death of the Son of God.

And is not that the great object, and the great subject, of all our preaching? The chief lesson which I have learned to-day, concerns not the manner, but the substance, of what we preach. This Passion Play teaches most impressively, that the one thing which most interests all, high and low, rich and poor, is the simple story of Jesus Christ, and that the power of the pulpit depends on the vividness with which Christ and His Cross are brought, if not before the eyes, at least before the minds and hearts of men. It is not eloquent essays on the beauty of virtue, or learned discussions on the relations of Science and Religion, that will ever touch the heart of the world, but the old, old story of that Divine life, told with the utmost simplicity and tenderness. I think it lawful to use any object which can bring me nearer to Him. That which has been conceived in superstition may minister to a devout spirit. And so I never see one of these crosses by the roadside without its turning my thoughts to Him who was lifted up upon it, and in my secret heart I whisper, "O Christ, Redeemer of the world, be near me now!"

Some, I know, will think this a weak sentimentalism, or even a sinful tolerance of superstition. But with all proper respect for their prejudices, I must hail my Saviour wherever I can find Him, whether in the city or the forest, or on the mountain. What a consolation there is in carrying that blessed image with us, wherever we go! How it stills our beating hearts, and dries our tears, to think of Him who has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows! Often do I repeat to myself those sweet lines of George Herbert:

I do not like to speak of my own feelings; for they are too private and sacred, and I shrink from any expression of them. But all this summer, while wandering in so many beautiful scenes, among lakes and mountains, I have felt the strongest religious craving. I have been looking for something which I did not find either in the populous city, or in the solitary place where no man was. Something had vanished from the earth, the absence of which could only be supplied by an invisible presence and spiritual grace. Amid great scenes of nature one is very lonely; and especially if there be a hidden weight that hangs heavy on the heart, he feels the need of a Presence of which "The deep saith, It is not in me," and Nature saith, "It is not in me." What is this but the human soul groping after God, if haply it may find him? The psalmist has expressed it in one word, when he says, "My heart and my flesh crieth out for the living God." How often has that cry been wrung from my heart in lonely and desolate hours, when standing on the deck of a ship, or on the peak of a mountain! And wherever I see any sign of religion, I am comforted; and so as I look around, and see upon all these hills the sign of the cross, I think of Him who died for me, and the cry which has so often been lifted up in distant lands, goes up here from the heart of the Bavarian Alps: "O Lamb of God, that takest away the sin of the world, grant me Thy peace!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE TYROL AND LAKE COMO.

Cadenabbia, Lake Como, August 30th.

The Rev. Dr. Bellows of New York is to blame—or "to praise"—for our last week's wanderings; for he it was who advised me by no means to leave out the Tyrol in our European tour—and if he could have seen all the delight of these few days, I think he would willingly take the responsibility. The Tyrol is less visited than Switzerland; it is not so overrun with tourists (and this is a recommendation); but it is hardly less worthy of a visit. To be sure, the mountains are not quite so high as Mont Blanc and the Matterhorn (there are not so many snow-clad peaks and glaciers), but they are high enough; there are many that pierce the clouds, and the roads wind amid perpetual wildness, yet not without beauty also, for at the foot of these savage mountains lie the loveliest green valleys, which are inhabited by a simple, brave people, who have often defended their Alpine passes with such valor as has made them as full of historical interest as they are of natural grandeur.

Innsbruck is the capital of the Tyrol, and the usual starting point for a tour—but as at Ober-Ammergau we were to the west, we found a nearer point of departure at Partenkirchen, a small town lying in the lap of the mountains, from which a journey through Lermos, Nassereit, Imst, Landeck and Mals, leads one through the heart of the Tyrol, ending with the Stelvio Pass, the highest over the Alps. It is a long day's ride to Landeck, but we ordered a carriage with a pair of stout horses, and went to our rest full of expectation of what we should see on the morrow.

But the night was not promising; the rain fell in torrents, and the morning was dark and lowering; but "he that regardeth the clouds shall not reap," so with faith we set out, and our faith was rewarded, for soon the clouds broke away, and though they lingered in scattered masses, sufficient to shade us from the oppressive heat of the sun, they did not obscure the sight of the mountains and the valleys. The rains had laid the dust and cooled the air, and all day long we were floating through a succession of the most varied scenes, in which there was a mingled wildness and beauty that would have delighted our landscape artists.

The villages are less picturesque than the country. They are generally built very compact, apparently as a security against the winter, when storms rage through these valleys, and there is a feeling of safety in being thus "huddled" together. The houses are of stone, with arched passage-ways for the horses to be driven into a central yard. They look very solid, but they are not tasteful. There are not good accommodations for travellers. There are as yet none of those magnificent hotels which the flood of English tourists has caused to be built at every noted point in Switzerland; in the Tyrol one has to depend on the inns of the country, and these, with a few exceptions, are poor. Looking through the one long, narrow street of a Tyrolean village, one sees little that is attractive, but much to the contrary. Great heaps of manure lie exposed by the roadside, and often not only before the barns, but before the houses. These seem to be regarded as the agricultural riches of the cultivators of the soil, and are displayed with as much pride as a shepherd would take in showing his flocks and herds. These features of a hamlet in the Tyrol a traveller regards with disgust, and we used often to think of the contrast presented to one of our New England villages, the paradise of neatness and comfort.

Such things seem to show an utter absence of taste; and yet this people are very fond of flowers. Almost every house has a little patch of ground for their cultivation, and the contrast is most strange between the filth on one side and the beauty and bloom on the other.

Another feature which strikes one, is the universal reverence and devotion. The Tyrolese, like the peasants of Bavaria, are a very religious people. One can hardly travel a mile without coming to a cross or a shrine by the wayside, with an image of Christ and the Virgin. Often on the highest points of the mountains, where only the shepherd builds his hut, that he may watch his flocks in the summer as they feed on those elevated pastures, may be seen a little chapel, whose white spire, gleaming in the sunset, seems as strange and lonely as would a rude chapel built by a company of miners on some solitary peak of the Rocky Mountains.

These summer pastures are a feature of the Tyrol. High up on the sides of the mountains one may descry here and there, amid the masses of rock, or the pine forest, a little oasis of green (called an Alp), where a few rods of more level ground permit of cultivation. It would seem as if these heights were almost inaccessible, as if only the chamois could clamber up such rocks, or find a footing where only stunted pines can grow. Yet so industrious are these simple Tyroleans, and so hard-pressing is the necessity which compels them to use every foot of the soil, that they follow in the path of the chamois, and turn even the tops of the mountains into greenness, and plant their little patches almost on the edge of the snows. Wherever the grass can grow, the cattle and goats find sustenance on the scanty herbage. To these mountain pastures they are driven, so soon as the snows have melted off from the heights, and the tender grass begins to appear, and there they are kept till the return of cold compels them to descend. We used often to look through our spyglass at the little clusters of huts on the very tops of the mountains, where the shepherds, by coming together, try to lighten a little the loneliness of their lot, banished for the time from all other human habitations. But what a solitary existence—the only sound that greets their ears the tinkling of the cow-bells, or the winding of the shepherd's horn, or the chime of some chapel bell, which, perched on a neighboring height, sends its sweet tones across the valley. Amid such scenes, we rode through a dozen villages, past hills crowned with old castles, and often looked down from the mountain sides into deep hollows glistening with lakes. As we came into the valley of the Inn, we remembered that this was all historic ground. The bridges over which we passed have often been the scene of bloody conflicts, and in these narrow gorges the Tyrolese have rolled down rocks and trees on the heads of their invaders.

We slept that night at Landeck, in a very decent, comfortable inn, kept by a good motherly hostess. The next morning we exchanged our private carriage for the stellwaggen, a small diligence which runs to Mals. Our journey was now made still more pleasant by falling in with a party of three clergymen of the Church of England—all rectors of important churches in or near London, who had been, like ourselves, to Ober-Ammergau, and were returning through the Tyrol. They had been also to the Old Catholic Conference at Bonn, where they met our friend Dr. Schaff. They had much to say of the addresses of Dr. Döllinger, and of the Old Catholic movement, of which they had not very high expectations, although they thought its influence, as far as it went, was good. We travelled together for three days. I found them (as I have always found clergymen of the Church of England) men of culture and education, as well as gentlemen in their manners. They proved most agreeable travelling companions, and their pleasant conversation, as we rode together, or walked up the steep ascents of the mountains, gave an additional enjoyment to this most delightful journey.

This second day's ride led us over the Finstermünz Pass in which all the features of Tyrolean scenery of the day before were repeated with increasing grandeur. For many miles the line of the Tyrol is close to that of Switzerland; across a deep gorge, through which flows a rapid river, lies the Engadine, which of late years has been a favorite resort of Swiss tourists, and where our friend Prof. Hitchcock with his family has been spending the summer at St. Moritz.

Towards the close of the day we descried in the distance a range of snowy summits, and were told that this was the chain that we were to cross on the morrow.

But all the experiences of those two days—in which we thought our superlatives were exhausted—were surpassed on the third as we crossed the Pass of the Stelvio. This is the highest pass in Europe, and on this day it seemed as if we were scaling heaven itself. Having a party of five, we procured a diligence to ourselves. We set out from Mals at six o'clock in the morning, and crossing the rushing, foaming Adige, began the ascent. Soon the mountains close in upon us, the Pass grows narrower and steeper; the horses have to pull harder; we get out and walk, partly to relieve the hard-breathing animals, but more to see at every turn the savage wildness of the scenery. How the road turns and twists in every way to get a foothold, doubling on itself a hundred times in its ascent of a few miles. And look, how the grandeur grows as we mount into this higher air! The snow-peaks are all around us, and the snow melting in the fiery sun, feeds many streams which pour down the rocky sides of the mountains to unite in the valley below, and which filled the solitudes with a perpetual roar.

After such steady climbing for seven hours, at one o'clock we reached a resting place for dinner (where we halted an hour), a shelf between the mountains, from which, as we were now above the line of trees, and no forests intercepted the view, we could see our way to the very summit. The road winds in a succession of zigzags up the side of the mountain. The distance in an air line is not perhaps more than two miles, though it is six and a half by the road, and it took us just two hours to reach the top. At length at four o'clock we reached the point, over nine thousand feet above the level of the sea, where a stone monument marks at once the summit of the Pass and the dividing line between the Tyrol and Lombardy. All leaped from the carriage in delight, to look around on the wilderness of mountains. To the left was the great range of the Ortler Alps, with the Ortler Spitze rising like a white dome above them all. At last we were among the snows. We were above the line of vegetation, where not a tree grows, nor a blade of grass—where all is barrenness and desolation.

The Stelvio is utterly impassable the greater part of the year. In a few weeks more the snows will fall. By the end of September it is considered unsafe, and the passage is attempted at one's peril, as the traveller may be caught in a storm, and lost on the mountain.

Perhaps some of my readers will ask, what we often asked, What is the use of building a road amid these frightful solitudes, when it cannot be travelled the greater part of the year? What is the use of carrying a highway up into the clouds? Why build such a Jacob's ladder into heaven itself, since after all this is not the way to get to heaven? It must have cost millions. But there is no population along the road to justify the expense. It could not be built for a few poor mountaineers. And yet it is constructed as solidly as if it were the Appian way leading out of Rome. It is an immense work of engineering. For leagues upon leagues it has to be supported by solid stone-work to prevent its being washed away by torrents. The answer is easy. It is a military road, built, if not for purposes of conquest, yet to hold one insecure dominion. Twenty years ago the upper part of Italy was a dependency of Austria, but an insecure one, always in a chronic state of discontent, always on the verge of rebellion. This road was built to enable the government at Vienna to move troops swiftly through the Tyrol over this pass, and pour them down upon the plains of Lombardy. Hannibal and Cæsar had crossed the Alps, but the achievement was the most daring in the annals of ancient warfare. Napoleon passed the Great St. Bernard, but he felt the need of an easier passage for his troops, and constructed the Simplon, not from a benevolent wish to benefit mankind, but simply to render more secure his hold upon Italy, as he showed by asking the engineers who came to report upon the progress of the work, "When will the road be ready to pass over the cannon?" Such was the design of Austria in building the road over the Stelvio. But man proposes and God disposes. It was built with the resources of an empire, and now that it is finished, Lombardy, by a succession of events not anticipated in the royal councils, falls to reunited Italy, and this road, the highest in Europe, remains, not a channel of conquest, but a highway of civilization.