AN
American Girl Abroad.
BY
ADELINE TRAFTON.
BY MISS L. B. HUMPHREY.
BOSTON:
LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS.
New York:
LEE, SHEPARD AND DILLINGHAM.
By LEE AND SHEPARD,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Electrotyped at the Boston Stereotype Foundry,
No. 19 Spring Lane.
This Record of Pleasant Days
TO MY FATHER,
REV. MARK TRAFTON.
BOOKS FOR "OUR GIRLS."
THE GIRLHOOD SERIES.
By Adeline F. Trafton. 16mo, cloth, illustrated. $1.50.
One of the most bright, chatty, wide-awake books of travel ever written. It abounds in information, is as pleasant reading as a story book, and full of the wit and sparkle of "An American Girl" let loose from school and ready for a frolic.
ONLY GIRLS.
By Virginia F. Townsend, Author of "That Queer Girl," &c., &c. 12mo, cloth, illustrated. $1.50.
"It is a thrilling story, written in a fascinating style, and the plot is adroitly handled."
It might be placed in any Sabbath School library, so pure is it in tone, and yet it is so free from the mawkishness and silliness that mar the class of books usually found there, that the veteran novel reader is apt to finish it at a sitting.
THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER.
By Sophie May, Author of "Our Helen," "The Asbury Twins," &c. 12mo, cloth, illustrated. $1.50.
"A delightful book, original and enjoyable," says the Brownville Echo.
"A fascinating story, unfolding, with artistic touch, the young life of one of our impulsive, sharp-witted, transparent and pure-minded girls of the nineteenth century," says The Contributor, Boston.
SALLY WILLIAMS.
The Mountain Girl. By Mrs. Edna D. Cheney, Author of "Patience," "Social Games," "The Child of the Tide," &c. 12mo, cloth, illustrated. $1.50.
Pure, strong, healthy, just what might be expected from the pen of so gifted a writer as Mrs. Cheney. A very interesting picture of life among the New Hampshire hills, enlivened by the tangle of a story of the ups and downs of every-day life in this out-of-the-way locality. The characters introduced are quaintly original, and the adventures are narrated with remarkable skill.
LOTTIE EAMES.
Or, do your best and leave the rest. By a Popular Author. 16mo, illus. $1.50.
"A wholesome story of home life, full of lessons of self-sacrifice, but always bright and attractive in its varied incidents."
RHODA THORNTON'S GIRLHOOD.
By Mrs. Mary E. Pratt. 16mo, cloth, illustrated. $1.50.
A hearty and healthy story, dealing with young folks and home scenes, with sleighing, fishing and other frolics to make things lively.
LEE AND SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. ABOARD THE STEAMER. We two alone.—"Good by."—"Are you the captain of this ship?"—Wretchedness.—The jolly Englishman and the
CHAPTER II. FIRST DAYS IN ENGLAND. Up the harbor of Liverpool.—We all emerge as butterflies.—The Mersey tender.—Lot's wife.—"Any tobacco?"—"Names, please."—St. George's Hall.—The fashionable promenade.—The coffee-room.—The military man who showed the purple tide of war in his face.—The railway carriage.—The young man with hair all aflame.—English villages.—London.—No place for us.—The H. house.—The Babes in the Wood.—The party from the country.—We are taken in charge by the Good Man.—The Golden Cross.—Solitary confinement.—Mrs. B.'s at last. 27
CHAPTER III. EXCURSIONS FROM LONDON. Strange ways.—"The bears that went over to Charlestown."—The delights of a runaway without its dangers.—Flower show at the Crystal Palace.—Whit-Monday at Hampton Court.—A queen baby.—"But the carpets?"—Poor Nell Gwynne.—Vandyck faces.—Royal beds.—Lunch at the King's Arms.—O Music, how many murders have been committed in thy name!—Queen Victoria's home at Windsor.—A new "house that Jack built."—The Round Tower.—Stoke Pogis.—Frogmore.—The Knights of the Garter.—The queen's gallery.—The queen's plate.—The royal mews.—The wicker baby-wagons.—The state equipages. 43
CHAPTER IV. SIGHT-SEEING IN LONDON. The Tower.—The tall Yankee of inquiring mind.—Our guide in gorgeous array.—War trophies.—Knights in armor.—A professional joke.—The crown jewels.—The room where the little princes were smothered.—The "Traitor's Gate."—The Houses of Parliament.—What a throne is like.—The "woolsack."—The Peeping Gallery for ladies.—Westminster Hall and the law courts.—The three drowsy old women.—The Great Panjandrum himself.—Johnson and the pump.—St. Paul's.—Wellington's funeral car.—The Whispering Gallery.—The bell. 55
CHAPTER V. AWAY TO PARIS. The wedding party.—The canals.—New Haven.—Around the tea-table.—Separating the sheep from the goats.—"Will it be a rough passage?"—Gymnastic feats of the little steamer.—O, what were officers to us?—"Who ever invented earrings?"—Dieppe.—Fish-wives.—Train for Paris.—Fellow-passengers.—Rouen.—Babel.—Deliverance. 68
CHAPTER VI. THE PARIS OF 1869. The devil.—Cathedrals and churches.—The Louvre.—Modern French art.—The Beauvais clock, with its droll, little puppets.—Virtue in a red gown.—The Luxembourg Palace.—The yawning statue of Marshal Ney.—Gay life by gas-light.—The Imperial Circus.—The Opera.—How the emperor and empress rode through the streets after the riots.—The beautiful Spanish woman whose face was her fortune.—Napoleon's tomb. 76
CHAPTER VII. SIGHTS IN THE BEAUTIFUL CITY. The Gobelin tapestry.—How and where it is made.—Père La-Chaise.—Poor Rachel!—The baby establishment.—"Now I lay me."—The little mother.—The old woman who lived in a shoe.—The American chapel.—Beautiful women and children.—The last conference meeting.—"I'm a proof-reader, I am." 90
CHAPTER VIII. SHOW PLACES IN THE SUBURBS OF PARIS. The river omnibuses.—Sèvres and its porcelain.—St. Cloud as it was.—The crooked little town.—Versailles.—Eugenie's "spare bedroom."—The queen who played she was a farmer's wife.—Seven miles of paintings.—The portraits of the presidents. 100
CHAPTER IX. A VISIT TO BRUSSELS. To Brussels.—The old and new city.—The paradise and purgatory of dogs.—The Hôtel de Ville and Grand Place.—St. Gudule.—The picture galleries.—Wiertz and his odd paintings.—Brussels lace and an hour with the lace-makers.—How the girls found Charlotte Brontë's school.—The scene of "Villette." 109
CHAPTER X. WATERLOO AND THROUGH BELGIUM. To Waterloo.—Beggars and guides.—The Mound.—Chateau Hougomont.—Victor Hugo's "sunken road."—Antwerp.—A visit to the cathedral.—A drive about the city.—An excursion to Ghent.—The funeral services in the cathedral.—"Poisoned? Ah, poor man!"—The watch-tower.—The Friday-market square.—The nunnery.—Longfellow's pilgrims to "the belfry of Bruges." 122
CHAPTER XI. A TRIP THROUGH HOLLAND. Up the Meuse to Rotterdam.—Dutch sights and ways.—The pretty milk-carriers.—The tea-gardens.—Preparations for the Sabbath.—An English chapel.—"The Lord's barn."—From Rotterdam to the Hague.—The queen's "House in the Wood."—Pictures in private drawing-rooms.—The bazaar.—An evening in a Dutch tea-garden.—Amsterdam
CHAPTER XII. THE RHINE AND RHENISH PRUSSIA. First glimpse of the Rhine.—Cologne and the Cathedral.—"Shosef in ter red coat."—St. Ursula and the eleven thousand virgins.—Up the Rhine to Bonn.—The German students.—Rolandseck.—A search for a resting-place.—Our Dutch friend and his Malays.—The story of Hildegund.—A quiet Sabbath.—Our Dutch friend's reply.—Coblentz.—The bridge of boats.—Ehrenbreitstein, over the river.—A scorching day upon the Rhine.—Romance under difficulties.—Mayence.—Frankfort.—Heidelberg.—The ruined castle.—Baden-Baden.—A glimpse at the gambling.—The new and the old "Schloss."—The Black Forest.—Strasbourg.—The mountains. 147
CHAPTER XIII. DAYS IN SWITZERLAND. The Lake of Lucerne.—Days of rest in the city.—An excursion up the Righi.—The crowd at the summit.—Dinner at midnight.—Rising before "the early worm."—The "sun-rise" according to Murray.—Animated scarecrows.—Off for a tour through Switzerland.—The lake for the last time.—Grütlii.—William Tell's chapel.—Fluellen.—Altorf.—Swiss haymakers.—An hour at Amsteg.—The rocks close in.—The Devil's Bridge.—The dangerous road.—"A carriage has gone over the precipice!"—Andermatt.—Desolate rocks.—Exquisite wild flowers.—The summit of the Furka.—A descent to the Rhone glacier.—Into the ice.—Swiss villages.—Brieg.—The convent inn.—The bare little chapel on the hill.—To Martigny. 168
CHAPTER XIV. AMONG THE EVERLASTING HILLS. The quaint inn.—The Falls of the Sallenches, and the Gorge de Trient.—Shopping in a Swiss village.—A mule ride to Chamouni.—Peculiarities of the animals.—Entrance to the village.—Egyptian mummies lifted from the mules.—Rainy days.—Chamois.—The Mer de Glace.—"Look out of your window."—Mont Blanc.—Sallenches.—A diligence ride to Geneva.—Our little old woman.—The clownish peasant.—The fork in the road.—"Adieu." 189
CHAPTER XV. LAST DAYS IN SWITZERLAND. Geneva.—Calvin and jewelry.—Up Lake Leman.—Ouchy and Lausanne.—"Sweet Clarens."—Chillon.—Freyburg.—Sight-seers.—The Last Judgment.—Berne and its bears.—The town like a story.—The Lake of Thun.—Interlaken.—Over the Wengern Alp.—The Falls of Giessbach.—The Brunig Pass.—Lucerne again. 201
CHAPTER XVI. BACK TO PARIS ALONE. Coming home.—The breaking up of the party.—We start for Paris alone.—Basle, and a search for a hotel.—The twilight ride.—The shopkeeper whose wits had gone "a wool-gathering."—"Two tickets for Paris."—What can be the matter now?—Michel Angelo's Moses.—Paris at midnight.—The kind commissionaire.—The good French gentleman and his fussy little wife.—A search for Miss H.'s.—"Come up, come up."—"Can women travel through Europe alone?" A word about a woman's outfit. 220
AN
AMERICAN GIRL ABROAD.
CHAPTER I.
ABOARD THE STEAMER.
The time of departure arrived. We said the two little words that bring so many tears and heartaches, and ran up on the deck with the rain in our faces, and something that was not all rain in our eyes, for one last look at our friends; but they were hidden from sight. There comes to me a dim recollection of attempting to mount to an inaccessible place: of clinging to wet ropes with the intention of seeing the last of the land; of thinking it, after a time, a senseless proceeding, and of resigning ourselves finally to our berths and inevitable circumstances. Eight bells and the dinner bell; some one darkened our doorway.
"What's this? Don't give it up so. D'ye hear the dinner bell?"
"Are—are you the captain of this ship?" gasped Mrs. K., feebly, from the sofa.
"To be sure, madam. Don't give it up so."
Mrs. K. groaned. There came to me one last gleam of hope. What if it were possible to brave it out! In a moment my feet were on the floor, but whether my name were McGregor, or not, I could not tell. I made an abortive attempt after the pretty hood, prepared with such pleasant anticipations, and had a dim consciousness that somebody's hands tied it about my head. Then we started. We climbed heights, we descended depths indescribable, in that short walk to the saloon, and there was a queer feeling of having a windmill, instead of a head, upon my shoulders. A number of sympathizing faces were nodding in the most remarkable manner, as we reached the door, and the tables performed antic evolutions.
"Take me back!" and the berth and the little round stewardess received me. There followed a night of misery. One can form no idea, save from experience, of the horrors of the first night upon an ocean steamer. There are the whir, and buzz, and jar, and rattle, and bang of the screw and engine; the pitching and rolling of the ship, with the sensation of standing upright for a moment, and then of being made to rest comfortably upon the top of your head; the sense of undergoing internal somersaults, to say nothing of describing every known curve externally. You study physiology involuntarily, and doubt if your heart, your lungs, or indeed any of your internal organs, are firmly attached, after all; if you shall not lose them at the next lurch of the ship. Your head is burning with fever, your hands and feet like ice, and you feel dimly, but wretchedly, that this is but the beginning of sorrows; that there are a dozen more days to come. You are conscious of a vague wonder (as the night lengthens out interminably) what eternity can be, since time is so long. The bells strike the half hours, tormenting you with calculations which amount to nothing. Everything within the room, as well as without, swings, and rolls, and rattles. You are confident your bottles in the rack will go next, and don't much care if they do, though you lie and dread the crash. You are tormented with thirst, and the ice-water is in that same rack, just beyond your reach. The candle in its silver case, hinged against the wall, swings back and forth with dizzy motion, throwing moving distorted shadows over everything, and making the night like a sickly day. You long for darkness, and, when at last the light grows dim, until only a red spark remains and the smoke that adds its mite to your misery, long for its return. At regular intervals you hear the tramp, tramp, overhead, of the relieving watch; and, in the midst of fitful slumbers, the hoarse voices of the sailors, as the wind freshens and they hoist the sails, wake you from frightful dreams. At the first gray dawn of light come the swash of water and the trickling down of the stream against your window, with the sound of the holy-stones pushed back and forth upon the deck. And with the light—O, blessed light!—came to us a dawn of better things.
There followed days when we lay contented upon the narrow sofa, or within the contracted berths, but when to lift our heads was woe. A kind of negative blessedness—absence from misery. We felt as if we had lost our heart, our conscience, and almost our immortal soul, to quote Mark Twain. There remained to us only those principles and prejudices most firmly rooted and grounded. Even our personal vanity left us at last, and nothing could be more forsaken and appropriate than the plain green gown with its one row of military buttons, attired in which, day after day, I idly watched the faces that passed our door. "That's like you Americans," said our handsome young Irish doctor, pointing to these same buttons. "You can't leave your country without taking the spread-eagle with you!"
Our officers, with this one exception, were English. Our captain, a living representative of the traditional English sailor. Not young, save in heart; simple, unaffected, and frank in manner, but with a natural dignity that prevented undue familiarity, he sang about the ship from morning till night, with a voice that could carry no air correctly, but with an enjoyment delightful to witness—always a song suggested by existing circumstances, but with
The life of the ship was an Englishman, with the fresh complexion almost invariably seen upon Englishmen, and forty years upon a head that looked twenty-five. He was going home after a short tour through the United States, with his mind as full of prejudices as his memorandum-book was of notes. He chanced, oddly enough, to room with the genuine Yankee of the company—a long, lean, good-natured individual from one of the eastern states, "close on ter Varmont," who had a way of rolling his eyes fearfully, especially when he glared at his food. He represented a mowing machine company, and we called him "the Mowing Machine Man." He accosted us one day, sidling up to our door, with, "How d'ye do to-day?"
"Better, thank you," I replied from the sofa.
"That's real nice. Tell ye what, we'll be glad to see the ladies out. How's yer mar?" nodding towards the berth from which twinkled Mrs. K.'s eyes. I laughed, and explained that our relations were of affection rather than consanguinity. His interest increased when he found we were travelling alone. He gave us his London address, evidently considering us in the light of Daniels about to enter the lions' den. "Ef ye have any trouble," said he, as he wrote down the street and number, "there's one Yankee'll stand up for ye." He amused the Englishman by calling out, "Hullo. D'ye feel good this morning?" "No," would be the reply, with a burst of laughter; "I feel awful wicked; think I'll go right out and kill somebody."
There was a shout one morning, "A sail! See the stars and stripes!" I had not raised my head for days, but staggered across the floor at that, and clinging to the frame, thrust my head out of the window. Yes, there was a ship close by, with the stars and stripes floating from the mast-head, I found, when the roll of the steamer carried my window to its level. "Seems good ter see the old rag!" I looked up to find the Mowing Machine Man gazing upon it with eyes all afloat. "I'd been a thinking," said he, "all them fellers have got somebody waiting for 'em over there,"—our passengers were mostly English,—"but there wasn't nobody a waiting for me. Tell ye what,"—and he shook out the folds of a red and yellow handkerchief,—"it does my heart good ter
We had another and less agreeable specimen of this free people—a tall, tough western cattle dealer, who quarrelled if he could find an antagonist, swore occasionally, drank liquor, and chewed tobacco perpetually, wore his trousers tucked into his long boots, his hands tucked into his pockets, and, to crown these attributes, believed in Andrew Johnson!—a middle-aged man, with soft, curling brown hair above a face that could be cruelly cold and hard. His hair should have been wire; his blue eyes were steel. But hard as was his face, it softened and smoothed itself a little at sight of the sick women. He paused beside us one day with a rough attempt to interest and amuse by displaying a knife case containing a dozen different articles. "This is ter take a stun out of a hoss's huf, and this, d'ye see, is a tooth-pick;" putting it to immediate use by way of explanation. At the table he talked long and loud upon the rinderpest, and other kindred and appetizing topics. "I've been a butcher myself," he would say. "I've cut up hundreds o' critters. What part of an ox, now, d'ye think that was taken from?" pointing to the joint before him, and addressing a refined, delicate-faced old gentleman across the table, who only stared in silent horror.
But even the "Cattle Man" was less marked in his peculiarities than the "Jersey Man," a melancholy-eyed, curly-wigged individual from the Jersey shore, who wore his slouched hat upon one side of his head, and looked as though he were doing the rakish lover in some fifth-rate theatre; who was "in the musical line myself; Smith and Jones's organs, you know; that's me;" and who, being neither Smith nor Jones, we naturally concluded must be the organ. He recited poetry in a loud tone at daybreak, and discussed politics for hours together, arguing in the most satisfactory manner with the principles, and standing most willingly upon the platform, of everybody. He assumed a patronizing air towards the Mowing Machine Man. "Well, you are a green Yankee," he would say; "lucky for you that you fell in with me;" to which the latter only chuckled, "That's so." He had much to tell of himself, of his grandmother, and of his friends generally, who came to see him off; "felt awfully, too," which we could hardly credit; rolled out snatches of sentimental songs, iterating and reiterating that his bark was on the sea,—and a most disagreeable one we found it; wished we had a piano on board, to which we murmured, "The Lord forbid;" and hoped we should soon be well enough to join him in the "White Squall." He was constantly reminding us that we were a very happy family party, so "congenial," and evidently agreed with the Mowing Machine Man, who said, "They're the best set of fellows I ever see. They'll tell ye anything."
We numbered a clergyman among us, of course. "Always a head wind when there's a parson aboard," say the sailors. So this poor dyspeptic little man bore the blame of our constant adverse winds. Nothing more bigoted, more fanatical than his religious belief could be imagined. You read the terrors of the Lord in his eye; and yet he won respect, and something more, by his consistency and zeal. Earnestness will tell. "The parson will have great influence over the Cattle Man," the captain said, Sabbath morning, as we were walking the deck. "The Cattle Man?" "Yes, the parson will get a good hold of him." Just then, as if to prove the old proverb true, that his satanic majesty is always in the immediate neighborhood when his character is under discussion, the Cattle Man and Jersey came up the companion-way. "If you please, captain," said the former, "we are a committee to ask if the parson may preach to the steerage people to-night." "Certainly," was the reply; "I will attend myself." They thanked him, and went below, leaving me utterly amazed. They were the last men upon the ship whom one would have selected as a committee upon spiritual things!
The church service for the cabin passengers was held in the saloon. A velvet cushion upon one end of the long table constituted the pulpit, before which the minister stood, holding fast to the rack on either side, and bracing himself against the captain's chair in the rear. Even then he made, involuntarily, more bows than any ritualist, and the scripture, "What went ye out for to see? A reed shaken by the wind?" would present itself. The sailors in their neat dress filed in and ranged themselves in one corner. The stewards gathered about the door, one, with face like an owl, most conspicuous. The passengers filled their usual seats, and a delegation from the steerage crept shyly into the unoccupied space—women with shawls over their heads and babies in their arms, shock-headed men and toddling children, but all with an evident attempt at appropriate dress and manner. Among them was one sweet young English face beneath an old crape bonnet. A pair of shapely hands, which the shabby black gloves could not disguise, held fast a little child. Widowhood and want in the old world; what was waiting her in the new? The captain read the service, and all the people responded. The women's eyes grew wet at the sound of the familiar words. The little English widow bent her face over the head of the child in her lap, and something glistened in its hair. Our sympathies grew wide, and we joined in the prayer for the queen, that she might have victory over her enemies, and even murmured a response to the petition for Albert Edward and the nobility, dimly conscious that they needed prayers. The good captain added a petition for the president of the United States, to which the Mowing Machine Man and I said, "Amen." Then the minister, having poised himself carefully, read a discourse, sulphurous but sincere; the Mowing Machine Man thrusting his elbow into my side in a most startling manner at every particularly blue point. We were evidently in sympathy; but I could have dispensed with the expression of it. We closed with the doxology, standing upon our feet and swaying back and forth as though it had been a Shaker chant, led by an improvised choir and the Jersey Man.
At night we descended into the depths of the steamer to worship with the steerage passengers. It was like one of Rembrandt's pictures—the darkness, the wild, strangely-attired people, the weird light from the lanterns piercing the gloom, and bringing out group after group with fearful distinctness; the pale, earnest face of the preacher, made almost unearthly by the glare of the yellow light—a face with its thin-drawn lips, its eyes like coals of fire such as the flames of martyrdom lit once, I imagine. Close beside him stood the Cattle Man, towering like Saul above the people, and with an air that plainly said, "Beware—I stand by the parson."
Shall fright us from that shore."
But the record of all these days would have no end. How can I tell of the long, happy hours, when more than strength, when perfect exhilaration, came to us; when existence alone was a delight? To sit upon the low wheel-house, with wraps and ribbons and hair flying in the wind, while we sang,—
One morning, when the land seemed a forgotten dream, we awoke to find green Erin close beside us. All the day before the sea-gulls had been hovering over us—beautiful creatures, gray above and white beneath, clouds with a silver lining. Tiny land birds, too, flew about us, resting wearily upon the rigging. The sea all at once became like glass. It seemed like the book of Revelation when the sun shone on it,—the sea of glass mingled with fire. For a time the land was but a line of rock, with martello towers perched upon the points. On the right, Fastnet Rock rose out of the sea, crowned with a light-house; then the gray barren shore of Cape Clear Island, and soon the sharp-pointed Stag Rocks. It is a treacherous coast. "I've been here many a night," said the captain, as he gave us his glass, "when I never expected to see morning." And all the while he was speaking, the sea smiled and smiled, as though it could never be cruel.
We drew nearer and nearer, until we could see the green fields bounded by stone walls, the white, winding roads, and little villages nestling among the hills. Towards noon the lovely harbor of Queenstown opened before us, surrounded and almost shut in by rocky islands. Through the glass we could see the city, with its feet in the bay. We were no longer alone. The horizon was dotted with sails. Sometimes a steamer crossed our wake, or a ship bore down upon us. We hoisted our signals. We dipped our flag. The sailors were busy painting the boats, and polishing the brass till it shone again. Now the tender steams out from Queenstown. The steerage passengers in unwonted finery, tall hats and unearthly bonnets, and one in a black silk gown, are running about forward, shaking hands, gathering up boxes and bundles, and pressing towards the side which the tender has reached. There are the shouting of orders, the throwing of a rope, and in a moment they are crowding the plank. One long cheer, echoed from the stern of our steamer, and they are off.
All day we walked the deck; even the sick crawled up at last to see the panorama. We still lingered when night fell, and we had turned away from the land to strike across the channel, and the picture rests with me now; the purple sky with one long stretch of purple, hazy cloud, behind which the sun went down; the long, low line of purple rock, our last glimpse of Ireland, and the shining, purple sea, with not a ripple upon its surface.