find gentle Fra Angelico, golden Raphael, rare Sebastian del Piombo, brilliant Titian, and a score of others waiting to delight you.

But the hour has come to return home, and feeling that street-cars must be street-cars the world over, you attempt to stop one, but the driver deigns not to notice you. You look about to see if you are standing at the proper corner. Such would be the case were you at home, but having noticed that things here seem to go just contrary to what they do in the "land of the free," you cross to the other side of the street, but again the car snubs you. Watching it recede in the distance, you see it stop a block or so away, and quite a little company of people alight, while others take their places. Curiosity draws you to the spot, and you find that here on a small pole is a neat, little iron sign-board marked "Halte Stelle" (halting-place), and that it is a station for the streetcars, so to speak, for they do not stop at every crossing. You hand the man your fare which is reckoned according to the distance you go, and, in return, get a ticket which virtually acts as a receipt, for the inspectors, whose duty it is to keep the conductors honest, have a habit of jumping on the cars most unexpectedly and demanding your check. But how admirable some of these street-car rules are! The seating capacity is limited, and no one is allowed to stand up inside the cars, for the Germans have too high a regard for the human form to have their feet mangled by unfriendly heels, or their arms torn out of their sockets while the body is acting as a pendant to a streetcar strap. If all of the seats are occupied the conductor does not stop until some one wishes to get off.

You look in vain for flashy hand-bills announcing what is to be given at the various places of amusement, and your sense of neatness is gratified when you discover that the city compels them to be pasted on huge poles erected for the purpose at certain corners of the street-a vast improvement on our way of improvising every high board fence. Neither is your eye offended by those splashes of rude color which we see, rattle-like, tied to an advertisement. Their announcements are neat, plain, little bills, clearly stating the facts, an evidence that their interest is awakened by intellectual en

joyment rather than by sensational pleas

ure.

Evening comes, and with it the first visit to the Philharmonie, a concert-hall where the finest orchestral concerts can be heard for eighteen cents each, tickets being bought by the yard, as they are good for the season. There are no reserved seats; the audience congregates about little round tables, where refreshments are served during intermissions.

Or if you are more fond of the opera, you will go to the Opera House, where the programmes have to be bought, and where no man need fear having his material and spiritual welfare endangered by that modern monstrosity known as the high hat, for every woman is compelled by the maids-in-waiting to remove her head-covering before she is allowed to enter her box, for the seating is arranged in tiers of boxes. People do not go to the opera to be seen, but to see and to hear to get into the spirit of music

-

to appreciate fully the wonder and beauty of it-to learn to master themselves by seeing their most subtle feelings analyzed for in this land music is made the hand-maiden to express, as clearly as words can, the longings and passions of our lives. If one dares to speak during the performance, those around him hiss their disapproval, while no one is allowed to interrupt another's enjoyment by coming in late, as the tardy one must wait until the end of the scene before he can be admitted. At that time, the lights are turned up, and the whole audience adjourn to the corridors, where they spend a quarter or half an hour chatting with friends, and taking some light refreshments, but self is again forgotten when the cornet recalls them for the next act, and the lights are lowered.

There is no interruption of the singers by applauding, for audience and company alike are lost in the greatness of the lifelessons which are being enacted.

Or perhaps you may want first to visit the historical "Sing-academie," where once great Beethoven himself was heard, and where now the matchless worldfamous string quartette, Joachim, Haussmann, Wirth, and Kruse play so divinely that heaven seems to have loaned mortals the music of the stars.

But the days grow shorter, and "Busstag," the day of repentance ordered by

the government at the beginning of this century, draws near. It is the last Wednesday of the church year, and is observed much more solemnly than is Sunday, for on that one day in the year, all of the shops and places of amusement are closed; the poor letter-carriers go not on their daily round; and flocks of people, many of whom never go to church at any other time, can be seen wending their way to service, repenting in a wholesale fashion on "Busstag" for the sins of the whole year.

Surely there is one sin these people do not have to regret, and that is dishonesty to the government, for the police see that the law is obeyed. No policemen in the world have more power than those in Germany. Their authority is almost unbounded. They dictate the height of buildings; superintend street improvements, and no house is allowed to be rented until its sanitary condition has been inspected. Fire escapes have to be provided, and servants' rooms must be a proper size and well-ventilated. All meat is examined under a microscope, and weights and measures have to come under the watchful eyes of these guardians of the peace. Revenue is collected from everything; government stamps having to be used even on subscription papers; while marriage is legal only after the civil ceremony of one day, followed by the religious and social festivities on the next. Lotteries chartered by the Prussian State are supervised by the police, the proceeds going to the church.

Only one creature in all Germany excels in importance and distinction a policeman, and that happy mortal is an army or navy officer, for this body of men rank next to the dignitaries of the court itself. If you are fortunate enough to be invited into "good society," you will immediately notice the great difference in the social code. A German officer always bows according to rule, so it seems, for all of them recognize an acquaintance or receive an introduction by bending his body to a certain angle, after which it springs back into its normal position as if worked by a machine, but the "best of anything" is never surrendered to womankind.

In every German parlor the arrangement is conventional. There is the everpresent plush sofa, with a table in front

of it, and the feat of being able to get into and out of this caged seat without dragging the table cover, books, and all in your wake, is to be accomplished only after years of practice. after years of practice. After scattering ruin in your path several times, and wondering why you are always shown to this seat of torture, if you are a married woman, you finally take courage, and ask some German friend who tells you that it is the "seat of honor," which you ought to surrender immediately if an older woman, or one whose husband's title is higher than your own, enters the

room.

But while you are talking, an officer appears and greets his hostess by kissing her hand, after which performance etiquette compels her to introduce or see that this representative of the emperor is introduced to every person in the room.

Refreshments begin to be passed soon after the guests arrive, and appear in instalments during the entire evening, the maids serving it from trays to the company who remain standing.

With all their fine uniforms and privileges of precedence, one cannot help feeling sorry for these officers, many of whom are brave, noble men, for they are so bound and tied by the cords of trifling conventionalities. They must not carry umbrellas, no matter how it storms, for they thus show their endurance by a fine disregard for the weather, which in Berlin pouts and cries all winter. Then they never must ride in an ordinary omnibus, for that is beneath their dignity. Owing to the common sense of the late Emperor Frederick, who, while crown-prince, sanctioned the use of the street-cars by officers (he himself rode on the first one which made its appearance in Berlin twenty years ago), the army can enjoy that common blessing; but if they take a cab, it must be a first-class one, and if they go to an entertainment, they must occupy a place in the most expensive part of the house. Only boys whose families can afford to set aside a certain sum of money for their use, can enter the army, for the pay is inadequate to meet the style in which an officer must live. Think of twenty-five dollars a month for a lieutenant! If you chance to meet one of them on the street the day after a party, you will be puzzled to know why he looked surprised when you bowed, until you learn that it is a man's, not a woman's

privilege in Germany to recognize an introduction.

At length, all the Americans in the city meet to celebrate our glorious Thanksgiving, a day unknown abroad. But alas, what is the feast without cranberries and mince-pie. For the first, they have a fair substitute, called "preisel-berries," but imagine mince-pie dished out with a spoon, for the Germans, with all their knowledge of delicious pastry, do not know how to make pie-crust.

Following close on Thanksgiving's heels is Christmas, and in no place is the holiday so ideal as in the Fatherland. The whole nation awakes to the spirit of the season. Hundreds of evergreen trees are brought to the city from Thuringia, where their growth is a regular business. Every square, and there are many such breathing-places in Berlin, and most of the business streets are turned into miniature cedar forests, for the trees, fastened into little wooden sockets, occupy every available spot.

There suddenly spring into existence throughout the city numberless improvised huts, filled with rudely carved, wooden toys, ginger-bread and honeycakes in odd designs, the work of the country people who preside over these booths. The windows of the shops, always attractive, as Berlin is one of the most beautiful of European cities under gas-light, blaze with decorations, while flower-displays make one think of Eden, as no nation understands floriculture as do the Germans, neither do any know how to combine so artistically flowers, tissue-paper, ribbon or illusion, for not a single ugly pot or bit of earth is exposed to view. Even the meat and poultry shops, which are so clean that a lady in evening dress might enter unharmed, are most tempting, for the meats and fowls, tied in ribbons, repose in dainty boxes. Windows filled with exquisite ivory-carvings vie with windows of garnet and amber, for these things are specialties of Berlin. "Marzipan, "Marzipan," a candy peculiar to Germany, made of almonds and sugar, takes all forms imitated, so that the deceit can scarcely be recognized in fruit, vegetable, bread or meat, while grown-up people as well as little folks are delighted by the splendid display of toys, for Germany is the toy-market of the world.

The whole nation gives itself over to

the spirit of the season, and so glad are they to welcome this period of "Peace on earth, good will to men" that they have instituted a prelude to Christmas. On the night of the sixth of December, St. Nicholas appears, having a bundle of switches on which are tied scraps of bright paper, thus showing what kind of rods are used on good children. Having rung the bell furiously, he inquires minutely concerning the behavior of the little folks, and then disappears. This ends St. Nicholas' duties he is merely a reporter, so to speak, for the "Weihnachtsmann" or Christ-child, who brings them their presents. Poor indeed is that family which does not have a tree, even if it be only a very small one, and in no place is the celebration so beautiful as in the heart of a German family.

At a given signal, the door leading into the festal room, which has been closed for days, is thrown open while the family, including the servants, enter and circle round the table on which stands the brilliant tree, singing "Heilige Nacht" (Holy Night), one of the most exquisite hymns ever written, while even the air breathes out a Christmas perfume owing to a twig of the tree which has been intentionally burned before the door was opened. There are no presents on the tree, but each one, from grandfather to baby, has a little space of his own at the table where he finds his remembrances, and a plate of "goodies" called "Nasch-Werke," from which one is expected to nibble all evening.

The holiday is really celebrated for three days in the Fatherland—on Christmas eve, the tree; Christmas day, a time for enjoying home and the presents; and the day after Christmas given to Christmas services in the churches.

But amidst all their happiness, the faithfulness of the German heart shows itself most touchingly, in one thing, for you will see, if you visit their cemeteries, that there has been a thought for the absent ones, and that hundreds of graves have been decorated with tiny Christmas trees, many of them trimmed with daisy chains, paper flowers of all colors, and other floral decorations made of cloth dipped in wax. On the high mound which marks the resting-place of Gustav Richter, the painter of that famous picture of Queen Louise which all admire so much, we noticed a good-sized tree, on

which were remnants of the yellow candles which had given their lives in this work of love.

If you have had the good fortune, during your stay in Berlin, to meet Mrs. Davies, a German Baroness, the widow of an English clergyman, you may have the rare pleasure of receiving an invitation to be present at the Christmas celebration of the drosche or cabmen and their families, for Mrs. Davies is giving her time and money to brightening the lives and saving the souls of this much neglected class, twelve hundred of whom, representing about ten thousand people, are now under her care, or under that of the four Bible women whom she supports.

The benches are filled by these people who take a hearty part in the singing and exercises, and the cries of welcome which greet the great preacher, Frommel, as he enters the room, makes one long to shout in sympathy. He has just come from an interview with the Empress, with whom he is a prime favorite, but see how he, venerable and silver-crowned, brings the love-light into the eyes of these weary men and women as he talks with them, and listen, as he begins to quote a verse of Scripture, how the whole assembly repeat it with him. Simple it is, and yet grander in its simplicity than is the splendid court ball which follows in a few weeks, the one function in the year when royalty condescends to mingle with the multitude, each of whom has paid three dollars and seventy-five cents and has clad himself in his best apparel for the privilege. Application for admission to this great subscription-ball, given in the Opera House, must be made weeks before the event, as the names presented are examined most carefully, those having the endorsement of some member of the army meeting with most favor. The affair was instituted at the beginning of this century by Queen Louise and her husband, Frederick William III., with the hope that, by this means, the people and their rulers might be brought nearer each other. Their son, old Kaiser William I., retained the custom, and mingled freely with the people, but their great-grandson, the present Emperor, is more reserved, retiring, after he has opened the ball by leading, with the Empress, the grand march or polonaise, in which all the princes, princesses, dukes, duchesses, and other social grandees take part, to his

box, which he does not leave again except to visit the boxes occupied by the Ambassadors of foreign countries.

The Emperor makes a most agreeable impression, and one can scarcely believe that he has uttered many of the pompous sayings which are credited to him, for his manner calls forth the admiration of even loyal Americans. He is about the average height, slight but well proportioned, has a clear-cut face full of character and wears his hair parted on the side, and brushed well off his forehead. He is extremely fond of the army, and usually appears everywhere in uniform. His left arm, which has always been useless, is supported by resting the hand on the hilt of his long sword. With the right, he conducts through the serpent-like maze of the stately march, his wife, a woman whose face bears the stamp of goodness deeper than of beauty, more lovable than lovely.

The uniforms of the army add brilliant touches of color to the scene, and among the officers you may recognize one whose face you remember as having seen in the escort which conducted Prince Bismarck to the palace from the station that memorable day when he came to visit the Emperor. What a fine sight it was! The soldiers in their white uniforms and shining breast-plates, bearing aloft their flying flags of white and black as they surround the royal glass coach, in which was seated the venerable man whose brain had given the shouting multitudes their united German empire.

Let the world ever thus honor the aristocracy of mind, and so let us wind our way to Old Trinity Cemetery, where a cross of graystone marks the resting-place of Felix Mendelssohn, next to that of his sister Fanny, whom he loved so dearly. Loving hands have wreathed the cold stone in evergreen and roses, while the winds, sobbing in the trees, seem to echo the burden of his songs.

Or perhaps, if you are of a scientific turn of mind, the little trip by tramway to Tegel may interest you more, for here is the former home of the Humboldt family, and there under the splendid trees sleep William and Alexander Humboldt, whose statues adorn the spaces in front of the great university.

Or if you are on a pilgrimage to the shrine of goodness, in Charlottenburg, another suburb of Berlin, is the mau

soleum of Queen Louise, which contains that celebrated figure of the queen by Rauch, a work so beautiful and wonderfully naturally that one would hardly be surprised to see her breathe. The light is so skilfully arranged that the rays from a blue glass window unite with those from a yellow glass window at a certain angle, casting on the pure white statue a most fascinating violet hue. The easy folding and falling of the drapery, the indentation where her head rests upon the pillow, the apertures of ears and nostrils which seem to have connection with the interior of the statue, all help to delude one into believing that this is not lifeless marble, but in very truth a beautiful sleeping woman.

Another suburb which is full of interest is Potsdam, where are several royal palaces (for this was Frederick the Great's favorite residence), the summer home of the present Emperor, and the site of the government observatory. But the chief interest centres in the Garrison Church, which contains the tomb of Frederick the Great. In a vault behind the pulpit where rests a mahogany casket enclosing one of zinc, has stood many an historical character. Over this bier, Queen Louise joined the hands of her husband and Alexander of Russia in a solemn but vain compact to unite their forces to crush Napoleon, for standing there a short time afterwards, the vic

torious general, who had swept all before him, commanded that the casket be opened, that his curious eyes might look upon a man whom he acknowledged as his equal.

But the days are growing longer, and the members of the American colony begin to leave for home or other lands. It is usually a sad time, for warm friendships have been formed. Then there are the good-byes to the resident Americans, there being quite a settlement of them in Berlin, and, beginning with our Ambassador and his family, all have been most kind, and have helped us to see many things. Last, but by no means least, are the German friends whose goodness you will never forget. How hospitable they have been to you, and what wonderful self-control they have exercised when you have stumbled in the use of your German.

All these memories, and many more, crowd in upon you as the sweet bunch of flowers, a pretty custom, is given to you by a German friend at parting. As you drive to the station, all your early recollection of painful experiences are thrown into shadow by the memory of the great advantages which you have enjoyed in this beautiful Prussian capital, and the memory of the many favors which you have received from the kind-hearted Ger

mans.

(MRS.) WM. H. WAIT.

HE delightful volume we owe to the industry of Mr. Geo. G. Napier bears testimony to the undying charm of the personality of Sir Walter Scott. It depicts in attractive fashion scenes which his genius has made classic, and stimulates, if it does not suggest, the effort to people those scenes with some of the real figures from whom the actors were drawn. Scott's works, says a writer in a recent issue of the "Quarterly Review," to whom we owe this paper, have won him the gratitude of the world, but his countrymen owe him a more immediate and prosaic debt of gratitude. The wand

*See biography of Scott in the Encyclopædia Britannica, Vol. XXI., page 544. Also, consult Lockhart's Life of the Novelist.-ED. S. C.

of the magician precipitated the changes, inevitable in course of time, but which otherwise must have been slow and gradual. It was Scott who discovered or revealed the charms of a country, which to the earlier adventurers coming from beyond the border had seemed a sterile, repulsive, and dreary wilderness. He found highlands and borders very much as they were when Waverley rode into the hamlet of Tully-Veolan, and when Earnscliffe went out stalking the red deer in the wastes that are now waving with golden grain. He cast the spell of his genius over the length of the land, and civilization followed fast in his track. The roads were made or mended through the wild scenery of the shaggy Trossachs and the gloomy grandeur of Glencoe.