Part 9

To become acquainted with the bulkier of these villains, we must visit their favorite haunts. An occasional one may occur in any kind of place, as has already been explained. A good many, especially of the edible sort, and notably the common mushroom, grow in open pastures. To get among crowds of them, however, we must resort to close woods, especially of fir and pine. There they grow on tree-stumps, fallen trunks, and on the ground, in great variety and abundance. If we go at the proper season their profusion will astonish us. This time of plenty varies from early to late autumn with the character of the weather. Clad in waterproof wraps and with leather gloves on hand, we may make a fungus foray into the dripping woods amid russet and falling leaves with comparative comfort; and even on a “raw rheumatic day” there will likely be much enjoyment for us and still more instruction. It will be strange, indeed, if we do not find some kinds to eat and very many to think over. We ought to get examples, at least, of nearly all the different families. Let us consider them in a general way as novices do. A host of them have gills like the mushroom; and so we may take that best known of them all as a type of the whole class. Mushroom spawn runs through the soil in a rootlike way, absorbing the organic matter it falls in with and every here and there swelling out into roundish bodies, each consisting of a tubercle enclosed in a wrapper. The tubercle bursts through the wrapper as growth goes on, and soon above ground appears the well-known form of the mushroom, with a stalk supporting a fleshy head by the center, and on the under surface of this head radiating gills, which are at first covered by a veil that finally gives way and leaves only a ring round the stem. These gills are originally flesh-colored, but afterward become brown and mottled with numerous minute purple spores. If we were to investigate further by means of the microscope, we should find that the spores are not contained in any case, and that they are produced in fours on little points at the tips of special cells. Of the other kinds belonging to this order of agarics, some differ from the mushroom in being poisonous and others in being parasitic. There is much variety, also, in the tints of gill and spore, different kinds having these white, pink, rosy, salmon-colored, reddish, or yellowish, or darkish brown, purple or black. Again, in some the stem is not central, but attached more or less laterally to the head; in others there is no stem, and the gills radiate out from the substance on which the agaric grows. The ring round the stalk, too, often varies, or is sometimes wanting. There are many other differences, and it is by these that we are able to distinguish the one kind from the other: but, of course, little more can be done here than merely to indicate this infinite variety. Dr. Badham, in his admirable work on the “Esculent Funguses of England,” puts this quaintly, as he does many other facts. “These are stilted upon a high leg, and those have not a leg to stand on; some are shell-shaped, many bell-shaped; and some hang upon their stalks like a lawyer’s wig.”

These gill-bearers, are, however, but one order in this extensive division of plants. Nature’s plastic hand is never weary of shaping fresh forms. It is lavish of variety, and never works in a stinted or makeshift way. In place of gills we find in another order tubes or pores in which the spores are produced. These tubular kinds are sometimes fleshy, as in the edible boletus, or woody, as in the polypores, popularly called sap-balls, which every one who knows anything about woods and their wonders must have seen on old tree-stumps, often growing to a great size. In yet another order, spines, or bristles, or teeth, take the place of gills and tubes. In the puff-balls the spores ripen inside a roundish leathern case, which afterward bursts and discharges them as a fine dust. Then there is an extensive class in which the spores are not produced in this offhand way at all, but are carefully enclosed in little cases, or rather, I should say, loaded into microscopic guns, as in the pezizas; and very beautiful objects these are under the microscope.

Poisonous, putrescent, strange in shape, or color, or odor, as many of the larger fungi are, it is little to be wondered at that contempt has been a common human feeling with respect to most of them, and a crush with disdainful heel on occasion the lot of a good many. The popular loathing has run out into language. Under the opprobrious term “toadstool,” a whole host of kinds is commonly included. The puff-balls are known in Scotland as “de’il’s sneeshin’-mills” (devil’s snuff-boxes), an epithet which expresses with a certain imaginative humor, and a dash of superstition, the idea of something so utterly base that it ministers to the gratification of demons, tickling their olfactory organs with satanic satisfaction. Indeed, in this country the mushroom is almost the only favored exception to the popular verdict of loathing. It has gained the hearts of the people through their stomachs, and ketchup has overcome popular prejudice by its fine flavor. But there are many others on which cultured palates dote. Truffles are dear delicacies, which few but rich men taste, for fine aroma and flavor command a high price. The Scotch-bonnets of the fairy rings, besides possessing a certain bouquet of elfin romance, cook into delicacies full of stomachic delight. Then there are chantarells and morels and blewitts, and poor-men’s-beef-steaks, over which trained appetites rejoice. A score of dainty little rogues at least there are, and a still greater number of kinds that are nutritive and fairly palatable. In some European countries the edible ones are a really valuable addition to the food of the people—not from being more plentiful than with us, but from being more eagerly gathered and diligently cultivated. One sort or other is used as food by every tribe of men. Not only does the edible mushroom occur in all habitable lands, but in certain foreign parts—as in Australia—there are forms of it very much superior in quality to our English ones. Then, of course, every clime has its own peculiar edible kinds. The native bread of the Australians is an instance in point; it looks somewhat like compressed sago, and is a fairly good article of diet. The staple food of the wild Fuegians for several months each year is supplied by a kind which they gather in great abundance from the living twigs of the evergreen beech. Then there are some not very pleasant, according to our ideas, which can be safely used, and are thus available in times of scarcity, as, for instance, the gelatinous one which the New Zealand natives know as “thunder-dirt,” and one somewhat similar that the Chinese are said to utilize. A curious trade has of late years sprung up between New Zealand and China. A brown semi-transparent fungus, resembling the human ear, grows abundantly in the North Island. This the Maoris and others collect, dry, and pack into bags, for export to China, where it is highly prized for its flavor and gelatinous qualities as an ingredient in soup. It is a species nearly related to our Jew’s-ear. The value of this fungus exported from New Zealand in 1877 was stated at over £11,000.—_Good Words._

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When we reflect how little we have done And add to that how little we have seen, And furthermore how little we have won Of joy or good, how little known or been, We long for other life, more full, more keen, And yearn to change with those Who well have run. —_Jean Ingelow._

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A TALENT for any art is rare; but it is given to nearly every one to cultivate a taste for art; only it must be cultivated with earnestness. The more things thou learnest to know and enjoy, the more complete and full will be for thee the delight of living.—_Platen._

FROM THE BALTIC TO THE ADRIATIC.

By the author of “German-American Housekeeping,” etc.

[Concluded.]

Travelers are like conchologists, vying with one another in picking up different shells, and herein lies the unending interest of their records.

In the roundabout route from the Baltic to the Adriatic and Mediterranean, Cassel, the electorate in former years of Hesse-Cassel, afforded a most suggestive visit. To be sure, its history is not altogether pleasant to an American, for the fact that the old elector hired his troops to England to fight us during the Revolutionary war, is not a savory bit of German history. Even Frederick the Great saw the meanness of it, for when he heard they were to take their route to England by Prussian roads, he sent word, “if they did so, he would levy a cattle tax on them.” Perhaps some of the money paid by England at that time was laid up in the public treasury and expended afterward upon the extravagant ornamentation of the grounds of the elector’s summer residence, “Wilhelmshöhe.” The palace is in itself one of the most magnificent in Europe. Above the cascades in front of it is the highest fountain on the continent. One stream, twelve inches in diameter, is thrown to the height of two hundred feet. The colossal Hercules which crowned the summit of this artificial grandeur was thirty feet high, and the cascades are nine hundred feet long. The whole arrangement is said to have kept two thousand men engaged for fourteen years, and to have cost over ten million dollars! Jerome Napoleon occupied this palace of Wilhelmshöhe when he was king of Westphalia.

A walk of three miles under the straight and narrow road shaded by lime trees, leads one back to Cassel, after this visit to Wilhelmshöhe. The town is beautifully situated on either side of the river Fulda, and has a population of thirty-two thousand. The beautiful terrace overlooking the _angarten_, crowned by its new picture gallery, offers as delightful promenades as the celebrated Dresden Terrace. The strains of sweet music coming up from the _angarten_ (meadow) while one is looking at the beautiful Rembrandts and Van Dykes in the gallery, give the enchantment which one never fails to find in a German town. Napoleon carried away many of the most valuable pictures from the Cassel gallery—but it is redeemed from the number of horrible Jordaens and Teniers by possessing the “pearl of Rembrandts,” a portrait of “Saskia,” his wife.

Chemical products, snuff included, are manufactured in Cassel, and it is quite a wide-awake business place—the old town preserved for picturesque effect, and the new town building up for enterprising manufacturers.

Leaving Cassel any day at one o’clock, one can reach Coblenz at half-past seven in the evening, and the Bellevue Hotel will shelter one delightfully for the night, provided a room on the _hof_, or court, is not given. Four hundred feet above the river at Coblenz stands the old fortress of “Ehrenbreitstein.” How fine its old gray stone and its commanding situation is! No wonder Auerbach, the novelist, in his “Villa on the Rhine,” devoted so many pages to Ehrenbreitstein, the Gibraltar of the Rhine. It cost the government five million dollars. With its four hundred cannon, and capacity to store provision for ten years for eight thousand men in its magazine, well may it scorn attacks “as a tempest scorns a chain.”

Instead of driving up to see this monstrous fortress, one may prefer to wander into St. Castor’s Church in the early morning, and, like a devout Catholic, kneel and pray. It may be more restful to thus “commune with one’s own heart and be still,” than to keep up a perpetual sight-seeing. Charlemagne divided his empire among his grandchildren in this very church. It dates to the eighth century, and is one of the best specimens of Lombard architecture in all the Rhine provinces. Coming out in the morning about ten o’clock, the sun will light up the severe outlines of the great old Ehrenbreitstein across the river, and the thought comes to one, did Luther compose his celebrated hymn, “_Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott_” (A mighty fortress is our God), while in such a moment of inspiration as this scene produces upon the mind?

We left Coblenz at ten o’clock on the steamer “Lorlei” for Mainz. This romantic name for our boat, the waters we were plying, St. Castor’s Church on the left, and Ehrenbreitstein on the right, brought a strange combination of war, romance and religion to the mind. The only prosaic moment which seized me was in passing the Lorlei Felsen on the Rhine—when instead of remembering Lorlei, I exclaimed, so my companions told me: “O! here is where they catch the fine salmon!” Rheinstein was to my mind the most beautiful and picturesque castle of all, and being owned by the Crown Prince is kept in becoming repair. The little “_panorama des Rheins_” is a troublesome little companion, for it leaves one not a moment for calm enjoyment and forgetfulness, constantly pointing out the places of interest and crowding their history and romance upon one.

The Dom at Mainz is a curious study for an architect—combining as it does so many styles and containing such curious old tombs.

Frankfort, the birthplace of Goethe, and the native place of the Rothschilds family, has too much history to detail in an article like this. When it was a free city it had, and still retains, I believe, the reputation of being the commercial capital of that part of Germany.

Goethe preferred little Weimar for the development of his poetical life. His father’s stately house in Frankfort, still to be seen, was not equal to his own in Weimar.

But let us leave the river Main and the river Rhine and look up Nuremberg and Munich before we follow our southern course to the Adriatic. An erratic journey this, but have we not found some shells which the other conchologists overlooked?

Nuremberg seems to have lost more in population than any German city we know of. Having once numbered 100,000, it now claims only 55,000. It is a curious fact that Nuremberg toys which were so celebrated formerly, have been surpassed in this country, and now American manufactures in this line are taken to Nuremberg and actually sold as German toys. This was told me by a gentleman interested in the trade. But buy a lead-pencil in Nuremberg if you want a good article very cheap—perhaps you can learn to draw or sketch with one, being inspired with the memory of Albert Dürer.

Nuremberg is Bavaria’s second largest city, and attracts more foreigners or visitors than Munich, perhaps, yet to the mind of the Bavarian Munich is Bavaria, as to the Frenchman Paris is France, and to the Prussian Berlin is Prussia! No traveler can be contented, however, without some time in Nuremberg, although I dare say many go away disappointed. The old stone houses with their carved gables, the walls and turrets, St. Sebald Church, and the fortress where Gustavus Adolphus with his immense army was besieged by Wallenstein, are things which never grow tedious to the memory. In this fortress now they keep the instruments of torture used in the middle ages to extract secrets from the criminal or the innocent, as it might chance to be. A German in Berlin laughingly told me when I described the rusty torturous things, that they were all of recent manufacture, and were not the genuine articles at all! But new or old, genuine or reproduced, they make one shudder as does Fox’s “Book of Martyrs.” I know of no church in Germany more worthy of study than St. Sebald’s. In it one finds a curious old gold lamp, which swings from the ceiling about half way down one aisle of the church. It is called _die ewige lampe_, because it has been always burning since the twelfth century. It is related of one of Nuremberg’s respectable old citizens that he was returning in the darkness one stormy night to his home, and finally almost despaired of finding his way, when a faint light from the St. Sebald’s Church enabled him to arrive safe at his own door. He gave a fund to the church afterward for the purpose of keeping there a perpetual light. When the Protestants took St. Sebald’s, as they did so many Catholic churches in Germany after the Reformation, the interest money which the old man gave had still to be used in this way according to his will. So _die ewige lampe_ still swings and gives its dim light to the passer-by at night. Our American consul told me a characteristic story of an American girl and her mother, whom he was showing about Nuremberg, as was his social duty, perhaps. They were in St. Sebald’s Church, and he related the story of the lamp as they stood near it. Underneath stands a little set of steps which the old sexton ascends to trim the lamp. “Oh!” said this precocious American girl, “I shall blow it out, and then their tradition that it has never been out will be upset.” So she climbed the steps fast, and as she was about to do this atrocious thing our consul pulled her back, and said she would be in custody in an hour, and he would not help her out. The mother merely laughed, and evidently saw nothing wrong about the performance. It is just such smart acts on the part of American girls abroad which induce a man like Henry James to write novels about them. The fine, intelligent, self-poised girls travel unnoticed, while the “Daisy Millers” cause the judgment so often passed upon all American girls by foreigners, that they are “an emancipated set.”

It was our good fortune while in Munich to board with most agreeable people. The _Herr Geheimrath_ (privy counselor) had retired from active life of one kind, to enjoy the privilege of being an antiquarian and art critic. He had his house full of most valuable and curious treasures. The study of ceramics was his hobby, and fayence, porcelain, and earthenwares of the rarest kinds were standing around on his desk, on cabinets, and on the floor. He edited _Die Wartburg_, a paper which was the organ of _Münchener Alterthum-Verein_, and wrote weekly articles _Ueber den Standpunkt unserer heutigen Kunst_. His wife was formerly the _hof-singerin_ (court-singer) at the royal opera in Munich, but was then too old to continue. Every Saturday evening she would give a home concert, and would sing the lovely aria from “Freischutz,” or Schumann’s songs.

St. Petersburg never looked whiter from snow than did Munich that winter. The galleries were cold, but the new and old Pinakothek were too rich to be forsaken. Fortunately the new building was just across the street from the _Herr Geheimrath’s_. If it had only been the old Pinakothek I found myself continually saying, for who cares for Kaulbachs, and modern German art, compared with the rich Van Dykes, the Rubens, the Dürers, and the old Byzantine school? I should say the Munich gallery is superior to the Dresden in numbers, but not in gems. But they have fine specimens from the Spanish, the Italian, and German schools.

The Glyptothek is Munich’s boast. There is a stately grandeur in this building that suggests Greece and her art. On a frosty morning, to wander out beyond the Propylæum and enter through the great bronze door of the Glyptothek, one feels like a mouse entering a marble quarry. I presume there is no such collection of originals in any country but Italy. Ghiberti, Michael Angelo, Benvenuti, Cellini, Peter Vischer, Thorwaldsen, Canova, Rauch, Schwanthaler, are all represented by original works. But it needs a warm climate to make such a collection of statuary altogether attractive.

Going from Germany to Italy, one takes the “Brenner Pass,” generally, over the Alps—the oldest way known, and used by Hannibal. After winding around the side of these snowy peaks, and being blinded by the mists enveloping the landscape, trembling with admiration or fear, as the case may be, a glimpse of sunny Italy is most encouraging.

To reach the Adriatic and Venice is enough earthly joy for some souls. Elizabeth Barrett Browning felt so; and all people feel so, perhaps, who, as Henry James and W. D. Howells, give themselves up to Venice, and write about her until she becomes identified with their reputation. But let Venice and the Adriatic be silent factors in this article, and let Verona, Florence, and Rome substitute them.

We alighted at Verona at midnight, and in the pale moonlight, which gave a ghastly appearance to the quaint old place. “The Two Gentlemen of Verona” were not to be seen that night. The streets were silent, yet I thought perhaps they might greet us in the morning; but their shadowy old cloaks are only to be seen thrown around a thousand beggars, who are as thick as bees and as ugly as bats.

“The tomb of Juliet” is also a deception—a modern invention; but the house of Juliet’s parents (the Capuletti), an old palace, stands as it did in the days when Shakspere represents its banqueting halls and good cheer.

The scenery from Verona to Florence, with the exception of a few views of the Apennines, is very tedious—nothing beyond almond orchards, which in March, the time of the year I saw them, resembled dead apple trees. You will be surprised to hear that the Italian gentlemen wore fur on their coats. They were, I imagine, traveled gentlemen, for the genuine Italian, whether count or beggar, has a cloak thrown over his shoulders in bewitching folds. When he pulls his large felt hat over his magnificent eyes so that it casts a dark shadow over his mysterious face, and stands in the sunshine, he looks simply a picture.

Verona is more Italian in appearance than Florence. The principal street runs along either side of the river Arno, and is crowded for some distance with little picture and jewelry shops; but farther on toward the _cascine_, or park, the street widens, and is enriched with handsome modern buildings, most of which are hotels. This drive to the _cascine_ and the grand hotel was made when Victor Emmanuel allowed the impression to exist that Florence would remain the capital of Italy. This drive is thronged with carriages about four o’clock in the afternoon. It was here I remember to have had the carriage of the Medici family pointed out to me. Within sat two ladies with dark, lustrous eyes, jet hair, and a great deal of lemon color on their bonnets. The livery was also lemon color, and the carriage contained the coat of arms on a lemon-colored panel. The Italians are very partial to this shade of yellow. The beds are draped with material of this same intense hue—very becoming to brunettes, but ruinous, as the young ladies would say, to blondes.

Every one knows of the old Palazzo Vecchio, which rises away above every object in the city of Florence. Its walls are so thick that in them there are places for concealment—little cells—and in one of these the great reformer of Florence, Savonarola, was kept until they burned him at the stake in front of the palace.

“Santa Croce” is the name of the church which contains the tombs of Michael Angelo, Alfieri Galileo, and Machiavelli. Byron, moved with this idea, writes:

“In Santa Croce’s holy precincts lie Ashes which make it holier, dust which is Even in itself an immortality.”

Every American goes to Powers’s studio to see the original of the Greek Slave. Next to the Venus of Milo it seems the loveliest study in marble of the female figure. But “our lady of Milo,” as Hawthorne calls her—there is no beauty to hers!

The Baptistery in Florence is a curious octagonal church, built in the twelfth century, and has the celebrated bronze doors by Ghiberti, representing twelve eventful scenes from the Bible. Those to the south are beautiful enough, said Michael Angelo, to be the gates of paradise.