Unless a person has abundant leisure, and a busy tourist has not, he soon learns to discard the regular dinner and takes his meals á la carte, or at the restaurant. He cannot afford the time to do otherwise; though it is probable that aside from the free use of wines and the like, which it seems to involve, the European method of dining is more conducive to health than the American habit of hurriedly bolting food. And in this connection I am constrained to state a fact that has puzzled me not a little, namely, that in Italy, where wine is habitually drank at table, and in Germany, where beer is the common drink at all hours, there is far less drunkenness and apparent disorder than in the United States and other countries where these drinks are popularly tabooed. I attempt no explanation of the fact. I only state it as a fact which a somewhat close observation for some months abroad, abundantly verified. There is more intemperance in northern Europe than in southern; and far more in Great Britain than on the Continent. This difference is due to the quality of the liquors, rather than to the quantity used. In France, Italy and Switzerland light wines are generally used; in Germany, beer and wines; in Russia and the Scandinavian provinces brandy is the favorite drink of those who can afford it; while the Scotch or Irishman would scorn anything but genuine whiskey. There is this difference, however, between the drinking habits of the Continent and those of our own country. That is, if five or six persons meet at a table in a German sommer garten, each may order what he likes, or one may order for all; but when the time for payment comes, it is courtesy for each man to pay his own bill. No obligation is thus incurred to "treat or be treated; and it is possible that to this fact is due the apparently more temperate habits of the people, though the quantity of beer consumed by an able-bodied German shows a capacity that can come only of long and systematic practice. The first thing that will strike an American in a European hotel is that, as a rule, there is no such thing as a general reception-room, drawing-room, or public parlor. The "coffee-room," where breakfast and lunch are served, is the only place about the whole establishment where he will find a comfortable seat outside his private quarters. In some of the new hotels in London the American plan has been imitated somewhat clumsily, and in some of the best houses in Paris the reading-room supplies in part the want of a place of general rendezvous; but in most cities the morning papers will be found only in the coffeeroom. Here everybody comes to talk and eat and drink, and perhaps to smoke, and here all meals are served to transient customers. A "plain" breakfast on the Continent is a very plain affair, consisting of bread, butter and coffee, to which eggs or meat will be added on payment of an extra price. In many countries this slender meal is known simply as "coffee," and may be had at any hour of the morning,—while breakfast proper is more elaborate, and served from eight to twelve o'clock. In Constantinople they send you up a cup of coffee— and pipe if desired - before you are up. The chief meal is at table d'hote, and served from five to seven, P. M. While the hotels are deficient in what seem to us essential conveniences, there is no lack of lounging places in the parks and public gardens, with which every city and all the larger towns are well provided. A few sous will admit to where there are shaded walks and cosy seats, with abundance of flowers and choice music, and where a summer evening passes very pleasantly. Refreshments can be had if desired, and one may be as sociable or as reserved as he likes. These are places of popular resort, both of citizens and strangers, and add not a little to the pleasures of a season abroad. One soon falls into the habit of drinking his coffee, with a slice of bread, as soon as he is up, and then going out till the dinner hour, at five or six o'clock, taking a dejeuner or a lunch between, at such time and place as may be most convenient. As each item is usually charged separately at the hotel, he is not compelled to pay for meals served in his absence. The hotel bill is a curiosity in its way. Except where arrangements are made on the pension, or boarding-house principle, a separate entry is made for each night's lodging, for each meal at stated rates, with each dish not included in the "complete bill," for porterage, soap and lights; and in southern Russia they put in the butter and the bed linen, both being considered luxuries and therefore subject to separate charges. A distinction is also made in many places between "black" coffee and coffee with milk; or coffee with milk and without. Besides you are charged so much per day for "service," after which every waiter expects to be liberally remembered. If a waiter brings you a glass of water he assumes a waiting attitude before you, and if you do not take the hint, says nothing, but turns away with an injured air, and as he moves off keeps an eye upon you, in case you should relent. but except at some palaces or other governmental buildings, I found scarce a door, even in England, I could not open with a shilling any day, and sometimes sixpence was sufficient. What the Europeans lack in the way of enterprise in money getting, they make up in watchfulness and persistency. They never miss an opportunity, especially if there is an American in the case. It has been quite the rule with Americans who have become suddenly rich, to go abroad and make a pretentious display of their wealth. Hence has arisen the idea that all Americans, if not wealthy, are at least generous and liberal. Loud complaints are made by European travellers in their own country, that this habit of Americans has served to largely increase the cost of travel. However that may be, the cost of living at good hotels abroad, even including the innumerable waiter fees, is less than at home. In many places the best hotels are fitted up with with special reference to American travel, and much pains is taken to minister to the tastes and appetites of their guests. But it must be confessed that the attempts to get up "American dishes," especially in central and southern Europe, are generally melancholy failures. Hotel waiters abroad are noted for their attention and politeness, and they are particularly attentive when you are about to leave. The whole retinue is on hand, though half of them may have been invisible since your first arrival. The chambermaid happens to be in the hall, between your door and the stairway, and smiles with all the sweetness of an experienced nature; and the floorman is on the landing and bows with the utmost affability; and the clerk happens round and takes leave of you with great suavity; and the portierhe of the flashing regimentals, - stands at the door with cap in hand; even the "boots," whom you have regularly subsidized from day to day, cannot think of let-eral different articles, putting a little of ting you go without coming to say goodbye. One hates to be mean, even among strangers, and in a foreign land; but it is sometimes unpleasant to be imposed upon. It is a little remarkable what a charm coin has, even over the obtusest nature. At most public institutions, museums, art galleries and the like, certain days are set apart on which strangers are admitted; The Italian cannot understand how even a pudding can be fit to eat without a flavor of garlic; and how the human stomach can digest or retain anything cooked without a liberal supply of fat, quite passes the comprehension of the philosophic German. The Greek, recalling, perhaps, the early habits of his ancestors in more primitive times, insists on cooking everything together in a common pot; or if he has sev each into every dish. While the practical Norwegian economizes time by cooking up at once enough to last him several weeks. And so there are some inconveniences inevitable, in the way of hotel life, in foreign lands. The introduction of experienced French cooks at the great centres of resort remedies the difficulty to some extent, and for the rest there is but one way, and that is when at Rome to do as the Romans do. 7. H. Chapin. "One 'N an old city of New England, dwelt a priest. quite likely there were many of them, as there were many churches, but it is of this one in particular that I desire to speak. He was the devotee of a peculiar religion. The sermon which he preached on Sunday was quite unlike the sermons delivered by the other priests in the same city. It was wider and higher and longer. Not longer in time, I don't mean that; but it had longer reaches into eternity. And oh, what a delightful eternity! There you could see the lion and the lamb cuddled together on the same soft and green grassy knoll. There you could see the leopard and the ox, eating the same wisp of straw. There you could see toddling babies playing among babies of the brute creation, tame and wild, and leading them round by the horns, all "unscared." And there you could see a still fairer vision than any I have named. You could see "all nations, families, kindreds, and tongues," dwelling together in the most harmonious brotherhood; for this priest believed "God hath made them all of one blood." The rich and the poor, the king and the beggar, the high and the low, the black and the white, — all sorts, colors and conditions sharing a common joy, because made of "one blood." The picture was glorious, and the people listened and hung enraptured upon the blessed words which went to make up its coloring. They listened and then went out, -one to his farm and another to his merchandise, and we hope they showed, in the measure of corn for a neighbor, or the price of a yard of calico or cotton to him who hath little, that they believed thoroughly the doctrine of "one blood." But we shall not follow them closely, in their divergent paths. It is not of the people we want to speak. They get the Sunday sermon. They have preaching enough. We take up the text for the minister. He preaches well, and makes magnificent pictures with his brush dipped in “one blood." Does he practice as well as preach? Does he live as though all men were his brothers, here and now, and strive to make the divine vision an actuality? Blood." It is an old town, as I just told you. The streets are paved; the houses are of brick and very high; and it, perchance, you descry a wooden one among them, it is mossy and looks more than a century old. The meeting-houses are very large, and they are built of stone. The people who go up to them to worship have about them an air of solidity. Some of them count their ancestors straight back to an English lord; and all of them are reasonably proud of the stability of the rocks under their city, and the stable foundations of their earthly fortunes. In short, the city is rich. If you call at the portal of one of these old mansions, ebony bows cleave the way to a soft chair in the parlor, and in due time madam comes down, stiff with brocade which may have been her grandmother's. It was among this kind of people our priest found himself located. They were were rich and kept servants. He was poor but weak, so he kept a servant. She was not Biddy from Erin, nor Phillis from a Carolina cotton-field; she was simply Mary Ann, a Yankee girl, born of Yankee parents who were poor, and in the struggle of life died early and left their child an orphan. I think they both smiled out of heaven when this priest took their little girl, knowing him to be a believer in "one blood." Mary Ann took her place and did what she could to make the priest comfortable. She washed and ironed his shirts and pocket-handkerchiefs; she cooked for him plain, simple things, so as to keep his stomach clear of dyspepsia, of which he expressed daily fears. She built the fire in his sanctum, and carried up the daily newspaper; and when he came in from his punctual round of visits among his people, she brought his warm dressing-gown and slippers, and hung up his coat, and put away his boots after he had changed. She was up stairs and down: in the hall, hearing the message of some enquirer after the priest's health and engagements; and then at the back door, taking bundles from the hand of the grocer's boy. Wherever she could make herself useful, there she was. And as a matter of course Mary Ann wanted to go to church. She thought it only fair that she should have a chance to profit by the fruit of all this housekeeping and running, which was, as you see, the minister's sermon. He went to that city to preach to the people, and to that great work all this little work must be tributary. There were no objections to this wish of the young orphan, and she put on her best Sunday clothes, and walked meekly behind her master. The day was cold, a midwinter day, but Mary Ann was warm, wrapped in the priest's shawl, and her heart was aglow at the thought of the sweet privilege she was about to enjoy. She recalled Sundays, not very far back, when she went to meeting clinging to the hand of her mother. And then the way seemed short from these little journeys through the valley of shadows, where this weak woman haq trod, seeking light and rest beyond. A tear had gathered in her eye, but she brushed it away as she came to the granite steps, which the priest was already climbing, and followed him into the vestibule. The wardens stood talking together, but all turned with a smile at the advent of the minister and greeted him. Then the wide door swung apart for him to enter, and he turned towards it, then hesitated, and looked back. A sweet-faced woman clinging to his arm said, in pleasant tones, to the orphan, "We are going in now. The sexton will give you a seat." Mary Ann waited until the sexton had finished pulling the bell-rope; she felt a little cold. There was snow on the hemp matting, which the great multitude had tracked in, and the wind whistled through the open door where the congregation pressed to their Sunday home. Whether anything else made her shiver I leave for you to judge who believe God hath made all nations of "one blood." The sexton came at last. Through a window he had seen this girl coming down the street with the priest. Instantly, on discerning her in the vestibule, he read the true condition of affairs. And when she told him the minister's wife said he would give her a seat, he was not more sure than before. The sexton was a 'cute man, full of intuitions. He told the orphan to follow him, and she did so, up the wide aisle. There was one pew in the church with better cushions than any of the rest. Samson the banker fitted it up according to the taste which his great wealth had cultivated. There he sat, in luxurious ease, surrounded by his happy family. Samson was a man who believed, without a peradventure, that God made him and his of good blood. He professed to believe that all men are made of the same. Let's see if he really does believe it. His pew looks full; but all about him the pews are full, and there is the sexton with a stranger. He motions his wife and daughters to collapse, and crowds them together quite sensibly by the momentum of his own ponderous person; and before the sexton shows that it is the banker's pew he is aiming for, the door flies open, and the shrinking, shivering orphan feels herself softly sheltered, and sees the coarse pattern of her trock, and the priest's shawl, lying against folds of cashmere and costly furs. The minister's pew was empty, save of the smiling woman who clung to his arm, who could spread her skirts without danger of wrinkle or common contact. The banker's pew was full, and so was his heart. Before the benediction fell upon the rapt multitude, Mary Ann had ceased to shiver, and forgotten that her garments were not of velvet. She had seen the vision, and it embraced both father and mother; and she, too, up there, could kneel before the throne by the side of angels. For God hath made of "one blood" all nations, to be equal in heaven, to be divided by pew-rails here. When Solomon, the old sexton, leaned back in his easy chair, and said, in his quaint way, "I'll tell ye a story, child, if ye can make any good of it, and maybe ye can," and I listened and heard about this little mean thing done by a believer and preacher of "one blood,” —a preacher who is never weary of depicting the good time coming, and the delightful unity of the race, I didn't cry as I sometimes do when I hear of a slight to the orphan, but I felt a discouraged chill creep about my heart. We have just done a grand thing in America. We have walked to the stake like martyrs, in defence of the truth of human brotherhood, and after pouring out our common blood in rivers for the redemption of a race of long-enslaved men, we have not ceased to work for their redemption until the law of the land called them men, and they shared the bulwark of the ballot. And now, in the midst of such heroic and national greatness, to have one who is set as a special defender of the faith of "one blood," and whose watch-tower has been honored by the saintliest men who ever preached God the Father, make such shocking discord between his preaching and his life, I felt, as I say, discouraged, and the world looked a long way from redemption. I told Solomon I could not make any good of the story. I thought it had better not be told. There is such wide disparity at best between faith and life, one hates to reveal the worldly weakness and fashionable folly of those who profess better things. I suppose we all have our weak spots, and this one, I thought, came of contact with an aristocratic class, whose servants have churches by themselves. And so I tried to excuse it and forget it. To be sure the thought would come up that the shepherd should lead the flock, that the preacher should be an example of the faith, and trouble me at times; but then I considered the frailty of our poor humanity, and the hard gripe of custom, which is so often counter to God's law of love, and gave the worldly side its due emphasis, and atter many days I had quite forgotten but in all Christendom "the rich and the poor meet together, the Lord is the maker of them all." But it seems true in my case that we really forget nothing. You know that is at present the argument of mental philosophers. Though care and the dust of time settle over the mind's treasures so thickly as to obscure all memory of their existence, certain conditions may come about which will bring to light every smallest one, even the rhymes of our childhood. I will tell you what condition made me recall the old sexton's story, and also what new strength it infused into my too easily desponding soul. I am so fortunate as to be on terms of intimate friendship with a Professor in one of our denominational schools, -a school endowed and established for the purpose of instilling into the minds of the young, so that it shall be a portion of their daily bread, the truth that God hath made all nations of "one blood." This teacher comes to our house sometimes, when he has a vacation, and thus the leisure for visiting, and we talk of the past, and what goes to make up the true and successful life. We have been friends from childhood, so our past reaches a good way back. We have left the sunny valleys of youth, and are climbing the hill now. But of this we are not sorry; for the years shake down golden fruit into our laps, of which we knew nothing when we were children. If I should describe the personal presence of my friend, it might add interest and weight to my story; but I am not famous for descriptive writing, and dare hardly undertake it in any of its branches. And then to describe a friend, how can I who see straight through the outer guise to the soul, which is more than its temple? I confess, however, to a certain sense of satisfaction in looking upon a beautiful face, and a form straight and tall, like the cedars of Lebanon. But somehow I always find myself reading the growth and condition of the life out of sight in these fleshly pillars, and a pleasant eye and serene face are more than beautiful. I see in the clear depths how the fires of discipline have burned among the dross, and how the chisel of good endeavor has smoothed the edges of passion, until it is now consecrated purpose, while all the march of the soul is upward, toward diviner conditions. In my friend, the Professor, there is no discord between soul and body. The one is not cramped and crossed by the conditions of the other. The Lord gave him a great soul, and set it in a fitting temple. He is tall, and there is an air of dignity about him which corresponds well with such a figure; his face has in it more of benignity than common faces wear. If you are good at reading linaments, you will say, this man cherishes kindly thoughts of his fellows. There is no envy or jealousy |