BRUSSELS. THANKSGIVING IN BERLIN. WILNA.

“This is the place. Stand still, my steed, Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy Past The forms that once have been.” —_Henry W. Longfellow._ “_A Gleam of Sunshine_,” edition of 1864.

LETTER TO MY MOTHER.

Berlin, Nov. 29, 1866, Or, in other words, Thanksgiving Day.

I happen to be aware of this fact, Mama, because yesterday, strolling about the Berlin gallery we met first Mr. Urbino (Dealer in choice foreign books in Boston) and afterwards Mr. Kellogg, (My brother Willie’s travelling friend) the latter of whom told us that all the Americans were to have a big Thanksgiving dinner at some hotel here, and so we also put our names down, and mean to do “the eminent American.”

Almost twelve and not breakfasted as yet! How lazy one does get, and we have tickets to see the Schloss at twelve, precisely.

Well then, to begin,—We really left Paris on Saturday, arriving at Brussels in time to take a cup of tea, a chicken cold, and retire, and you have no idea how nice it is again to be on the move!

WILNA. ]

Sunday, a drizzly day, we drove all the way out to Waterloo amidst the hoots of the “rag, tag and bobtail” of the villages taking us for British tourists. We scanned the scene of conflict with military gaze, bought a cane and a lunch, chaffed the natives, and returned in time to see Déjazet the celebrated old actress perform in a charming little piece. Monday we strolled about the town, looked at a few pictures, flattened our noses on the shop windows, very pretty they are, too, that is, the things within, and would find ourselves suddenly bringing up at some grand old cathedral, or a fascinating marketplace, with statues to old “swells” whose heads had been discontinued there; gilt-edged houses in which the ancient guilds and clubs held forth, crooked streets, high hills, etc. etc.

That evening after dinner we billeted ourselves for Berlin viâ Cologne, and I soon had an excellent opportunity of airing my execrable German, and thanking myself for the little I possess.

Well, here we are in Berlin, the city of music and philosophy, and here is Charlie,—by the way, the best travelling companion imaginable,—ready to descend for breakfast.

P. M. I am now in my evening harness with just time to finish this before going to dine. Yesterday we went to the Gallery, which I liked exceedingly, although there are only a few real masterpieces, many of which I knew well from your book “The Berlin Gallery,” at home. The Murillo is perhaps the finest. The building itself is charmingly arranged, all the different schools in order, and the temperature just right, which you won’t find in the Italian galleries. We then sauntered along to Unter den Linden, and caused a great sensation. Whether our reefing jackets and little hats and blue scarfs, or our truly distingué and _chic_,—tell Willie the word is still a favorite in Paris,—appearance were the cause, I know not. I can here say that the Berliners are not exactly “swells,” though big on metaphysics, and now on diplomacy and war; certain it is, however, that many were the smiles bestowed upon us as we gaily marched along.

In the evening we saw a very good ballet at the Victoria Theatre. Today we have not accomplished much except the King’s old palace, and got fur lined boots, very necessary for travelling, and filled our pockets with roubles. Tomorrow we go to see the paintings in company with Mr. Thies and probably in the evening start for Königsberg, where I will get you an amber bracelet. The weather is quite mild now, but I think after leaving Wilna it will be fresh enough. It is rather an odd city, this Berlin, with a feeble little stream called the Spree, just under our window. Charlie sends love to all. Good night, for I go to the feast of Bacchus,—roast turkey and plumb pudding.

N. A.

* * * * *

Professor Thies, whom I met in Berlin, had been curator of the Gray Collection of Engravings at Harvard College, and showed to a party of us in the second term of my Junior year the famous prints, collected by Francis Colley Gray principally abroad, which he bequeathed to the College, and which were then in one of the alcoves of Gore Hall, or the Library, up stairs. Our party consisted of Professor Longfellow and his son Charlie, George B. Shattuck and his sister, my sister and myself. It was a great treat and gave me my first real knowledge of art. We examined all the engravings, taking several weeks, and the remarks of Professor Thies were full of knowledge and charm. It was an education not only in the art of different kinds of engraving, but of painting and sculpture, as many of them were copies of the masterpieces of these two branches of art. The Collection was transferred to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts when it was opened, and now forms a part of the Fogg Museum at Harvard.

BERLIN IN 1866.

In Berlin, the palaces, houses and stores on the principal thoroughfares, stand before you as dull and unsentimental looking as the Prussian sentinels. The people whom you meet, while appearing as respectable and worthy as church deacons, have no elegance nor grace about them, they come and go on every side as gravely and soberly as is permitted to human beings, with nothing disorderly or gay in their manner. They impress you all as being in what is called “comfortable circumstances,” wearing a look of contented commonplaceness, and with the most unbounded respect for things as they are in Prussia, from the Kaiser down, and a corresponding ignorance of and pity for the situation in other less favored countries. There is an egotistical patriotism in this which is delicious, and which must have its merits, but it certainly makes its supporters more objects of curiosity than of interest to any outsiders, with whom they may come in contact. But, on the other hand, there is a compactness in the forward march of the North Germans as a nation, which is irresistible, and which is certain to accomplish great results, and for it the philosophical student of history cannot but feel an admiration which he does not accord to the more attractive and mercurial inhabitants of other countries. He respects intensely the Prussians, but he does not care to live among them.

The next morning after our arrival in Berlin we sauntered forth to see all there was in the city, and to provide ourselves with a complete outfit of furs: caps, coats and boots. The weather was cold and we would need these protections for the rest of our journey, and we knew there was no better market in Europe for obtaining them of good quality and at reasonable prices than in the city of Frederick the Great.

THANKSGIVING DINNER.

Wilna, Dec. 3, 1866.

My dear Mamma:

I begin you a letter here as we have some time before the train starts for St. Petersburg which I will finish there, and will take up my story at Berlin, where I left myself just going to dinner.

The dinner was quite successful and amusing: about one hundred Americans of all styles collected together, one pretty girl, Miss R. of Springfield, my classmate Green (The distinguished oculist Dr. J. Orne Green.), lots of old professional buffers, and a good deal of ruff skuff in long coats and red scarfs, and several military men. Charlie and I got an old Russian gentleman between us and talked philosophy and _la vie Russe_.

The minister, Mr. Wright, presided, and went through very gracefully the rather difficult performance of drinking the health of the President!

The Opera House at Berlin is quite stunning, and they have the best female singer in the world, Lucca. We did not have the good fortune to hear her. Berlin is ahead of all the world in music. In other respects I think it rather a dull city, but then, we have not as yet shaken off the glitter of Paris from our garments.

STATUE OF KANT. KÖNIGSBURG, 1866. ]

The next day we went to Königsberg on the Baltic, where we passed twenty-four hours, and visited the Schloss where the Teutonic Knights in ye ancient time held their revels, and where later the King and Queen of Prussia lived when Napoleon captured Berlin and made the peace of Tilsit. There is an old modern church in which the numberless columns almost prevent your seeing across, and a very old cathedral, with lots of interesting monuments.

Yesterday we came here, a flourishing Polish town before Russia “gobbled it up,” and go through the experience of having our trunks and passports examined every few hours, although, when they find we are Americans, they are very civil. They can’t quite make us out, and look upon us as curiosities, especially stopping at Wilna. America seems to them so far off. The Russian surveillance is very strict in the Polish cities, more so than in Russia proper, and it was here that lots of Poles were hung only a few years ago. Napoleon slept in the palace here the night after Alexander left it.

It is so awfully funny, this first taste of Russia, little sleighs just holding one man all covered with furs, and a big hoop over the horse like the pictures in our geography,—narrow streets with crowds of Jews, great bulb like steeples to the churches, and everything different. They keep the houses so warm that you almost suffer. Well, I must close for tonight.

N. A.

MY FAIRY SLEIGH.

The spring previous to this Russian journey I received the following note from Mrs. Harrison Gray Otis, on receiving a photograph of myself in my fancy sleigh:—

“Mrs. Harrison Gray Otis presents her regards to Mr. Appleton, and very much thanks him for the interesting photograph which she had already admired. She hopes he will have more snow the next winter to enjoy his fairy like equipage, and wishes him health and happiness as a reward for his wounds in the service of his country.”

Mt. Vernon Street, 14th March, 1866.

My pretty sleigh had the appearance of a Russian one as I had arranged what looked like a “duga” over the saddle of the horse, with a waving plume. I once drove down State street in it with my colored groom, the same old “Joe” who was with me in the army, sitting behind in the rumble, and from its striking appearance, with the white fox robes, made a mild sensation.

STOP OVER AT WILNA.

We broke the journey from Berlin to St. Petersburg, which is long and uninteresting, by stopping over twenty-four hours at Wilna, once the capital of Lithuania, afterwards an important Polish and at present an unimportant Russian town. We thought we ought not to jump into the middle of Russia at once; we ought to look a little at the edges, and study the ways and customs of the provincials, which we were sure would be curious and worth seeing, so it was decided that we pass a day at Wilna.

SINGLE SLEIGH. ]

There is probably no part of the civilized world where the annoyances about passports and baggage are greater than in conquered Poland. Everyone who enters the land is looked upon with suspicion, and the difficulty is not by any means over when you get in, for there is the same trouble to get out again, sometimes even worse. But few tourists stop there, and so any well-dressed stranger seen is an object of curiosity, and is most carefully watched by the police. Particularly is this system of espionage strong in the small cities, and one’s life there by it becomes a burden.

It was late at night when we arrived at the depot. Our passports were carefully scrutinized, our names recorded, the name of the hotel where we intended to stop was taken down, and we were told that owing to the lateness of the hour our trunks would not be examined that night, but that we must come for the ceremony at ten o’clock the next morning. We were also informed that we could not leave the city without again having our passports examined and the proper _visa_ put on.

THE RUSSIAN BEGGAR.

When we looked out of our hotel window the next morning the street in front was filled with beggars of every description, who on seeing us at the window began going through every imaginable kind of pantomime which might appeal to the pity or the pride of those to whom they were addressed. Perhaps of all the types of beggars in the world, the Polish Jew is the most striking. His long greasy hair, his longer and greasier coat, his trowsers tucked in his boots and his peculiar cap, are distinguishing traits. And then how he can pile on the agony in facial expression and gesture! No imagined grief of Dante’s Inferno can excel what the Polish Jew would make you believe are his sufferings as he stands thus piteously addressing you. For a handful of copper coins flung among the crowd, they fought hard and long.

A TOUR OF THE TOWN.

After, with some difficulty, getting possession of our trunks, and showing that they contained no infernal machines, nor suspicious looking insurrectionary pamphlets, we jumped into a sleigh, as the ground here was well covered with snow, and wrapping ourselves up in our _shubes_ started off on a tour of inspection through the town.

There is something very fascinating in the first suspicion of the Orient as seen in the outlying frontier towns of the Sclavonic race. The bright colored churches with their bulbous steeples albeit dull and in miniature, give a suggestive hint of what the glories of Moscow and Constantinople will be. The queer costumes of the people, neither Asiatic or European, and their manners in which the patriarchal reverence for authority of the East is tinged with the curiosity and thirst for knowledge of the West, make you regard them as a sort of stepping stone or connecting link between Eastern and Western customs and civilization. And then it is all so different from life in the other European capitals, where each one is more or less a stilted copy of the others. Here you have the mixture of the European and Asiatic elements in such a peculiar way, that something astonishing strikes you continually, and the social relations are so vague that real adventures are likely to befall you in all the classes of society.

The rough wooden sleigh in which we were whisked through the place, with its brightly painted _duga_ over the horse’s head, the light ornamented harness, with the strange dress of the driver, made visions of winter pleasures in St. Petersburg fill our imaginations, and we thought what a sensation we would make could we only be transferred just as we were into the Harlem Lane!

THE RUSSIAN HORSE, SLEIGH AND COACHMAN.

Your sleigh follows you round by day and night, always within call, and so, enveloped in the dark furs of Astrachan or Siberia, you sally forth on your round of conquest. The horses are superb, very fast trotters, with high knee action, and holding their heads gracefully; the favorite colors are black or dappled gray. The ordinary sleigh, that of the _grand seigneur_, such, indeed, as the Emperor almost always uses, as well as those you pick up anywhere in the streets, are not unlike our well-known Portland cutters. Between the regular seat and the dash-board is a little narrow seat on which the driver perches, with one foot inside, and the other in a sort of stirrup outside, from which he braces himself to hold the horse. A fur robe, or rather a thick cloth robe trimmed with a deep border of fur, comes over you and is fastened around you, and hooked at the corners of the sleigh in such a way that you cannot tumble out. The sleighs are very plain, generally of varnished wood, not even painted. The coachman is a type quite different from what you will see in any other country. The most stylish are stout, impressive looking men of middle age, with a long beard like a French _sapeur_. They wear a dark, thick garment, which in shape I can only compare to a dressing-gown, fastened around the waist with a brilliant sash, and then falling nearly to the feet in great plaits.

The fashionable owners of these turnouts are seated behind their drivers as comfortable as possible, and take as much interest in racing on the road and passing those about them, as we do when handling the ribbons ourselves. By far the most elegant turnout is the single sleigh with a trotter in the shafts and a horse on each side, making three abreast, galloping along. They are trained specially for this when young, and they do it well; bending their heads down to the right or left, as it may be, and rushing along madly. The Prefect of Police of St. Petersburg had a stunning team of that kind.

Besides all I have mentioned there are many handsome double-seated sleighs, with a flunkey standing up behind on a board near the ground in some gorgeous livery, and cocked hat with turkey feathers of different colors, like a major general’s.

I must not forget to mention the net that goes from the horse’s back to the dash-board of the sleigh, to prevent the snow from being kicked in your face, a most sensible idea, and one we could well copy in America. These nets are of brilliant colors, red, blue, or green, to match the livery and the sleigh, and the effect is fine as they float in the wind. The winter of 1870-’1, after my return from Russia, I used the net to keep the snow from being kicked in my face, a blue one, which I bought in St. Petersburg. A young fellow who saw me passing and did not understand what it was for, cried out:—“Look at that man, he’s afraid the flies will bite his horse!”—Not a bad remark for mid-winter, and I came to the conclusion that Russian ideas of sleighing were not altogether appreciated in America.

AT WILNA. THE CHIEF OF POLICE.

The most amusing scene of our stop over at Wilna, was at the office of the Chief of Police. To arrange our passports for departing we went to the office during the afternoon, but as it was _jour de fête_, as it generally is, in honor of some saint, the bureau was closed and the head official was absent. In consideration of the great regard Russia felt for the United States, the second in command agreed to attend to our case, as we were in a hurry to leave the city, with the understanding that it must be submitted to his chief for approval. The interview was characteristic and ludicrous. The official spoke a little bad German, nothing else except Russian. We had both neglected our German studies and only knew a few phrases, sufficient to demand the necessities of life in travelling. The gaps were filled up with gestures, and the interrogatory of name, age, residence, occupation, went on slowly and unintelligibly enough until the hotel keeper, having heard of the dilemma in which all parties found themselves, came to the rescue with the little French he knew and assurances of the good character of the persons on trial, affirming that he had conversed with us long at his hotel and he was certain there was nothing suspicious about us. This only confused things more, and the poor official hardly knew what to do. He was unwilling to take so great a responsibility upon himself and began to think he had got some important political offenders. It is difficult to say how the interview would have ended; it began to look as if he intended locking us up until he should have time to reflect, but fortunately the Chief of Police at this moment came in. He was a gentleman of education and delicacy of feeling, one of those polished Russian officers so often met, and what was more to the point spoke both English and French fluently. He sat down quietly at his table, and in a dignified manner saying a few words in Russian to his now abashed assistant, examined carefully the passports, and finding everything _en regle_, asked us a few simple questions, which being satisfactorily answered, he said:—

“I must apologize, gentlemen, for the annoyance to which you have been unavoidably subjected, but we poor officials have very strict orders in Polish Russia, and mistakes will sometimes arise.”

When it was time to leave we were consigned to the best attention of all the conductors and railroad officials of the line, with orders to be treated as became American princes. The train was well filled with passengers, and we took our places in carriage 722, C, _première classe_, St. Petersburgh and Warsaw Railroad.

NEVSKI PROSPECT ST. PETERSBURG. ]