From Pole to Pole

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[Illustration: MAP SHOWING JOURNEY FROM STOCKHOLM TO PARIS.]

After a few days' stay in London we go on to Paris--by train to Dover,
across the Channel at its narrowest part in a swift turbine steamer, and
again by rail from Calais to Paris, through one of the most fruitful
districts of France, vying with the valleys of the Rhone and Garonne in
fertility. In a little over seven hours after leaving London we arrive
at the great city (Plate XXIV.) where the Seine, crossed by thirty
bridges, describes a bend, afterwards continuing in the most capricious
meanderings to Rouen and Havre.

[Illustration: PLATE XXIV. PARIS.

Looking eastwards from Notre Dame.]

The first thing the stranger notices in Paris is the boulevards--broad,
handsome streets, with alleys of leafy trees between rows of large
palatial houses, theatres, cafes, and shops. The oldest, the boulevards
proper, were formerly the fortifications of the town with towers and
walls; "boulevard" is, then, the same word as the English "bulwark."
Louis XIII., who enlarged and beautified Paris, had these bulwarks
pulled down, and the first boulevards laid out on their site. They are
situated on the north side of the Seine, and form a continuous line
under different names, Madeleine, des Capuchines, des Italiens, and
Montmartre. This line of boulevards is one of the sights of Paris. In
later times boulevards were also laid out where there had been no
fortifications before. Under Louis XIV. and his successors Paris grew
and increased in splendour and greatness; then it was the scene of the
great Revolution and its horrors; then under Napoleon it became the
heart of the mightiest empire of that time. With the fall of Napoleon
Paris was twice entered by the forces of the Allies, and in 1871 it was
besieged and captured by the Prussians. Since then Paris has been spared
from disastrous misfortunes, and is, as it has been for many centuries,
the gayest and most animated city in Europe.

Let us take a rapid walk through the town, starting at the Place de la
Bastille, on the north bank of the Seine, where formerly stood the
fortress and prison of the Bastille. This prison was stormed and
destroyed at the commencement of the Great Revolution, on July 14, 1789,
and since that year July 14 has been the chief national festival-day. In
the middle of the square stands the July Column, and from its summit a
wonderful view of Paris can be obtained. We now follow the Rue de
Rivoli, the largest and handsomest street in Paris. On the left hand is
the Hotel de Ville, a fine public building, where the city authorities
meet, where brilliant entertainments are given, and where the galleries
are adorned with canvases of famous masters.

Farther along, on the same side, is the largest public building of the
city, the palace of the Louvre. Like the British Museum, it would
require months and years to see properly. Here are stored colossal
collections, not only of objects of art and relics from great ancient
kingdoms in Asia and Europe, but also of the finest works of European
sculptors and painters of all periods.

We walk on north-westwards through the luxuriant gardens of the
Tuileries, and stop a moment in the Place de la Concorde to enjoy the
charming views presented on all sides--the river with its quays and
bridges, the parks and avenues, the huge buildings decorated with
exquisite taste, the wide, open spaces adorned with glorious monuments,
and the never-ending coming and going of pleasure-loving Parisians and
Parisian ladies in costumes of the latest fashion.

From the Place de la Concorde we direct our steps to the Champs Elysees,
a magnificent park with a broad carriageway along which the fashionable
world rides, walks, or drives in smart carriages and motor cars. At the
northern side of the park lives the President of the Republic in the
palace of the Elysees.

If we now follow the double row of broad avenues northwards we come to
the Place de l'Etoile, a "circus" where twelve avenues of large streets
meet. One of them, a prolongation of the Champs Elysees, is named after
the grand army of Napoleon and leads to the extensive Bois de Boulogne.
In the middle of the Place de l'Etoile is erected a stately triumphal
arch, 160 feet high, in memory of Napoleon's victories.

From here we follow a busy street as far as the bridge of Jena, and on
the opposite bank of the Seine rises the Eiffel Tower, dominating Paris
with its immense pillar 1000 feet high. The Eiffel Tower is the highest
structure ever reared by human hands, twice as high as the cathedral of
Cologne and the tallest of the Egyptian pyramids. At the first platform
we are more than 330 feet above the vast city, but the hills outside
Paris close in the horizon. When the cage rises up to the third platform
we are at a height of 864 feet above the ground, and see below us the
Seine with its many bridges and the city with its innumerable streets
and its 140 squares. A staircase leads up to the highest balcony, and at
the very top a beacon is lighted at night visible 50 miles away. From
the parapet we hardly dare allow our eyes to look down the perpendicular
tower to the four sloping iron piers at its base, especially when it
blows hard and the whole tower perceptibly swings. There is no need to
go up in a balloon to obtain a bird's-eye view of Paris; from the top of
the Eiffel Tower we have the town spread out before us like a map.

NAPOLEON'S TOMB

When we have safely descended from the giddy height, we make our way
across the Champ de Mars to the Hotel des Invalides. Formerly several
thousand pensioners from the great French armies found a refuge in this
huge building, but now it is used as a museum for military historic
relics.

[Illustration: PLATE XXV. NAPOLEON'S TOMB.

Hotel des Invalides, Paris.]

We pass in under the glittering gilded dome, visible all over the city,
and find ourselves in a round hall, the centre of which is occupied by a
crypt, likewise round and several feet deep and open above. On the floor
in mosaic letters are glorious names, Rivoli, Pyramids, Marengo,
Austerlitz, Jena, Friedland, Wagram, and Moscow. Twelve marble statues,
representing as many victories, and sixty captured colours keep guard
round the great sarcophagus of red porphyry from Finland which contains
the remains of Napoleon (Plate XXV.).

No one speaks in here. The deepest silence surrounds the ashes of the
man who in his lifetime filled the world with the roar of his cannon and
the thunder of his legions, and who within the space of a few years
completely changed the map of Europe. Pale and subdued, the light falls
over the crypt where the red porphyry speaks of irresistible power, and
the white goddesses of victory are illumined as it were with a
reflection of the years of glory.

Unconsciously we listen for an echo of the clash of arms and the words
of command. We seem to see a blue-eyed boy playing at his mother's knee
at Ajaccio in Corsica; we seem to hear a youthful revolutionist, burning
with enthusiasm, making fiery speeches at secret clubs in Paris. Pale
and solemn, the shade of the twenty-six-year-old general floats before
our mind's eye as he returns from a series of victories in northern
Italy, where he rushed like a storm over the plains of Lombardy, made a
triumphal entry into Milan, and for ever removed the ancient republic of
Venice from the list of independent States.

We recall the campaign of the French army against Egypt and the Holy
Land. Napoleon takes his fleet out from the harbour of Toulon, escapes
Nelson's ships of the line and frigates, seizes Malta, sails to the
north of Crete and west of Cyprus, and lands 40,000 men at Alexandria.
The soldiers languish in the desert sands on the way to Cairo, they
approach the Nile to give battle to the Egyptian army, and at the foot
of the pyramids the East is defeated by the West. The march is continued
eastwards to Syria. Five centuries have passed since the crusaders
attempted to wrest the Holy Sepulchre from the hands of unbelievers. Now
again the weapons of Western lands clash in the valley of the Jordan
and at the foot of Mount Tabor, and now the French General obtains a
victory over the Turks outside Nazareth. In the meantime, however,
Nelson has annihilated his fleet. The flower of the republican army is
doomed to perish, and Napoleon's dream of an oriental dominion has
vanished with the smoke of the last camp fire. He leaves Egypt with two
frigates, sails along the coasts of Tripoli and Tunis, and passes at
night with extinguished lights through the channel between Africa and
Sicily.

Again our eyes turn to the dim light under the cupola of the Invalides,
and the marble columns and statues look white as snow. Then our thoughts
wander off to the Alps, the Great St. Bernard, the St. Gotthard, Mont
Cenis, and the Simplon, where the First Consul, like Hannibal before
him, with four army corps bids defiance to the loftiest mountains of
Europe. We seem to see the soldiers dragging the cannon through the
frozen drifts and collecting together again on the Italian side. At
Marengo, south of the Po, a new victory is added to the French laurels,
and the most powerful man in France has the fate of Europe in his hands.

Then various episodes of his marvellous career pass before us. Our eyes
fall on the name Austerlitz down in the mosaic of the crypt. The Emperor
of France has marched into Moravia and drawn up his legions under the
golden eagles. A distant echo seems to sound round the crypt--it is
Napoleon's cavalry riding down the Russian guards, it is the "grand
army" annihilating the Austrian and Russian forces, it is the French
artillery pounding the ice on the lake and drowning the fugitives, their
guns and horses.

A murmur passes through the crypt, an echo from the battle of Jena,
where Prussia was crushed, its territory devastated from the Elbe to the
Oder, and its fortresses surrendered, Erfurt, Magdeburg, Stettin,
Luebeck, while the victor made his entry into Frederick the Great's
capital, Berlin. We hear the tread of the columns and the tramp of
horses through the mud on the roads in Poland, and we see the bloody
battlefields of Pultusk, east of the Vistula, and Eylau in West Prussia,
where heaps of bodies lie scattered over the deep snow. We see Napoleon
on his white horse after the battle of Friedland in East Prussia, where
the Russians were defeated. The guards and hussars rode through them
with drawn swords. Their enthusiastic cry of "Long live the Emperor"
still vibrates under the standards round the sarcophagus; and above the
shouts of victory the beat of horse hoofs is heard on the roads of
Europe; it is the courier between the headquarters of the army and
Paris.

The conqueror marches to Vienna, and threatens to crush Austria. He
gains the bloody battle of Wagram, north-east of Vienna, he wipes out
states and makes them dependencies of France and their rulers his
obedient vassals, and he gives away royal crowns to his relations and
generals. His dominion extends from Danzig to Cadiz, from the mouth of
the Elbe to the Tiber; he has risen to a height of power and glory never
attained since the golden age of Rome.

Bayonets and sabres, cuirasses and helmets flash in the sunlight as the
invincible army camps with band and music and song above the Niemen.
Half a million of soldiers are on their way to the old capital of
Russia, Moscow. The Russian roads from Vilna to Vitebsk are full of
endless lines of troops, squadrons of cavalry in close formation, and
enormous baggage trains. The Russians know that their freedom is in
danger; they burn their own towns and villages, devastate their own
provinces, and retire little by little, as they did a hundred years
earlier when Charles XII. invaded Russia. At length there is a battle at
Moscow, and the French army enters the town. We see in imagination the
September nights lighted up far and wide by a blazing flame. Moscow is
on fire. On the terrace of the Kremlin stands a little man in a grey
military coat and a black cocked hat, watching the flame. Within a week
the old holy city of the Muscovites lies in ashes.

The early twilight of winter falls over Paris, and we see the shadows
deepen round Napoleon's tomb. We fancy we see among them human figures
fighting against hunger, cold, and weariness. The time of misfortune is
come. The great army is retreating, the roads are lined with corpses and
fragments. The cannon are left in the snow. The soldiers fall in
regiments like a ripe crop. Packs of wolves follow in their tracks: they
are contented with the dead, but the Cossack squadrons cut down the
living. At the bridge over the Beresina, a tributary of the Dnieper,
30,000 men are drowned and perish. All discipline is relaxed. The
soldiers throw away their guns and knapsacks. Clothed in furs and with a
birchen staff in his hand, the defeated emperor marches like a simple
soldier in the front. Thanks to the severe climate of their country and
its great extent, and thanks also to their own cautious conduct of the
war, the Russians practically annihilated Napoleon's army.

The darkness deepens. At Leipzig Russians, Austrians, Prussians, and
Swedes oppose Napoleon. There his proud empire falls to pieces, even
Paris is captured, and he loses his crown. He is carried a prisoner down
the Rhone valley through Lyons, and shipped off to the island of Elba.

Once more he fills the world with tumult. With a brig and seven small
vessels he sails back to the coast of France. He has a force of only
1100 men, but in his hands it is sufficient to reconquer France. He
marches over the western offshoots of the Alps. At Grenoble his force
has increased to 7000 men. In Lyons he is saluted as Emperor, and Paris
opens its gates. He is ready to stake everything on a single throw. In
Belgium is to be the decisive battle. Hostile armies gather round the
frontiers of France, for Europe is tired of continual war. At Waterloo
Napoleon fights his last battle, and his fate is sealed for ever.

He leaves Paris for the last time. At the port of Rochefort, between the
mouths of the Loire and the Garonne, he goes on board an English
frigate. After seventy days' sail he is landed on the small basaltic
island of St. Helena in the southern Atlantic, where he is doomed to
pass the last six years of his eventful life. Here also his grave is
digged under the willows in the valley.

Nineteen years after Napoleon's death the simple grave under the willows
was uncovered, the coffins of wood, lead, and sheet-iron were opened in
the presence of several who had shared his long imprisonment, the
remains were taken on board a French frigate amid the roar of guns and
flags waving half-mast high, the coffin was landed at Cherbourg in
Normandy, and the conqueror of Europe once more made his entry into
Paris with military pomp and ceremony, in which all France took part.
Drawn by sixteen horses in funereal trappings and followed by veterans
of Napoleon's campaigns, the hearse, adorned with imperial splendour,
was escorted by soldiers under the triumphal arch of the Place de
l'Etoile and through the Champs Elysees to the Hotel des Invalides,
where the coffin was deposited in the Finnish sarcophagus. Thus was
fulfilled the last wish of the conqueror of the world: "I desire that my
remains may rest on the banks of the Seine."

PARIS TO ROME

The stranger leaves Paris with regret, and is consoled only by the
thought that he is on his way to sunny Italy. The train carries him
eastwards, and he looks through the window at the hills and plains of
Champagne, the home of sparkling wine. Around him spread tilled fields,
villages, and farmhouses. Where the soil is not suitable for vines,
wheat, or beet, it provides pasture for large flocks. Men are seen at
work everywhere, and the traveller realises that France is so prosperous
because all its small proprietors, peasants, and townspeople are so
industrious and so thrifty. Now the frontier is reached. The great
fortress of Belfort is the last French town passed, and a little later
we are in Alsace.

Another frontier is crossed, that between Germany and Switzerland, and
the train halts at the fine town of Bale, traversed by the mighty Rhine.
Coming from the Lake of Constance, the clear waters of the river glide
under the bridges of Bale, and turn at right angles northwards between
the Vosges and the Black Forest.

From Bale we go on south-westwards to Geneva. Along a narrow valley the
railway follows the river Birs, which falls into the Rhine, and winds in
curves along the mountain flanks, sometimes high above the foot of the
valley, and sometimes by the river's bank. It is towards the end of
January, and snow has been falling for several days on end. All the
country is quite white, and the small villages in the valley are almost
hidden.

Now we come to three lakes in a row, the Lake of Bienne, the Lake of
Neuchatel, and the great Lake of Geneva, which we reach at the town of
Lausanne. Here the snow has ceased to fall, and the beautiful Alps of
Savoy are visible to the south. The sun is hidden behind clouds, but its
rays are reflected by the clear mirror of the lake. This view is one of
the finest in the world, and our eyes are glued to the carriage window
as the train follows the shore of Geneva.

In outline the lake is like a dolphin just about to dive. At the
dolphin's snout lies Geneva, and here the river Rhone flows out of the
lake to run to Lyons and debouch into the Mediterranean immediately to
the west of the great port of Marseilles.

Geneva is one of the finest, cleanest, and most charming towns in the
world. Between its northern and southern halves the water of the lake,
deep blue and clear as crystal, is drawn off into the Rhone as into a
funnel. There the current is strong, and the river is divided into two
by a long island.

The finest sight, however, is the view south-eastwards when the weather
is clear. There stand the mighty summits and crests of the Alps of
Savoy, now covered with snow, and glittering in white, light blue, and
steely grey tints. There also Mont Blanc is enthroned above the other
mountains, nay, above all Europe, awesome and grand, the crown of the
Alps, the frontier pillar between Switzerland, France, and Italy.

From Geneva we go eastwards along the northern shore of the lake. The
air is hazy, and the Alps of Savoy look like a light veil beneath the
sun. In this light the water is of a bright green like malachite. Beyond
Lausanne the mist disappears, and the Alps again appear dazzling white
and steep as pyramids and towers. Towns, villages, and villas cast
reflections of their white or coloured house-fronts and their light
balconies on the lake. The shore is lined by a row of hotels surrounded
by gardens and promenades. Travellers come hither from all countries in
summer to feast their eyes on the Alps and strengthen their lungs by
inhaling the fresh air.

We leave the lake and mount gently up the Rhone valley between wild
rocks. It becomes narrower as we ascend. The Rhone, a tumultuous stream,
roars in its bed, now quite insignificant compared to the majestic river
at Geneva. In the valley tilled fields are laid out, dark green spruces
peep out of the snow on the slopes, while above all the snow-white
summits of the Alps are enthroned.

A few minutes beyond Brieg the train rushes at full speed straight into
the mountain. The electric lamps are lighted and all the windows closed.
The tunnel is filled with smoke, and a continuous reverberation dins our
ears. The Simplon tunnel is the longest in the world, being 12-1/2 miles
long. It is only a few years since it was completed. Work was begun from
both sides of the mountain at the same time, and when the excavations
met in the middle and a blasting charge burst the last sheet of rock, it
was found that the calculations had not been an inch out. After fully
twenty minutes it begins to grow light, and when the train rolls out of
the tunnel we are on Italian ground.

The train now descends a lovely valley to the shore of Lago Maggiore.
Framed in steep mountains, the dark blue lake contains a small group of
islands, full of white houses, palaces, and gardens. One of these is
well known by the name of Isola Bella, or the Beautiful Island.

Night hides from our eyes the plains of Lombardy, Milan with its famous
cathedral, the bridge over the Po, and then a number of famous old
towns, including Bologna with its university about fifteen hundred years
old.

Next morning, however, we see to the south-west something like a flaming
beacon. It is the gilded dome of St. Peter's Church, which, caught by
the rays of the rising sun, shines like a fire above the eternal city.

THE ETERNAL CITY

The King of Italy has 35 million subjects, but in Rome lives another
mighty prince, the Pope, though his kingdom is not of this world. His
throne is the chair of St. Peter, his arms the triple tiara and the
crossed keys which open and close the gates of the kingdom of heaven. He
has 270 million subjects, the Roman Catholics. For political reasons he
is a voluntary prisoner in the Vatican, a collection of great palaces
containing more than 10,000 halls and apartments. There also are
installed museums, libraries, and collections of manuscripts of vast
extent and value. The Vatican museum of sculpture is the richest in the
world. In the Sistine Chapel, a sanctuary 450 years old, Michael Angelo
adorned the roof with great pictures of the creation of the world and
man, of the Fall and the Flood, and at the end wall an immense picture
of the Last Judgment. To the west of the palace stands the Pope's
gardens and park, and to the south the Church of St. Peter, the largest
temple in Christendom. The whole forms a small town of itself; and this
town is one of the greatest in the world, a seat of art and learning,
and, above all, the focus of a great religion. For from here the Pope
sends forth his bulls of excommunication against heretics and sinners,
and here he watches over his flock, the Catholics, in accordance with
the Saviour's thrice repeated injunction to Peter: "Feed my sheep."

A drive through Rome is intensely interesting. The streets are mostly
narrow and crooked, and we are always turning corners, driving across
small triangular open places and in lanes where it is ticklish work to
pass a vehicle coming in the opposite direction. Yet no boulevards, no
great streets in the world, can rival in beauty the streets of Rome.
They are skirted by old grey palaces built thousands of years ago rather
than centuries, decorated with the most splendid window frames, friezes,
and colonnades. Every portal is a work of art; round every corner comes
a new surprise, a fountain with sea-horses and deities, a mediaeval
well, a moss-grown ruin of Imperial times, or a church with a tower
whence bells have rung for centuries over Rome.

And what a commotion there is in all these narrow streets! Here comes a
peasant driving his asses weighed down with baskets of melons and
grapes. There a boy draws a handcart piled up with apricots, oranges,
and nuts. Here we see men and women from the Campagna outside Rome, clad
in their national costume, in which dirty white and red predominate, the
men with black slouched hats, the women with white kerchiefs over their
hair. They are of dark complexion, but on the cheeks of the younger ones
the roses appear through the bronze. The patricians, the noble Romans
who roll by lazily in fine carriages, are much fairer, and indeed the
ladies are often as pale as if they had just left the cloister or were
ready for the bier. Boys run begging after the carriage, and poor
mothers with small infants in their arms beseech only a small coin.
There are many in Rome who live from hand to mouth. But all are
cheerful, all are comely.

Now we reach the bridge of St. Angelo over the muddy Tiber, and before
us stands the massive round tower of the castle of St. Angelo, which the
Emperor Hadrian built 1800 years ago as a mausoleum for himself. On the
left is the piazza of St. Peter, which, with its surrounding buildings,
its curved arcades, St. Peter's Church and the Vatican, is one of the
grandest in the world. Between its constantly playing fountains has
stood for 300 years an obelisk which the Emperor Caligula brought from
Egypt to adorn Rome. It witnessed wonderful events long before the time
of Moses. At its foot the children of Israel sang the melodies of their
country during their servitude. It was a decoration of Nero's circus,
and saw thousands of Christian martyrs torn to pieces by Gallic hounds
and African lions; and still it lifts itself 80 feet into the air in a
single block, untouched by time and the strife of men.

At the north side of the piazza is the gate of the Vatican, where the
Swiss Guards keep watch in antique red and yellow uniforms. Before us
are the great steps of St. Peter's Church. We enter the grand portico
and pass through one of the bronze doors into the church. All the
dimensions are so immensely great that we stop in astonishment. Now our
eyes lose themselves in sky-high vaulting, glittering with colour, and
now we admire the columns and their capitals, pictures in mosaic or
monuments in marble. Rome was not built in a day, says the proverb, and
St. Peter's Church alone was the work of 120 years and twenty Popes.
Italy's foremost artists, including Raphael and Michael Angelo, put the
best of their energies into the building of this temple, where is the
tomb of the Apostle Peter. The great church contains a bronze statue of
the Apostle Peter in a sitting position, and the right foot is worn and
polished by the kisses of the faithful. High above in the vaulting over
his head is to be seen the following inscription in Latin:--"Thou art
Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church, and I will give unto
thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven."

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