The daily morning journal and courier. [volume] (New Haven, Conn.) 1894-1907, 1899-11-04
A REST IN GERMANY.
SOME OF THE BE4 UlIES AROUND
WETMAR.
At Farmhouse-WaIks and Talks
A Princess and Her Tragedy,


To the Editor of the Journal and Courier
"A man can never have too much
time to himself nor too little to do"
There is the true spirit of holiday-mak-
ing. But how rare it is. To many of
us the world clings very closely, and
retired leisure in shady gardens retires
very far indeed out of sight. Yet it is
so near, at our very doors, all the time
that we are consulting guide books and
time tables. Time tables! What does
time in this matter, unless it serve to
remind US of our happy estate? 1T is
the clinic-hour, and | am strangely out
in this delightful old shady garden"
the thought comes with FASH and we
are filled with the gladness of freedom;
but who would measure by mere world
ly reckonings the bliss of the lotus-eat-
er? Maybe he is born, and not made;
yet the root of the matter is often with
in, if we would but make dilligent
search till we find it. Doubtless in this
Imperfect world man must still take
means to arrive at ends, and even he
who would live the true contemplative
life may not wholly refrain from action.
There is the place where, and the time
when, to flee the stir and tumult of
modern life, there is the kind and
amount of baggage with which he must
burden himself Withal, for even the per-
fected. lotus-eater cannot find meat
drink and clothing solely in the magic
flower. For all these things he must
take thought, yet they are problems
simple of solution. Consider the last
first. There is no question but that,
books must bulk largely amongst our
impedimenta, books for many moods,
sad, gay, serious or light heartedly tr-
fling. Cushions, too, have their place,
and a stea'mer-chair; it takes Socrates
to dream standing.
For the place, let it not be far dis
tant; travelling and holiday making are
two mutual exclusives. 1t must be
primitive yet not rude; solitary, but
companionable; beautiful, though with
quiet, restful beauty making no over
whelming demands upon the emotions
For the time, let it not be September
Months have their characters just as
some folks say souls have their shapes
and colors. September is a lonely
month, full of strange sense of home
lessness, which is perhaps why an I'M
thinking world is wont then to wander
ing none In the city the familiar
streets assume a once an unfamiliar
aspect; they are thronged by the tour
lists in their thousands and peopled by
the bourgeois of every continental CAPT
tai. You may mingle with the crowd, |
but you are absolutely alone. stranger
and a pilgrim even on the pavements of |
Munchen. To seek refuge in the coun-
49, u, e.
solitude for another. September is the /
silent month the years dull middle-age |
when the ringing of birds is past True
1t is the time of gathering in, but the
reapers leave the fields desolate behind I
them, and the evening winds shiver /
through the darkefling trees with chill
whisper of coming winter, the sigh Of a
world that has not yet accepted cheer
fully the passing of youth. 1t was in
the first part of August that / returned
to this ideal place for an holiday; Au
gust, when the air was musical with
larks-of whose ancestors Goethe has so
often written-and the soft summer
ind SWEET through the long grass and
daisies, making ripple of silvery
waves over the meadows. Weimar has
often been written of in Germany,
though. so far as I am aware, nothing
In English has yet appeared.
The walks in the neighborhood Of
Wemar are, to me, the most beautiful
Even the environs of Paris cannot APP
proach them in charm. Fifteen tiny
villages lie within two hours walk of
the town, and the way to each is sim
ply lovely. The other day I set off past
the quaint old F'riedhof (of which l
hope to write in another letter., and
then entered upon lane that seemed to
lead nowhere. Little by little the lane
became a mere foot-path, rooted in by
towering hedges, and foxgloves stood
up tall on either side there IS a suspi-
cious dampness and wa faint trickle of {
water under the long green grass, which ,
gave point to what [ had heard of the
springs that in winter made the lane I
and compelled conveyance |
In the proper vehicle of Thuringen. I |
had only a small rucksack or 1napsack t
with me, but with that nice sense of i
fitness, which Is of the ESSENCE of true {
the coming guest was t
greeted by farmer in his working I
clothes. q had sent card to the post f
master asking if one of the villagers /
could take in a Wanderer for a day or q
'o) leading his team and prepared to (
convey his guest in a wagon smelling of E
sweet hay and clover. But to climb up i
he shady lane was both to avoid the h
lusty highway and to outdistance the u
wagon The track widened again into O
What was called by courtesy a driving $
DAD" ! came to know that driving il
Dad, for it was the only way of arriv- t
ng at such civiliza ton as the village of 7
afforded; the slightest g
hummer shower converted it into a o
umpy mass of clay, over which you o
Tipped and stumbled like clumsy e
kater on uneven ice, catching at n
,rambles and briars by the way, and il
neditating on the merits of rough shoe W
n.y. One came through gate to the V
Oh of a hill, here the track skirted W
eld, and sloping woods for a time hid b
he distant view, 1t was a wild, beau b.
iful place, seemingly miles away from HI
he little wayside station and the Y
hurch and the pastors house, with p
ares scouting about and now and Il
gain the distant call of a pheasant. A N
udden gap in the trees and there lay S.