nd expect to see sprites and nymphs, so hidden are its
windings; and where in all the world will a handkerchief cover an Ulm,
an Augsburg, a Rothenburg, Ansbach, Nuremberg, Wuerzburg, with their
wealth of associations?

The Fugger family, of Augsburg, tell us again that there is nothing
new in the world. Five hundred years ago they were millionaires. One
of these Fuggers had a voice even in the election of Charles V, and we
are still hard at it trying to keep our Fuggers from meddling in
politics. Another Fugger, Marcus by name, wrote a capital book on the
horse in the sixteenth century, and at the last horse-show at Olympia,
in 1912, a Fugger came over from Germany and took away the first prize
for officers' chargers. So far flung was their fame as money-lenders
that usury was called "Fuggerei"!

Heirs of great houses got out of hand then as now, and Duke Albert III
of Bavaria married Agnes Bernauer, the barber's daughter, and even the
Archduke Ferdinand of Austria ran off with Fraeulein Welser. One
citizen of Augsburg fitted out a squadron to take possession of
Venezuela, which had been given him by the Emperor Charles V. For some
reason the squadron did not sail; Lord Salisbury and President
Cleveland could have told this adventurous Augsburger that he was
better off at home!

Bishop Boniface, of Wuerzburg, was an Englishman, and his father was a
wheelwright. He put cart-wheels in his coat-of-arms, and they have
remained to this day in the arms of the town, a fine reminder to
snobbery that ancestry only explains, it cannot exalt.

"Pigmies are pigmies still, though perch'd on Alps,
And pyramids are pyramids in vales."

The atmosphere in these towns is one of repose. They are still wise
enough to know that the miraculous improvements in speed brought about
by steam and electricity have not shortened the journey of the soul to
heaven by one second. They know that Socrates on a donkey really goes
faster than Solly Goldberg in his sixty-horse-power motor-car. They
are suspicious of the new cosmopolitan creed, that successful
advertising endows a man with eternal life. Countless political quacks
have been caricatured, advertised, and cinematographed into
familiarity, but wise men still read Plato and Aristotle. The penny
press has not convinced them that popularity is immortality; they
recognize popularity as merely glory paid in pennies. They partake to
some extent of the patience of the Oriental. They suspect, as