eats,
prayers, temptations, left him untouched. This man of ice,
self-possessed, cold, indifferent to the ruin of the thousands of
victims of his will, had a fad or fancy. It was for raising red and
white roses, and while the mad throngs were fluttering in frenzy around
the tables in his halls at Homburg, Wiesbaden and Monte Carlo, he, hoe
or trowel in hand, would be training and transplanting his roses,
solicitous over an opening bud or deploring the ravages of an insect;
or, again, refusing all invitations, would sit down with his wife to a
dinner of boiled turnips and bacon, washed down with a glass of Vichy
water and milk. This was the town and these the scenes constantly
occurring there.

Now for my adventure. In 1870, just before the war cloud burst, covering
all that part of the world, I was stopping for some weeks at the Hotel
Nassau. It stands in the main street, opposite the park gate leading to
the Casino. All the world went to Wiesbaden to be amused. However
fashionable frivolity and vice may be elsewhere, here it was strictly de
rigueur, and to pretend to decency and sobriety would be to stamp one's
self a heathen and barbarian, all unversed in the glorious
flower-wreathed Primrose Way of our orb.

The daily routine for the throng began with coffee in bed at 8 a.m.,
then dressing gowns were donned, and the bath in underground floors of
the hotel were sought and a bath had in the hot mineral waters, which
were conducted to all the hotels direct from the hot springs of the
town. Half an hour in the bath, then a light breakfast, preparatory to
sallying out for an hour on the Spaziergang around the Quellen to drink
the water, listen to the band, see and be seen, but, above all, to
gossip and tell lies. At 11 a.m. the gambling began in the Casino, and
with a rush the seats around the tables would be filled. Then speedily
there would be rows behind rows of eager players or spectators, and what
a sight it all was to the cool-headed observer.

With what keen interest all watched the result of the first turn of the
card at the card tables and the color of the first hit at roulette. For
all gamblers are superstitious, and are devout believers in omens. Those
whose luck or pocketbooks held out gambled steadily on, or, if luck
turned against them, would leave the table, go to do some fantastic
thing to change their luck and then return. At 2 p.m. the band (a very
fine one) played in the Musik Saal, and most of the i