uous flood from its sources instead of lying full

and

placid in the chan

nels which it cut

for itself in its first impetuous sweep. That

charm is complex and subtle; rooted in ancient ways and works, expressing itself in forms that stir forgotten associations or stimulate the imagination or captivate the eye; in their power, above all things, to take a man out of his own age and weave about him the enchantments of an art that was the natural language of men who were

not

Modern life is everywhere, after the fashion of vigorous epochs, making itself comfortable by tearing down and rebuilding, precisely as its fathers did in their time and their fathers did before them; for the instinct of the vital age is not to preserve, but to create. The tides of life are as swift and deep in Europe as they are in America, and they are fast sweeping away much of the quaintness, the charm, the enchantment of the past. Much of that past survives in cities which, around a little core

con

on very imperfect knowledge of the conditions which they have superseded.

In no country is the contrast between the old and the new more striking than in Germany, which has transformed its life in the last twenty years with a deliberateness of method and a definiteness of aim possible only among a highly organized and thoroughly educated people. There are many towns in Germany in which one finds the contrast between the old

and the new presented in startling distinctness. At Nuremberg the withered trunk of the tree planted by Queen Cunigunde in the courtyard of the castle is still guarded, while from the walls one sees the far-spreading environs of a modern city encompassing and protecting the ancient quarter where Hans Sachs sang over his last, and Dürer etched or painted, and Adam Kraft carved. In Rothenburg, in narrow street, red roof piled against the sky, and encircling wall with bastion and moat, one finds the mediæval surviving in almost unimpaired integrity.

To these old cities Americans have gone in great numbers and found immense delight. But while these cities of the southeast have drawn an increasing host of pilgrims, few have discovered Lübeck and Hildesheim, cities of the northwest. Within a little more than an hour's journey by rail from Hamburg, only ten miles from a popular resort on the Baltic, Lübeck remains almost unvisited. The writer was still thinking of the vision of the English fleet, eighteen great ships abreast, coming in majestic silence up from the horizon, as he crossed the Baltic; it was Saturday night, the rain was falling and the landscape was growing dim in the darkening mist, when a city suddenly swept into view. A line of lofty spires, rising in the uncertain light, defined its length from gate to gate; it lay surrounded with waters in which lights were gleaming; and its walls, reclaimed from the uses of war for those of peace, were green and overhung with trees. It was a charming picture, framed in verdure, touched with tremulous lights, which we saw through the veil of rain.

When we looked at the city by daylight, the elements which invested it with glamour at twilight were readily discerned. It lies on an island of no great size, the Trave, fed by the Elbe, completely inclosing it; walks and trees in ancient order follow the river round the city and make the shores a park except for a little space surrendered to trade. Around the outer circle of the river there is an almost continuous park, and beyond it some of the most charming modern houses in Germany; for the straining after effect, the sensationalism of what is called the art nouveau, as it

shows its influence in architecture, is almost wholly lacking. The houses are simple and dignified in line and structure, and surrounded by ample spaces of green. The effect of the old city encircled by the new, with zones of foliage and water between, is singularly beautiful; and Lübeck must be ranked among the most striking cities in Europe.

Almost every bridge brings one to an ancient gate of great size and of most interesting mediæval design-massive structures of brick large enough to be fortified ; for Lübeck was the center and remains the custodian of a notable movement in Gothic building. Its gates, Rathaus, churches, and houses are the record of a vigorous and original artistic impulse and of a striking and impressive artistic achievement. Its churches may be said to have imposed a new style of ecclesiastical building which has enriched all northern Germany. Nowhere in northern Europe has brick as a material been used with so much freedom, originality, and power. Here, as everywhere, the character of the material conditioned the architecture; and here, as elsewhere, in accordance with the law of life, the creative man turned what must have appeared, to weaker and more imitative builders, limitations, into incentive, suggestion, opportunity for bold and impressive design. Compelled to deny themselves the play of imagination in rich decorative effects, they concentrated their genius on structure, and secured from space, strength, boldness of treatment, the effects which richly carven capitals, delicately and intricately fashioned columns, and profusion of ornamentation put within the reach of the masters of the Gothic form in France.

There is no flowering of stone in Lübeck, but there is structural beauty of a very noble kind. Great impressiveness is secured by vast wall spaces, broken by molding stones and by a noble handling of vaulted ceilings. The very difficulties presented by the material bore fruit in the strength, dignity, and elevation of massive structure and the space and reach of great halls. The spires of the cathedral and of the other churches are carried to a great height in simple lines which reveal the audacity