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Brill Nijhoff. Brill Wageningen Academic. Brill Fink. Brill mentis. Author Portal. Fonts, Scripts and Unicode. Data Sharing Policy. Brill MyBook. Ordering from Brill. Author Newsletter. Piracy Reporting Form. Catalogs, Flyers and Price Lists. How to Manage your Online Holdings. Sales Managers and Sales Contacts. Ordering From Brill. LibLynx Access Management. Discovery Services. MARC Records. Online User and Order Help. Titles No Longer Published by Brill. Latest Key Figures. Latest Financial Press Releases and Reports. Annual General Meeting of Shareholders. Share Information. Specialty Products. Open Access. Open Access for Authors. Transformative Agreements. Open Access and Research Funding. Open Access for Librarians. Open Access for Academic Societies. About us. Stay updated. Corporate Social Responsiblity. Investor Relations. Review a Brill Book. Rights and Permissions. Press and Reviews. Reference Works. Primary source collections. How to publish with Brill. Open Access Content. Contact us. Sales contacts. Publishing contacts. Social Media Overview. Terms and Conditions. Privacy Statement. Login to my Brill account Create Brill Account. Author: Harry W. Wine has always been a part of popular medicine. Bacchic Medicine analyses the historical role of wine in the treatment of disease and preservation of health. The Hippocratic texts gave wine therapy a canonical statement over two millennia ago; but the nineteenth century was the golden age of alcohol and wine therapy. The Germans and the British gave us early canons of wine therapy and, heavily endowed with wine cultural capital, the French followed. In the twentieth century, many doctors rallied to the defence of wine both as a substitute for more dangerous alcoholic drinks and as an efficacious medicament, with an impressive case for the efficacy of wine in fighting bacteria, heart disease and cancer. New science based on animal models and ionic theory fortified their arguments. Bacchic Medicine also discusses the contemporary debate over the role of alcohol and wine in preventive medicine. Copyright Year: E-Book PDF. Login via Institution. Prices from excl. View PDF Flyer. Contents About. Pages: i— Pages: 25— Pages: 57— Pages: — Biographical Note Harry W. Paul is professor of history at the University of Florida. The latter led to some experimenting with wine therapy and the writing of Bacchic Medicine. Alcohol Therapy 4. Establishing the Scientific Basis of an Ancient Remedy 8. The Civilisation of Wine and the Organisation of Doctors Bibliography Indices. Save Cite Email this content Share link with colleague or librarian You can email a link to this page to a colleague or librarian:. Your current browser may not support copying via this button. History of Medicine. Dental Practice in Europe at the End of the 18th Century. The Imperial Laboratory. Sign in to annotate. Delete Cancel Save. Cancel Save. View Expanded. View Table. View Full Size. Middle East and Islamic Studies. Ancient Near East and Egypt. Human Rights and Humanitarian Law. International Relations. Slavic and Eurasian Studies. Languages and Linguistics. Book History and Cartography. Theology and World Christianity. Literature and Cultural Studies. Stay Updated. Mission Statement. Imprints and Trademarks. Corporate Governance. Email Newsletter Sign-up Pages. Corporate Social Responsibility. Brill Podcasts. Conference and Book Fairs. Offices Worldwide. Policies and Forms. Acquisition Editors.

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Bad Gastein buy MDMA pills

We did better. The great Salzburg plain is a goodly sight of a morning ; circling meadows for miles, walled at last by mountains which are so far and so green that it is not easy to believe them six and eight thousand feet high ; through the meadows the sluggish Salzach River ; in the middle ofthe meadows, and on the river, the shining Salzburg town ; in the middle of the town, high up on a rocky crag, the silent Salzburg castle, gray, turreted, and sure to last as long as the world. Those old Archbishops of Salzburg knew how to live. Wherever one comes upon traces of them, one is impressed with their worldly wisdom. The impregnable castle of Salzburg for a stronghold, with the Monchsberg for pleasure-grounds, a riding-school cut out of solid rock for exercise, Heilbrunn water-works for amusement, and the Baths of Gastein for health and long life, — what more could these jolly old King Coles ask, except the privilege to kill all who disagreed with them? And that little privilege also they enjoyed for some years, enlarging it by every possible ingenuity of cruelty, as many stone dungeons with racks and oubliettes still bear witness. Four hours steadily up, up. Franz does not urge his horses so much as he might. The nigh horse has no conscience, and shirks abominably on the hills. We cross the Salzach, which grows muddy and rough, lighting bravely to bring down all the logs it can ; we leave the wonderful Durrenberg Mountain with its three-galleried salt-mine, and we march steadily out towards the Tannengebirge, which looks more and more threatening every minute. Clouds wheel round its top. We know, though we try not to believe, that storms are making ready : they never look, not they, to see who or what they may drown or hinder. Down the rain pours, and we dash dripping into the basement story of the inn at Golling. It was like an Italian inn ; carriages, and horses, and donkeys, and dogs, and cocks, and peasants, and hay, and grain, and dirt, and dampness, all crowded under and among damp arches of whitewashed stone, with only two ways of escape ; — the low, broad door through which we had driven in, and the rocky stairs up into the heart of the house. How pitilessly the rain fell! Who of all the gods cared that we wanted that evening to see the waterfall of the Schwarzbach, the finest in all the German Alps, and that if we did not see it then we should never see it, because early the next day we must on to Gastein? Still it rained. Why should one not see a waterfall in a rain? They would not put one another out. This was clearly the thing to be done. Ah, how long the poor damp man, who took me in an einspanner to see that waterfall, will remember the smiling, merciless American, who sat silent, unterrified, and dry, behind the stout leather boot, and went over meadow, through gate, across stream, up gully, in the midst of thunder and lightning and whirling sheets of rain, and never once relented in her purpose of seeing the Schwarzbach! Poor fellow! This I had not understood before leaving the inn. I never saw a Tyrolese man or woman who would say that a place was far off. You might as well expect a goat or a chamois to know distances. However, if he had said it was ever so far, I should have kept on. I did not need her, for there wound the prophetic little brown path very plain among the trees ; but it was a delight to see her flitting along before me. Bare-footed, bare-legged, bare-headed, bare-necked, bare-armed, she did not lack so very much of being bare all over; and I do not suppose she would have minded it any more than a squirrel, if she had been. She looked back pityingly at me, seeing how much my civilized gear hindered me from keeping, up with her, as she sprang from tree-root to tree-root, and hopped from stone to stone in the water, — for in many places the path was already under water. On the right hand foamed the stream, not broad, but deep, and filled with great mossy boulders which twisted and turned it at every step ; on the right fir-trees and larches and still more mossy boulders. Every green thing glistened, and trickled, and dripped ; moss shone like silver ; and bluebells — ah, I think I alone know just how bluebells manage in wet weather! Nobody else ever saw so many in one half-hour of glorious rain. Soon I heard the voice of the fall ; a sudden turn in the path and I saw it ; but I looked for the first few seconds more at Undine. She stood, poised like a bird, on an old tree-stump, pointing to the fall, and gazing at me with an expression of calm superiority. The longer I looked the more inscrutable seemed the waterfall, and the wiser Undine, till I felt as I might in standing by the side of Belzoni before an Egyptian inscription. How well she understood it, this little wild thing as much of kin to it as the bluebells or the pine-trees! But while I looked she was gone, darting up a steep path to the left, and calling me to follow. There was more, then? Yes, more. O wonderful Schwarzbach Fall! It will mean little to people who read, when I say that it shoots out of a cavern in two distinct streams ; they blend in one, which falls one hundred and sixty feet between craggy rocks, takes a cautious step or two, wading darkly under a natural bridge of giant rocks and pines, and then leaps off one hundred and seventy feet more in one wide torrent, with veils of silver threads on each side, and a never-ceasing smoke of spray. Even destiny itself winces a little before a certain sort and amount of determination. Finding me actually face to face with the waterfall, and as thoroughly wet, the storm stayed itself a little, and rent the clouds here and there for me to look off into the grand distances. No sunny day could have given half such delight. Neither did we miss it, clambering down and in under umbrellas. It is an uncanny place, where thousands of years ago the Salzach River cut a road for itself through mountains of rock, and never went back to see what it had left. Scooped out into arched and moulded hollows, piled up in bridge above bridge, damming up half the river at a time and then letting it fly, there stand the giant rocks to this day only half conquered. Yellow timbers from the mountains were being whirled through, now drawn under as if in a maelstrom, now shot swift as huge arrows over ledges of slippery dark stone. In the Pass Lueg was just room for the river and us ; and if it had not been for shelves of plank here and there, the river would have had all the road. Now, a company of Austrian sportsmen owns the lodge, and the castle of Hohenwerfen is used for barracks of Austrian soldiers. At Werfen we contracted friendship with a shoemaker, who, with his wife, three children, and three apprentices, lives, sleeps, and sews in one stone chamber, up three flights of stone ladder, a few doors from the inn. I can recommend him as a good man who will put a new heel to an old boot and no questions asked. Just beyond Werfen we passed a panorama of mill privilege never to be forgotten ; eight tiny brown wooden mills, one close above the other, on the side of a hill, and the white stream leaping patiently over wheel after wheel, all the way to the bottom of the hill, like a circus-rider through hoops. What could decide men bringing grain to be ground, whether to go to the top or the bottom mill? It seemed that the eighth miller up, or down, must stand a poor chance of business. From Werfen to our bedroom at Schwarzach we did not cease to exclaim at the beauty of the fields and roadsides. Hollyhocks ruled the gardens, — superb stalking creatures, black and claret, and white, and rose - pink and canary - yellow, — and all as double as double could be. Crowded along the roadsides, the forever half-awake bluebells nodded and nodded on their wonderful necks, which are always just going to break, but never do. Fields of hemp we saw, and took it for a privileged weed until we were told better. Linseed we saw too, in great slippery dark-blue patches, and in the midst of all Franz suddenly reined up in front of the Schwarzach Inn. Ah, that Schwarzach landlady! She little dreamed how droll she looked as she stood pompously courtesying in her doorway, with her broad-brimmed black felt hat jammed down over her eyebrows like a thatch. Her figure was so square and puffy, it looked as if it had feathers inside, and was made to be sold at a fair, to stick pins in. At the crease of her waist a huge bunch of keys bobbed about incessantly, never finding any spot where they could lie still. Two tables full of Schwarzach men with beer and pipes, and two lattice-work cages of hens and cocks, we passed to go up to the first floor of the inn. O, the pride of the pincushion landlady in her feather-beds, her linen, her blankets, her crockery! She had come of the family of a Herr Somebody, though she did keep an inn and serve beer to peasants. Her family coat of arms hung in my bedroom, opposite a museum in a cupboard with glass doors. The contents of this museum were only to be explained on the supposition that they were the aggregate result of a century of Christmas-tree. Not an article in the protective tariff of the United States but had been wrought into some queer shape and put away in this Schwarzach cupboard; mysteries of wax, glass, china, worsted, paper, leather, bone. Most distinctly of all I remember a white wax face stuck on top of an egg-shell painted red, with a bit of green fringe for neck, and a bit of black wood for a leg. This impish thing grinned at me all night. In this inn is a table round which the leaders of the Protestant peasants met in and took a solemn oath to leave the country rather than abandon their new faith. I left Gastein an hour ago. Four horses now, and Franz is glad if we all walk. What triumph for a road to keep foothold on these precipices! Small bits of the stone lie in your hand like strips of old drift-wood, and crumble between your fingers almost as readily ; so that you glance uneasily at the walls of it, to right one thousand feet above your head, and to left one thousand feet more of walls of it, down, down to the boiling river. If some giant were to give a stout pinch to a ton or so of it while you pass, it would be bad. We are glad it is. August, and walk faster. The larches and bluebells and thyme rock away undisturbed, however, and keep the cliffs green and bright and spicy. Here is heath, too, the first we had seen, fairiest of lowly blossoms, with tiny pink bells in stifi thick rows fringed with green needlepoints of leaves : it crowds the thyme out and makes its purple look dull and coarse. The Ache seemed to us a most riotous river, all through the Klamme. W e never dreamed that we were looking at its sober middle age, and that it had sown its wildest oats far up the Gastein valley. That is probably one reason it looks so mischievous all through the pass. It knows that people believe it to be doing its best leaping, and it laughs as an old woman who had had mad triumphs in her youth might to hear herself called gay at fifty. It was through this Klamme that the rich and haughty Dame Weitmoser was riding one day, when she refused to give alms to an old beggar-woman who stood by the roadside. Then hitting the beggar-woman across the face with her riding-whip, she galloped off. Very pale she turned, but no one knew the reason. Legends differ as to the close of the story, some killing the haughty, hard-hearted woman off, in season for Herr Weitmoser to marry again and accumulate another fortune ; others making her live to repent in her bitter poverty, and, after she had become so kind and benevolent that she shared her little freely with her fellowpoor, giving back to them tenfold their original wealth. At any rate, the Herr Weitmoser is buried at Hof-Gastein ; for did we not see the stone effigy of him on a slab in the little church? He lies flat on his back, in puffed sleeves and enormous boots, and two of his gold-miners stand guarding him, one at his head and one at his feet, with lifted hammers in their hands. At the entrance of this pass, also, is the chapel of Ethelinda, scene of a still wilder story, and, better than all, one which is believed to be strictly true. Ethelinda was the wife of another of the rich Weitmosers, who owned the gold-mines in the Radhausberg. Men are alike in all centuries. This lover hid himself in the chapel while the funeral rites were being performed. A terrible thunder-storm made the fearful place still more fearful. By light of the sharp flashes he saw the face of the woman he loved. He bent over to kiss her. The pains of childbirth are upon me! Hasten, or it will be too late! But he thinks better of it, and, hand in hand, they hurry to the chapel. Angels have been before them, and succored the mother and child. They find Ethelinda kneeling on the altar steps, with her babe in her arms. History wisely forbore to encumber the narrative with any details of how embarrassing it was for them all to live in the same village after this ; but in the same little church of Hof-Gastein, where is the picture of Ethelinda in her graveclothes, kneeling on the altar steps holding up her child to the Virgin, are the gravestones of Christopher Weitmoser and his wife and children, from which we can understand that time had the same excellent knack then, as now, of curing that sort of wound. The Gastein valley reveals itself cautiously by instalments, being in three plateaus. We wondered and were silent. Miles farther on another sharp ascent and another valley. The houses elbow each other and are hideous, and the Ache takes a nap in the marshy meadows. Steadily we climbed on : one mile, two miles, three miles, up hill. Snow mountains came into view. The Ache began to caper and tumble. Cold air blew in our faces : this was the noon weather of Gastein. Pink heath bordered the road ; bushes of it, mats of it ; it seemed a sin to scatter so much of anything so lovely'. Dark fir woods stretched and met over our heads ; gleams of houses came through. For, knows the world any other green and snow-circled village which holds a waterfall three hundred feet high in its centre? One hesitates at first whether to say the waterfall is in the town, or the town in the waterfall, so inextricably mixed up are they ; so noisy is the waterfall and so still is the town. Some of the houses hang over the waterfall ; some of the threads of the waterfall wriggle into the gardens. The longer you stay the more you feel that the waterfall is somehow at the bottom of everything. From one side to other of this valley an arrow might easily fly. Both walls are green almost to the very top with pastures and fir woods, and dotted with little brown houses, which look as if birds had taken to building walled nests on the ground and roofing them over. To the west the wall is an unbroken line. Behind it the sun drops early in the afternoon like a plummet. Sunset in Gastein is no affair of the almanac. Every point has its own calendar. Long after Gastein — or BadGastein, as we ought to begin to call it — is in shadow, Hof-Gastein, in the open meadow three miles below, is yellow with sun. Thus the view from the west side of the valley has far more beauty and variety. When the cold water went in, some of the pent-up hot water jumped at the chance of getting out: hence the famous hot springs, great marvel and blessing of Gastein. There are eighteen of these hot springs, some trickling slowly from the rocks, some bubbling out in the very midst of the cold water of the cascade. They make the best of their loopholes of escape, coming into town at rate of one hundred and thirty-two thousand cubic feet every twenty-four hours. The water is perfectly colorless and tasteless ; yet the list of sulphates and chlorides, etc. The recipe is an old one, and probably good, though it sounds formidable. The legend of its discovery is, that in the year three hunters, following a wounded stag, found him bathing his wounds in one of these hot springs, whose vapor attracted their attention. A little later the Romans, seeking after gold and silver, penetrated to the valley and found living there two holy men named Primus and Felicianus. This was in the days of Rupert, the first of the Salzburg Archbishops. Primus and Felicianus were carried prisoners to Rome and thrown to the lions in the Coliseum. But they still live as the Patron Saints of Gastein. The Salzburg Archbishops kept possession of the valley until late in the seventeenth century. Then it went through half a century of political and religious warfares, passing from the Archbishops to other rulers, then to Bavaria, and finally to Austria, which still holds it. There is an Austrian commandant at St. But still the church holds sway. There is a Roman Catholic curate in every village, a magnificent Catholic church going up in the very centre of Bad-Gastein, and nobody can stay two days in the town without being visited by sweet-voiced Sisters of Charity in black, who ask, and are sure to get, alms for the poor in the name of Primus and Felicianus. Life in Gastein begins bewilderingly for the newly arrived. How it began for us I would not dare to tell. But not the most experienced and cautious traveller in the world can be sure of escaping an experience like ours. He will have telegraphed beforehand for rooms, having read in his Murray that Wildbad-Gastein in August is so crowded with the nobility of Russia, Germany, and Austria that it is not safe to go there without this precaution. At end of that day Lord A — is coming to take the apartment for a month. There can be nothing on earth like the problem of lodging at Bad-Gastein in August, except jumping for life from cake to cake of ice in the Polar Sea. It is very exciting and amusing for a time, if the cakes are not too far apart. In the mean time, you eat your breakfast on the cake where you have slept, your dinner on the road to the next one, and your tea when you get there. Very good are the breakfasts and teas in all these lodging-houses, served by smiling, white - aproned housekeepers, who kiss your hand in token of allegiance, and bring you roses and forgetme-nots on your name day, if they happen to find out what it is. Good butter, milk, raspberries, strawberries, blueberries, figs, tomatoes, grapes, pears, plums, eggs, — all these you can have for the asking ; bread which is white and fine, and which they think delicious who have not communed with Liebig and learned to ask for the good, nutritious brans. But with the milk and the fruit and now and then a resolute pull at the native black bread, anise-seed and all, one can breakfast and tea happily. But when you ask for dinner, the face of nature changes. What may be in these tubs, Heaven forbid that I should try to describe. Who lives to dine had better not go to Gastein ; in fact, who cannot get along without dining had better stay away. These hearty, strong, tireless Germans, who climb a mountain or two of a morning for summer pleasure, find it nowise unsatisfactory to stop anywhere on the road, and eat anything for dinner. They do it as naturally as goats nibble a living from one rock to-day and another to-morrow. They are better off than we in being so much less wedded to routine ; but it is a freedom not easy to acquire. For the average American to sleep in one house, breakfast in a second, dine in a third, tea in a fourth, and sleep again in a fifth, seems to turn life into a perpetual passover, not to be endured for many weeks at a time. Having made sure of a breakfast, and that Lord A, B, or C will not require your apartment before noon, you go out to look Gastein in the face, hear the sound and feel the heat of its wonderful waters. Water to right, water to left, cold water, warm water, hot water, water trickling from rocks, water running from spouts, water boiling out of sight and sending up steam, and in and around and above and beyond everything the great waterfall thundering down its three hundred feet, deafening you with noise however far you go, and drenching you with spray if you come near. He knows it thoroughly. Indeed he does. He may be said to have Gastein by heart. Between nine and eleven in the mornings there is a chance of finding Dr. At all other hours of the day they who wish to see him must watch and waylay him as sportsmen do game. Each man you ask will have seen him just the minute before running rapidly up or down some hill, but you will be wise not to attempt overtaking him. Words less subtile than his cannot draw the lines of a nature at once so electric, so simple, so pure, so wise, so enthusiastic, so gentle, so childlike, so strong. Reverently I ask his pardon for saying, even at this distance, this much. On the table in the room where Dr. These are the silent but eloquent witnesses which tell the secret of the naiad of Gastein. He has done this perhaps thousands of times, but the thousandth time and the first are alike to all true lovers of science, — to all true lovers in the world, for that matter. Yes, we see that the needle swings fifty degrees. Then he puts the battery into distilled water of the same temperature ; the needle swings but twenty degrees, into common well-water, same temperature, and it swings but fifteen. It would be the same if it were one hundred years old. Yes, the needle swings fifty degrees. I will show you how a very little of this magical water can electrlfv other water, just as one electric soul can electrify hundreds of commoner natures. We smile at this. It is not possible in the first moment to be lifted quite to the heights of Dr. But wait! The needle moves sluggishly, barely ten degrees. Yes, the needle moves barely ten degrees. Sure enough. The heavy boiled water is electrified into new life. The needle swings forty degrees! One is a little sobered by all this. It is nearer to the air of miracles than we commonly come. Under the impressive silent pointing of this magnetic needle - finger, we listened with grave faith to the account of the effect of these waters on wilted flowers. This is a curious experiment, often tried. Flowers which are to all appearance dead, if they are left for three days in this warm water hold up their heads, regain shape, color, fragrance, and live for several days more. No wonder that old madman Paracelsus thought he had discovered in the Gastein waters the elixir of life. No wonder that to-day the sweet wild paths of Gastein are crowded with old men seeking to be made young, or, at least, to be saved from growing older. Every year come many men, praying that they may not grow old ; but never yetone woman. Ah, we thought, perhaps the women are less honest than the men, and do not tell their motives. But there is not time to grow very superstitious over these tales of magic, for there is so much else to be seen. In the rear room of the office is the hot-vapor bath ; through a hole in the floor up comes the hot steam, heated no human being can tell how far down in the heart of the earth ; night and day the fires go ; for twelve hundred years the bath has been standing ready to steam people. Over the hole in the floor is a mysterious wooden structure, looking like a combination of pillory and threshing-machine. In five minutes, the doctor has shown, by a series of slippings and fittings and joinings, how, for every possible disease, every mentionable part of the body can be separately steamed, inch by inch, till one is cooked well. He wound up with imploring me to put my ear to the end of a long, narrow, wooden pipe which he screwed on the apparatus. I leaped. I should think it might be. In that second I had heard scouring through my brain all sorts of noises from spheres unknown. He would have been shocked to know that, to my inexperience, it seemed nothing less than a speaking-tube from the infernal regions. But we went nearer yet to the central fires. A peasant - woman keeps the key of this, and gets a little daily bread by opening it for strangers. She brought suits of stout twilled cloth for us to wear; but we declined them, having learned in the salt-mines of Hallein that, the inside of the earth being much cleaner than the outside, it is all nonsense to take such precautions about going in. A poor sick man who was painfully sitting still on a bench near the gate, seeing our preparations, came up and asked to join our party. I fancied that he had a desire to get a little nearer to the head-quarters of cure, and reassure himself by a sight of the miraculous spring. The peasant-woman went on before, carrying a small lantern, which twinkled like a very little good deed in the worst of worlds. The passage was very narrow and low. Overhead were stalactites of yellow and white ; the walls dripped ceaselessly ; the path was stony and wet. Hotter and hotter it grew as we went on. How much farther could we afford to go, at such geometrical ratio of beat? It was a very small stream, running out of the rock above her head fast enough to fill a cup in a few seconds, and almost boiling hot. I felt like crossing myself too. For rainy days — and those are, must we own it? Here the noble invalidism and untitled health and curiosity may walk, read, smoke, eat, trade, and sleep too, for aught I know. It is the oddest of places ; so many hundred feet of conservatory, with all sorts of human plants leaning against its sides, in tilted chairs ; I never grew weary of walking through it, or flattening my nose against its panes just behind the aristocratic shoulders of his Highness the Grand Chamberlain of — , as he sat reading some court journal or other. A little room at the end holds a piano and two tables covered with a species of literature which was new to me, but which all Gastein seemed to feed and subsist on, that is, the lists of all the visitors at all the baths and watering-places in Europe. Pamphlet after pamphlet, they arrived every few days, corrected and annotated with care, the silliest and most meaningless census which could be imagined. But eager women came early to secure first reading of them, and other women with eyes fixed on the fortunate possessor of the valuable news sat waiting for their turn to come. It is like a play ; once seated, you sit on and on, unconsciously waiting for the curtain to fall : on your right hand is the orchestra, ten pieces, who play wild Tyrolese airs very well, and add much to the dramatic effects of things. Sunset is the curtain for this theatre, and dinner the only enter' acte. The instant the sun drops, the players scatter, the booths fold up ; Madame the Countess sweeps off into the hotel ; Madame the Frau rolls up her knitting, cautiously mixes together her fresh and her old strawberries, and starts off brave and strong to mount to her chamber in the air, miles up on some hill. This play grows wearying to watch sooner than one would suppose. After a few days, one finds that all the climbing roads and paths lead to better things. The lure of a table, a chair, and a beermug seems a small reward to hold out, when for every additional mile that is walked a new world opens to the eye, but the Germans see better through smoke and beer-colored glasses. Strong adventurous people, who can walk and climb without reckoning distances by aching muscles, have unending delights set before them for every day in Gastein. From this can be seen a great amphitheatre of glaciers and the passage by the Malnitzer-Tauern into Carinthia : this dangerous pass has an ineffable charm, from the fact that it is one of the only two ways out of the smiling Gastein valley. Once in, should any chance destroy the road in that wild Klamme through which the fierce Ache goes and you came, you have no possible way of escape, except on foot or on horseback, by the Malnitzer-Tauern. All this and more for well people. As for sick people their tale is soon told, either here or elsewhere. In Gastein, however, little is done with spoons ; people go into their medicine, instead of its going into them. Nobody takes but one bath a day ; the stronger invalids take it in the morning before breakfast, and are allowed to go their ways for the rest of the day. It seems a considerable price to pay for the rush-candle, to keep it burning under such difficulties and restrictions. In a little pamphlet written by Dr. Reading them over, one smiles, quietly, wondering if careful following out of such directions would not be of itself sufficient cure for most ailments. But from the days of the Archbishops until now, it seems to have been held especially incumbent on all persons coming to these baths for help to come with quiet souls and pure consciences. More than half of the writing is entirely illegible ; but clear and distinct on its first page stands out the motto, written there in , and copied, I believe, from the bath of some Roman Emperor, —. There are fifteen volumes of them, written by the invalids themselves, from until now. The records are written in old Latin, old German, old French, all more or less illegible, so that there is endless interest in groping among them on the thousandth chance of finding something that can be deciphered. This is to receive the contributions of charitable people who are not sick, and of sick people who are superstitious and wish to propitiate the good Saints Primus and Felicianus. The box has the following inscription : —. In order that the Almighty God may bless by the prayers of those holy patrons of the Bath, the noble gift of the health-giving spring to all the patients. There are many most curious entries in these chronicles, and no one can look through them without being impressed by the singular unanimity of testimony, during two hundred years, to the efficacy of the waters. Here and there, however, a discontented soul has written out his grumblings ; as, for instance, one Count Maximilian Joseph, Chamberlain of the King of Bavaria, who wrote on the 4th of July, Now I am so much better, I believe I shall regain my health. In Babette Brandhuber, may her soul rest in peace! I am sorry to say that there have been in Gastein two or three Americans and English less poetically gifted than Babette, who have filled several pages of this volume with rhymes for which one blushes. And the following French verses. But the handwriting is evidently that of a woman : —. Half a century ago! Youth and hope are over for her by this time ; though perhaps youth and hope are just beginning for her, by this time, the true youth, the immortal hope ; but whether she be to-day old on earth or young in heaven, I fancy her all the same, cherishing in her heart the memory of the rare, beautiful, blessed, dear Gastein valley. Gastuna tantum una! Skip to content Site Navigation The Atlantic. Popular Latest Newsletters. Search The Atlantic. Quick Links. Sign In Subscribe. January Issue. This magazine has been fully digitized as a part of The Atlantic's archive. Each article originally printed in this magazine is available here, complete and unedited from the historical print. Read more from this magazine , or explore the full archive. New Departure of the Republican Party. Henry Wilson. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. William Dean Howells. Oliver Wendell Holmes. Where there lingers in the blood The poison of sin and passion in the soul, There can enter neither God nor I. My full heart writes this grateful tale, I leave thee well again. About the Author. Helen Hunt Jackson was a poet, novelist, nonfiction writer, and activist. She was the author of A Century of Dishonor , among other books. More Stories August The Arbutus.

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