In and Around Berlin | Page 7

law not enforced.
Policemen in the streets of Berlin make short work with the luckless
tradesman who leaves his blinds or doors open on Sunday before two
o'clock P.M. Of course restaurants and places of food supply are open.
To all outward appearance Berlin was a fairly well-ordered city on
Sundays. One in search of evil, however, could doubtless find it, here
as elsewhere.
Sunday afternoon is a favorite time for calls and family visits; and in
the pleasant weather the genuine love for out-door life, which seems
dormant in winter, blossoms out luxuriantly. Parents take their whole
families to the numerous gardens in the suburbs for picnics on Sundays
and the frequent holidays. Sunday hours at home are spent by most
German ladies with the inevitable crochet-work or knitting,--even the
most devout seeing no harm in this, nor in their little Sunday evening
parties, with games and music.
One day in the year--Good Friday--is observed as scrupulously as was
ever a Puritan Sunday. The organic Protestant Church of Germany--a
union of the Lutheran and Reformed churches,--has small affiliation
with the Church of Rome; but some observances which we have been
accustomed to associate with so-called Catholicism have lingered with
Protestantism in Germany. Good Friday was a solemn day in the family
where we had our home. Bach's music, brought to light after a hundred
years of deep obscurity by Felix Mendelssohn, and rendered, though at

first with much opposition from musicians of the old school, in the
Sing Akademie of Berlin, now lends every year, on the eve of Good
Friday, its incomparable Passion-Musik to the devotion of the occasion.
"There are many things I must miss," said a cultivated German to me,
"but the Passion-Musik on the eve of Good Friday,--never! It makes me
better. I cannot do without it." We found this music, at the time of
which we speak, an occasion to be ever memorable for its wonderful
power and pathos. The next morning we did not attend the service in
the cathedral, where we wished to go, knowing that the crowd would be
too great for comfort. On returning to our room from another service, a
beautiful arrangement of cut flowers on the table greeted our senses as
we opened the door. It was the thoughtful, affectionate, and devout
offering of our hostess in reverent memory of the day. After dinner we
entered the private parlor of the family for a friendly call and to express
our thanks. No suggestion of knitting or fancy-work was to be seen.
The hostess and her daughters, soberly dressed, were reading
devotional books. "Do you not go out this afternoon?" I inquired. "No,
one cannot go out," was the reply, indicating probably both lack of
disposition and of places open for entertainment. Later, I ventured out
for a walk. Only here and there could a team be seen, and the throng of
pedestrians usually on the sidewalks in a bright spring afternoon
seemed to have deserted the busy streets, in which comparative silence
reigned.
"I am glad there is here one sabbath in the year," was our inward
comment, "even though it falls on a Friday." Easter was a day of
gladness in the churches, though elaborate adornments of flowers and
new spring bonnets were not so prominent as in American cities. The
respectable church communicant, even if he goes to church on no other
day in the year, usually takes the communion at Easter.
Easter Monday was one great gala-day. All Berlin seemed to be in the
streets in holiday attire; and, to our eyes, no other day ever showed
such universal gladness reflected in the faces and demeanor of the
people. "Prayer Day," answering somewhat to the original New
England Fast Day, was solemnly observed in May; and the holidays of
Whitsuntide dress every house and market-stall and milk-cart with

green boughs, and crowd the railways and the steamers with throngs of
pleasure-seekers.
The few weeks before Easter is a favorite season for weddings, and
these are invariably celebrated in church. Even people in moderate
circumstances make much display at the church ceremony, with or
without an additional celebration at home. We were invited to one at
the Garrison Church, which the soldiers attend, and where most of the
pews on the main floor are held by officers and their families. We
entered the church fifteen minutes before the hour appointed,--four
o'clock. An elderly usher in a fine suit, with swallow-tail coat and a
decoration on his breast, politely gave us liberty to choose our seats, as
the invitations were not numerous and the church is large. A few
persons, mostly ladies, were there before us, and had already taken the
best seats,--those running lengthwise of the church, and facing a wide
central aisle. We joined them, and while