CHAPTER L

[Titian Bad and Titian Good]

I wonder why some things are? For instance, Art is allowed as much

indecent license today as in earlier times--but the privileges of

Literature in this respect have been sharply curtailed within the

past eighty or ninety years. Fielding and Smollett could portray the

beastliness of their day in the beastliest language; we have plenty

of foul subjects to deal with in our day, but we are not allowed to

approach them very near, even with nice and guarded forms of speech.

But not so with Art. The brush may still deal freely with any subject,

however revolting or indelicate. It makes a body ooze sarcasm at every

pore, to go about Rome and Florence and see what this last generation

has been doing with the statues. These works, which had stood in

innocent nakedness for ages, are all fig-leaved now. Yes, every one of

them. Nobody noticed their nakedness before, perhaps; nobody can help

noticing it now, the fig-leaf makes it so conspicuous. But the comical

thing about it all, is, that the fig-leaf is confined to cold and pallid

marble, which would be still cold and unsuggestive without this sham and

ostentatious symbol of modesty, whereas warm-blood paintings which do

really need it have in no case been furnished with it.

At the door of the Uffizzi, in Florence, one is confronted by statues

of a man and a woman, noseless, battered, black with accumulated

grime--they hardly suggest human beings--yet these ridiculous creatures

have been thoughtfully and conscientiously fig-leaved by this fastidious

generation. You enter, and proceed to that most-visited little gallery

that exists in the world--the Tribune--and there, against the wall,

without obstructing rag or leaf, you may look your fill upon the

foulest, the vilest, the obscenest picture the world possesses--Titian's

Venus. It isn't that she is naked and stretched out on a bed--no, it is

the attitude of one of her arms and hand. If I ventured to describe

that attitude, there would be a fine howl--but there the Venus lies, for

anybody to gloat over that wants to--and there she has a right to lie,

for she is a work of art, and Art has its privileges. I saw young

girls stealing furtive glances at her; I saw young men gaze long and

absorbedly at her; I saw aged, infirm men hang upon her charms with a

pathetic interest. How I should like to describe her--just to see what

a holy indignation I could stir up in the world--just to hear the

unreflecting average man deliver himself about my grossness and

coarseness, and all that. The world says that no worded description of

a moving spectacle is a hundredth part as moving as the same spectacle

seen with one's own eyes--yet the world is willing to let its son

and its daughter and itself look at Titian's beast, but won't stand

a description of it in words. Which shows that the world is not as

consistent as it might be.

There are pictures of nude women which suggest no impure thought--I

am well aware of that. I am not railing at such. What I am trying to

emphasize is the fact that Titian's Venus is very far from being one of

that sort. Without any question it was painted for a bagnio and it was

probably refused because it was a trifle too strong. In truth, it is too

strong for any place but a public Art Gallery. Titian has two Venuses in

the Tribune; persons who have seen them will easily remember which one I

am referring to.

In every gallery in Europe there are hideous pictures of blood,

carnage, oozing brains, putrefaction--pictures portraying intolerable

suffering--pictures alive with every conceivable horror, wrought out in

dreadful detail--and similar pictures are being put on the canvas every

day and publicly exhibited--without a growl from anybody--for they

are innocent, they are inoffensive, being works of art. But suppose

a literary artist ventured to go into a painstaking and elaborate

description of one of these grisly things--the critics would skin him

alive. Well, let it go, it cannot be helped; Art retains her privileges,

Literature has lost hers. Somebody else may cipher out the whys and the

wherefores and the consistencies of it--I haven't got time.

Titian's Venus defiles and disgraces the Tribune, there is no softening

that fact, but his “Moses” glorifies it. The simple truthfulness of

its noble work wins the heart and the applause of every visitor, be he

learned or ignorant. After wearying one's self with the acres of stuffy,

sappy, expressionless babies that populate the canvases of the Old

Masters of Italy, it is refreshing to stand before this peerless child

and feel that thrill which tells you you are at last in the presence of

the real thing. This is a human child, this is genuine. You have seen

him a thousand times--you have seen him just as he is here--and you

confess, without reserve, that Titian WAS a Master. The doll-faces of

other painted babes may mean one thing, they may mean another, but

with the “Moses” the case is different. The most famous of all the

art-critics has said, “There is no room for doubt, here--plainly this

child is in trouble.”

I consider that the “Moses” has no equal among the works of the Old

Masters, except it be the divine Hair Trunk of Bassano. I feel sure that

if all the other Old Masters were lost and only these two preserved, the

world would be the gainer by it.

My sole purpose in going to Florence was to see this immortal “Moses,”

and by good fortune I was just in time, for they were already preparing

to remove it to a more private and better-protected place because a

fashion of robbing the great galleries was prevailing in Europe at the

time.

I got a capable artist to copy the picture; Pannemaker, the engraver of

Doré's books, engraved it for me, and I have the pleasure of laying it

before the reader in this volume.

We took a turn to Rome and some other Italian cities--then to Munich,

and thence to Paris--partly for exercise, but mainly because these

things were in our projected program, and it was only right that we

should be faithful to it.

From Paris I branched out and walked through Holland and Belgium,

procuring an occasional lift by rail or canal when tired, and I had

a tolerably good time of it “by and large.” I worked Spain and other

regions through agents to save time and shoe-leather.

We crossed to England, and then made the homeward passage in the

Cunarder GALLIA, a very fine ship. I was glad to get home--immeasurably

glad; so glad, in fact, that it did not seem possible that anything

could ever get me out of the country again. I had not enjoyed a pleasure

abroad which seemed to me to compare with the pleasure I felt in seeing

New York harbor again. Europe has many advantages which we have not, but

they do not compensate for a good many still more valuable ones which

exist nowhere but in our own country. Then we are such a homeless lot

when we are over there! So are Europeans themselves, for that matter.

They live in dark and chilly vast tombs--costly enough, maybe, but

without conveniences. To be condemned to live as the average European

family lives would make life a pretty heavy burden to the average

American family.

On the whole, I think that short visits to Europe are better for us than

long ones. The former preserve us from becoming Europeanized; they keep

our pride of country intact, and at the same time they intensify our

affection for our country and our people; whereas long visits have the

effect of dulling those feelings--at least in the majority of cases. I

think that one who mixes much with Americans long resident abroad must

arrive at this conclusion.

APPENDIX Nothing gives such weight and dignity to a book as an Appendix.

--HERODOTUS

APPENDIX A.

The Portier

Omar Khay'am, the poet-prophet of Persia, writing more than eight

hundred years ago, has said:

“In the four parts of the earth are many that are able to write learned

books, many that are able to lead armies, and many also that are able to

govern kingdoms and empires; but few there be that can keep a hotel.”

A word about the European hotel PORTIER. He is a most admirable

invention, a most valuable convenience. He always wears a conspicuous

uniform; he can always be found when he is wanted, for he sticks closely

to his post at the front door; he is as polite as a duke; he speaks

from four to ten languages; he is your surest help and refuge in time of

trouble or perplexity. He is not the clerk, he is not the landlord; he

ranks above the clerk, and represents the landlord, who is seldom seen.

Instead of going to the clerk for information, as we do at home, you

go to the portier. It is the pride of our average hotel clerk to know

nothing whatever; it is the pride of the portier to know everything. You

ask the portier at what hours the trains leave--he tells you instantly;

or you ask him who is the best physician in town; or what is the hack

tariff; or how many children the mayor has; or what days the galleries

are open, and whether a permit is required, and where you are to get it,

and what you must pay for it; or when the theaters open and close, what

the plays are to be, and the price of seats; or what is the newest thing

in hats; or how the bills of mortality average; or “who struck Billy

Patterson.” It does not matter what you ask him: in nine cases out of

ten he knows, and in the tenth case he will find out for you before you

can turn around three times. There is nothing he will not put his hand

to. Suppose you tell him you wish to go from Hamburg to Peking by the

way of Jericho, and are ignorant of routes and prices--the next morning

he will hand you a piece of paper with the whole thing worked out on it

to the last detail. Before you have been long on European soil, you find

yourself still SAYING you are relying on Providence, but when you come

to look closer you will see that in reality you are relying on the

portier. He discovers what is puzzling you, or what is troubling you,

or what your need is, before you can get the half of it out, and he

promptly says, “Leave that to me.” Consequently, you easily drift into

the habit of leaving everything to him. There is a certain embarrassment

about applying to the average American hotel clerk, a certain hesitancy,

a sense of insecurity against rebuff; but you feel no embarrassment in

your intercourse with the portier; he receives your propositions with an

enthusiasm which cheers, and plunges into their accomplishment with an

alacrity which almost inebriates. The more requirements you can pile

upon him, the better he likes it. Of course the result is that you cease

from doing anything for yourself. He calls a hack when you want one;

puts you into it; tells the driver whither to take you; receives you

like a long-lost child when you return; sends you about your business,

does all the quarreling with the hackman himself, and pays him his money

out of his own pocket. He sends for your theater tickets, and pays for

them; he sends for any possible article you can require, be it a doctor,

an elephant, or a postage stamp; and when you leave, at last, you will

find a subordinate seated with the cab-driver who will put you in your

railway compartment, buy your tickets, have your baggage weighed, bring

you the printed tags, and tell you everything is in your bill and paid

for. At home you get such elaborate, excellent, and willing service as

this only in the best hotels of our large cities; but in Europe you get

it in the mere back country-towns just as well.

What is the secret of the portier's devotion? It is very simple: he gets

FEES, AND NO SALARY. His fee is pretty closely regulated, too. If you

stay a week, you give him five marks--a dollar and a quarter, or about

eighteen cents a day. If you stay a month, you reduce this average

somewhat. If you stay two or three months or longer, you cut it down

half, or even more than half. If you stay only one day, you give the

portier a mark.

The head waiter's fee is a shade less than the portier's; the Boots, who

not only blacks your boots and brushes your clothes, but is usually the

porter and handles your baggage, gets a somewhat smaller fee than the

head waiter; the chambermaid's fee ranks below that of the Boots. You

fee only these four, and no one else. A German gentleman told me that

when he remained a week in a hotel, he gave the portier five marks, the

head waiter four, the Boots three, and the chambermaid two; and if he

stayed three months he divided ninety marks among them, in about the

above proportions. Ninety marks make $22.50.

None of these fees are ever paid until you leave the hotel, though it

be a year--except one of these four servants should go away in the mean

time; in that case he will be sure to come and bid you good-by and

give you the opportunity to pay him what is fairly coming to him. It

is considered very bad policy to fee a servant while you are still to

remain longer in the hotel, because if you gave him too little he might

neglect you afterward, and if you gave him too much he might neglect

somebody else to attend to you. It is considered best to keep his

expectations “on a string” until your stay is concluded.

I do not know whether hotel servants in New York get any wages or not,

but I do know that in some of the hotels there the feeing system in

vogue is a heavy burden. The waiter expects a quarter at breakfast--and

gets it. You have a different waiter at luncheon, and so he gets a

quarter. Your waiter at dinner is another stranger--consequently he gets

a quarter. The boy who carries your satchel to your room and lights your

gas fumbles around and hangs around significantly, and you fee him to

get rid of him. Now you may ring for ice-water; and ten minutes later

for a lemonade; and ten minutes afterward, for a cigar; and by and by

for a newspaper--and what is the result? Why, a new boy has appeared

every time and fooled and fumbled around until you have paid him

something. Suppose you boldly put your foot down, and say it is the

hotel's business to pay its servants? You will have to ring your bell

ten or fifteen times before you get a servant there; and when he goes

off to fill your order you will grow old and infirm before you see him

again. You may struggle nobly for twenty-four hours, maybe, if you are

an adamantine sort of person, but in the mean time you will have been

so wretchedly served, and so insolently, that you will haul down your

colors, and go to impoverishing yourself with fees.

It seems to me that it would be a happy idea to import the European

feeing system into America. I believe it would result in getting even

the bells of the Philadelphia hotels answered, and cheerful service

rendered.

The greatest American hotels keep a number of clerks and a cashier, and

pay them salaries which mount up to a considerable total in the course

of a year. The great continental hotels keep a cashier on a trifling

salary, and a portier WHO PAYS THE HOTEL A SALARY. By the latter system

both the hotel and the public save money and are better served than by

our system. One of our consuls told me that a portier of a great Berlin

hotel paid five thousand dollars a year for his position, and yet

cleared six thousand dollars for himself. The position of portier in the

chief hotels of Saratoga, Long Branch, New York, and similar centers of

resort, would be one which the holder could afford to pay even more than

five thousand dollars for, perhaps.

When we borrowed the feeing fashion from Europe a dozen years ago, the

salary system ought to have been discontinued, of course. We might make

this correction now, I should think. And we might add the portier, too.

Since I first began to study the portier, I have had opportunities to

observe him in the chief cities of Germany, Switzerland, and Italy;

and the more I have seen of him the more I have wished that he might be

adopted in America, and become there, as he is in Europe, the stranger's

guardian angel.

Yes, what was true eight hundred years ago, is just as true today: “Few

there be that can keep a hotel.” Perhaps it is because the landlords and

their subordinates have in too many cases taken up their trade without

first learning it. In Europe the trade of hotel-keeper is taught. The

apprentice begins at the bottom of the ladder and masters the several

grades one after the other. Just as in our country printing-offices the

apprentice first learns how to sweep out and bring water; then learns

to “roll”; then to sort “pi”; then to set type; and finally rounds

and completes his education with job-work and press-work; so the

landlord-apprentice serves as call-boy; then as under-waiter; then as

a parlor waiter; then as head waiter, in which position he often has to

make out all the bills; then as clerk or cashier; then as portier. His

trade is learned now, and by and by he will assume the style and dignity

of landlord, and be found conducting a hotel of his own.

Now in Europe, the same as in America, when a man has kept a hotel

so thoroughly well during a number of years as to give it a great

reputation, he has his reward. He can live prosperously on that

reputation. He can let his hotel run down to the last degree of

shabbiness and yet have it full of people all the time. For instance,

there is the Hotel de Ville, in Milan. It swarms with mice and fleas,

and if the rest of the world were destroyed it could furnish dirt enough

to start another one with. The food would create an insurrection in a

poorhouse; and yet if you go outside to get your meals that hotel makes

up its loss by overcharging you on all sorts of trifles--and without

making any denials or excuses about it, either. But the Hotel de Ville's

old excellent reputation still keeps its dreary rooms crowded with

travelers who would be elsewhere if they had only some wise friend to

warn them.

APPENDIX B.

Heidelberg Castle Heidelberg Castle must have been very beautiful before

the French battered and bruised and scorched it two hundred years ago.

The stone is brown, with a pinkish tint, and does not seem to stain

easily. The dainty and elaborate ornamentation upon its two chief fronts

is as delicately carved as if it had been intended for the interior of

a drawing-room rather than for the outside of a house. Many fruit and

flower clusters, human heads and grim projecting lions' heads are still

as perfect in every detail as if they were new. But the statues which

are ranked between the windows have suffered. These are life-size

statues of old-time emperors, electors, and similar grandees, clad in

mail and bearing ponderous swords. Some have lost an arm, some a head,

and one poor fellow is chopped off at the middle. There is a saying that

if a stranger will pass over the drawbridge and walk across the court to

the castle front without saying anything, he can make a wish and it will

be fulfilled. But they say that the truth of this thing has never had

a chance to be proved, for the reason that before any stranger can walk

from the drawbridge to the appointed place, the beauty of the palace

front will extort an exclamation of delight from him.

A ruin must be rightly situated, to be effective. This one could not

have been better placed. It stands upon a commanding elevation, it is

buried in green woods, there is no level ground about it, but, on the

contrary, there are wooded terraces upon terraces, and one looks down

through shining leaves into profound chasms and abysses where twilight

reigns and the sun cannot intrude. Nature knows how to garnish a ruin to

get the best effect. One of these old towers is split down the middle,

and one half has tumbled aside. It tumbled in such a way as to establish

itself in a picturesque attitude. Then all it lacked was a fitting

drapery, and Nature has furnished that; she has robed the rugged mass in

flowers and verdure, and made it a charm to the eye. The standing half

exposes its arched and cavernous rooms to you, like open, toothless

mouths; there, too, the vines and flowers have done their work of grace.

The rear portion of the tower has not been neglected, either, but is

clothed with a clinging garment of polished ivy which hides the wounds

and stains of time. Even the top is not left bare, but is crowned with a

flourishing group of trees and shrubs. Misfortune has done for this old

tower what it has done for the human character sometimes--improved it.

A gentleman remarked, one day, that it might have been fine to live in

the castle in the day of its prime, but that we had one advantage which

its vanished inhabitants lacked--the advantage of having a charming ruin

to visit and muse over. But that was a hasty idea. Those people had the

advantage of US. They had the fine castle to live in, and they could

cross the Rhine valley and muse over the stately ruin of Trifels

besides. The Trifels people, in their day, five hundred years ago, could

go and muse over majestic ruins that have vanished, now, to the last

stone. There have always been ruins, no doubt; and there have always

been pensive people to sigh over them, and asses to scratch upon them

their names and the important date of their visit. Within a hundred

years after Adam left Eden, the guide probably gave the usual general

flourish with his hand and said: “Place where the animals were named,

ladies and gentlemen; place where the tree of the forbidden fruit stood;

exact spot where Adam and Eve first met; and here, ladies and gentlemen,

adorned and hallowed by the names and addresses of three generations of

tourists, we have the crumbling remains of Cain's altar--fine old ruin!”

Then, no doubt, he taxed them a shekel apiece and let them go.

An illumination of Heidelberg Castle is one of the sights of Europe.

The Castle's picturesque shape; its commanding situation, midway up the

steep and wooded mountainside; its vast size--these features combine to

make an illumination a most effective spectacle. It is necessarily an

expensive show, and consequently rather infrequent. Therefore whenever

one of these exhibitions is to take place, the news goes about in the

papers and Heidelberg is sure to be full of people on that night. I and

my agent had one of these opportunities, and improved it.

About half past seven on the appointed evening we crossed the lower

bridge, with some American students, in a pouring rain, and started up

the road which borders the Neunheim side of the river. This roadway was

densely packed with carriages and foot-passengers; the former of all

ages, and the latter of all ages and both sexes. This black and solid

mass was struggling painfully onward, through the slop, the darkness,

and the deluge. We waded along for three-quarters of a mile, and finally

took up a position in an unsheltered beer-garden directly opposite

the Castle. We could not SEE the Castle--or anything else, for that

matter--but we could dimly discern the outlines of the mountain over the

way, through the pervading blackness, and knew whereabouts the Castle

was located. We stood on one of the hundred benches in the garden, under

our umbrellas; the other ninety-nine were occupied by standing men and

women, and they also had umbrellas. All the region round about, and up

and down the river-road, was a dense wilderness of humanity hidden

under an unbroken pavement of carriage tops and umbrellas. Thus we stood

during two drenching hours. No rain fell on my head, but the converging

whalebone points of a dozen neighboring umbrellas poured little cooling

steams of water down my neck, and sometimes into my ears, and thus kept

me from getting hot and impatient. I had the rheumatism, too, and

had heard that this was good for it. Afterward, however, I was led to

believe that the water treatment is NOT good for rheumatism. There were

even little girls in that dreadful place. A man held one in his arms,

just in front of me, for as much as an hour, with umbrella-drippings

soaking into her clothing all the time.

In the circumstances, two hours was a good while for us to have to wait,

but when the illumination did at last come, we felt repaid. It came

unexpectedly, of course--things always do, that have been long looked

and longed for. With a perfectly breath-taking suddenness several mast

sheaves of varicolored rockets were vomited skyward out of the black

throats of the Castle towers, accompanied by a thundering crash of

sound, and instantly every detail of the prodigious ruin stood revealed

against the mountainside and glowing with an almost intolerable splendor

of fire and color. For some little time the whole building was a

blinding crimson mass, the towers continued to spout thick columns of

rockets aloft, and overhead the sky was radiant with arrowy bolts which

clove their way to the zenith, paused, curved gracefully downward, then

burst into brilliant fountain-sprays of richly colored sparks. The red

fires died slowly down, within the Castle, and presently the shell grew

nearly black outside; the angry glare that shone out through the broken

arches and innumerable sashless windows, now, reproduced the aspect

which the Castle must have borne in the old time when the French

spoilers saw the monster bonfire which they had made there fading and

spoiling toward extinction.

While we still gazed and enjoyed, the ruin was suddenly enveloped in

rolling and rumbling volumes of vaporous green fire; then in dazzling

purple ones; then a mixture of many colors followed, then drowned the

great fabric in its blended splendors. Meantime the nearest bridge had

been illuminated, and from several rafts anchored in the river, meteor

showers of rockets, Roman candles, bombs, serpents, and Catharine wheels

were being discharged in wasteful profusion into the sky--a marvelous

sight indeed to a person as little used to such spectacles as I was. For

a while the whole region about us seemed as bright as day, and yet the

rain was falling in torrents all the time. The evening's entertainment

presently closed, and we joined the innumerable caravan of half-drowned

strangers, and waded home again.

The Castle grounds are very ample and very beautiful; and as they joined

the Hotel grounds, with no fences to climb, but only some nobly shaded

stone stairways to descend, we spent a part of nearly every day in

idling through their smooth walks and leafy groves. There was an

attractive spot among the trees where were a great many wooden tables

and benches; and there one could sit in the shade and pretend to sip at

his foamy beaker of beer while he inspected the crowd. I say pretend,

because I only pretended to sip, without really sipping. That is the

polite way; but when you are ready to go, you empty the beaker at a

draught. There was a brass band, and it furnished excellent music every

afternoon. Sometimes so many people came that every seat was occupied,

every table filled. And never a rough in the assemblage--all nicely

dressed fathers and mothers, young gentlemen and ladies and children;

and plenty of university students and glittering officers; with here and

there a gray professor, or a peaceful old lady with her knitting; and

always a sprinkling of gawky foreigners. Everybody had his glass of

beer before him, or his cup of coffee, or his bottle of wine, or his

hot cutlet and potatoes; young ladies chatted, or fanned themselves, or

wrought at their crocheting or embroidering; the students fed sugar to

their dogs, or discussed duels, or illustrated new fencing tricks

with their little canes; and everywhere was comfort and enjoyment, and

everywhere peace and good-will to men. The trees were jubilant with

birds, and the paths with rollicking children. One could have a seat in

that place and plenty of music, any afternoon, for about eight cents, or

a family ticket for the season for two dollars.

For a change, when you wanted one, you could stroll to the Castle, and

burrow among its dungeons, or climb about its ruined towers, or visit

its interior shows--the great Heidelberg Tun, for instance. Everybody

has heard of the great Heidelberg Tun, and most people have seen it, no

doubt. It is a wine-cask as big as a cottage, and some traditions say

it holds eighteen thousand bottles, and other traditions say it holds

eighteen hundred million barrels. I think it likely that one of these

statements is a mistake, and the other is a lie. However, the mere

matter of capacity is a thing of no sort of consequence, since the cask

is empty, and indeed has always been empty, history says. An empty cask

the size of a cathedral could excite but little emotion in me.

I do not see any wisdom in building a monster cask to hoard up emptiness

in, when you can get a better quality, outside, any day, free of

expense. What could this cask have been built for? The more one studies

over that, the more uncertain and unhappy he becomes. Some historians

say that thirty couples, some say thirty thousand couples, can dance on

the head of this cask at the same time. Even this does not seem to me

to account for the building of it. It does not even throw light on it. A

profound and scholarly Englishman--a specialist--who had made the great

Heidelberg Tun his sole study for fifteen years, told me he had at last

satisfied himself that the ancients built it to make German cream in.

He said that the average German cow yielded from one to two and half

teaspoons of milk, when she was not worked in the plow or the hay-wagon

more than eighteen or nineteen hours a day. This milk was very sweet and

good, and a beautiful transparent bluish tint; but in order to get cream

from it in the most economical way, a peculiar process was necessary.

Now he believed that the habit of the ancients was to collect several

milkings in a teacup, pour it into the Great Tun, fill up with water,

and then skim off the cream from time to time as the needs of the German

Empire demanded.

This began to look reasonable. It certainly began to account for the

German cream which I had encountered and marveled over in so many hotels

and restaurants. But a thought struck me--

“Why did not each ancient dairyman take his own teacup of milk and his

own cask of water, and mix them, without making a government matter of

it?'

“Where could he get a cask large enough to contain the right proportion

of water?”

Very true. It was plain that the Englishman had studied the matter from

all sides. Still I thought I might catch him on one point; so I asked

him why the modern empire did not make the nation's cream in the

Heidelberg Tun, instead of leaving it to rot away unused. But he

answered as one prepared--

“A patient and diligent examination of the modern German cream had

satisfied me that they do not use the Great Tun now, because they have

got a BIGGER one hid away somewhere. Either that is the case or they

empty the spring milkings into the mountain torrents and then skim the

Rhine all summer.”

There is a museum of antiquities in the Castle, and among its most

treasured relics are ancient manuscripts connected with German history.

There are hundreds of these, and their dates stretch back through many

centuries. One of them is a decree signed and sealed by the hand of a

successor of Charlemagne, in the year 896. A signature made by a hand

which vanished out of this life near a thousand years ago, is a more

impressive thing than even a ruined castle. Luther's wedding-ring was

shown me; also a fork belonging to a time anterior to our era, and an

early bootjack. And there was a plaster cast of the head of a man who

was assassinated about sixty years ago. The stab-wounds in the face

were duplicated with unpleasant fidelity. One or two real hairs still

remained sticking in the eyebrows of the cast. That trifle seemed to

almost change the counterfeit into a corpse.

There are many aged portraits--some valuable, some worthless; some of

great interest, some of none at all. I bought a couple--one a gorgeous

duke of the olden time, and the other a comely blue-eyed damsel,

a princess, maybe. I bought them to start a portrait-gallery of my

ancestors with. I paid a dollar and a half for the duke and a half for

the princess. One can lay in ancestors at even cheaper rates than these,

in Europe, if he will mouse among old picture shops and look out for

chances.

APPENDIX C.

The College Prison It seems that the student may break a good many of

the public laws without having to answer to the public authorities.

His case must come before the University for trial and punishment. If a

policeman catches him in an unlawful act and proceeds to arrest him,

the offender proclaims that he is a student, and perhaps shows his

matriculation card, whereupon the officer asks for his address, then

goes his way, and reports the matter at headquarters. If the offense is

one over which the city has no jurisdiction, the authorities report

the case officially to the University, and give themselves no further

concern about it. The University court send for the student, listen to

the evidence, and pronounce judgment. The punishment usually inflicted

is imprisonment in the University prison. As I understand it, a

student's case is often tried without his being present at all.

Then something like this happens: A constable in the service of the

University visits the lodgings of the said student, knocks, is invited

to come in, does so, and says politely--

“If you please, I am here to conduct you to prison.”

“Ah,” says the student, “I was not expecting it. What have I been

doing?”

“Two weeks ago the public peace had the honor to be disturbed by you.”

“It is true; I had forgotten it. Very well: I have been complained of,

tried, and found guilty--is that it?”

“Exactly. You are sentenced to two days' solitary confinement in the

College prison, and I am sent to fetch you.”

STUDENT. “O, I can't go today.”

OFFICER. “If you please--why?”

STUDENT. “Because I've got an engagement.”

OFFICER. “Tomorrow, then, perhaps?”

STUDENT. “No, I am going to the opera, tomorrow.”

OFFICER. “Could you come Friday?”

STUDENT. (Reflectively.) “Let me see--Friday--Friday. I don't seem to

have anything on hand Friday.”

OFFICER. “Then, if you please, I will expect you on Friday.”

STUDENT. “All right, I'll come around Friday.”

OFFICER. “Thank you. Good day, sir.”

STUDENT. “Good day.”

So on Friday the student goes to the prison of his own accord, and is

admitted.

It is questionable if the world's criminal history can show a custom

more odd than this. Nobody knows, now, how it originated. There have

always been many noblemen among the students, and it is presumed that

all students are gentlemen; in the old times it was usual to mar the

convenience of such folk as little as possible; perhaps this indulgent

custom owes its origin to this.

One day I was listening to some conversation upon this subject when an

American student said that for some time he had been under sentence

for a slight breach of the peace and had promised the constable that he

would presently find an unoccupied day and betake himself to prison. I

asked the young gentleman to do me the kindness to go to jail as soon

as he conveniently could, so that I might try to get in there and visit

him, and see what college captivity was like. He said he would appoint

the very first day he could spare.

His confinement was to endure twenty-four hours. He shortly chose

his day, and sent me word. I started immediately. When I reached the

University Place, I saw two gentlemen talking together, and, as they

had portfolios under their arms, I judged they were tutors or elderly

students; so I asked them in English to show me the college jail. I

had learned to take it for granted that anybody in Germany who knows

anything, knows English, so I had stopped afflicting people with my

German. These gentlemen seemed a trifle amused--and a trifle confused,

too--but one of them said he would walk around the corner with me and

show me the place. He asked me why I wanted to get in there, and I said

to see a friend--and for curiosity. He doubted if I would be admitted,

but volunteered to put in a word or two for me with the custodian.

He rang the bell, a door opened, and we stepped into a paved way and

then up into a small living-room, where we were received by a hearty

and good-natured German woman of fifty. She threw up her hands with a

surprised “ACH GOTT, HERR PROFESSOR!” and exhibited a mighty deference

for my new acquaintance. By the sparkle in her eye I judged she was a

good deal amused, too. The “Herr Professor” talked to her in German, and

I understood enough of it to know that he was bringing very plausible

reasons to bear for admitting me. They were successful. So the Herr

Professor received my earnest thanks and departed. The old dame got her

keys, took me up two or three flights of stairs, unlocked a door, and

we stood in the presence of the criminal. Then she went into a jolly and

eager description of all that had occurred downstairs, and what the Herr

Professor had said, and so forth and so on. Plainly, she regarded it as

quite a superior joke that I had waylaid a Professor and employed him

in so odd a service. But I wouldn't have done it if I had known he was a

Professor; therefore my conscience was not disturbed.

Now the dame left us to ourselves. The cell was not a roomy one; still

it was a little larger than an ordinary prison cell. It had a window

of good size, iron-grated; a small stove; two wooden chairs; two oaken

tables, very old and most elaborately carved with names, mottoes, faces,

armorial bearings, etc.--the work of several generations of imprisoned

students; and a narrow wooden bedstead with a villainous straw mattress,

but no sheets, pillows, blankets, or coverlets--for these the student

must furnish at his own cost if he wants them. There was no carpet, of

course.

The ceiling was completely covered with names, dates, and monograms,

done with candle-smoke. The walls were thickly covered with pictures and

portraits (in profile), some done with ink, some with soot, some with a

pencil, and some with red, blue, and green chalks; and whenever an inch

or two of space had remained between the pictures, the captives had

written plaintive verses, or names and dates. I do not think I was ever

in a more elaborately frescoed apartment.

Against the wall hung a placard containing the prison laws. I made a

note of one or two of these. For instance: The prisoner must pay, for

the “privilege” of entering, a sum equivalent to 20 cents of our money;

for the privilege of leaving, when his term had expired, 20 cents; for

every day spent in the prison, 12 cents; for fire and light, 12 cents a

day. The jailer furnishes coffee, mornings, for a small sum; dinners and

suppers may be ordered from outside if the prisoner chooses--and he is

allowed to pay for them, too.

Here and there, on the walls, appeared the names of American students,

and in one place the American arms and motto were displayed in colored

chalks.

With the help of my friend I translated many of the inscriptions.

Some of them were cheerful, others the reverse. I will give the reader a

few specimens:

“In my tenth semester (my best one), I am cast here through the

complaints of others. Let those who follow me take warning.”

“III TAGE OHNE GRUND ANGEBLICH AUS NEUGIERDE.” Which is to say, he had a

curiosity to know what prison life was like; so he made a breach in some

law and got three days for it. It is more than likely that he never had

the same curiosity again.

(TRANSLATION.) “E. Glinicke, four days for being too eager a spectator

of a row.”

“F. Graf Bismarck--27-29, II, '74.” Which means that Count Bismarck, son

of the great statesman, was a prisoner two days in 1874.

(TRANSLATION.) “R. Diergandt--for Love--4 days.” Many people in this

world have caught it heavier than for the same indiscretion.

This one is terse. I translate:

“Four weeks for MISINTERPRETED GALLANTRY.” I wish the sufferer had

explained a little more fully. A four-week term is a rather serious

matter.

There were many uncomplimentary references, on the walls, to a certain

unpopular dignitary. One sufferer had got three days for not saluting

him. Another had “here two days slept and three nights lain awake,”

on account of this same “Dr. K.” In one place was a picture of Dr. K.

hanging on a gallows.

Here and there, lonesome prisoners had eased the heavy time by altering

the records left by predecessors. Leaving the name standing, and the

date and length of the captivity, they had erased the description of the

misdemeanor, and written in its place, in staring capitals, “FOR THEFT!”

or “FOR MURDER!” or some other gaudy crime. In one place, all by itself,

stood this blood-curdling word:

“Rache!” [1]

1. “Revenge!”

There was no name signed, and no date. It was an inscription well

calculated to pique curiosity. One would greatly like to know the nature

of the wrong that had been done, and what sort of vengeance was wanted,

and whether the prisoner ever achieved it or not. But there was no way

of finding out these things.

Occasionally, a name was followed simply by the remark, “II days, for

disturbing the peace,” and without comment upon the justice or injustice

of the sentence.

In one place was a hilarious picture of a student of the green cap

corps with a bottle of champagne in each hand; and below was the legend:

“These make an evil fate endurable.”

There were two prison cells, and neither had space left on walls or

ceiling for another name or portrait or picture. The inside surfaces of

the two doors were completely covered with CARTES DE VISITE of former

prisoners, ingeniously let into the wood and protected from dirt and

injury by glass.

I very much wanted one of the sorry old tables which the prisoners had

spent so many years in ornamenting with their pocket-knives, but red

tape was in the way. The custodian could not sell one without an

order from a superior; and that superior would have to get it from HIS

superior; and this one would have to get it from a higher one--and so on

up and up until the faculty should sit on the matter and deliver final

judgment. The system was right, and nobody could find fault with it; but

it did not seem justifiable to bother so many people, so I proceeded no

further. It might have cost me more than I could afford, anyway; for

one of those prison tables, which was at the time in a private museum

in Heidelberg, was afterward sold at auction for two hundred and fifty

dollars. It was not worth more than a dollar, or possibly a dollar and

half, before the captive students began their work on it. Persons who

saw it at the auction said it was so curiously and wonderfully carved

that it was worth the money that was paid for it.

Among them many who have tasted the college prison's dreary hospitality

was a lively young fellow from one of the Southern states of America,

whose first year's experience of German university life was rather

peculiar. The day he arrived in Heidelberg he enrolled his name on the

college books, and was so elated with the fact that his dearest hope

had found fruition and he was actually a student of the old and renowned

university, that he set to work that very night to celebrate the event

by a grand lark in company with some other students. In the course of

his lark he managed to make a wide breach in one of the university's

most stringent laws. Sequel: before noon, next day, he was in the

college prison--booked for three months. The twelve long weeks dragged

slowly by, and the day of deliverance came at last. A great crowd of

sympathizing fellow-students received him with a rousing demonstration

as he came forth, and of course there was another grand lark--in the

course of which he managed to make a wide breach of the CITY'S most

stringent laws. Sequel: before noon, next day, he was safe in the city

lockup--booked for three months. This second tedious captivity drew to

an end in the course of time, and again a great crowd of sympathizing

fellow students gave him a rousing reception as he came forth; but

his delight in his freedom was so boundless that he could not proceed

soberly and calmly, but must go hopping and skipping and jumping down

the sleety street from sheer excess of joy. Sequel: he slipped and broke

his leg, and actually lay in the hospital during the next three months!

When he at last became a free man again, he said he believed he would

hunt up a brisker seat of learning; the Heidelberg lectures might

be good, but the opportunities of attending them were too rare, the

educational process too slow; he said he had come to Europe with the

idea that the acquirement of an education was only a matter of time,

but if he had averaged the Heidelberg system correctly, it was rather a

matter of eternity.

APPENDIX D.

The Awful German Language

A little learning makes the whole world kin.

--Proverbs xxxii, 7.

I went often to look at the collection of curiosities in Heidelberg

Castle, and one day I surprised the keeper of it with my German. I spoke

entirely in that language. He was greatly interested; and after I had

talked a while he said my German was very rare, possibly a “unique”; and

wanted to add it to his museum.

If he had known what it had cost me to acquire my art, he would also

have known that it would break any collector to buy it. Harris and I had

been hard at work on our German during several weeks at that time, and

although we had made good progress, it had been accomplished under great

difficulty and annoyance, for three of our teachers had died in the mean

time. A person who has not studied German can form no idea of what a

perplexing language it is.

Surely there is not another language that is so slipshod and systemless,

and so slippery and elusive to the grasp. One is washed about in it,

hither and thither, in the most helpless way; and when at last he thinks

he has captured a rule which offers firm ground to take a rest on amid

the general rage and turmoil of the ten parts of speech, he turns over

the page and reads, “Let the pupil make careful note of the following

EXCEPTIONS.” He runs his eye down and finds that there are more

exceptions to the rule than instances of it. So overboard he goes again,

to hunt for another Ararat and find another quicksand. Such has been,

and continues to be, my experience. Every time I think I have got one

of these four confusing “cases” where I am master of it, a seemingly

insignificant preposition intrudes itself into my sentence, clothed with

an awful and unsuspected power, and crumbles the ground from under

me. For instance, my book inquires after a certain bird--(it is always

inquiring after things which are of no sort of consequence to anybody):

“Where is the bird?” Now the answer to this question--according to the

book--is that the bird is waiting in the blacksmith shop on account of

the rain. Of course no bird would do that, but then you must stick to

the book. Very well, I begin to cipher out the German for that answer. I

begin at the wrong end, necessarily, for that is the German idea. I

say to myself, “REGEN (rain) is masculine--or maybe it is feminine--or

possibly neuter--it is too much trouble to look now. Therefore, it

is either DER (the) Regen, or DIE (the) Regen, or DAS (the) Regen,

according to which gender it may turn out to be when I look. In the

interest of science, I will cipher it out on the hypothesis that it is

masculine. Very well--then THE rain is DER Regen, if it is simply in

the quiescent state of being MENTIONED, without enlargement or

discussion--Nominative case; but if this rain is lying around, in a kind

of a general way on the ground, it is then definitely located, it is

DOING SOMETHING--that is, RESTING (which is one of the German grammar's

ideas of doing something), and this throws the rain into the Dative

case, and makes it DEM Regen. However, this rain is not resting, but is

doing something ACTIVELY,--it is falling--to interfere with the bird,

likely--and this indicates MOVEMENT, which has the effect of sliding it

into the Accusative case and changing DEM Regen into DEN Regen.”

Having completed the grammatical horoscope of this matter, I answer

up confidently and state in German that the bird is staying in the

blacksmith shop “wegen (on account of) DEN Regen.” Then the teacher lets

me softly down with the remark that whenever the word “wegen” drops

into a sentence, it ALWAYS throws that subject into the GENITIVE case,

regardless of consequences--and therefore this bird stayed in the

blacksmith shop “wegen DES Regens.”

N.B.--I was informed, later, by a higher authority, that there was

an “exception” which permits one to say “wegen DEN Regen” in certain

peculiar and complex circumstances, but that this exception is not

extended to anything BUT rain.

There are ten parts of speech, and they are all troublesome. An average

sentence, in a German newspaper, is a sublime and impressive curiosity;

it occupies a quarter of a column; it contains all the ten parts of

speech--not in regular order, but mixed; it is built mainly of compound

words constructed by the writer on the spot, and not to be found in

any dictionary--six or seven words compacted into one, without joint

or seam--that is, without hyphens; it treats of fourteen or fifteen

different subjects, each enclosed in a parenthesis of its own, with here

and there extra parentheses, making pens within pens: finally, all the

parentheses and reparentheses are massed together between a couple

of king-parentheses, one of which is placed in the first line of the

majestic sentence and the other in the middle of the last line of

it--AFTER WHICH COMES THE VERB, and you find out for the first time what

the man has been talking about; and after the verb--merely by way of

ornament, as far as I can make out--the writer shovels in “HABEN SIND

GEWESEN GEHABT HAVEN GEWORDEN SEIN,” or words to that effect, and the

monument is finished. I suppose that this closing hurrah is in the

nature of the flourish to a man's signature--not necessary, but pretty.

German books are easy enough to read when you hold them before

the looking-glass or stand on your head--so as to reverse the

construction--but I think that to learn to read and understand a German

newspaper is a thing which must always remain an impossibility to a

foreigner.

Yet even the German books are not entirely free from attacks of the

Parenthesis distemper--though they are usually so mild as to cover only

a few lines, and therefore when you at last get down to the verb it

carries some meaning to your mind because you are able to remember a

good deal of what has gone before. Now here is a sentence from a popular

and excellent German novel--with a slight parenthesis in it. I will make

a perfectly literal translation, and throw in the parenthesis-marks and

some hyphens for the assistance of the reader--though in the original

there are no parenthesis-marks or hyphens, and the reader is left to

flounder through to the remote verb the best way he can:

“But when he, upon the street, the

(in-satin-and-silk-covered-now-very-unconstrained-after-the-newest-fashioned-dressed)

government counselor's wife MET,” etc., etc. [1]

1. Wenn er aber auf der Strasse der in Sammt und Seide gehuellten

jetz sehr ungenirt nach der neusten mode gekleideten Regierungsrathin

begegnet.

That is from THE OLD MAMSELLE'S SECRET, by Mrs. Marlitt. And that

sentence is constructed upon the most approved German model. You observe

how far that verb is from the reader's base of operations; well, in a

German newspaper they put their verb away over on the next page; and

I have heard that sometimes after stringing along the exciting

preliminaries and parentheses for a column or two, they get in a hurry

and have to go to press without getting to the verb at all. Of course,

then, the reader is left in a very exhausted and ignorant state.

We have the Parenthesis disease in our literature, too; and one may see

cases of it every day in our books and newspapers: but with us it is the

mark and sign of an unpracticed writer or a cloudy intellect, whereas

with the Germans it is doubtless the mark and sign of a practiced pen

and of the presence of that sort of luminous intellectual fog

which stands for clearness among these people. For surely it is NOT

clearness--it necessarily can't be clearness. Even a jury would have

penetration enough to discover that. A writer's ideas must be a good

deal confused, a good deal out of line and sequence, when he starts out

to say that a man met a counselor's wife in the street, and then right

in the midst of this so simple undertaking halts these approaching

people and makes them stand still until he jots down an inventory of the

woman's dress. That is manifestly absurd. It reminds a person of those

dentists who secure your instant and breathless interest in a tooth by

taking a grip on it with the forceps, and then stand there and

drawl through a tedious anecdote before they give the dreaded jerk.

Parentheses in literature and dentistry are in bad taste.

The Germans have another kind of parenthesis, which they make by

splitting a verb in two and putting half of it at the beginning of

an exciting chapter and the OTHER HALF at the end of it. Can any one

conceive of anything more confusing than that? These things are called

“separable verbs.” The German grammar is blistered all over with

separable verbs; and the wider the two portions of one of them are

spread apart, the better the author of the crime is pleased with his

performance. A favorite one is REISTE AB--which means departed. Here is

an example which I culled from a novel and reduced to English:

“The trunks being now ready, he DE- after kissing his mother and

sisters, and once more pressing to his bosom his adored Gretchen, who,

dressed in simple white muslin, with a single tuberose in the ample

folds of her rich brown hair, had tottered feebly down the stairs, still

pale from the terror and excitement of the past evening, but longing to

lay her poor aching head yet once again upon the breast of him whom she

loved more dearly than life itself, PARTED.”

However, it is not well to dwell too much on the separable verbs. One is

sure to lose his temper early; and if he sticks to the subject, and will

not be warned, it will at last either soften his brain or petrify

it. Personal pronouns and adjectives are a fruitful nuisance in this

language, and should have been left out. For instance, the same sound,

SIE, means YOU, and it means SHE, and it means HER, and it means IT,

and it means THEY, and it means THEM. Think of the ragged poverty of

a language which has to make one word do the work of six--and a poor

little weak thing of only three letters at that. But mainly, think of

the exasperation of never knowing which of these meanings the speaker is

trying to convey. This explains why, whenever a person says SIE to me, I

generally try to kill him, if a stranger.

Now observe the Adjective. Here was a case where simplicity would have

been an advantage; therefore, for no other reason, the inventor of this

language complicated it all he could. When we wish to speak of our “good

friend or friends,” in our enlightened tongue, we stick to the one form

and have no trouble or hard feeling about it; but with the German

tongue it is different. When a German gets his hands on an adjective,

he declines it, and keeps on declining it until the common sense is all

declined out of it. It is as bad as Latin. He says, for instance:

SINGULAR

Nominative--Mein gutER Freund, my good friend. Genitives--MeinES GutEN

FreundES, of my good friend. Dative--MeinEM gutEN Freund, to my good

friend. Accusative--MeinEN gutEN Freund, my good friend.

PLURAL

N.--MeinE gutEN FreundE, my good friends. G.--MeinER gutEN FreundE,

of my good friends. D.--MeinEN gutEN FreundEN, to my good friends.

A.--MeinE gutEN FreundE, my good friends.

Now let the candidate for the asylum try to memorize those variations,

and see how soon he will be elected. One might better go without friends

in Germany than take all this trouble about them. I have shown what a

bother it is to decline a good (male) friend; well this is only a third

of the work, for there is a variety of new distortions of the adjective

to be learned when the object is feminine, and still another when the

object is neuter. Now there are more adjectives in this language than

there are black cats in Switzerland, and they must all be as

elaborately declined as the examples above suggested.

Difficult?--troublesome?--these words cannot describe it. I heard a

Californian student in Heidelberg say, in one of his calmest moods, that

he would rather decline two drinks than one German adjective.

The inventor of the language seems to have taken pleasure in

complicating it in every way he could think of. For instance, if one is

casually referring to a house, HAUS, or a horse, PFERD, or a dog, HUND,

he spells these words as I have indicated; but if he is referring to

them in the Dative case, he sticks on a foolish and unnecessary E and

spells them HAUSE, PFERDE, HUNDE. So, as an added E often signifies the

plural, as the S does with us, the new student is likely to go on for a

month making twins out of a Dative dog before he discovers his mistake;

and on the other hand, many a new student who could ill afford loss,

has bought and paid for two dogs and only got one of them, because

he ignorantly bought that dog in the Dative singular when he really

supposed he was talking plural--which left the law on the seller's side,

of course, by the strict rules of grammar, and therefore a suit for

recovery could not lie.

In German, all the Nouns begin with a capital letter. Now that is a good

idea; and a good idea, in this language, is necessarily conspicuous from

its lonesomeness. I consider this capitalizing of nouns a good idea,

because by reason of it you are almost always able to tell a noun the

minute you see it. You fall into error occasionally, because you mistake

the name of a person for the name of a thing, and waste a good deal of

time trying to dig a meaning out of it. German names almost always do

mean something, and this helps to deceive the student. I translated a

passage one day, which said that “the infuriated tigress broke loose

and utterly ate up the unfortunate fir forest” (Tannenwald). When I was

girding up my loins to doubt this, I found out that Tannenwald in this

instance was a man's name.

Every noun has a gender, and there is no sense or system in the

distribution; so the gender of each must be learned separately and by

heart. There is no other way. To do this one has to have a memory like a

memorandum-book. In German, a young lady has no sex, while a turnip has.

Think what overwrought reverence that shows for the turnip, and what

callous disrespect for the girl. See how it looks in print--I translate

this from a conversation in one of the best of the German Sunday-school

books:

“Gretchen. Wilhelm, where is the turnip?

“Wilhelm. She has gone to the kitchen.

“Gretchen. Where is the accomplished and beautiful English maiden?

“Wilhelm. It has gone to the opera.”

To continue with the German genders: a tree is male, its buds are

female, its leaves are neuter; horses are sexless, dogs are male, cats

are female--tomcats included, of course; a person's mouth, neck, bosom,

elbows, fingers, nails, feet, and body are of the male sex, and his head

is male or neuter according to the word selected to signify it, and NOT

according to the sex of the individual who wears it--for in Germany all

the women wear either male heads or sexless ones; a person's nose, lips,

shoulders, breast, hands, and toes are of the female sex; and his hair,

ears, eyes, chin, legs, knees, heart, and conscience haven't any sex

at all. The inventor of the language probably got what he knew about a

conscience from hearsay.

Now, by the above dissection, the reader will see that in Germany a

man may THINK he is a man, but when he comes to look into the matter

closely, he is bound to have his doubts; he finds that in sober truth

he is a most ridiculous mixture; and if he ends by trying to comfort

himself with the thought that he can at least depend on a third of this

mess as being manly and masculine, the humiliating second thought will

quickly remind him that in this respect he is no better off than any

woman or cow in the land.

In the German it is true that by some oversight of the inventor of

the language, a Woman is a female; but a Wife (Weib) is not--which is

unfortunate. A Wife, here, has no sex; she is neuter; so, according

to the grammar, a fish is HE, his scales are SHE, but a fishwife is

neither. To describe a wife as sexless may be called under-description;

that is bad enough, but over-description is surely worse. A German

speaks of an Englishman as the ENGLÄNNDER; to change the sex, he

adds INN, and that stands for Englishwoman--ENGLÄNDERINN. That seems

descriptive enough, but still it is not exact enough for a German; so he

precedes the word with that article which indicates that the creature to

follow is feminine, and writes it down thus: “die Engländerinn,”--which

means “the she-Englishwoman.” I consider that that person is

over-described.

Well, after the student has learned the sex of a great number of nouns,

he is still in a difficulty, because he finds it impossible to persuade

his tongue to refer to things as “he” and “she,” and “him” and “her,”

which it has been always accustomed to refer to as “it.” When he even

frames a German sentence in his mind, with the hims and hers in the

right places, and then works up his courage to the utterance-point, it

is no use--the moment he begins to speak his tongue flies the track and

all those labored males and females come out as “its.” And even when he

is reading German to himself, he always calls those things “it,” whereas

he ought to read in this way:

TALE OF THE FISHWIFE AND ITS SAD FATE [2]

2. I capitalize the nouns, in the German (and ancient English) fashion.

It is a bleak Day. Hear the Rain, how he pours, and the Hail, how he

rattles; and see the Snow, how he drifts along, and of the Mud, how

deep he is! Ah the poor Fishwife, it is stuck fast in the Mire; it has

dropped its Basket of Fishes; and its Hands have been cut by the Scales

as it seized some of the falling Creatures; and one Scale has even got

into its Eye, and it cannot get her out. It opens its Mouth to cry

for Help; but if any Sound comes out of him, alas he is drowned by the

raging of the Storm. And now a Tomcat has got one of the Fishes and she

will surely escape with him. No, she bites off a Fin, she holds her in

her Mouth--will she swallow her? No, the Fishwife's brave Mother-dog

deserts his Puppies and rescues the Fin--which he eats, himself, as his

Reward. O, horror, the Lightning has struck the Fish-basket; he sets him

on Fire; see the Flame, how she licks the doomed Utensil with her red

and angry Tongue; now she attacks the helpless Fishwife's Foot--she

burns him up, all but the big Toe, and even SHE is partly consumed; and

still she spreads, still she waves her fiery Tongues; she attacks the

Fishwife's Leg and destroys IT; she attacks its Hand and destroys HER

also; she attacks the Fishwife's Leg and destroys HER also; she attacks

its Body and consumes HIM; she wreathes herself about its Heart and IT

is consumed; next about its Breast, and in a Moment SHE is a Cinder; now

she reaches its Neck--He goes; now its Chin--IT goes; now its Nose--SHE

goes. In another Moment, except Help come, the Fishwife will be no more.

Time presses--is there none to succor and save? Yes! Joy, joy,

with flying Feet the she-Englishwoman comes! But alas, the generous

she-Female is too late: where now is the fated Fishwife? It has ceased

from its Sufferings, it has gone to a better Land; all that is left of

it for its loved Ones to lament over, is this poor smoldering Ash-heap.

Ah, woeful, woeful Ash-heap! Let us take him up tenderly, reverently,

upon the lowly Shovel, and bear him to his long Rest, with the Prayer

that when he rises again it will be a Realm where he will have one good

square responsible Sex, and have it all to himself, instead of having a

mangy lot of assorted Sexes scattered all over him in Spots.

There, now, the reader can see for himself that this pronoun business is

a very awkward thing for the unaccustomed tongue. I suppose that in all

languages the similarities of look and sound between words which have

no similarity in meaning are a fruitful source of perplexity to the

foreigner. It is so in our tongue, and it is notably the case in the

German. Now there is that troublesome word VERMÄHLT: to me it has so

close a resemblance--either real or fancied--to three or four other

words, that I never know whether it means despised, painted, suspected,

or married; until I look in the dictionary, and then I find it means the

latter. There are lots of such words and they are a great torment. To

increase the difficulty there are words which SEEM to resemble each

other, and yet do not; but they make just as much trouble as if they

did. For instance, there is the word VERMIETHEN (to let, to lease, to

hire); and the word VERHEIRATHEN (another way of saying to marry). I

heard of an Englishman who knocked at a man's door in Heidelberg and

proposed, in the best German he could command, to “verheirathen” that

house. Then there are some words which mean one thing when you emphasize

the first syllable, but mean something very different if you throw the

emphasis on the last syllable. For instance, there is a word which

means a runaway, or the act of glancing through a book, according to the

placing of the emphasis; and another word which signifies to

ASSOCIATE with a man, or to AVOID him, according to where you put the

emphasis--and you can generally depend on putting it in the wrong place

and getting into trouble.

There are some exceedingly useful words in this language. SCHLAG, for

example; and ZUG. There are three-quarters of a column of SCHLAGS in the

dictonary, and a column and a half of ZUGS. The word SCHLAG means Blow,

Stroke, Dash, Hit, Shock, Clap, Slap, Time, Bar, Coin, Stamp,

Kind, Sort, Manner, Way, Apoplexy, Wood-cutting, Enclosure, Field,

Forest-clearing. This is its simple and EXACT meaning--that is to say,

its restricted, its fettered meaning; but there are ways by which

you can set it free, so that it can soar away, as on the wings of the

morning, and never be at rest. You can hang any word you please to

its tail, and make it mean anything you want to. You can begin

with SCHLAG-ADER, which means artery, and you can hang on the whole

dictionary, word by word, clear through the alphabet to SCHLAG-WASSER,

which means bilge-water--and including SCHLAG-MUTTER, which means

mother-in-law.

Just the same with ZUG. Strictly speaking, ZUG means Pull, Tug, Draught,

Procession, March, Progress, Flight, Direction, Expedition, Train,

Caravan, Passage, Stroke, Touch, Line, Flourish, Trait of Character,

Feature, Lineament, Chess-move, Organ-stop, Team, Whiff, Bias, Drawer,

Propensity, Inhalation, Disposition: but that thing which it does NOT

mean--when all its legitimate pennants have been hung on, has not been

discovered yet.

One cannot overestimate the usefulness of SCHLAG and ZUG. Armed just

with these two, and the word ALSO, what cannot the foreigner on German

soil accomplish? The German word ALSO is the equivalent of the English

phrase “You know,” and does not mean anything at all--in TALK, though

it sometimes does in print. Every time a German opens his mouth an

ALSO falls out; and every time he shuts it he bites one in two that was

trying to GET out.

Now, the foreigner, equipped with these three noble words, is master of

the situation. Let him talk right along, fearlessly; let him pour his

indifferent German forth, and when he lacks for a word, let him heave a

SCHLAG into the vacuum; all the chances are that it fits it like a

plug, but if it doesn't let him promptly heave a ZUG after it; the two

together can hardly fail to bung the hole; but if, by a miracle, they

SHOULD fail, let him simply say ALSO! and this will give him a moment's

chance to think of the needful word. In Germany, when you load your

conversational gun it is always best to throw in a SCHLAG or two and a

ZUG or two, because it doesn't make any difference how much the rest of

the charge may scatter, you are bound to bag something with THEM. Then

you blandly say ALSO, and load up again. Nothing gives such an air

of grace and elegance and unconstraint to a German or an English

conversation as to scatter it full of “Also's” or “You knows.”

In my note-book I find this entry:

July 1.--In the hospital yesterday, a word of thirteen syllables was

successfully removed from a patient--a North German from near Hamburg;

but as most unfortunately the surgeons had opened him in the wrong

place, under the impression that he contained a panorama, he died. The

sad event has cast a gloom over the whole community.

That paragraph furnishes a text for a few remarks about one of the most

curious and notable features of my subject--the length of German words.

Some German words are so long that they have a perspective. Observe

these examples:

Freundschaftsbezeigungen.

Dilettantenaufdringlichkeiten.

Stadtverordnetenversammlungen.

These things are not words, they are alphabetical processions. And they

are not rare; one can open a German newspaper at any time and see them

marching majestically across the page--and if he has any imagination

he can see the banners and hear the music, too. They impart a martial

thrill to the meekest subject. I take a great interest in these

curiosities. Whenever I come across a good one, I stuff it and put it in

my museum. In this way I have made quite a valuable collection. When I

get duplicates, I exchange with other collectors, and thus increase the

variety of my stock. Here are some specimens which I lately bought at an

auction sale of the effects of a bankrupt bric-a-brac hunter:

Generalstaatsverordnetenversammlungen.

Alterthumswissenschaften.

Kinderbewahrungsanstalten.

Unabhängigkeitserklärungen.

Wiedererstellungbestrebungen.

Waffenstillstandsunterhandlungen.

Of course when one of these grand mountain ranges goes stretching across

the printed page, it adorns and ennobles that literary landscape--but at

the same time it is a great distress to the new student, for it blocks

up his way; he cannot crawl under it, or climb over it, or tunnel

through it. So he resorts to the dictionary for help, but there is no

help there. The dictionary must draw the line somewhere--so it leaves

this sort of words out. And it is right, because these long things are

hardly legitimate words, but are rather combinations of words, and the

inventor of them ought to have been killed. They are compound words with

the hyphens left out. The various words used in building them are in

the dictionary, but in a very scattered condition; so you can hunt the

materials out, one by one, and get at the meaning at last, but it is a

tedious and harassing business. I have tried this process upon some of

the above examples. “Freundshaftsbezeigungen” seems to be “Friendship

demonstrations,” which is only a foolish and clumsy way of saying

“demonstrations of friendship.” “Unabhängigkeitserklärungen” seems to be

“Independencedeclarations,” which is no improvement upon

“Declarations of Independence,” so far as I can see.

“Generalstaatsverordnetenversammlungen” seems to be

“General-statesrepresentativesmeetings,” as nearly as I can get at it--a

mere rhythmical, gushy euphemism for “meetings of the legislature,”

I judge. We used to have a good deal of this sort of crime in our

literature, but it has gone out now. We used to speak of a thing as a

“never-to-be-forgotten” circumstance, instead of cramping it into the

simple and sufficient word “memorable” and then going calmly about our

business as if nothing had happened. In those days we were not content

to embalm the thing and bury it decently, we wanted to build a monument

over it.

But in our newspapers the compounding-disease lingers a little to the

present day, but with the hyphens left out, in the German fashion. This

is the shape it takes: instead of saying “Mr. Simmons, clerk of the

county and district courts, was in town yesterday,” the new form puts

it thus: “Clerk of the County and District Courts Simmons was in town

yesterday.” This saves neither time nor ink, and has an awkward

sound besides. One often sees a remark like this in our papers: “MRS.

Assistant District Attorney Johnson returned to her city residence

yesterday for the season.” That is a case of really unjustifiable

compounding; because it not only saves no time or trouble, but confers

a title on Mrs. Johnson which she has no right to. But these little

instances are trifles indeed, contrasted with the ponderous and dismal

German system of piling jumbled compounds together. I wish to submit the

following local item, from a Mannheim journal, by way of illustration:

“In the daybeforeyesterdayshortlyaftereleveno'clock Night, the

inthistownstandingtavern called 'The Wagoner' was downburnt. When the

fire to the onthedownburninghouseresting Stork's Nest reached, flew the

parent Storks away. But when the bytheraging, firesurrounded Nest ITSELF

caught Fire, straightway plunged the quickreturning Mother-Stork into

the Flames and died, her Wings over her young ones outspread.”

Even the cumbersome German construction is not able to take the pathos

out of that picture--indeed, it somehow seems to strengthen it. This

item is dated away back yonder months ago. I could have used it sooner,

but I was waiting to hear from the Father-stork. I am still waiting.

“ALSO!” If I had not shown that the German is a difficult language, I

have at least intended to do so. I have heard of an American student

who was asked how he was getting along with his German, and who answered

promptly: “I am not getting along at all. I have worked at it hard for

three level months, and all I have got to show for it is one solitary

German phrase--'ZWEI GLAS'” (two glasses of beer). He paused for a

moment, reflectively; then added with feeling: “But I've got that

SOLID!”

And if I have not also shown that German is a harassing and infuriating

study, my execution has been at fault, and not my intent. I heard lately

of a worn and sorely tried American student who used to fly to a certain

German word for relief when he could bear up under his aggravations no

longer--the only word whose sound was sweet and precious to his ear and

healing to his lacerated spirit. This was the word DAMIT. It was only

the SOUND that helped him, not the meaning; [3] and so, at last, when he

learned that the emphasis was not on the first syllable, his only stay

and support was gone, and he faded away and died.

3. It merely means, in its general sense, “herewith.”

I think that a description of any loud, stirring, tumultuous episode

must be tamer in German than in English. Our descriptive words of this

character have such a deep, strong, resonant sound, while their German

equivalents do seem so thin and mild and energyless. Boom, burst, crash,

roar, storm, bellow, blow, thunder, explosion; howl, cry, shout, yell,

groan; battle, hell. These are magnificent words; the have a force and

magnitude of sound befitting the things which they describe. But their

German equivalents would be ever so nice to sing the children to sleep

with, or else my awe-inspiring ears were made for display and not for

superior usefulness in analyzing sounds. Would any man want to die in a

battle which was called by so tame a term as a SCHLACHT? Or would not

a comsumptive feel too much bundled up, who was about to go out, in

a shirt-collar and a seal-ring, into a storm which the bird-song word

GEWITTER was employed to describe? And observe the strongest of the

several German equivalents for explosion--AUSBRUCH. Our word Toothbrush

is more powerful than that. It seems to me that the Germans could

do worse than import it into their language to describe particularly

tremendous explosions with. The German word for hell--Hoelle--sounds

more like HELLY than anything else; therefore, how necessarily chipper,

frivolous, and unimpressive it is. If a man were told in German to go

there, could he really rise to thee dignity of feeling insulted?

Having pointed out, in detail, the several vices of this language, I

now come to the brief and pleasant task of pointing out its virtues. The

capitalizing of the nouns I have already mentioned. But far before this

virtue stands another--that of spelling a word according to the sound of

it. After one short lesson in the alphabet, the student can tell how any

German word is pronounced without having to ask; whereas in our language

if a student should inquire of us, “What does B, O, W, spell?” we should

be obliged to reply, “Nobody can tell what it spells when you set if off

by itself; you can only tell by referring to the context and finding out

what it signifies--whether it is a thing to shoot arrows with, or a nod

of one's head, or the forward end of a boat.”

There are some German words which are singularly and powerfully

effective. For instance, those which describe lowly, peaceful, and

affectionate home life; those which deal with love, in any and all

forms, from mere kindly feeling and honest good will toward the passing

stranger, clear up to courtship; those which deal with outdoor Nature,

in its softest and loveliest aspects--with meadows and forests, and

birds and flowers, the fragrance and sunshine of summer, and the

moonlight of peaceful winter nights; in a word, those which deal with

any and all forms of rest, repose, and peace; those also which deal with

the creatures and marvels of fairyland; and lastly and chiefly, in

those words which express pathos, is the language surpassingly rich

and affective. There are German songs which can make a stranger to the

language cry. That shows that the SOUND of the words is correct--it

interprets the meanings with truth and with exactness; and so the ear is

informed, and through the ear, the heart.

The Germans do not seem to be afraid to repeat a word when it is the

right one. They repeat it several times, if they choose. That is

wise. But in English, when we have used a word a couple of times in a

paragraph, we imagine we are growing tautological, and so we are weak

enough to exchange it for some other word which only approximates

exactness, to escape what we wrongly fancy is a greater blemish.

Repetition may be bad, but surely inexactness is worse.

There are people in the world who will take a great deal of trouble to

point out the faults in a religion or a language, and then go blandly

about their business without suggesting any remedy. I am not that kind

of person. I have shown that the German language needs reforming. Very

well, I am ready to reform it. At least I am ready to make the proper

suggestions. Such a course as this might be immodest in another; but I

have devoted upward of nine full weeks, first and last, to a careful and

critical study of this tongue, and thus have acquired a confidence in

my ability to reform it which no mere superficial culture could have

conferred upon me.

In the first place, I would leave out the Dative case. It confuses the

plurals; and, besides, nobody ever knows when he is in the Dative case,

except he discover it by accident--and then he does not know when or

where it was that he got into it, or how long he has been in it, or

how he is ever going to get out of it again. The Dative case is but an

ornamental folly--it is better to discard it.

In the next place, I would move the Verb further up to the front. You

may load up with ever so good a Verb, but I notice that you never really

bring down a subject with it at the present German range--you only

cripple it. So I insist that this important part of speech should be

brought forward to a position where it may be easily seen with the naked

eye.

Thirdly, I would import some strong words from the English tongue--to

swear with, and also to use in describing all sorts of vigorous things

in a vigorous way. [4]

1. “Verdammt,” and its variations and enlargements, are words which

have plenty of meaning, but the SOUNDS are so mild and ineffectual that

German ladies can use them without sin. German ladies who could not be

induced to commit a sin by any persuasion or compulsion, promptly rip

out one of these harmless little words when they tear their dresses or

don't like the soup. It sounds about as wicked as our “My gracious.”

German ladies are constantly saying, “Ach! Gott!” “Mein Gott!” “Gott in

Himmel!” “Herr Gott” “Der Herr Jesus!” etc. They think our ladies have

the same custom, perhaps; for I once heard a gentle and lovely old

German lady say to a sweet young American girl: “The two languages are

so alike--how pleasant that is; we say 'Ach! Gott!' you say 'Goddamn.'”

Fourthly, I would reorganizes the sexes, and distribute them accordingly

to the will of the creator. This as a tribute of respect, if nothing

else.

Fifthly, I would do away with those great long compounded words; or

require the speaker to deliver them in sections, with intermissions for

refreshments. To wholly do away with them would be best, for ideas are

more easily received and digested when they come one at a time than when

they come in bulk. Intellectual food is like any other; it is pleasanter

and more beneficial to take it with a spoon than with a shovel.

Sixthly, I would require a speaker to stop when he is done, and not

hang a string of those useless “haven sind gewesen gehabt haben geworden

seins” to the end of his oration. This sort of gewgaws undignify a

speech, instead of adding a grace. They are, therefore, an offense, and

should be discarded.

Seventhly, I would discard the Parenthesis. Also the reparenthesis, the

re-reparenthesis, and the re-re-re-re-re-reparentheses, and likewise

the final wide-reaching all-enclosing king-parenthesis. I would require

every individual, be he high or low, to unfold a plain straightforward

tale, or else coil it and sit on it and hold his peace. Infractions of

this law should be punishable with death.

And eighthly, and last, I would retain ZUG and SCHLAG, with their

pendants, and discard the rest of the vocabulary. This would simplify

the language.

I have now named what I regard as the most necessary and important

changes. These are perhaps all I could be expected to name for nothing;

but there are other suggestions which I can and will make in case my

proposed application shall result in my being formally employed by the

government in the work of reforming the language.

My philological studies have satisfied me that a gifted person ought to

learn English (barring spelling and pronouncing) in thirty hours, French

in thirty days, and German in thirty years. It seems manifest, then,

that the latter tongue ought to be trimmed down and repaired. If it is

to remain as it is, it ought to be gently and reverently set aside among

the dead languages, for only the dead have time to learn it.

A FOURTH OF JULY ORATION IN THE GERMAN TONGUE, DELIVERED AT A BANQUET OF

THE ANGLO-AMERICAN CLUB OF STUDENTS BY THE AUTHOR OF THIS BOOK

Gentlemen: Since I arrived, a month ago, in this old wonderland, this

vast garden of Germany, my English tongue has so often proved a useless

piece of baggage to me, and so troublesome to carry around, in a country

where they haven't the checking system for luggage, that I finally set

to work, and learned the German language. Also! Es freut mich dass dies

so ist, denn es muss, in ein hauptsächlich degree, höflich sein, dass

man auf ein occasion like this, sein Rede in die Sprache des Landes

worin he boards, aussprechen soll. Dafuer habe ich, aus reinische

Verlegenheit--no, Vergangenheit--no, I mean Höflichkeit--aus reinishe

Höflichkeit habe ich resolved to tackle this business in the German

language, um Gottes willen! Also! Sie muessen so freundlich sein, und

verzeih mich die interlarding von ein oder zwei Englischer Worte, hie

und da, denn ich finde dass die deutsche is not a very copious language,

and so when you've really got anything to say, you've got to draw on a

language that can stand the strain.

Wenn haber man kann nicht meinem Rede Verstehen, so werde ich ihm später

dasselbe uebersetz, wenn er solche Dienst verlangen wollen haben werden

sollen sein hätte. (I don't know what wollen haben werden sollen sein

hätte means, but I notice they always put it at the end of a German

sentence--merely for general literary gorgeousness, I suppose.)

This is a great and justly honored day--a day which is worthy of the

veneration in which it is held by the true patriots of all climes and

nationalities--a day which offers a fruitful theme for thought and

speech; und meinem Freunde--no, meinEN FreundEN--meinES FreundES--well,

take your choice, they're all the same price; I don't know which one is

right--also! ich habe gehabt haben worden gewesen sein, as Goethe says

in his Paradise Lost--ich--ich--that is to say--ich--but let us change

cars.

Also! Die Anblich so viele Grossbrittanischer und Amerikanischer

hier zusammengetroffen in Bruderliche concord, ist zwar a welcome and

inspiriting spectacle. And what has moved you to it? Can the

terse German tongue rise to the expression of this impulse? Is it

Freundschaftsbezeigungenstadtverordnetenversammlungenfamilieneigenthümlichkeiten?

Nein, O nein! This is a crisp and noble word, but it fails to pierce

the marrow of the impulse which has gathered this friendly meeting and

produced diese Anblick--eine Anblich welche ist gut zu sehen--gut fuer

die Augen in a foreign land and a far country--eine Anblick solche als

in die gewöhnliche Heidelberger phrase nennt man ein “schönes Aussicht!”

Ja, freilich natürlich wahrscheinlich ebensowohl! Also! Die Aussicht auf

dem Koenigsstuhl mehr grösser ist, aber geistlische sprechend nicht

so schön, lob' Gott! Because sie sind hier zusammengetroffen, in

Bruderlichem concord, ein grossen Tag zu feirn, whose high benefits were

not for one land and one locality, but have conferred a measure of

good upon all lands that know liberty today, and love it. Hundert Jahre

vorueber, waren die Engländer und die Amerikaner Feinde; aber heut sind

sie herzlichen Freunde, Gott sei Dank! May this good-fellowship endure;

may these banners here blended in amity so remain; may they never

any more wave over opposing hosts, or be stained with blood which was

kindred, is kindred, and always will be kindred, until a line drawn upon

a map shall be able to say: “THIS bars the ancestral blood from flowing

in the veins of the descendant!”

APPENDIX E.

Legend of the Castles Called the “Swallow's Nest” and “The Brothers,” as

Condensed from the Captain's Tale

In the neighborhood of three hundred years ago the Swallow's Nest and

the larger castle between it and Neckarsteinach were owned and occupied

by two old knights who were twin brothers, and bachelors. They had no

relatives. They were very rich. They had fought through the wars and

retired to private life--covered with honorable scars. They were honest,

honorable men in their dealings, but the people had given them a couple

of nicknames which were very suggestive--Herr Givenaught and Herr

Heartless. The old knights were so proud of these names that if a

burgher called them by their right ones they would correct them.

The most renowned scholar in Europe, at the time, was the Herr Doctor

Franz Reikmann, who lived in Heidelberg. All Germany was proud of the

venerable scholar, who lived in the simplest way, for great scholars are

always poor. He was poor, as to money, but very rich in his sweet young

daughter Hildegarde and his library. He had been all his life collecting

his library, book and book, and he lived it as a miser loves his hoarded

gold. He said the two strings of his heart were rooted, the one in his

daughter, the other in his books; and that if either were severed he

must die. Now in an evil hour, hoping to win a marriage portion for his

child, this simple old man had intrusted his small savings to a sharper

to be ventured in a glittering speculation. But that was not the worst

of it: he signed a paper--without reading it. That is the way with poets

and scholars; they always sign without reading. This cunning paper made

him responsible for heaps of things. The rest was that one night he

found himself in debt to the sharper eight thousand pieces of gold!--an

amount so prodigious that it simply stupefied him to think of it. It was

a night of woe in that house.

“I must part with my library--I have nothing else. So perishes one

heartstring,” said the old man.

“What will it bring, father?” asked the girl.

“Nothing! It is worth seven hundred pieces of gold; but by auction it

will go for little or nothing.”

“Then you will have parted with the half of your heart and the joy of

your life to no purpose, since so mighty a burden of debt will remain

behind.”

“There is no help for it, my child. Our darlings must pass under the

hammer. We must pay what we can.”

“My father, I have a feeling that the dear Virgin will come to our help.

Let us not lose heart.”

“She cannot devise a miracle that will turn NOTHING into eight thousand

gold pieces, and lesser help will bring us little peace.”

“She can do even greater things, my father. She will save us, I know she

will.”

Toward morning, while the old man sat exhausted and asleep in his chair

where he had been sitting before his books as one who watches by his

beloved dead and prints the features on his memory for a solace in the

aftertime of empty desolation, his daughter sprang into the room and

gently woke him, saying--

“My presentiment was true! She will save us. Three times has she

appeared to me in my dreams, and said, 'Go to the Herr Givenaught, go to

the Herr Heartless, ask them to come and bid.' There, did I not tell you

she would save us, the thrice blessed Virgin!”

Sad as the old man was, he was obliged to laugh.

“Thou mightest as well appeal to the rocks their castles stand upon as

to the harder ones that lie in those men's breasts, my child. THEY bid

on books writ in the learned tongues!--they can scarce read their own.”

But Hildegarde's faith was in no wise shaken. Bright and early she was

on her way up the Neckar road, as joyous as a bird.

Meantime Herr Givenaught and Herr Heartless were having an early

breakfast in the former's castle--the Sparrow's Nest--and flavoring

it with a quarrel; for although these twins bore a love for each other

which almost amounted to worship, there was one subject upon which they

could not touch without calling each other hard names--and yet it was

the subject which they oftenest touched upon.

“I tell you,” said Givenaught, “you will beggar yourself yet with your

insane squanderings of money upon what you choose to consider poor and

worthy objects. All these years I have implored you to stop this foolish

custom and husband your means, but all in vain. You are always lying

to me about these secret benevolences, but you never have managed to

deceive me yet. Every time a poor devil has been set upon his feet I

have detected your hand in it--incorrigible ass!”

“Every time you didn't set him on his feet yourself, you mean. Where I

give one unfortunate a little private lift, you do the same for a dozen.

The idea of YOUR swelling around the country and petting yourself with

the nickname of Givenaught--intolerable humbug! Before I would be such

a fraud as that, I would cut my right hand off. Your life is a continual

lie. But go on, I have tried MY best to save you from beggaring yourself

by your riotous charities--now for the thousandth time I wash my hands

of the consequences. A maundering old fool! that's what you are.”

“And you a blethering old idiot!” roared Givenaught, springing up.

“I won't stay in the presence of a man who has no more delicacy than to

call me such names. Mannerless swine!”

So saying, Herr Heartless sprang up in a passion. But some lucky

accident intervened, as usual, to change the subject, and the daily

quarrel ended in the customary daily living reconciliation. The

gray-headed old eccentrics parted, and Herr Heartless walked off to his

own castle.

Half an hour later, Hildegarde was standing in the presence of Herr

Givenaught. He heard her story, and said--

“I am sorry for you, my child, but I am very poor, I care nothing for

bookish rubbish, I shall not be there.”

He said the hard words kindly, but they nearly broke poor Hildegarde's

heart, nevertheless. When she was gone the old heartbreaker muttered,

rubbing his hands--

“It was a good stroke. I have saved my brother's pocket this time,

in spite of him. Nothing else would have prevented his rushing off to

rescue the old scholar, the pride of Germany, from his trouble. The poor

child won't venture near HIM after the rebuff she has received from his

brother the Givenaught.”

But he was mistaken. The Virgin had commanded, and Hildegarde would

obey. She went to Herr Heartless and told her story. But he said

coldly--

“I am very poor, my child, and books are nothing to me. I wish you well,

but I shall not come.”

When Hildegarde was gone, he chuckled and said--

“How my fool of a soft-headed soft-hearted brother would rage if he knew

how cunningly I have saved his pocket. How he would have flown to the

old man's rescue! But the girl won't venture near him now.”

When Hildegarde reached home, her father asked her how she had

prospered. She said--

“The Virgin has promised, and she will keep her word; but not in the way

I thought. She knows her own ways, and they are best.”

The old man patted her on the head, and smiled a doubting smile, but he

honored her for her brave faith, nevertheless.

II

Next day the people assembled in the great hall of the Ritter tavern,

to witness the auction--for the proprietor had said the treasure of

Germany's most honored son should be bartered away in no meaner place.

Hildegarde and her father sat close to the books, silent and sorrowful,

and holding each other's hands. There was a great crowd of people

present. The bidding began--

“How much for this precious library, just as it stands, all complete?”

called the auctioneer.

“Fifty pieces of gold!”

“A hundred!”

“Two hundred.”

“Three!”

“Four!”

“Five hundred!”

“Five twenty-five.”

A brief pause.

“Five forty!”

A longer pause, while the auctioneer redoubled his persuasions.

“Five-forty-five!”

A heavy drag--the auctioneer persuaded, pleaded, implored--it was

useless, everybody remained silent--

“Well, then--going, going--one--two--”

“Five hundred and fifty!”

This in a shrill voice, from a bent old man, all hung with rags, and

with a green patch over his left eye. Everybody in his vicinity

turned and gazed at him. It was Givenaught in disguise. He was using a

disguised voice, too.

“Good!” cried the auctioneer. “Going, going--one--two--”

“Five hundred and sixty!”

This, in a deep, harsh voice, from the midst of the crowd at the other

end of the room. The people near by turned, and saw an old man, in a

strange costume, supporting himself on crutches. He wore a long white

beard, and blue spectacles. It was Herr Heartless, in disguise, and

using a disguised voice.

“Good again! Going, going--one--”

“Six hundred!”

Sensation. The crowd raised a cheer, and some one cried out, “Go it,

Green-patch!” This tickled the audience and a score of voices shouted,

“Go it, Green-patch!”

“Going--going--going--third and last call--one--two--”

“Seven hundred!”

“Huzzah!--well done, Crutches!” cried a voice. The crowd took it up, and

shouted altogether, “Well done, Crutches!”

“Splendid, gentlemen! you are doing magnificently. Going, going--”

“A thousand!”

“Three cheers for Green-patch! Up and at him, Crutches!”

“Going--going--”

“Two thousand!”

And while the people cheered and shouted, “Crutches” muttered, “Who can

this devil be that is fighting so to get these useless books?--But no

matter, he sha'n't have them. The pride of Germany shall have his books

if it beggars me to buy them for him.”

“Going, going, going--”

“Three thousand!”

“Come, everybody--give a rouser for Green-patch!”

And while they did it, “Green-patch” muttered, “This cripple is plainly

a lunatic; but the old scholar shall have his books, nevertheless,

though my pocket sweat for it.”

“Going--going--”

“Four thousand!”

“Huzza!”

“Five thousand!”

“Huzza!”

“Six thousand!”

“Huzza!”

“Seven thousand!”

“Huzza!”

“EIGHT thousand!”

“We are saved, father! I told you the Holy Virgin would keep her word!”

“Blessed be her sacred name!” said the old scholar, with emotion. The

crowd roared, “Huzza, huzza, huzza--at him again, Green-patch!”

“Going--going--”

“TEN thousand!” As Givenaught shouted this, his excitement was so

great that he forgot himself and used his natural voice. His brother

recognized it, and muttered, under cover of the storm of cheers--

“Aha, you are there, are you, besotted old fool? Take the books, I know

what you'll do with them!”

So saying, he slipped out of the place and the auction was at an end.

Givenaught shouldered his way to Hildegarde, whispered a word in

her ear, and then he also vanished. The old scholar and his daughter

embraced, and the former said, “Truly the Holy Mother has done more

than she promised, child, for she has given you a splendid marriage

portion--think of it, two thousand pieces of gold!”

“And more still,” cried Hildegarde, “for she has given you back your

books; the stranger whispered me that he would none of them--'the

honored son of Germany must keep them,' so he said. I would I might have

asked his name and kissed his hand and begged his blessing; but he was

Our Lady's angel, and it is not meet that we of earth should venture

speech with them that dwell above.”

APPENDIX F.

German Journals The daily journals of Hamburg, Frankfort, Baden, Munich,

and Augsburg are all constructed on the same general plan. I speak of

these because I am more familiar with them than with any other German

papers. They contain no “editorials” whatever; no “personals”--and this

is rather a merit than a demerit, perhaps; no funny-paragraph column;

no police-court reports; no reports of proceedings of higher courts;

no information about prize-fights or other dog-fights, horse-races,

walking-machines, yachting-contents, rifle-matches, or other sporting

matters of any sort; no reports of banquet speeches; no department of

curious odds and ends of floating fact and gossip; no “rumors” about

anything or anybody; no prognostications or prophecies about anything or

anybody; no lists of patents granted or sought, or any reference to

such things; no abuse of public officials, big or little, or complaints

against them, or praises of them; no religious columns Saturdays, no

rehash of cold sermons Mondays; no “weather indications”; no “local

item” unveiling of what is happening in town--nothing of a local nature,

indeed, is mentioned, beyond the movements of some prince, or the

proposed meeting of some deliberative body.

After so formidable a list of what one can't find in a German daily,

the question may well be asked, What CAN be found in it? It is easily

answered: A child's handful of telegrams, mainly about European national

and international political movements; letter-correspondence about the

same things; market reports. There you have it. That is what a German

daily is made of. A German daily is the slowest and saddest and

dreariest of the inventions of man. Our own dailies infuriate the

reader, pretty often; the German daily only stupefies him. Once a

week the German daily of the highest class lightens up its heavy

columns--that is, it thinks it lightens them up--with a profound, an

abysmal, book criticism; a criticism which carries you down, down, down

into the scientific bowels of the subject--for the German critic is

nothing if not scientific--and when you come up at last and scent the

fresh air and see the bonny daylight once more, you resolve without a

dissenting voice that a book criticism is a mistaken way to lighten up

a German daily. Sometimes, in place of the criticism, the first-class

daily gives you what it thinks is a gay and chipper essay--about ancient

Grecian funeral customs, or the ancient Egyptian method of tarring a

mummy, or the reasons for believing that some of the peoples who existed

before the flood did not approve of cats. These are not unpleasant

subjects; they are not uninteresting subjects; they are even exciting

subjects--until one of these massive scientists gets hold of them. He

soon convinces you that even these matters can be handled in such a way

as to make a person low-spirited.

As I have said, the average German daily is made up solely of

correspondences--a trifle of it by telegraph, the rest of it by mail.

Every paragraph has the side-head, “London,” “Vienna,” or some other

town, and a date. And always, before the name of the town, is placed

a letter or a sign, to indicate who the correspondent is, so that the

authorities can find him when they want to hang him. Stars, crosses,

triangles, squares, half-moons, suns--such are some of the signs used by

correspondents.

Some of the dailies move too fast, others too slowly. For instance, my

Heidelberg daily was always twenty-four hours old when it arrived at

the hotel; but one of my Munich evening papers used to come a full

twenty-four hours before it was due.

Some of the less important dailies give one a tablespoonful of a

continued story every day; it is strung across the bottom of the page,

in the French fashion. By subscribing for the paper for five years I

judge that a man might succeed in getting pretty much all of the story.

If you ask a citizen of Munich which is the best Munich daily journal,

he will always tell you that there is only one good Munich daily, and

that it is published in Augsburg, forty or fifty miles away. It is like

saying that the best daily paper in New York is published out in New

Jersey somewhere. Yes, the Augsburg ALLGEMEINE ZEITUNG is “the best

Munich paper,” and it is the one I had in my mind when I was describing

a “first-class German daily” above. The entire paper, opened out, is not

quite as large as a single page of the New York HERALD. It is printed on

both sides, of course; but in such large type that its entire contents

could be put, in HERALD type, upon a single page of the HERALD--and

there would still be room enough on the page for the ZEITUNG's

“supplement” and some portion of the ZEITUNG's next day's contents.

Such is the first-class daily. The dailies actually printed in Munich

are all called second-class by the public. If you ask which is the best

of these second-class papers they say there is no difference; one is as

good as another. I have preserved a copy of one of them; it is

called the MÜNCHENER TAGES-ANZEIGER, and bears date January 25, 1879.

Comparisons are odious, but they need not be malicious; and without any

malice I wish to compare this journal, published in a German city of

170,000 inhabitants, with journals of other countries. I know of no

other way to enable the reader to “size” the thing.

A column of an average daily paper in America contains from 1,800 to

2,500 words; the reading-matter in a single issue consists of from

25,000 to 50,000 words. The reading-matter in my copy of the Munich

journal consists of a total of 1,654 words --for I counted them. That

would be nearly a column of one of our dailies. A single issue of the

bulkiest daily newspaper in the world--the London TIMES--often contains

100,000 words of reading-matter. Considering that the DAILY ANZEIGER

issues the usual twenty-six numbers per month, the reading matter in a

single number of the London TIMES would keep it in “copy” two months and

a half.

The ANZEIGER is an eight-page paper; its page is one inch wider and one

inch longer than a foolscap page; that is to say, the dimensions of its

page are somewhere between those of a schoolboy's slate and a lady's

pocket handkerchief. One-fourth of the first page is taken up with the

heading of the journal; this gives it a rather top-heavy appearance;

the rest of the first page is reading-matter; all of the second page is

reading-matter; the other six pages are devoted to advertisements.

The reading-matter is compressed into two hundred and five small-pica

lines, and is lighted up with eight pica headlines. The bill of fare

is as follows: First, under a pica headline, to enforce attention and

respect, is a four-line sermon urging mankind to remember that, although

they are pilgrims here below, they are yet heirs of heaven; and that

“When they depart from earth they soar to heaven.” Perhaps a four-line

sermon in a Saturday paper is the sufficient German equivalent of the

eight or ten columns of sermons which the New-Yorkers get in their

Monday morning papers. The latest news (two days old) follows the

four-line sermon, under the pica headline “Telegrams”--these are

“telegraphed” with a pair of scissors out of the AUGSBURGER ZEITUNG of

the day before. These telegrams consist of fourteen and two-thirds lines

from Berlin, fifteen lines from Vienna, and two and five-eights lines

from Calcutta. Thirty-three small-pica lines of telegraphic news in a

daily journal in a King's Capital of one hundred and seventy thousand

inhabitants is surely not an overdose. Next we have the pica heading,

“News of the Day,” under which the following facts are set forth: Prince

Leopold is going on a visit to Vienna, six lines; Prince Arnulph is

coming back from Russia, two lines; the Landtag will meet at ten o'clock

in the morning and consider an election law, three lines and one word

over; a city government item, five and one-half lines; prices of tickets

to the proposed grand Charity Ball, twenty-three lines--for this one

item occupies almost one-fourth of the entire first page; there is to be

a wonderful Wagner concert in Frankfurt-on-the-Main, with an orchestra

of one hundred and eight instruments, seven and one-half lines. That

concludes the first page. Eighty-five lines, altogether, on that page,

including three headlines. About fifty of those lines, as one perceives,

deal with local matters; so the reporters are not overworked.

Exactly one-half of the second page is occupied with an opera criticism,

fifty-three lines (three of them being headlines), and “Death Notices,”

ten lines.

The other half of the second page is made up of two paragraphs under

the head of “Miscellaneous News.” One of these paragraphs tells about a

quarrel between the Czar of Russia and his eldest son, twenty-one and

a half lines; and the other tells about the atrocious destruction of a

peasant child by its parents, forty lines, or one-fifth of the total of

the reading-matter contained in the paper.

Consider what a fifth part of the reading-matter of an American daily

paper issued in a city of one hundred and seventy thousand inhabitants

amounts to! Think what a mass it is. Would any one suppose I could so

snugly tuck away such a mass in a chapter of this book that it would be

difficult to find it again if the reader lost his place? Surely not.

I will translate that child-murder word for word, to give the reader a

realizing sense of what a fifth part of the reading-matter of a Munich

daily actually is when it comes under measurement of the eye:

“From Oberkreuzberg, January 21st, the DONAU ZEITUNG receives a long

account of a crime, which we shortened as follows: In Rametuach,

a village near Eppenschlag, lived a young married couple with two

children, one of which, a boy aged five, was born three years before the

marriage. For this reason, and also because a relative at Iggensbach had

bequeathed M400 ($100) to the boy, the heartless father considered him

in the way; so the unnatural parents determined to sacrifice him in the

cruelest possible manner. They proceeded to starve him slowly to death,

meantime frightfully maltreating him--as the village people now make

known, when it is too late. The boy was shut in a hole, and when

people passed by he cried, and implored them to give him bread. His

long-continued tortures and deprivations destroyed him at last, on the

third of January. The sudden (sic) death of the child created suspicion,

the more so as the body was immediately clothed and laid upon the bier.

Therefore the coroner gave notice, and an inquest was held on the 6th.

What a pitiful spectacle was disclosed then! The body was a complete

skeleton. The stomach and intestines were utterly empty; they contained

nothing whatsoever. The flesh on the corpse was not as thick as the back

of a knife, and incisions in it brought not one drop of blood. There

was not a piece of sound skin the size of a dollar on the whole body;

wounds, scars, bruises, discolored extravasated blood, everywhere--even

on the soles of the feet there were wounds. The cruel parents asserted

that the boy had been so bad that they had been obliged to use severe

punishments, and that he finally fell over a bench and broke his neck.

However, they were arrested two weeks after the inquest and put in the

prison at Deggendorf.”

Yes, they were arrested “two weeks after the inquest.” What a home sound

that has. That kind of police briskness rather more reminds me of my

native land than German journalism does.

I think a German daily journal doesn't do any good to speak of, but at

the same time it doesn't do any harm. That is a very large merit, and

should not be lightly weighted nor lightly thought of.

The German humorous papers are beautifully printed upon fine paper, and

the illustrations are finely drawn, finely engraved, and are not vapidly

funny, but deliciously so. So also, generally speaking, are the two or

three terse sentences which accompany the pictures. I remember one of

these pictures: A most dilapidated tramp is ruefully contemplating some

coins which lie in his open palm. He says: “Well, begging is getting

played out. Only about five marks ($1.25) for the whole day; many an

official makes more!” And I call to mind a picture of a commercial

traveler who is about to unroll his samples:

MERCHANT (pettishly).--NO, don't. I don't want to buy anything!

DRUMMER.--If you please, I was only going to show you--

MERCHANT.--But I don't wish to see them!

DRUMMER (after a pause, pleadingly).--But do you you mind letting ME

look at them! I haven't seen them for three weeks!

End of Project Gutenberg's A Tramp Abroad, by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)