a tramp abroad, part 1 by mark twain (samuel l. clemens) first published in 1880 illustrations taken from an 1880 first edition * * * * * * illustrations: 1.   portrait of the author 2.   titian's moses 3.   the author's memories 4.   the black knight 5.   opening his vizier 6.   the enraged emperor 7.   the portier 8.   one of those boys 9.   schloss hotel 10.  in my cage 11.  heidelberg castle 12.  heidelberg castle, river frontage 13.  the retreat 14.  jim baker 15.  "a blue flush about it" 16.  could not see it 17.  the beer king 18.  the lecturer's audience 19.  industrious students 20.  idle student 21.  companionable intercourse 22.  an imposing spectacle 23.  an advertisement 24.  "understands his business" 25.  the old surgeon 26.  the first wound 27.  the castle court 28.  wounded 29.  favorite street costume 30.  ineffaceable scars 31.  piece of sword contents chapter i a tramp over europe--on the holsatia--hamburg--frankfort-on-themain--how it won its name--a lesson in political economy--neatness in dress--rhine legends--"the knave of bergen" the famous ball--the strange knight--dancing with the queen--removal of the masks--the disclosure--wrath of the emperor--the ending chapter ii at heidelberg--great stir at a hotel--the portier--arrival of the empress--the schloss hotel--location of heidelberg--the river neckar--new feature in a hotel--heidelberg castle--view from the hotel--a tramp in the woods--meeting a raven--can ravens talk?--laughed at and vanquished--language of animals--jim baker--blue-jays chapter iii baker's blue-jay yarn--jay language--the cabin--"hello, i reckon i've struck something"--a knot hole--attempt to fill it--a ton of acorns--friends called in--a great mystery--more jays called a blue flush--a discovery--a rich joke--one that couldn't see it chapter iv student life--the five corps--the beet king--a free life--attending lectures--an immense audience--industrious students--politeness of the students--intercourse with the professors scenes at the castle garden--abundance of dogs--symbol of blighted love--how the ladies advertise chapter v the students' dueling ground--the dueling room--the sword grinder--frequency of the duels--the duelists--protection against injury--the surgeon--arrangements for the duels--the first duel--the first wound--a drawn battle--the second duel--cutting and slashing--interference of the surgeon chapter vi the third duel--a sickening spectacle--dinner between fights--the last duel--fighting in earnest--faces and heads mutilated--great nerve of the duelists--fatal results not infrequent--the world's view of these fights chapter vii corps--laws and usages--volunteering to fight--coolness of the wounded--wounds honorable--newly bandaged students around heidelberg--scarred faces abundant--a badge of honor--prince bismark as a duelist--statistics--constant sword practice--color of the corps--corps etiquette chapter i [the knighted knave of bergen] one day it occurred to me that it had been many years since the world had been afforded the spectacle of a man adventurous enough to undertake a journey through europe on foot. after much thought, i decided that i was a person fitted to furnish to mankind this spectacle. so i determined to do it. this was in march, 1878. i looked about me for the right sort of person to accompany me in the capacity of agent, and finally hired a mr. harris for this service. it was also my purpose to study art while in europe. mr. harris was in sympathy with me in this. he was as much of an enthusiast in art as i was, and not less anxious to learn to paint. i desired to learn the german language; so did harris. toward the middle of april we sailed in the holsatia, captain brandt, and had a very pleasant trip, indeed. after a brief rest at hamburg, we made preparations for a long pedestrian trip southward in the soft spring weather, but at the last moment we changed the program, for private reasons, and took the express-train. we made a short halt at frankfort-on-the-main, and found it an interesting city. i would have liked to visit the birthplace of gutenburg, but it could not be done, as no memorandum of the site of the house has been kept. so we spent an hour in the goethe mansion instead. the city permits this house to belong to private parties, instead of gracing and dignifying herself with the honor of possessing and protecting it. frankfort is one of the sixteen cities which have the distinction of being the place where the following incident occurred. charlemagne, while chasing the saxons (as he said), or being chased by them (as they said), arrived at the bank of the river at dawn, in a fog. the enemy were either before him or behind him; but in any case he wanted to get across, very badly. he would have given anything for a guide, but none was to be had. presently he saw a deer, followed by her young, approach the water. he watched her, judging that she would seek a ford, and he was right. she waded over, and the army followed. so a great frankish victory or defeat was gained or avoided; and in order to commemorate the episode, charlemagne commanded a city to be built there, which he named frankfort--the ford of the franks. none of the other cities where this event happened were named for it. this is good evidence that frankfort was the first place it occurred at. frankfort has another distinction--it is the birthplace of the german alphabet; or at least of the german word for alphabet --buchstaben. they say that the first movable types were made on birch sticks--buchstabe--hence the name. i was taught a lesson in political economy in frankfort. i had brought from home a box containing a thousand very cheap cigars. by way of experiment, i stepped into a little shop in a queer old back street, took four gaily decorated boxes of wax matches and three cigars, and laid down a silver piece worth 48 cents. the man gave me 43 cents change. in frankfort everybody wears clean clothes, and i think we noticed that this strange thing was the case in hamburg, too, and in the villages along the road. even in the narrowest and poorest and most ancient quarters of frankfort neat and clean clothes were the rule. the little children of both sexes were nearly always nice enough to take into a body's lap. and as for the uniforms of the soldiers, they were newness and brightness carried to perfection. one could never detect a smirch or a grain of dust upon them. the street-car conductors and drivers wore pretty uniforms which seemed to be just out of the bandbox, and their manners were as fine as their clothes. in one of the shops i had the luck to stumble upon a book which has charmed me nearly to death. it is entitled the legends of the rhine from basle to rotterdam, by f. j. kiefer; translated by l. w. garnham, b.a. all tourists mention the rhine legends--in that sort of way which quietly pretends that the mentioner has been familiar with them all his life, and that the reader cannot possibly be ignorant of them--but no tourist ever tells them. so this little book fed me in a very hungry place; and i, in my turn, intend to feed my reader, with one or two little lunches from the same larder. i shall not mar garnham's translation by meddling with its english; for the most toothsome thing about it is its quaint fashion of building english sentences on the german plan--and punctuating them accordingly to no plan at all. in the chapter devoted to "legends of frankfort," i find the following: "the knave of bergen" "in frankfort at the romer was a great mask-ball, at the coronation festival, and in the illuminated saloon, the clanging music invited to dance, and splendidly appeared the rich toilets and charms of the ladies, and the festively costumed princes and knights. all seemed pleasure, joy, and roguish gaiety, only one of the numerous guests had a gloomy exterior; but exactly the black armor in which he walked about excited general attention, and his tall figure, as well as the noble propriety of his movements, attracted especially the regards of the ladies. who the knight was? nobody could guess, for his vizier was well closed, and nothing made him recognizable. proud and yet modest he advanced to the empress; bowed on one knee before her seat, and begged for the favor of a waltz with the queen of the festival. and she allowed his request. with light and graceful steps he danced through the long saloon, with the sovereign who thought never to have found a more dexterous and excellent dancer. but also by the grace of his manner, and fine conversation he knew to win the queen, and she graciously accorded him a second dance for which he begged, a third, and a fourth, as well as others were not refused him. how all regarded the happy dancer, how many envied him the high favor; how increased curiosity, who the masked knight could be. "also the emperor became more and more excited with curiosity, and with great suspense one awaited the hour, when according to mask-law, each masked guest must make himself known. this moment came, but although all other unmasked; the secret knight still refused to allow his features to be seen, till at last the queen driven by curiosity, and vexed at the obstinate refusal; commanded him to open his vizier. he opened it, and none of the high ladies and knights knew him. but from the crowded spectators, 2 officials advanced, who recognized the black dancer, and horror and terror spread in the saloon, as they said who the supposed knight was. it was the executioner of bergen. but glowing with rage, the king commanded to seize the criminal and lead him to death, who had ventured to dance, with the queen; so disgraced the empress, and insulted the crown. the culpable threw himself at the emperor, and said-"'indeed i have heavily sinned against all noble guests assembled here, but most heavily against you my sovereign and my queen. the queen is insulted by my haughtiness equal to treason, but no punishment even blood, will not be able to wash out the disgrace, which you have suffered by me. therefore oh king! allow me to propose a remedy, to efface the shame, and to render it as if not done. draw your sword and knight me, then i will throw down my gauntlet, to everyone who dares to speak disrespectfully of my king.' "the emperor was surprised at this bold proposal, however it appeared the wisest to him; 'you are a knave,' he replied after a moment's consideration, 'however your advice is good, and displays prudence, as your offense shows adventurous courage. well then,' and gave him the knight-stroke 'so i raise you to nobility, who begged for grace for your offense now kneels before me, rise as knight; knavish you have acted, and knave of bergen shall you be called henceforth,' and gladly the black knight rose; three cheers were given in honor of the emperor, and loud cries of joy testified the approbation with which the queen danced still once with the knave of bergen." chapter ii heidelberg [landing a monarch at heidelberg] we stopped at a hotel by the railway-station. next morning, as we sat in my room waiting for breakfast to come up, we got a good deal interested in something which was going on over the way, in front of another hotel. first, the personage who is called the portier (who is not the porter, but is a sort of first-mate of a hotel) [1. see appendix a] appeared at the door in a spick-and-span new blue cloth uniform, decorated with shining brass buttons, and with bands of gold lace around his cap and wristbands; and he wore white gloves, too. he shed an official glance upon the situation, and then began to give orders. two women-servants came out with pails and brooms and brushes, and gave the sidewalk a thorough scrubbing; meanwhile two others scrubbed the four marble steps which led up to the door; beyond these we could see some men-servants taking up the carpet of the grand staircase. this carpet was carried away and the last grain of dust beaten and banged and swept out of it; then brought back and put down again. the brass stair-rods received an exhaustive polishing and were returned to their places. now a troop of servants brought pots and tubs of blooming plants and formed them into a beautiful jungle about the door and the base of the staircase. other servants adorned all the balconies of the various stories with flowers and banners; others ascended to the roof and hoisted a great flag on a staff there. now came some more chamber-maids and retouched the sidewalk, and afterward wiped the marble steps with damp cloths and finished by dusting them off with feather brushes. now a broad black carpet was brought out and laid down the marble steps and out across the sidewalk to the curbstone. the portier cast his eye along it, and found it was not absolutely straight; he commanded it to be straightened; the servants made the effort--made several efforts, in fact--but the portier was not satisfied. he finally had it taken up, and then he put it down himself and got it right. at this stage of the proceedings, a narrow bright red carpet was unrolled and stretched from the top of the marble steps to the curbstone, along the center of the black carpet. this red path cost the portier more trouble than even the black one had done. but he patiently fixed and refixed it until it was exactly right and lay precisely in the middle of the black carpet. in new york these performances would have gathered a mighty crowd of curious and intensely interested spectators; but here it only captured an audience of half a dozen little boys who stood in a row across the pavement, some with their school-knapsacks on their backs and their hands in their pockets, others with arms full of bundles, and all absorbed in the show. occasionally one of them skipped irreverently over the carpet and took up a position on the other side. this always visibly annoyed the portier. now came a waiting interval. the landlord, in plain clothes, and bareheaded, placed himself on the bottom marble step, abreast the portier, who stood on the other end of the same steps; six or eight waiters, gloved, bareheaded, and wearing their whitest linen, their whitest cravats, and their finest swallow-tails, grouped themselves about these chiefs, but leaving the carpetway clear. nobody moved or spoke any more but only waited. in a short time the shrill piping of a coming train was heard, and immediately groups of people began to gather in the street. two or three open carriages arrived, and deposited some maids of honor and some male officials at the hotel. presently another open carriage brought the grand duke of baden, a stately man in uniform, who wore the handsome brass-mounted, steel-spiked helmet of the army on his head. last came the empress of germany and the grand duchess of baden in a closed carriage; these passed through the low-bowing groups of servants and disappeared in the hotel, exhibiting to us only the backs of their heads, and then the show was over. it appears to be as difficult to land a monarch as it is to launch a ship. but as to heidelberg. the weather was growing pretty warm,--very warm, in fact. so we left the valley and took quarters at the schloss hotel, on the hill, above the castle. heidelberg lies at the mouth of a narrow gorge--a gorge the shape of a shepherd's crook; if one looks up it he perceives that it is about straight, for a mile and a half, then makes a sharp curve to the right and disappears. this gorge--along whose bottom pours the swift neckar--is confined between (or cloven through) a couple of long, steep ridges, a thousand feet high and densely wooded clear to their summits, with the exception of one section which has been shaved and put under cultivation. these ridges are chopped off at the mouth of the gorge and form two bold and conspicuous headlands, with heidelberg nestling between them; from their bases spreads away the vast dim expanse of the rhine valley, and into this expanse the neckar goes wandering in shining curves and is presently lost to view. now if one turns and looks up the gorge once more, he will see the schloss hotel on the right perched on a precipice overlooking the neckar--a precipice which is so sumptuously cushioned and draped with foliage that no glimpse of the rock appears. the building seems very airily situated. it has the appearance of being on a shelf half-way up the wooded mountainside; and as it is remote and isolated, and very white, it makes a strong mark against the lofty leafy rampart at its back. this hotel had a feature which was a decided novelty, and one which might be adopted with advantage by any house which is perched in a commanding situation. this feature may be described as a series of glass-enclosed parlors clinging to the outside of the house, one against each and every bed-chamber and drawing-room. they are like long, narrow, high-ceiled bird-cages hung against the building. my room was a corner room, and had two of these things, a north one and a west one. from the north cage one looks up the neckar gorge; from the west one he looks down it. this last affords the most extensive view, and it is one of the loveliest that can be imagined, too. out of a billowy upheaval of vivid green foliage, a rifle-shot removed, rises the huge ruin of heidelberg castle, [2. see appendix b] with empty window arches, ivy-mailed battlements, moldering towers--the lear of inanimate nature--deserted, discrowned, beaten by the storms, but royal still, and beautiful. it is a fine sight to see the evening sunlight suddenly strike the leafy declivity at the castle's base and dash up it and drench it as with a luminous spray, while the adjacent groves are in deep shadow. behind the castle swells a great dome-shaped hill, forest-clad, and beyond that a nobler and loftier one. the castle looks down upon the compact brown-roofed town; and from the town two picturesque old bridges span the river. now the view broadens; through the gateway of the sentinel headlands you gaze out over the wide rhine plain, which stretches away, softly and richly tinted, grows gradually and dreamily indistinct, and finally melts imperceptibly into the remote horizon. i have never enjoyed a view which had such a serene and satisfying charm about it as this one gives. the first night we were there, we went to bed and to sleep early; but i awoke at the end of two or three hours, and lay a comfortable while listening to the soothing patter of the rain against the balcony windows. i took it to be rain, but it turned out to be only the murmur of the restless neckar, tumbling over her dikes and dams far below, in the gorge. i got up and went into the west balcony and saw a wonderful sight. away down on the level under the black mass of the castle, the town lay, stretched along the river, its intricate cobweb of streets jeweled with twinkling lights; there were rows of lights on the bridges; these flung lances of light upon the water, in the black shadows of the arches; and away at the extremity of all this fairy spectacle blinked and glowed a massed multitude of gas-jets which seemed to cover acres of ground; it was as if all the diamonds in the world had been spread out there. i did not know before, that a half-mile of sextuple railway-tracks could be made such an adornment. one thinks heidelberg by day--with its surroundings--is the last possibility of the beautiful; but when he sees heidelberg by night, a fallen milky way, with that glittering railway constellation pinned to the border, he requires time to consider upon the verdict. one never tires of poking about in the dense woods that clothe all these lofty neckar hills to their beguiling and impressive charm in any country; but german legends and fairy tales have given these an added charm. they have peopled all that region with gnomes, and dwarfs, and all sorts of mysterious and uncanny creatures. at the time i am writing of, i had been reading so much of this literature that sometimes i was not sure but i was beginning to believe in the gnomes and fairies as realities. one afternoon i got lost in the woods about a mile from the hotel, and presently fell into a train of dreamy thought about animals which talk, and kobolds, and enchanted folk, and the rest of the pleasant legendary stuff; and so, by stimulating my fancy, i finally got to imagining i glimpsed small flitting shapes here and there down the columned aisles of the forest. it was a place which was peculiarly meet for the occasion. it was a pine wood, with so thick and soft a carpet of brown needles that one's footfall made no more sound than if he were treading on wool; the tree-trunks were as round and straight and smooth as pillars, and stood close together; they were bare of branches to a point about twenty-five feet above-ground, and from there upward so thick with boughs that not a ray of sunlight could pierce through. the world was bright with sunshine outside, but a deep and mellow twilight reigned in there, and also a deep silence so profound that i seemed to hear my own breathings. when i had stood ten minutes, thinking and imagining, and getting my spirit in tune with the place, and in the right mood to enjoy the supernatural, a raven suddenly uttered a horse croak over my head. it made me start; and then i was angry because i started. i looked up, and the creature was sitting on a limb right over me, looking down at me. i felt something of the same sense of humiliation and injury which one feels when he finds that a human stranger has been clandestinely inspecting him in his privacy and mentally commenting upon him. i eyed the raven, and the raven eyed me. nothing was said during some seconds. then the bird stepped a little way along his limb to get a better point of observation, lifted his wings, stuck his head far down below his shoulders toward me and croaked again--a croak with a distinctly insulting expression about it. if he had spoken in english he could not have said any more plainly than he did say in raven, "well, what do you want here?" i felt as foolish as if i had been caught in some mean act by a responsible being, and reproved for it. however, i made no reply; i would not bandy words with a raven. the adversary waited a while, with his shoulders still lifted, his head thrust down between them, and his keen bright eye fixed on me; then he threw out two or three more insults, which i could not understand, further than that i knew a portion of them consisted of language not used in church. i still made no reply. now the adversary raised his head and called. there was an answering croak from a little distance in the wood--evidently a croak of inquiry. the adversary explained with enthusiasm, and the other raven dropped everything and came. the two sat side by side on the limb and discussed me as freely and offensively as two great naturalists might discuss a new kind of bug. the thing became more and more embarrassing. they called in another friend. this was too much. i saw that they had the advantage of me, and so i concluded to get out of the scrape by walking out of it. they enjoyed my defeat as much as any low white people could have done. they craned their necks and laughed at me (for a raven can laugh, just like a man), they squalled insulting remarks after me as long as they could see me. they were nothing but ravens--i knew that--what they thought of me could be a matter of no consequence--and yet when even a raven shouts after you, "what a hat!" "oh, pull down your vest!" and that sort of thing, it hurts you and humiliates you, and there is no getting around it with fine reasoning and pretty arguments. animals talk to each other, of course. there can be no question about that; but i suppose there are very few people who can understand them. i never knew but one man who could. i knew he could, however, because he told me so himself. he was a middle-aged, simple-hearted miner who had lived in a lonely corner of california, among the woods and mountains, a good many years, and had studied the ways of his only neighbors, the beasts and the birds, until he believed he could accurately translate any remark which they made. this was jim baker. according to jim baker, some animals have only a limited education, and some use only simple words, and scarcely ever a comparison or a flowery figure; whereas, certain other animals have a large vocabulary, a fine command of language and a ready and fluent delivery; consequently these latter talk a great deal; they like it; they are so conscious of their talent, and they enjoy "showing off." baker said, that after long and careful observation, he had come to the conclusion that the bluejays were the best talkers he had found among birds and beasts. said he: "there's more to a bluejay than any other creature. he has got more moods, and more different kinds of feelings than other creatures; and, mind you, whatever a bluejay feels, he can put into language. and no mere commonplace language, either, but rattling, out-and-out book-talk--and bristling with metaphor, too--just bristling! and as for command of language--why you never see a bluejay get stuck for a word. no man ever did. they just boil out of him! and another thing: i've noticed a good deal, and there's no bird, or cow, or anything that uses as good grammar as a bluejay. you may say a cat uses good grammar. well, a cat does--but you let a cat get excited once; you let a cat get to pulling fur with another cat on a shed, nights, and you'll hear grammar that will give you the lockjaw. ignorant people think it's the noise which fighting cats make that is so aggravating, but it ain't so; it's the sickening grammar they use. now i've never heard a jay use bad grammar but very seldom; and when they do, they are as ashamed as a human; they shut right down and leave. "you may call a jay a bird. well, so he is, in a measure--but he's got feathers on him, and don't belong to no church, perhaps; but otherwise he is just as much human as you be. and i'll tell you for why. a jay's gifts, and instincts, and feelings, and interests, cover the whole ground. a jay hasn't got any more principle than a congressman. a jay will lie, a jay will steal, a jay will deceive, a jay will betray; and four times out of five, a jay will go back on his solemnest promise. the sacredness of an obligation is such a thing which you can't cram into no bluejay's head. now, on top of all this, there's another thing; a jay can out-swear any gentleman in the mines. you think a cat can swear. well, a cat can; but you give a bluejay a subject that calls for his reserve-powers, and where is your cat? don't talk to me--i know too much about this thing; in the one little particular of scolding--just good, clean, out-and-out scolding--a bluejay can lay over anything, human or divine. yes, sir, a jay is everything that a man is. a jay can cry, a jay can laugh, a jay can feel shame, a jay can reason and plan and discuss, a jay likes gossip and scandal, a jay has got a sense of humor, a jay knows when he is an ass just as well as you do--maybe better. if a jay ain't human, he better take in his sign, that's all. now i'm going to tell you a perfectly true fact about some bluejays." chapter iii baker's bluejay yarn [what stumped the blue jays] "when i first begun to understand jay language correctly, there was a little incident happened here. seven years ago, the last man in this region but me moved away. there stands his house--been empty ever since; a log house, with a plank roof--just one big room, and no more; no ceiling--nothing between the rafters and the floor. well, one sunday morning i was sitting out here in front of my cabin, with my cat, taking the sun, and looking at the blue hills, and listening to the leaves rustling so lonely in the trees, and thinking of the home away yonder in the states, that i hadn't heard from in thirteen years, when a bluejay lit on that house, with an acorn in his mouth, and says, 'hello, i reckon i've struck something.' when he spoke, the acorn dropped out of his mouth and rolled down the roof, of course, but he didn't care; his mind was all on the thing he had struck. it was a knot-hole in the roof. he cocked his head to one side, shut one eye and put the other one to the hole, like a possum looking down a jug; then he glanced up with his bright eyes, gave a wink or two with his wings--which signifies gratification, you understand--and says, 'it looks like a hole, it's located like a hole--blamed if i don't believe it is a hole!' "then he cocked his head down and took another look; he glances up perfectly joyful, this time; winks his wings and his tail both, and says, 'oh, no, this ain't no fat thing, i reckon! if i ain't in luck! --why it's a perfectly elegant hole!' so he flew down and got that acorn, and fetched it up and dropped it in, and was just tilting his head back, with the heavenliest smile on his face, when all of a sudden he was paralyzed into a listening attitude and that smile faded gradually out of his countenance like breath off'n a razor, and the queerest look of surprise took its place. then he says, 'why, i didn't hear it fall!' he cocked his eye at the hole again, and took a long look; raised up and shook his head; stepped around to the other side of the hole and took another look from that side; shook his head again. he studied a while, then he just went into the details--walked round and round the hole and spied into it from every point of the compass. no use. now he took a thinking attitude on the comb of the roof and scratched the back of his head with his right foot a minute, and finally says, 'well, it's too many for me, that's certain; must be a mighty long hole; however, i ain't got no time to fool around here, i got to "tend to business"; i reckon it's all right--chance it, anyway.' "so he flew off and fetched another acorn and dropped it in, and tried to flirt his eye to the hole quick enough to see what become of it, but he was too late. he held his eye there as much as a minute; then he raised up and sighed, and says, 'confound it, i don't seem to understand this thing, no way; however, i'll tackle her again.' he fetched another acorn, and done his level best to see what become of it, but he couldn't. he says, 'well, i never struck no such a hole as this before; i'm of the opinion it's a totally new kind of a hole.' then he begun to get mad. he held in for a spell, walking up and down the comb of the roof and shaking his head and muttering to himself; but his feelings got the upper hand of him, presently, and he broke loose and cussed himself black in the face. i never see a bird take on so about a little thing. when he got through he walks to the hole and looks in again for half a minute; then he says, 'well, you're a long hole, and a deep hole, and a mighty singular hole altogether--but i've started in to fill you, and i'm damned if i don't fill you, if it takes a hundred years!' "and with that, away he went. you never see a bird work so since you was born. he laid into his work like a nigger, and the way he hove acorns into that hole for about two hours and a half was one of the most exciting and astonishing spectacles i ever struck. he never stopped to take a look anymore--he just hove 'em in and went for more. well, at last he could hardly flop his wings, he was so tuckered out. he comes a-dropping down, once more, sweating like an ice-pitcher, dropped his acorn in and says, 'now i guess i've got the bulge on you by this time!' so he bent down for a look. if you'll believe me, when his head come up again he was just pale with rage. he says, 'i've shoveled acorns enough in there to keep the family thirty years, and if i can see a sign of one of 'em i wish i may land in a museum with a belly full of sawdust in two minutes!' "he just had strength enough to crawl up on to the comb and lean his back agin the chimbly, and then he collected his impressions and begun to free his mind. i see in a second that what i had mistook for profanity in the mines was only just the rudiments, as you may say. "another jay was going by, and heard him doing his devotions, and stops to inquire what was up. the sufferer told him the whole circumstance, and says, 'now yonder's the hole, and if you don't believe me, go and look for yourself.' so this fellow went and looked, and comes back and says, 'how many did you say you put in there?' 'not any less than two tons,' says the sufferer. the other jay went and looked again. he couldn't seem to make it out, so he raised a yell, and three more jays come. they all examined the hole, they all made the sufferer tell it over again, then they all discussed it, and got off as many leather-headed opinions about it as an average crowd of humans could have done. "they called in more jays; then more and more, till pretty soon this whole region 'peared to have a blue flush about it. there must have been five thousand of them; and such another jawing and disputing and ripping and cussing, you never heard. every jay in the whole lot put his eye to the hole and delivered a more chuckle-headed opinion about the mystery than the jay that went there before him. they examined the house all over, too. the door was standing half open, and at last one old jay happened to go and light on it and look in. of course, that knocked the mystery galley-west in a second. there lay the acorns, scattered all over the floor.. he flopped his wings and raised a whoop. 'come here!' he says, 'come here, everybody; hang'd if this fool hasn't been trying to fill up a house with acorns!' they all came a-swooping down like a blue cloud, and as each fellow lit on the door and took a glance, the whole absurdity of the contract that that first jay had tackled hit him home and he fell over backward suffocating with laughter, and the next jay took his place and done the same. "well, sir, they roosted around here on the housetop and the trees for an hour, and guffawed over that thing like human beings. it ain't any use to tell me a bluejay hasn't got a sense of humor, because i know better. and memory, too. they brought jays here from all over the united states to look down that hole, every summer for three years. other birds, too. and they could all see the point except an owl that come from nova scotia to visit the yo semite, and he took this thing in on his way back. he said he couldn't see anything funny in it. but then he was a good deal disappointed about yo semite, too." chapter iv student life [the laborious beer king] the summer semester was in full tide; consequently the most frequent figure in and about heidelberg was the student. most of the students were germans, of course, but the representatives of foreign lands were very numerous. they hailed from every corner of the globe--for instruction is cheap in heidelberg, and so is living, too. the anglo-american club, composed of british and american students, had twenty-five members, and there was still much material left to draw from. nine-tenths of the heidelberg students wore no badge or uniform; the other tenth wore caps of various colors, and belonged to social organizations called "corps." there were five corps, each with a color of its own; there were white caps, blue caps, and red, yellow, and green ones. the famous duel-fighting is confined to the "corps" boys. the "kneip" seems to be a specialty of theirs, too. kneips are held, now and then, to celebrate great occasions, like the election of a beer king, for instance. the solemnity is simple; the five corps assemble at night, and at a signal they all fall loading themselves with beer, out of pint-mugs, as fast as possible, and each man keeps his own count--usually by laying aside a lucifer match for each mug he empties. the election is soon decided. when the candidates can hold no more, a count is instituted and the one who has drank the greatest number of pints is proclaimed king. i was told that the last beer king elected by the corps--or by his own capabilities--emptied his mug seventy-five times. no stomach could hold all that quantity at one time, of course--but there are ways of frequently creating a vacuum, which those who have been much at sea will understand. one sees so many students abroad at all hours, that he presently begins to wonder if they ever have any working-hours. some of them have, some of them haven't. each can choose for himself whether he will work or play; for german university life is a very free life; it seems to have no restraints. the student does not live in the college buildings, but hires his own lodgings, in any locality he prefers, and he takes his meals when and where he pleases. he goes to bed when it suits him, and does not get up at all unless he wants to. he is not entered at the university for any particular length of time; so he is likely to change about. he passes no examinations upon entering college. he merely pays a trifling fee of five or ten dollars, receives a card entitling him to the privileges of the university, and that is the end of it. he is now ready for business--or play, as he shall prefer. if he elects to work, he finds a large list of lectures to choose from. he selects the subjects which he will study, and enters his name for these studies; but he can skip attendance. the result of this system is, that lecture-courses upon specialties of an unusual nature are often delivered to very slim audiences, while those upon more practical and every-day matters of education are delivered to very large ones. i heard of one case where, day after day, the lecturer's audience consisted of three students--and always the same three. but one day two of them remained away. the lecturer began as usual-"gentlemen," --then, without a smile, he corrected himself, saying-"sir," --and went on with his discourse. it is said that the vast majority of the heidelberg students are hard workers, and make the most of their opportunities; that they have no surplus means to spend in dissipation, and no time to spare for frolicking. one lecture follows right on the heels of another, with very little time for the student to get out of one hall and into the next; but the industrious ones manage it by going on a trot. the professors assist them in the saving of their time by being promptly in their little boxed-up pulpits when the hours strike, and as promptly out again when the hour finishes. i entered an empty lecture-room one day just before the clock struck. the place had simple, unpainted pine desks and benches for about two hundred persons. about a minute before the clock struck, a hundred and fifty students swarmed in, rushed to their seats, immediately spread open their notebooks and dipped their pens in ink. when the clock began to strike, a burly professor entered, was received with a round of applause, moved swiftly down the center aisle, said "gentlemen," and began to talk as he climbed his pulpit steps; and by the time he had arrived in his box and faced his audience, his lecture was well under way and all the pens were going. he had no notes, he talked with prodigious rapidity and energy for an hour--then the students began to remind him in certain well-understood ways that his time was up; he seized his hat, still talking, proceeded swiftly down his pulpit steps, got out the last word of his discourse as he struck the floor; everybody rose respectfully, and he swept rapidly down the aisle and disappeared. an instant rush for some other lecture-room followed, and in a minute i was alone with the empty benches once more. yes, without doubt, idle students are not the rule. out of eight hundred in the town, i knew the faces of only about fifty; but these i saw everywhere, and daily. they walked about the streets and the wooded hills, they drove in cabs, they boated on the river, they sipped beer and coffee, afternoons, in the schloss gardens. a good many of them wore colored caps of the corps. they were finely and fashionably dressed, their manners were quite superb, and they led an easy, careless, comfortable life. if a dozen of them sat together and a lady or a gentleman passed whom one of them knew and saluted, they all rose to their feet and took off their caps. the members of a corps always received a fellow-member in this way, too; but they paid no attention to members of other corps; they did not seem to see them. this was not a discourtesy; it was only a part of the elaborate and rigid corps etiquette. there seems to be no chilly distance existing between the german students and the professor; but, on the contrary, a companionable intercourse, the opposite of chilliness and reserve. when the professor enters a beer-hall in the evening where students are gathered together, these rise up and take off their caps, and invite the old gentleman to sit with them and partake. he accepts, and the pleasant talk and the beer flow for an hour or two, and by and by the professor, properly charged and comfortable, gives a cordial good night, while the students stand bowing and uncovered; and then he moves on his happy way homeward with all his vast cargo of learning afloat in his hold. nobody finds fault or feels outraged; no harm has been done. it seemed to be a part of corps etiquette to keep a dog or so, too. i mean a corps dog--the common property of the organization, like the corps steward or head servant; then there are other dogs, owned by individuals. on a summer afternoon in the castle gardens, i have seen six students march solemnly into the grounds, in single file, each carrying a bright chinese parasol and leading a prodigious dog by a string. it was a very imposing spectacle. sometimes there would be as many dogs around the pavilion as students; and of all breeds and of all degrees of beauty and ugliness. these dogs had a rather dry time of it; for they were tied to the benches and had no amusement for an hour or two at a time except what they could get out of pawing at the gnats, or trying to sleep and not succeeding. however, they got a lump of sugar occasionally--they were fond of that. it seemed right and proper that students should indulge in dogs; but everybody else had them, too--old men and young ones, old women and nice young ladies. if there is one spectacle that is unpleasanter than another, it is that of an elegantly dressed young lady towing a dog by a string. it is said to be the sign and symbol of blighted love. it seems to me that some other way of advertising it might be devised, which would be just as conspicuous and yet not so trying to the proprieties. it would be a mistake to suppose that the easy-going pleasure-seeking student carries an empty head. just the contrary. he has spent nine years in the gymnasium, under a system which allowed him no freedom, but vigorously compelled him to work like a slave. consequently, he has left the gymnasium with an education which is so extensive and complete, that the most a university can do for it is to perfect some of its profounder specialties. it is said that when a pupil leaves the gymnasium, he not only has a comprehensive education, but he knows what he knows--it is not befogged with uncertainty, it is burnt into him so that it will stay. for instance, he does not merely read and write greek, but speaks it; the same with the latin. foreign youth steer clear of the gymnasium; its rules are too severe. they go to the university to put a mansard roof on their whole general education; but the german student already has his mansard roof, so he goes there to add a steeple in the nature of some specialty, such as a particular branch of law, or diseases of the eye, or special study of the ancient gothic tongues. so this german attends only the lectures which belong to the chosen branch, and drinks his beer and tows his dog around and has a general good time the rest of the day. he has been in rigid bondage so long that the large liberty of the university life is just what he needs and likes and thoroughly appreciates; and as it cannot last forever, he makes the most of it while it does last, and so lays up a good rest against the day that must see him put on the chains once more and enter the slavery of official or professional life. chapter v at the students' dueling-ground [dueling by wholesale] one day in the interest of science my agent obtained permission to bring me to the students' dueling-place. we crossed the river and drove up the bank a few hundred yards, then turned to the left, entered a narrow alley, followed it a hundred yards and arrived at a two-story public house; we were acquainted with its outside aspect, for it was visible from the hotel. we went upstairs and passed into a large whitewashed apartment which was perhaps fifty feet long by thirty feet wide and twenty or twenty-five high. it was a well-lighted place. there was no carpet. across one end and down both sides of the room extended a row of tables, and at these tables some fifty or seventy-five students [1. see appendix c] were sitting. some of them were sipping wine, others were playing cards, others chess, other groups were chatting together, and many were smoking cigarettes while they waited for the coming duels. nearly all of them wore colored caps; there were white caps, green caps, blue caps, red caps, and bright-yellow ones; so, all the five corps were present in strong force. in the windows at the vacant end of the room stood six or eight, narrow-bladed swords with large protecting guards for the hand, and outside was a man at work sharpening others on a grindstone. he understood his business; for when a sword left his hand one could shave himself with it. it was observable that the young gentlemen neither bowed to nor spoke with students whose caps differed in color from their own. this did not mean hostility, but only an armed neutrality. it was considered that a person could strike harder in the duel, and with a more earnest interest, if he had never been in a condition of comradeship with his antagonist; therefore, comradeship between the corps was not permitted. at intervals the presidents of the five corps have a cold official intercourse with each other, but nothing further. for example, when the regular dueling-day of one of the corps approaches, its president calls for volunteers from among the membership to offer battle; three or more respond--but there must not be less than three; the president lays their names before the other presidents, with the request that they furnish antagonists for these challengers from among their corps. this is promptly done. it chanced that the present occasion was the battle-day of the red cap corps. they were the challengers, and certain caps of other colors had volunteered to meet them. the students fight duels in the room which i have described, two days in every week during seven and a half or eight months in every year. this custom had continued in germany two hundred and fifty years. to return to my narrative. a student in a white cap met us and introduced us to six or eight friends of his who also wore white caps, and while we stood conversing, two strange-looking figures were led in from another room. they were students panoplied for the duel. they were bareheaded; their eyes were protected by iron goggles which projected an inch or more, the leather straps of which bound their ears flat against their heads were wound around and around with thick wrappings which a sword could not cut through; from chin to ankle they were padded thoroughly against injury; their arms were bandaged and rebandaged, layer upon layer, until they looked like solid black logs. these weird apparitions had been handsome youths, clad in fashionable attire, fifteen minutes before, but now they did not resemble any beings one ever sees unless in nightmares. they strode along, with their arms projecting straight out from their bodies; they did not hold them out themselves, but fellow-students walked beside them and gave the needed support. there was a rush for the vacant end of the room, now, and we followed and got good places. the combatants were placed face to face, each with several members of his own corps about him to assist; two seconds, well padded, and with swords in their hands, took their stations; a student belonging to neither of the opposing corps placed himself in a good position to umpire the combat; another student stood by with a watch and a memorandum-book to keep record of the time and the number and nature of the wounds; a gray-haired surgeon was present with his lint, his bandages, and his instruments. after a moment's pause the duelists saluted the umpire respectfully, then one after another the several officials stepped forward, gracefully removed their caps and saluted him also, and returned to their places. everything was ready now; students stood crowded together in the foreground, and others stood behind them on chairs and tables. every face was turned toward the center of attraction. the combatants were watching each other with alert eyes; a perfect stillness, a breathless interest reigned. i felt that i was going to see some wary work. but not so. the instant the word was given, the two apparitions sprang forward and began to rain blows down upon each other with such lightning rapidity that i could not quite tell whether i saw the swords or only flashes they made in the air; the rattling din of these blows as they struck steel or paddings was something wonderfully stirring, and they were struck with such terrific force that i could not understand why the opposing sword was not beaten down under the assault. presently, in the midst of the sword-flashes, i saw a handful of hair skip into the air as if it had lain loose on the victim's head and a breath of wind had puffed it suddenly away. the seconds cried "halt!" and knocked up the combatants' swords with their own. the duelists sat down; a student official stepped forward, examined the wounded head and touched the place with a sponge once or twice; the surgeon came and turned back the hair from the wound--and revealed a crimson gash two or three inches long, and proceeded to bind an oval piece of leather and a bunch of lint over it; the tally-keeper stepped up and tallied one for the opposition in his book. then the duelists took position again; a small stream of blood was flowing down the side of the injured man's head, and over his shoulder and down his body to the floor, but he did not seem to mind this. the word was given, and they plunged at each other as fiercely as before; once more the blows rained and rattled and flashed; every few moments the quick-eyed seconds would notice that a sword was bent--then they called "halt!" struck up the contending weapons, and an assisting student straightened the bent one. the wonderful turmoil went on--presently a bright spark sprung from a blade, and that blade broken in several pieces, sent one of its fragments flying to the ceiling. a new sword was provided and the fight proceeded. the exercise was tremendous, of course, and in time the fighters began to show great fatigue. they were allowed to rest a moment, every little while; they got other rests by wounding each other, for then they could sit down while the doctor applied the lint and bandages. the law is that the battle must continue fifteen minutes if the men can hold out; and as the pauses do not count, this duel was protracted to twenty or thirty minutes, i judged. at last it was decided that the men were too much wearied to do battle longer. they were led away drenched with crimson from head to foot. that was a good fight, but it could not count, partly because it did not last the lawful fifteen minutes (of actual fighting), and partly because neither man was disabled by his wound. it was a drawn battle, and corps law requires that drawn battles shall be refought as soon as the adversaries are well of their hurts. during the conflict, i had talked a little, now and then, with a young gentleman of the white cap corps, and he had mentioned that he was to fight next--and had also pointed out his challenger, a young gentleman who was leaning against the opposite wall smoking a cigarette and restfully observing the duel then in progress. my acquaintanceship with a party to the coming contest had the effect of giving me a kind of personal interest in it; i naturally wished he might win, and it was the reverse of pleasant to learn that he probably would not, because, although he was a notable swordsman, the challenger was held to be his superior. the duel presently began and in the same furious way which had marked the previous one. i stood close by, but could not tell which blows told and which did not, they fell and vanished so like flashes of light. they all seemed to tell; the swords always bent over the opponents' heads, from the forehead back over the crown, and seemed to touch, all the way; but it was not so--a protecting blade, invisible to me, was always interposed between. at the end of ten seconds each man had struck twelve or fifteen blows, and warded off twelve or fifteen, and no harm done; then a sword became disabled, and a short rest followed whilst a new one was brought. early in the next round the white corps student got an ugly wound on the side of his head and gave his opponent one like it. in the third round the latter received another bad wound in the head, and the former had his under-lip divided. after that, the white corps student gave many severe wounds, but got none of the consequence in return. at the end of five minutes from the beginning of the duel the surgeon stopped it; the challenging party had suffered such injuries that any addition to them might be dangerous. these injuries were a fearful spectacle, but are better left undescribed. so, against expectation, my acquaintance was the victor. chapter vi [a sport that sometimes kills] the third duel was brief and bloody. the surgeon stopped it when he saw that one of the men had received such bad wounds that he could not fight longer without endangering his life. the fourth duel was a tremendous encounter; but at the end of five or six minutes the surgeon interfered once more: another man so severely hurt as to render it unsafe to add to his harms. i watched this engagement as i watched the others--with rapt interest and strong excitement, and with a shrink and a shudder for every blow that laid open a cheek or a forehead; and a conscious paling of my face when i occasionally saw a wound of a yet more shocking nature inflicted. my eyes were upon the loser of this duel when he got his last and vanquishing wound--it was in his face and it carried away his--but no matter, i must not enter into details. i had but a glance, and then turned quickly, but i would not have been looking at all if i had known what was coming. no, that is probably not true; one thinks he would not look if he knew what was coming, but the interest and the excitement are so powerful that they would doubtless conquer all other feelings; and so, under the fierce exhilaration of the clashing steel, he would yield and look after all. sometimes spectators of these duels faint--and it does seem a very reasonable thing to do, too. both parties to this fourth duel were badly hurt so much that the surgeon was at work upon them nearly or quite an hour--a fact which is suggestive. but this waiting interval was not wasted in idleness by the assembled students. it was past noon, therefore they ordered their landlord, downstairs, to send up hot beefsteaks, chickens, and such things, and these they ate, sitting comfortable at the several tables, whilst they chatted, disputed and laughed. the door to the surgeon's room stood open, meantime, but the cutting, sewing, splicing, and bandaging going on in there in plain view did not seem to disturb anyone's appetite. i went in and saw the surgeon labor awhile, but could not enjoy; it was much less trying to see the wounds given and received than to see them mended; the stir and turmoil, and the music of the steel, were wanting here--one's nerves were wrung by this grisly spectacle, whilst the duel's compensating pleasurable thrill was lacking. finally the doctor finished, and the men who were to fight the closing battle of the day came forth. a good many dinners were not completed, yet, but no matter, they could be eaten cold, after the battle; therefore everybody crowded forth to see. this was not a love duel, but a "satisfaction" affair. these two students had quarreled, and were here to settle it. they did not belong to any of the corps, but they were furnished with weapons and armor, and permitted to fight here by the five corps as a courtesy. evidently these two young men were unfamiliar with the dueling ceremonies, though they were not unfamiliar with the sword. when they were placed in position they thought it was time to begin--and then did begin, too, and with a most impetuous energy, without waiting for anybody to give the word. this vastly amused the spectators, and even broke down their studied and courtly gravity and surprised them into laughter. of course the seconds struck up the swords and started the duel over again. at the word, the deluge of blows began, but before long the surgeon once more interfered--for the only reason which ever permits him to interfere--and the day's war was over. it was now two in the afternoon, and i had been present since half past nine in the morning. the field of battle was indeed a red one by this time; but some sawdust soon righted that. there had been one duel before i arrived. in it one of the men received many injuries, while the other one escaped without a scratch. i had seen the heads and faces of ten youths gashed in every direction by the keen two-edged blades, and yet had not seen a victim wince, nor heard a moan, or detected any fleeting expression which confessed the sharp pain the hurts were inflicting. this was good fortitude, indeed. such endurance is to be expected in savages and prize-fighters, for they are born and educated to it; but to find it in such perfection in these gently bred and kindly natured young fellows is matter for surprise. it was not merely under the excitement of the sword-play that this fortitude was shown; it was shown in the surgeon's room where an uninspiring quiet reigned, and where there was no audience. the doctor's manipulations brought out neither grimaces nor moans. and in the fights it was observable that these lads hacked and slashed with the same tremendous spirit, after they were covered with streaming wounds, which they had shown in the beginning. the world in general looks upon the college duels as very farcical affairs: true, but considering that the college duel is fought by boys; that the swords are real swords; and that the head and face are exposed, it seems to me that it is a farce which had quite a grave side to it. people laugh at it mainly because they think the student is so covered up with armor that he cannot be hurt. but it is not so; his eyes and ears are protected, but the rest of his face and head are bare. he can not only be badly wounded, but his life is in danger; and he would sometimes lose it but for the interference of the surgeon. it is not intended that his life shall be endangered. fatal accidents are possible, however. for instance, the student's sword may break, and the end of it fly up behind his antagonist's ear and cut an artery which could not be reached if the sword remained whole. this has happened, sometimes, and death has resulted on the spot. formerly the student's armpits were not protected--and at that time the swords were pointed, whereas they are blunt, now; so an artery in the armpit was sometimes cut, and death followed. then in the days of sharp-pointed swords, a spectator was an occasional victim--the end of a broken sword flew five or ten feet and buried itself in his neck or his heart, and death ensued instantly. the student duels in germany occasion two or three deaths every year, now, but this arises only from the carelessness of the wounded men; they eat or drink imprudently, or commit excesses in the way of overexertion; inflammation sets in and gets such a headway that it cannot be arrested. indeed, there is blood and pain and danger enough about the college duel to entitle it to a considerable degree of respect. all the customs, all the laws, all the details, pertaining to the student duel are quaint and naive. the grave, precise, and courtly ceremony with which the thing is conducted, invests it with a sort of antique charm. this dignity and these knightly graces suggest the tournament, not the prize-fight. the laws are as curious as they are strict. for instance, the duelist may step forward from the line he is placed upon, if he chooses, but never back of it. if he steps back of it, or even leans back, it is considered that he did it to avoid a blow or contrive an advantage; so he is dismissed from his corps in disgrace. it would seem natural to step from under a descending sword unconsciously, and against one's will and intent--yet this unconsciousness is not allowed. again: if under the sudden anguish of a wound the receiver of it makes a grimace, he falls some degrees in the estimation of his fellows; his corps are ashamed of him: they call him "hare foot," which is the german equivalent for chicken-hearted. chapter vii [how bismark fought] in addition to the corps laws, there are some corps usages which have the force of laws. perhaps the president of a corps notices that one of the membership who is no longer an exempt--that is a freshman--has remained a sophomore some little time without volunteering to fight; some day, the president, instead of calling for volunteers, will appoint this sophomore to measure swords with a student of another corps; he is free to decline--everybody says so--there is no compulsion. this is all true--but i have not heard of any student who did decline; to decline and still remain in the corps would make him unpleasantly conspicuous, and properly so, since he knew, when he joined, that his main business, as a member, would be to fight. no, there is no law against declining--except the law of custom, which is confessedly stronger than written law, everywhere. the ten men whose duels i had witnessed did not go away when their hurts were dressed, as i had supposed they would, but came back, one after another, as soon as they were free of the surgeon, and mingled with the assemblage in the dueling-room. the white-cap student who won the second fight witnessed the remaining three, and talked with us during the intermissions. he could not talk very well, because his opponent's sword had cut his under-lip in two, and then the surgeon had sewed it together and overlaid it with a profusion of white plaster patches; neither could he eat easily, still he contrived to accomplish a slow and troublesome luncheon while the last duel was preparing. the man who was the worst hurt of all played chess while waiting to see this engagement. a good part of his face was covered with patches and bandages, and all the rest of his head was covered and concealed by them. it is said that the student likes to appear on the street and in other public places in this kind of array, and that this predilection often keeps him out when exposure to rain or sun is a positive danger for him. newly bandaged students are a very common spectacle in the public gardens of heidelberg. it is also said that the student is glad to get wounds in the face, because the scars they leave will show so well there; and it is also said that these face wounds are so prized that youths have even been known to pull them apart from time to time and put red wine in them to make them heal badly and leave as ugly a scar as possible. it does not look reasonable, but it is roundly asserted and maintained, nevertheless; i am sure of one thing--scars are plenty enough in germany, among the young men; and very grim ones they are, too. they crisscross the face in angry red welts, and are permanent and ineffaceable. some of these scars are of a very strange and dreadful aspect; and the effect is striking when several such accent the milder ones, which form a city map on a man's face; they suggest the "burned district" then. we had often noticed that many of the students wore a colored silk band or ribbon diagonally across their breasts. it transpired that this signifies that the wearer has fought three duels in which a decision was reached--duels in which he either whipped or was whipped--for drawn battles do not count. [1] after a student has received his ribbon, he is "free"; he can cease from fighting, without reproach--except some one insult him; his president cannot appoint him to fight; he can volunteer if he wants to, or remain quiescent if he prefers to do so. statistics show that he does not prefer to remain quiescent. they show that the duel has a singular fascination about it somewhere, for these free men, so far from resting upon the privilege of the badge, are always volunteering. a corps student told me it was of record that prince bismarck fought thirty-two of these duels in a single summer term when he was in college. so he fought twenty-nine after his badge had given him the right to retire from the field. 1. from my diary.--dined in a hotel a few miles up the neckar, in a room whose walls were hung all over with framed portrait-groups of the five corps; some were recent, but many antedated photography, and were pictured in lithography--the dates ranged back to forty or fifty years ago. nearly every individual wore the ribbon across his breast. in one portrait-group representing (as each of these pictures did) an entire corps, i took pains to count the ribbons: there were twenty-seven members, and twenty-one of them wore that significant badge. the statistics may be found to possess interest in several particulars. two days in every week are devoted to dueling. the rule is rigid that there must be three duels on each of these days; there are generally more, but there cannot be fewer. there were six the day i was present; sometimes there are seven or eight. it is insisted that eight duels a week--four for each of the two days--is too low an average to draw a calculation from, but i will reckon from that basis, preferring an understatement to an overstatement of the case. this requires about four hundred and eighty or five hundred duelists a year--for in summer the college term is about three and a half months, and in winter it is four months and sometimes longer. of the seven hundred and fifty students in the university at the time i am writing of, only eighty belonged to the five corps, and it is only these corps that do the dueling; occasionally other students borrow the arms and battleground of the five corps in order to settle a quarrel, but this does not happen every dueling-day. [2] consequently eighty youths furnish the material for some two hundred and fifty duels a year. this average gives six fights a year to each of the eighty. this large work could not be accomplished if the badge-holders stood upon their privilege and ceased to volunteer. 2. they have to borrow the arms because they could not get them elsewhere or otherwise. as i understand it, the public authorities, all over germany, allow the five corps to keep swords, but do not allow them to use them. this is law is rigid; it is only the execution of it that is lax. of course, where there is so much fighting, the students make it a point to keep themselves in constant practice with the foil. one often sees them, at the tables in the castle grounds, using their whips or canes to illustrate some new sword trick which they have heard about; and between the duels, on the day whose history i have been writing, the swords were not always idle; every now and then we heard a succession of the keen hissing sounds which the sword makes when it is being put through its paces in the air, and this informed us that a student was practicing. necessarily, this unceasing attention to the art develops an expert occasionally. he becomes famous in his own university, his renown spreads to other universities. he is invited to goettingen, to fight with a goettingen expert; if he is victorious, he will be invited to other colleges, or those colleges will send their experts to him. americans and englishmen often join one or another of the five corps. a year or two ago, the principal heidelberg expert was a big kentuckian; he was invited to the various universities and left a wake of victory behind him all about germany; but at last a little student in strasburg defeated him. there was formerly a student in heidelberg who had picked up somewhere and mastered a peculiar trick of cutting up under instead of cleaving down from above. while the trick lasted he won in sixteen successive duels in his university; but by that time observers had discovered what his charm was, and how to break it, therefore his championship ceased. a rule which forbids social intercourse between members of different corps is strict. in the dueling-house, in the parks, on the street, and anywhere and everywhere that the students go, caps of a color group themselves together. if all the tables in a public garden were crowded but one, and that one had two red-cap students at it and ten vacant places, the yellow-caps, the blue-caps, the white caps, and the green caps, seeking seats, would go by that table and not seem to see it, nor seem to be aware that there was such a table in the grounds. the student by whose courtesy we had been enabled to visit the dueling-place, wore the white cap--prussian corps. he introduced us to many white caps, but to none of another color. the corps etiquette extended even to us, who were strangers, and required us to group with the white corps only, and speak only with the white corps, while we were their guests, and keep aloof from the caps of the other colors. once i wished to examine some of the swords, but an american student said, "it would not be quite polite; these now in the windows all have red hilts or blue; they will bring in some with white hilts presently, and those you can handle freely." when a sword was broken in the first duel, i wanted a piece of it; but its hilt was the wrong color, so it was considered best and politest to await a properer season. it was brought to me after the room was cleared, and i will now make a "life-size" sketch of it by tracing a line around it with my pen, to show the width of the weapon. [figure 1] the length of these swords is about three feet, and they are quite heavy. one's disposition to cheer, during the course of the duels or at their close, was naturally strong, but corps etiquette forbade any demonstrations of this sort. however brilliant a contest or a victory might be, no sign or sound betrayed that any one was moved. a dignified gravity and repression were maintained at all times. when the dueling was finished and we were ready to go, the gentlemen of the prussian corps to whom we had been introduced took off their caps in the courteous german way, and also shook hands; their brethren of the same order took off their caps and bowed, but without shaking hands; the gentlemen of the other corps treated us just as they would have treated white caps--they fell apart, apparently unconsciously, and left us an unobstructed pathway, but did not seem to see us or know we were there. if we had gone thither the following week as guests of another corps, the white caps, without meaning any offense, would have observed the etiquette of their order and ignored our presence. [how strangely are comedy and tragedy blended in this life! i had not been home a full half-hour, after witnessing those playful sham-duels, when circumstances made it necessary for me to get ready immediately to assist personally at a real one--a duel with no effeminate limitation in the matter of results, but a battle to the death. an account of it, in the next chapter, will show the reader that duels between boys, for fun, and duels between men in earnest, are very different affairs.] a tramp abroad, part 2 by mark twain (samuel l. clemens) first published in 1880 illustrations taken from an 1880 first edition * * * * * * illustrations: 1.   portrait of the author 2.   titian's moses 3.   the author's memories 32.  french calm 33.  the challenge accepted 34.  a search 35.  he swooned ponderously 36.  i rolled him over 37.  the one i hired 36.  the march to the field 39.  the post of danger 40.  the reconciliation 41.  an object of admiration 42.  wagner 43.  raging 44.  roaring 45.  shrieking 46.  a customary thing 47.  one of the "rest" 48.  a contribution box 49.  conspicuous 50.  tail piece 51.  only a shriek 52.  "he only cry" 53.  late comers cared for 54.  evidently dreaming 55.  "turn on more rain" 56.  harris attending the opera 57.  painting my great picture 58.  our start 59.  an unknown costume 60.  the tower 61.  slow but sure 62.  the robber chief 63.  an honest man 64.  the town by night 65.  generations of barefeet 66.  our bedroom 67.  practicing 68.  pawing around 69.  a night's work 70.  leaving heilbronn 71.  the captain 72.  waiting for the train contents: chapter viii the great french duel--mistaken notions--outbreak in the french assembly--calmness of m gambetta--i volunteer as second--drawing up a will--the challenge and its acceptance--difficulty in selection of weapons--deciding on distance--m. gambetta's firmness--arranging details--hiring hearses--how it was kept from the press--march to the field--the post of danger--the duel--the result--general rejoicings--the only one hurt--a firm resolution chapter ix at the theatre--german ideal--at the opera--the orchestra--howlings and wailings--a curious play--one season of rest--the wedding chorus--germans fond of the opera--funerals needed --a private party--what i overheard--a gentle girl--a contribution--box--unpleasantly conspicuous chapter x four hours with wagner--a wonderful singer, once--" only a shriek"--an ancient vocalist--"he only cry"--emotional germans--a wise custom--late comers rebuked--heard to the last--no interruptions allowed--a royal audience--an eccentric king--real rain and more of it--immense success--"encore! encore!"--magnanimity of the king chapter xi lessons in art--my great picture of heidelberg castle--its effect in the exhibition--mistaken for a turner--a studio--waiting for orders--a tramp decided on--the start for heilbronn--our walking dress--"pleasant march to you"--we take the rail--german people on board--not understood--speak only german and english--wimpfen--a funny tower--dinner in the garden--vigorous tramping--ride in a peasant's cart--a famous room chapter xii the rathhaus--an old robber knight, gotz von berlichingen--his famous deeds--the square tower--a curious old church--a gay turn--out--a legend--the wives' treasures--a model waiter--a miracle performed--an old town--the worn stones chapter xiii early to bed--lonesome--nervous excitement--the room we occupied--disturbed by a mouse--grow desperate--the old remedy--a shoe thrown--result--hopelessly awake--an attempt to dress--a cruise in the dark--crawling on the floor--a general smash-up--forty-seven miles' travel chapter xiv a famous turn--out--raftsmen on the neckar--the log rafts--the neckar--a sudden idea--to heidelberg on a raft--chartering a raft--gloomy feelings and conversation--delicious journeying--view of the banks--compared with railroading chapter viii the great french duel [i second gambetta in a terrific duel] much as the modern french duel is ridiculed by certain smart people, it is in reality one of the most dangerous institutions of our day. since it is always fought in the open air, the combatants are nearly sure to catch cold. m. paul de cassagnac, the most inveterate of the french duelists, had suffered so often in this way that he is at last a confirmed invalid; and the best physician in paris has expressed the opinion that if he goes on dueling for fifteen or twenty years more--unless he forms the habit of fighting in a comfortable room where damps and draughts cannot intrude--he will eventually endanger his life. this ought to moderate the talk of those people who are so stubborn in maintaining that the french duel is the most health-giving of recreations because of the open-air exercise it affords. and it ought also to moderate that foolish talk about french duelists and socialist-hated monarchs being the only people who are immoral. but it is time to get at my subject. as soon as i heard of the late fiery outbreak between m. gambetta and m. fourtou in the french assembly, i knew that trouble must follow. i knew it because a long personal friendship with m. gambetta revealed to me the desperate and implacable nature of the man. vast as are his physical proportions, i knew that the thirst for revenge would penetrate to the remotest frontiers of his person. i did not wait for him to call on me, but went at once to him. as i had expected, i found the brave fellow steeped in a profound french calm. i say french calm, because french calmness and english calmness have points of difference. he was moving swiftly back and forth among the debris of his furniture, now and then staving chance fragments of it across the room with his foot; grinding a constant grist of curses through his set teeth; and halting every little while to deposit another handful of his hair on the pile which he had been building of it on the table. he threw his arms around my neck, bent me over his stomach to his breast, kissed me on both cheeks, hugged me four or five times, and then placed me in his own arm-chair. as soon as i had got well again, we began business at once. i said i supposed he would wish me to act as his second, and he said, "of course." i said i must be allowed to act under a french name, so that i might be shielded from obloquy in my country, in case of fatal results. he winced here, probably at the suggestion that dueling was not regarded with respect in america. however, he agreed to my requirement. this accounts for the fact that in all the newspaper reports m. gambetta's second was apparently a frenchman. first, we drew up my principal's will. i insisted upon this, and stuck to my point. i said i had never heard of a man in his right mind going out to fight a duel without first making his will. he said he had never heard of a man in his right mind doing anything of the kind. when he had finished the will, he wished to proceed to a choice of his "last words." he wanted to know how the following words, as a dying exclamation, struck me: "i die for my god, for my country, for freedom of speech, for progress, and the universal brotherhood of man!" i objected that this would require too lingering a death; it was a good speech for a consumptive, but not suited to the exigencies of the field of honor. we wrangled over a good many ante-mortem outbursts, but i finally got him to cut his obituary down to this, which he copied into his memorandum-book, purposing to get it by heart: "i die that france might live." i said that this remark seemed to lack relevancy; but he said relevancy was a matter of no consequence in last words, what you wanted was thrill. the next thing in order was the choice of weapons. my principal said he was not feeling well, and would leave that and the other details of the proposed meeting to me. therefore i wrote the following note and carried it to m. fourtou's friend: sir: m. gambetta accepts m. fourtou's challenge, and authorizes me to propose plessis-piquet as the place of meeting; tomorrow morning at daybreak as the time; and axes as the weapons. i am, sir, with great respect, mark twain. m. fourtou's friend read this note, and shuddered. then he turned to me, and said, with a suggestion of severity in his tone: "have you considered, sir, what would be the inevitable result of such a meeting as this?" "well, for instance, what would it be?" "bloodshed!" "that's about the size of it," i said. "now, if it is a fair question, what was your side proposing to shed?" i had him there. he saw he had made a blunder, so he hastened to explain it away. he said he had spoken jestingly. then he added that he and his principal would enjoy axes, and indeed prefer them, but such weapons were barred by the french code, and so i must change my proposal. i walked the floor, turning the thing over in my mind, and finally it occurred to me that gatling-guns at fifteen paces would be a likely way to get a verdict on the field of honor. so i framed this idea into a proposition. but it was not accepted. the code was in the way again. i proposed rifles; then double-barreled shotguns; then colt's navy revolvers. these being all rejected, i reflected awhile, and sarcastically suggested brickbats at three-quarters of a mile. i always hate to fool away a humorous thing on a person who has no perception of humor; and it filled me with bitterness when this man went soberly away to submit the last proposition to his principal. he came back presently and said his principal was charmed with the idea of brickbats at three-quarters of a mile, but must decline on account of the danger to disinterested parties passing between them. then i said: "well, i am at the end of my string, now. perhaps you would be good enough to suggest a weapon? perhaps you have even had one in your mind all the time?" his countenance brightened, and he said with alacrity: "oh, without doubt, monsieur!" so he fell to hunting in his pockets--pocket after pocket, and he had plenty of them--muttering all the while, "now, what could i have done with them?" at last he was successful. he fished out of his vest pocket a couple of little things which i carried to the light and ascertained to be pistols. they were single-barreled and silver-mounted, and very dainty and pretty. i was not able to speak for emotion. i silently hung one of them on my watch-chain, and returned the other. my companion in crime now unrolled a postage-stamp containing several cartridges, and gave me one of them. i asked if he meant to signify by this that our men were to be allowed but one shot apiece. he replied that the french code permitted no more. i then begged him to go and suggest a distance, for my mind was growing weak and confused under the strain which had been put upon it. he named sixty-five yards. i nearly lost my patience. i said: "sixty-five yards, with these instruments? squirt-guns would be deadlier at fifty. consider, my friend, you and i are banded together to destroy life, not make it eternal." but with all my persuasions, all my arguments, i was only able to get him to reduce the distance to thirty-five yards; and even this concession he made with reluctance, and said with a sigh, "i wash my hands of this slaughter; on your head be it." there was nothing for me but to go home to my old lion-heart and tell my humiliating story. when i entered, m. gambetta was laying his last lock of hair upon the altar. he sprang toward me, exclaiming: "you have made the fatal arrangements--i see it in your eye!" "i have." his face paled a trifle, and he leaned upon the table for support. he breathed thick and heavily for a moment or two, so tumultuous were his feelings; then he hoarsely whispered: "the weapon, the weapon! quick! what is the weapon?" "this!" and i displayed that silver-mounted thing. he cast but one glance at it, then swooned ponderously to the floor. when he came to, he said mournfully: "the unnatural calm to which i have subjected myself has told upon my nerves. but away with weakness! i will confront my fate like a man and a frenchman." he rose to his feet, and assumed an attitude which for sublimity has never been approached by man, and has seldom been surpassed by statues. then he said, in his deep bass tones: "behold, i am calm, i am ready; reveal to me the distance." "thirty-five yards." ... i could not lift him up, of course; but i rolled him over, and poured water down his back. he presently came to, and said: "thirty-five yards--without a rest? but why ask? since murder was that man's intention, why should he palter with small details? but mark you one thing: in my fall the world shall see how the chivalry of france meets death." after a long silence he asked: "was nothing said about that man's family standing up with him, as an offset to my bulk? but no matter; i would not stoop to make such a suggestion; if he is not noble enough to suggest it himself, he is welcome to this advantage, which no honorable man would take." he now sank into a sort of stupor of reflection, which lasted some minutes; after which he broke silence with: "the hour--what is the hour fixed for the collision?" "dawn, tomorrow." he seemed greatly surprised, and immediately said: "insanity! i never heard of such a thing. nobody is abroad at such an hour." "that is the reason i named it. do you mean to say you want an audience?" "it is no time to bandy words. i am astonished that m. fourtou should ever have agreed to so strange an innovation. go at once and require a later hour." i ran downstairs, threw open the front door, and almost plunged into the arms of m. fourtou's second. he said: "i have the honor to say that my principal strenuously objects to the hour chosen, and begs you will consent to change it to half past nine." "any courtesy, sir, which it is in our power to extend is at the service of your excellent principal. we agree to the proposed change of time." "i beg you to accept the thanks of my client." then he turned to a person behind him, and said, "you hear, m. noir, the hour is altered to half past nine." whereupon m. noir bowed, expressed his thanks, and went away. my accomplice continued: "if agreeable to you, your chief surgeons and ours shall proceed to the field in the same carriage as is customary." "it is entirely agreeable to me, and i am obliged to you for mentioning the surgeons, for i am afraid i should not have thought of them. how many shall i want? i supposed two or three will be enough?" "two is the customary number for each party. i refer to 'chief' surgeons; but considering the exalted positions occupied by our clients, it will be well and decorous that each of us appoint several consulting surgeons, from among the highest in the profession. these will come in their own private carriages. have you engaged a hearse?" "bless my stupidity, i never thought of it! i will attend to it right away. i must seem very ignorant to you; but you must try to overlook that, because i have never had any experience of such a swell duel as this before. i have had a good deal to do with duels on the pacific coast, but i see now that they were crude affairs. a hearse--sho! we used to leave the elected lying around loose, and let anybody cord them up and cart them off that wanted to. have you anything further to suggest?" "nothing, except that the head undertakers shall ride together, as is usual. the subordinates and mutes will go on foot, as is also usual. i will see you at eight o'clock in the morning, and we will then arrange the order of the procession. i have the honor to bid you a good day." i returned to my client, who said, "very well; at what hour is the engagement to begin?" "half past nine." "very good indeed. have you sent the fact to the newspapers?" "sir! if after our long and intimate friendship you can for a moment deem me capable of so base a treachery--" "tut, tut! what words are these, my dear friend? have i wounded you? ah, forgive me; i am overloading you with labor. therefore go on with the other details, and drop this one from your list. the bloody-minded fourtou will be sure to attend to it. or i myself--yes, to make certain, i will drop a note to my journalistic friend, m. noir--" "oh, come to think of it, you may save yourself the trouble; that other second has informed m. noir." "h'm! i might have known it. it is just like that fourtou, who always wants to make a display." at half past nine in the morning the procession approached the field of plessis-piquet in the following order: first came our carriage--nobody in it but m. gambetta and myself; then a carriage containing m. fourtou and his second; then a carriage containing two poet-orators who did not believe in god, and these had ms. funeral orations projecting from their breast pockets; then a carriage containing the head surgeons and their cases of instruments; then eight private carriages containing consulting surgeons; then a hack containing a coroner; then the two hearses; then a carriage containing the head undertakers; then a train of assistants and mutes on foot; and after these came plodding through the fog a long procession of camp followers, police, and citizens generally. it was a noble turnout, and would have made a fine display if we had had thinner weather. there was no conversation. i spoke several times to my principal, but i judge he was not aware of it, for he always referred to his note-book and muttered absently, "i die that france might live." arrived on the field, my fellow-second and i paced off the thirty-five yards, and then drew lots for choice of position. this latter was but an ornamental ceremony, for all the choices were alike in such weather. these preliminaries being ended, i went to my principal and asked him if he was ready. he spread himself out to his full width, and said in a stern voice, "ready! let the batteries be charged." the loading process was done in the presence of duly constituted witnesses. we considered it best to perform this delicate service with the assistance of a lantern, on account of the state of the weather. we now placed our men. at this point the police noticed that the public had massed themselves together on the right and left of the field; they therefore begged a delay, while they should put these poor people in a place of safety. the request was granted. the police having ordered the two multitudes to take positions behind the duelists, we were once more ready. the weather growing still more opaque, it was agreed between myself and the other second that before giving the fatal signal we should each deliver a loud whoop to enable the combatants to ascertain each other's whereabouts. i now returned to my principal, and was distressed to observe that he had lost a good deal of his spirit. i tried my best to hearten him. i said, "indeed, sir, things are not as bad as they seem. considering the character of the weapons, the limited number of shots allowed, the generous distance, the impenetrable solidity of the fog, and the added fact that one of the combatants is one-eyed and the other cross-eyed and near-sighted, it seems to me that this conflict need not necessarily be fatal. there are chances that both of you may survive. therefore, cheer up; do not be downhearted." this speech had so good an effect that my principal immediately stretched forth his hand and said, "i am myself again; give me the weapon." i laid it, all lonely and forlorn, in the center of the vast solitude of his palm. he gazed at it and shuddered. and still mournfully contemplating it, he murmured in a broken voice: "alas, it is not death i dread, but mutilation." i heartened him once more, and with such success that he presently said, "let the tragedy begin. stand at my back; do not desert me in this solemn hour, my friend." i gave him my promise. i now assisted him to point his pistol toward the spot where i judged his adversary to be standing, and cautioned him to listen well and further guide himself by my fellow-second's whoop. then i propped myself against m. gambetta's back, and raised a rousing "whoop-ee!" this was answered from out the far distances of the fog, and i immediately shouted: "one--two--three--fire!" two little sounds like spit! spit! broke upon my ear, and in the same instant i was crushed to the earth under a mountain of flesh. bruised as i was, i was still able to catch a faint accent from above, to this effect: "i die for... for ... perdition take it, what is it i die for? ... oh, yes--france! i die that france may live!" the surgeons swarmed around with their probes in their hands, and applied their microscopes to the whole area of m. gambetta's person, with the happy result of finding nothing in the nature of a wound. then a scene ensued which was in every way gratifying and inspiriting. the two gladiators fell upon each other's neck, with floods of proud and happy tears; that other second embraced me; the surgeons, the orators, the undertakers, the police, everybody embraced, everybody congratulated, everybody cried, and the whole atmosphere was filled with praise and with joy unspeakable. it seems to me then that i would rather be a hero of a french duel than a crowned and sceptered monarch. when the commotion had somewhat subsided, the body of surgeons held a consultation, and after a good deal of debate decided that with proper care and nursing there was reason to believe that i would survive my injuries. my internal hurts were deemed the most serious, since it was apparent that a broken rib had penetrated my left lung, and that many of my organs had been pressed out so far to one side or the other of where they belonged, that it was doubtful if they would ever learn to perform their functions in such remote and unaccustomed localities. they then set my left arm in two places, pulled my right hip into its socket again, and re-elevated my nose. i was an object of great interest, and even admiration; and many sincere and warm-hearted persons had themselves introduced to me, and said they were proud to know the only man who had been hurt in a french duel in forty years. i was placed in an ambulance at the very head of the procession; and thus with gratifying 'eclat i was marched into paris, the most conspicuous figure in that great spectacle, and deposited at the hospital. the cross of the legion of honor has been conferred upon me. however, few escape that distinction. such is the true version of the most memorable private conflict of the age. i have no complaints to make against any one. i acted for myself, and i can stand the consequences. without boasting, i think i may say i am not afraid to stand before a modern french duelist, but as long as i keep in my right mind i will never consent to stand behind one again. chapter ix [what the beautiful maiden said] one day we took the train and went down to mannheim to see "king lear" played in german. it was a mistake. we sat in our seats three whole hours and never understood anything but the thunder and lightning; and even that was reversed to suit german ideas, for the thunder came first and the lightning followed after. the behavior of the audience was perfect. there were no rustlings, or whisperings, or other little disturbances; each act was listened to in silence, and the applauding was done after the curtain was down. the doors opened at half past four, the play began promptly at half past five, and within two minutes afterward all who were coming were in their seats, and quiet reigned. a german gentleman in the train had said that a shakespearian play was an appreciated treat in germany and that we should find the house filled. it was true; all the six tiers were filled, and remained so to the end--which suggested that it is not only balcony people who like shakespeare in germany, but those of the pit and gallery, too. another time, we went to mannheim and attended a shivaree--otherwise an opera--the one called "lohengrin." the banging and slamming and booming and crashing were something beyond belief. the racking and pitiless pain of it remains stored up in my memory alongside the memory of the time that i had my teeth fixed. there were circumstances which made it necessary for me to stay through the four hours to the end, and i stayed; but the recollection of that long, dragging, relentless season of suffering is indestructible. to have to endure it in silence, and sitting still, made it all the harder. i was in a railed compartment with eight or ten strangers, of the two sexes, and this compelled repression; yet at times the pain was so exquisite that i could hardly keep the tears back. at those times, as the howlings and wailings and shrieking of the singers, and the ragings and roarings and explosions of the vast orchestra rose higher and higher, and wilder and wilder, and fiercer and fiercer, i could have cried if i had been alone. those strangers would not have been surprised to see a man do such a thing who was being gradually skinned, but they would have marveled at it here, and made remarks about it no doubt, whereas there was nothing in the present case which was an advantage over being skinned. there was a wait of half an hour at the end of the first act, and i could have gone out and rested during that time, but i could not trust myself to do it, for i felt that i should desert to stay out. there was another wait of half an hour toward nine o'clock, but i had gone through so much by that time that i had no spirit left, and so had no desire but to be let alone. i do not wish to suggest that the rest of the people there were like me, for, indeed, they were not. whether it was that they naturally liked that noise, or whether it was that they had learned to like it by getting used to it, i did not at the time know; but they did like it--this was plain enough. while it was going on they sat and looked as rapt and grateful as cats do when one strokes their backs; and whenever the curtain fell they rose to their feet, in one solid mighty multitude, and the air was snowed thick with waving handkerchiefs, and hurricanes of applause swept the place. this was not comprehensible to me. of course, there were many people there who were not under compulsion to stay; yet the tiers were as full at the close as they had been at the beginning. this showed that the people liked it. it was a curious sort of a play. in the manner of costumes and scenery it was fine and showy enough; but there was not much action. that is to say, there was not much really done, it was only talked about; and always violently. it was what one might call a narrative play. everybody had a narrative and a grievance, and none were reasonable about it, but all in an offensive and ungovernable state. there was little of that sort of customary thing where the tenor and the soprano stand down by the footlights, warbling, with blended voices, and keep holding out their arms toward each other and drawing them back and spreading both hands over first one breast and then the other with a shake and a pressure--no, it was every rioter for himself and no blending. each sang his indictive narrative in turn, accompanied by the whole orchestra of sixty instruments, and when this had continued for some time, and one was hoping they might come to an understanding and modify the noise, a great chorus composed entirely of maniacs would suddenly break forth, and then during two minutes, and sometimes three, i lived over again all that i suffered the time the orphan asylum burned down. we only had one brief little season of heaven and heaven's sweet ecstasy and peace during all this long and diligent and acrimonious reproduction of the other place. this was while a gorgeous procession of people marched around and around, in the third act, and sang the wedding chorus. to my untutored ear that was music--almost divine music. while my seared soul was steeped in the healing balm of those gracious sounds, it seemed to me that i could almost resuffer the torments which had gone before, in order to be so healed again. there is where the deep ingenuity of the operatic idea is betrayed. it deals so largely in pain that its scattered delights are prodigiously augmented by the contrasts. a pretty air in an opera is prettier there than it could be anywhere else, i suppose, just as an honest man in politics shines more than he would elsewhere. i have since found out that there is nothing the germans like so much as an opera. they like it, not in a mild and moderate way, but with their whole hearts. this is a legitimate result of habit and education. our nation will like the opera, too, by and by, no doubt. one in fifty of those who attend our operas likes it already, perhaps, but i think a good many of the other forty-nine go in order to learn to like it, and the rest in order to be able to talk knowingly about it. the latter usually hum the airs while they are being sung, so that their neighbors may perceive that they have been to operas before. the funerals of these do not occur often enough. a gentle, old-maidish person and a sweet young girl of seventeen sat right in front of us that night at the mannheim opera. these people talked, between the acts, and i understood them, though i understood nothing that was uttered on the distant stage. at first they were guarded in their talk, but after they had heard my agent and me conversing in english they dropped their reserve and i picked up many of their little confidences; no, i mean many of her little confidences--meaning the elder party--for the young girl only listened, and gave assenting nods, but never said a word. how pretty she was, and how sweet she was! i wished she would speak. but evidently she was absorbed in her own thoughts, her own young-girl dreams, and found a dearer pleasure in silence. but she was not dreaming sleepy dreams--no, she was awake, alive, alert, she could not sit still a moment. she was an enchanting study. her gown was of a soft white silky stuff that clung to her round young figure like a fish's skin, and it was rippled over with the gracefulest little fringy films of lace; she had deep, tender eyes, with long, curved lashes; and she had peachy cheeks, and a dimpled chin, and such a dear little rosebud of a mouth; and she was so dovelike, so pure, and so gracious, so sweet and so bewitching. for long hours i did mightily wish she would speak. and at last she did; the red lips parted, and out leaps her thought--and with such a guileless and pretty enthusiasm, too: "auntie, i just know i've got five hundred fleas on me!" that was probably over the average. yes, it must have been very much over the average. the average at that time in the grand duchy of baden was forty-five to a young person (when alone), according to the official estimate of the home secretary for that year; the average for older people was shifty and indeterminable, for whenever a wholesome young girl came into the presence of her elders she immediately lowered their average and raised her own. she became a sort of contribution-box. this dear young thing in the theater had been sitting there unconsciously taking up a collection. many a skinny old being in our neighborhood was the happier and the restfuler for her coming. in that large audience, that night, there were eight very conspicuous people. these were ladies who had their hats or bonnets on. what a blessed thing it would be if a lady could make herself conspicuous in our theaters by wearing her hat. it is not usual in europe to allow ladies and gentlemen to take bonnets, hats, overcoats, canes, or umbrellas into the auditorium, but in mannheim this rule was not enforced because the audiences were largely made up of people from a distance, and among these were always a few timid ladies who were afraid that if they had to go into an anteroom to get their things when the play was over, they would miss their train. but the great mass of those who came from a distance always ran the risk and took the chances, preferring the loss of a train to a breach of good manners and the discomfort of being unpleasantly conspicuous during a stretch of three or four hours. chapter x [how wagner operas bang along] three or four hours. that is a long time to sit in one place, whether one be conspicuous or not, yet some of wagner's operas bang along for six whole hours on a stretch! but the people sit there and enjoy it all, and wish it would last longer. a german lady in munich told me that a person could not like wagner's music at first, but must go through the deliberate process of learning to like it--then he would have his sure reward; for when he had learned to like it he would hunger for it and never be able to get enough of it. she said that six hours of wagner was by no means too much. she said that this composer had made a complete revolution in music and was burying the old masters one by one. and she said that wagner's operas differed from all others in one notable respect, and that was that they were not merely spotted with music here and there, but were all music, from the first strain to the last. this surprised me. i said i had attended one of his insurrections, and found hardly any music in it except the wedding chorus. she said "lohengrin" was noisier than wagner's other operas, but that if i would keep on going to see it i would find by and by that it was all music, and therefore would then enjoy it. i could have said, "but would you advise a person to deliberately practice having a toothache in the pit of his stomach for a couple of years in order that he might then come to enjoy it?" but i reserved that remark. this lady was full of the praises of the head-tenor who had performed in a wagner opera the night before, and went on to enlarge upon his old and prodigious fame, and how many honors had been lavished upon him by the princely houses of germany. here was another surprise. i had attended that very opera, in the person of my agent, and had made close and accurate observations. so i said: "why, madam, my experience warrants me in stating that that tenor's voice is not a voice at all, but only a shriek--the shriek of a hyena." "that is very true," she said; "he cannot sing now; it is already many years that he has lost his voice, but in other times he sang, yes, divinely! so whenever he comes now, you shall see, yes, that the theater will not hold the people. jawohl bei gott! his voice is wunderschoen in that past time." i said she was discovering to me a kindly trait in the germans which was worth emulating. i said that over the water we were not quite so generous; that with us, when a singer had lost his voice and a jumper had lost his legs, these parties ceased to draw. i said i had been to the opera in hanover, once, and in mannheim once, and in munich (through my authorized agent) once, and this large experience had nearly persuaded me that the germans preferred singers who couldn't sing. this was not such a very extravagant speech, either, for that burly mannheim tenor's praises had been the talk of all heidelberg for a week before his performance took place--yet his voice was like the distressing noise which a nail makes when you screech it across a window-pane. i said so to heidelberg friends the next day, and they said, in the calmest and simplest way, that that was very true, but that in earlier times his voice had been wonderfully fine. and the tenor in hanover was just another example of this sort. the english-speaking german gentleman who went with me to the opera there was brimming with enthusiasm over that tenor. he said: "ach gott! a great man! you shall see him. he is so celebrate in all germany--and he has a pension, yes, from the government. he not obliged to sing now, only twice every year; but if he not sing twice each year they take him his pension away." very well, we went. when the renowned old tenor appeared, i got a nudge and an excited whisper: "now you see him!" but the "celebrate" was an astonishing disappointment to me. if he had been behind a screen i should have supposed they were performing a surgical operation on him. i looked at my friend--to my great surprise he seemed intoxicated with pleasure, his eyes were dancing with eager delight. when the curtain at last fell, he burst into the stormiest applause, and kept it up--as did the whole house--until the afflictive tenor had come three times before the curtain to make his bow. while the glowing enthusiast was swabbing the perspiration from his face, i said: "i don't mean the least harm, but really, now, do you think he can sing?" "him? no! gott im himmel, aber, how he has been able to sing twenty-five years ago?" [then pensively.] "ach, no, now he not sing any more, he only cry. when he think he sing, now, he not sing at all, no, he only make like a cat which is unwell." where and how did we get the idea that the germans are a stolid, phlegmatic race? in truth, they are widely removed from that. they are warm-hearted, emotional, impulsive, enthusiastic, their tears come at the mildest touch, and it is not hard to move them to laughter. they are the very children of impulse. we are cold and self-contained, compared to the germans. they hug and kiss and cry and shout and dance and sing; and where we use one loving, petting expression, they pour out a score. their language is full of endearing diminutives; nothing that they love escapes the application of a petting diminutive--neither the house, nor the dog, nor the horse, nor the grandmother, nor any other creature, animate or inanimate. in the theaters at hanover, hamburg, and mannheim, they had a wise custom. the moment the curtain went up, the light in the body of the house went down. the audience sat in the cool gloom of a deep twilight, which greatly enhanced the glowing splendors of the stage. it saved gas, too, and people were not sweated to death. when i saw "king lear" played, nobody was allowed to see a scene shifted; if there was nothing to be done but slide a forest out of the way and expose a temple beyond, one did not see that forest split itself in the middle and go shrieking away, with the accompanying disenchanting spectacle of the hands and heels of the impelling impulse--no, the curtain was always dropped for an instant--one heard not the least movement behind it--but when it went up, the next instant, the forest was gone. even when the stage was being entirely reset, one heard no noise. during the whole time that "king lear" was playing the curtain was never down two minutes at any one time. the orchestra played until the curtain was ready to go up for the first time, then they departed for the evening. where the stage waits never reach two minutes there is no occasion for music. i had never seen this two-minute business between acts but once before, and that was when the "shaughraun" was played at wallack's. i was at a concert in munich one night, the people were streaming in, the clock-hand pointed to seven, the music struck up, and instantly all movement in the body of the house ceased--nobody was standing, or walking up the aisles, or fumbling with a seat, the stream of incomers had suddenly dried up at its source. i listened undisturbed to a piece of music that was fifteen minutes long--always expecting some tardy ticket-holders to come crowding past my knees, and being continuously and pleasantly disappointed--but when the last note was struck, here came the stream again. you see, they had made those late comers wait in the comfortable waiting-parlor from the time the music had begun until it was ended. it was the first time i had ever seen this sort of criminals denied the privilege of destroying the comfort of a house full of their betters. some of these were pretty fine birds, but no matter, they had to tarry outside in the long parlor under the inspection of a double rank of liveried footmen and waiting-maids who supported the two walls with their backs and held the wraps and traps of their masters and mistresses on their arms. we had no footmen to hold our things, and it was not permissible to take them into the concert-room; but there were some men and women to take charge of them for us. they gave us checks for them and charged a fixed price, payable in advance--five cents. in germany they always hear one thing at an opera which has never yet been heard in america, perhaps--i mean the closing strain of a fine solo or duet. we always smash into it with an earthquake of applause. the result is that we rob ourselves of the sweetest part of the treat; we get the whiskey, but we don't get the sugar in the bottom of the glass. our way of scattering applause along through an act seems to me to be better than the mannheim way of saving it all up till the act is ended. i do not see how an actor can forget himself and portray hot passion before a cold still audience. i should think he would feel foolish. it is a pain to me to this day, to remember how that old german lear raged and wept and howled around the stage, with never a response from that hushed house, never a single outburst till the act was ended. to me there was something unspeakably uncomfortable in the solemn dead silences that always followed this old person's tremendous outpourings of his feelings. i could not help putting myself in his place--i thought i knew how sick and flat he felt during those silences, because i remembered a case which came under my observation once, and which--but i will tell the incident: one evening on board a mississippi steamboat, a boy of ten years lay asleep in a berth--a long, slim-legged boy, he was, encased in quite a short shirt; it was the first time he had ever made a trip on a steamboat, and so he was troubled, and scared, and had gone to bed with his head filled with impending snaggings, and explosions, and conflagrations, and sudden death. about ten o'clock some twenty ladies were sitting around about the ladies' saloon, quietly reading, sewing, embroidering, and so on, and among them sat a sweet, benignant old dame with round spectacles on her nose and her busy knitting-needles in her hands. now all of a sudden, into the midst of this peaceful scene burst that slim-shanked boy in the brief shirt, wild-eyed, erect-haired, and shouting, "fire, fire! jump and run, the boat's afire and there ain't a minute to lose!" all those ladies looked sweetly up and smiled, nobody stirred, the old lady pulled her spectacles down, looked over them, and said, gently: "but you mustn't catch cold, child. run and put on your breastpin, and then come and tell us all about it." it was a cruel chill to give to a poor little devil's gushing vehemence. he was expecting to be a sort of hero--the creator of a wild panic--and here everybody sat and smiled a mocking smile, and an old woman made fun of his bugbear. i turned and crept away--for i was that boy--and never even cared to discover whether i had dreamed the fire or actually seen it. i am told that in a german concert or opera, they hardly ever encore a song; that though they may be dying to hear it again, their good breeding usually preserves them against requiring the repetition. kings may encore; that is quite another matter; it delights everybody to see that the king is pleased; and as to the actor encored, his pride and gratification are simply boundless. still, there are circumstances in which even a royal encore-but it is better to illustrate. the king of bavaria is a poet, and has a poet's eccentricities--with the advantage over all other poets of being able to gratify them, no matter what form they may take. he is fond of opera, but not fond of sitting in the presence of an audience; therefore, it has sometimes occurred, in munich, that when an opera has been concluded and the players were getting off their paint and finery, a command has come to them to get their paint and finery on again. presently the king would arrive, solitary and alone, and the players would begin at the beginning and do the entire opera over again with only that one individual in the vast solemn theater for audience. once he took an odd freak into his head. high up and out of sight, over the prodigious stage of the court theater is a maze of interlacing water-pipes, so pierced that in case of fire, innumerable little thread-like streams of water can be caused to descend; and in case of need, this discharge can be augmented to a pouring flood. american managers might want to make a note of that. the king was sole audience. the opera proceeded, it was a piece with a storm in it; the mimic thunder began to mutter, the mimic wind began to wail and sough, and the mimic rain to patter. the king's interest rose higher and higher; it developed into enthusiasm. he cried out: "it is very, very good, indeed! but i will have real rain! turn on the water!" the manager pleaded for a reversal of the command; said it would ruin the costly scenery and the splendid costumes, but the king cried: "no matter, no matter, i will have real rain! turn on the water!" so the real rain was turned on and began to descend in gossamer lances to the mimic flower-beds and gravel walks of the stage. the richly dressed actresses and actors tripped about singing bravely and pretending not to mind it. the king was delighted--his enthusiasm grew higher. he cried out: "bravo, bravo! more thunder! more lightning! turn on more rain!" the thunder boomed, the lightning glared, the storm-winds raged, the deluge poured down. the mimic royalty on the stage, with their soaked satins clinging to their bodies, slopped about ankle-deep in water, warbling their sweetest and best, the fiddlers under the eaves of the stage sawed away for dear life, with the cold overflow spouting down the backs of their necks, and the dry and happy king sat in his lofty box and wore his gloves to ribbons applauding. "more yet!" cried the king; "more yet--let loose all the thunder, turn on all the water! i will hang the man that raises an umbrella!" when this most tremendous and effective storm that had ever been produced in any theater was at last over, the king's approbation was measureless. he cried: "magnificent, magnificent! encore! do it again!" but the manager succeeded in persuading him to recall the encore, and said the company would feel sufficiently rewarded and complimented in the mere fact that the encore was desired by his majesty, without fatiguing him with a repetition to gratify their own vanity. during the remainder of the act the lucky performers were those whose parts required changes of dress; the others were a soaked, bedraggled, and uncomfortable lot, but in the last degree picturesque. the stage scenery was ruined, trap-doors were so swollen that they wouldn't work for a week afterward, the fine costumes were spoiled, and no end of minor damages were done by that remarkable storm. it was a royal idea--that storm--and royally carried out. but observe the moderation of the king; he did not insist upon his encore. if he had been a gladsome, unreflecting american opera-audience, he probably would have had his storm repeated and repeated until he drowned all those people. chapter xi [i paint a "turner"] the summer days passed pleasantly in heidelberg. we had a skilled trainer, and under his instructions we were getting our legs in the right condition for the contemplated pedestrian tours; we were well satisfied with the progress which we had made in the german language, [1. see appendix d for information concerning this fearful tongue.] and more than satisfied with what we had accomplished in art. we had had the best instructors in drawing and painting in germany--haemmerling, vogel, mueller, dietz, and schumann. haemmerling taught us landscape-painting. vogel taught us figure-drawing, mueller taught us to do still-life, and dietz and schumann gave us a finishing course in two specialties--battle-pieces and shipwrecks. whatever i am in art i owe to these men. i have something of the manner of each and all of them; but they all said that i had also a manner of my own, and that it was conspicuous. they said there was a marked individuality about my style--insomuch that if i ever painted the commonest type of a dog, i should be sure to throw a something into the aspect of that dog which would keep him from being mistaken for the creation of any other artist. secretly i wanted to believe all these kind sayings, but i could not; i was afraid that my masters' partiality for me, and pride in me, biased their judgment. so i resolved to make a test. privately, and unknown to any one, i painted my great picture, "heidelberg castle illuminated"--my first really important work in oils--and had it hung up in the midst of a wilderness of oil-pictures in the art exhibition, with no name attached to it. to my great gratification it was instantly recognized as mine. all the town flocked to see it, and people even came from neighboring localities to visit it. it made more stir than any other work in the exhibition. but the most gratifying thing of all was, that chance strangers, passing through, who had not heard of my picture, were not only drawn to it, as by a lodestone, the moment they entered the gallery, but always took it for a "turner." apparently nobody had ever done that. there were ruined castles on the overhanging cliffs and crags all the way; these were said to have their legends, like those on the rhine, and what was better still, they had never been in print. there was nothing in the books about that lovely region; it had been neglected by the tourist, it was virgin soil for the literary pioneer. meantime the knapsacks, the rough walking-suits and the stout walking-shoes which we had ordered, were finished and brought to us. a mr. x and a young mr. z had agreed to go with us. we went around one evening and bade good-by to our friends, and afterward had a little farewell banquet at the hotel. we got to bed early, for we wanted to make an early start, so as to take advantage of the cool of the morning. we were out of bed at break of day, feeling fresh and vigorous, and took a hearty breakfast, then plunged down through the leafy arcades of the castle grounds, toward the town. what a glorious summer morning it was, and how the flowers did pour out their fragrance, and how the birds did sing! it was just the time for a tramp through the woods and mountains. we were all dressed alike: broad slouch hats, to keep the sun off; gray knapsacks; blue army shirts; blue overalls; leathern gaiters buttoned tight from knee down to ankle; high-quarter coarse shoes snugly laced. each man had an opera-glass, a canteen, and a guide-book case slung over his shoulder, and carried an alpenstock in one hand and a sun-umbrella in the other. around our hats were wound many folds of soft white muslin, with the ends hanging and flapping down our backs--an idea brought from the orient and used by tourists all over europe. harris carried the little watch-like machine called a "pedometer," whose office is to keep count of a man's steps and tell how far he has walked. everybody stopped to admire our costumes and give us a hearty "pleasant march to you!" when we got downtown i found that we could go by rail to within five miles of heilbronn. the train was just starting, so we jumped aboard and went tearing away in splendid spirits. it was agreed all around that we had done wisely, because it would be just as enjoyable to walk down the neckar as up it, and it could not be needful to walk both ways. there were some nice german people in our compartment. i got to talking some pretty private matters presently, and harris became nervous; so he nudged me and said: "speak in german--these germans may understand english." i did so, it was well i did; for it turned out that there was not a german in that party who did not understand english perfectly. it is curious how widespread our language is in germany. after a while some of those folks got out and a german gentleman and his two young daughters got in. i spoke in german of one of the latter several times, but without result. finally she said: "ich verstehe nur deutch und englishe,"--or words to that effect. that is, "i don't understand any language but german and english." and sure enough, not only she but her father and sister spoke english. so after that we had all the talk we wanted; and we wanted a good deal, for they were agreeable people. they were greatly interested in our customs; especially the alpenstocks, for they had not seen any before. they said that the neckar road was perfectly level, so we must be going to switzerland or some other rugged country; and asked us if we did not find the walking pretty fatiguing in such warm weather. but we said no. we reached wimpfen--i think it was wimpfen--in about three hours, and got out, not the least tired; found a good hotel and ordered beer and dinner--then took a stroll through the venerable old village. it was very picturesque and tumble-down, and dirty and interesting. it had queer houses five hundred years old in it, and a military tower 115 feet high, which had stood there more than ten centuries. i made a little sketch of it. i kept a copy, but gave the original to the burgomaster. i think the original was better than the copy, because it had more windows in it and the grass stood up better and had a brisker look. there was none around the tower, though; i composed the grass myself, from studies i made in a field by heidelberg in haemmerling's time. the man on top, looking at the view, is apparently too large, but i found he could not be made smaller, conveniently. i wanted him there, and i wanted him visible, so i thought out a way to manage it; i composed the picture from two points of view; the spectator is to observe the man from bout where that flag is, and he must observe the tower itself from the ground. this harmonizes the seeming discrepancy. [figure 2] near an old cathedral, under a shed, were three crosses of stone--moldy and damaged things, bearing life-size stone figures. the two thieves were dressed in the fanciful court costumes of the middle of the sixteenth century, while the saviour was nude, with the exception of a cloth around the loins. we had dinner under the green trees in a garden belonging to the hotel and overlooking the neckar; then, after a smoke, we went to bed. we had a refreshing nap, then got up about three in the afternoon and put on our panoply. as we tramped gaily out at the gate of the town, we overtook a peasant's cart, partly laden with odds and ends of cabbages and similar vegetable rubbish, and drawn by a small cow and a smaller donkey yoked together. it was a pretty slow concern, but it got us into heilbronn before dark--five miles, or possibly it was seven. we stopped at the very same inn which the famous old robber-knight and rough fighter goetz von berlichingen, abode in after he got out of captivity in the square tower of heilbronn between three hundred and fifty and four hundred years ago. harris and i occupied the same room which he had occupied and the same paper had not quite peeled off the walls yet. the furniture was quaint old carved stuff, full four hundred years old, and some of the smells were over a thousand. there was a hook in the wall, which the landlord said the terrific old goetz used to hang his iron hand on when he took it off to go to bed. this room was very large--it might be called immense--and it was on the first floor; which means it was in the second story, for in europe the houses are so high that they do not count the first story, else they would get tired climbing before they got to the top. the wallpaper was a fiery red, with huge gold figures in it, well smirched by time, and it covered all the doors. these doors fitted so snugly and continued the figures of the paper so unbrokenly, that when they were closed one had to go feeling and searching along the wall to find them. there was a stove in the corner--one of those tall, square, stately white porcelain things that looks like a monument and keeps you thinking of death when you ought to be enjoying your travels. the windows looked out on a little alley, and over that into a stable and some poultry and pig yards in the rear of some tenement-houses. there were the customary two beds in the room, one in one end, the other in the other, about an old-fashioned brass-mounted, single-barreled pistol-shot apart. they were fully as narrow as the usual german bed, too, and had the german bed's ineradicable habit of spilling the blankets on the floor every time you forgot yourself and went to sleep. a round table as large as king arthur's stood in the center of the room; while the waiters were getting ready to serve our dinner on it we all went out to see the renowned clock on the front of the municipal buildings. chapter xii [what the wives saved] the rathhaus, or municipal building, is of the quaintest and most picturesque middle-age architecture. it has a massive portico and steps, before it, heavily balustraded, and adorned with life-sized rusty iron knights in complete armor. the clock-face on the front of the building is very large and of curious pattern. ordinarily, a gilded angel strikes the hour on a big bell with a hammer; as the striking ceases, a life-sized figure of time raises its hour-glass and turns it; two golden rams advance and butt each other; a gilded cock lifts its wings; but the main features are two great angels, who stand on each side of the dial with long horns at their lips; it was said that they blew melodious blasts on these horns every hour--but they did not do it for us. we were told, later, that they blew only at night, when the town was still. within the rathhaus were a number of huge wild boars' heads, preserved, and mounted on brackets along the wall; they bore inscriptions telling who killed them and how many hundred years ago it was done. one room in the building was devoted to the preservation of ancient archives. there they showed us no end of aged documents; some were signed by popes, some by tilly and other great generals, and one was a letter written and subscribed by goetz von berlichingen in heilbronn in 1519 just after his release from the square tower. this fine old robber-knight was a devoutly and sincerely religious man, hospitable, charitable to the poor, fearless in fight, active, enterprising, and possessed of a large and generous nature. he had in him a quality of being able to overlook moderate injuries, and being able to forgive and forget mortal ones as soon as he had soundly trounced the authors of them. he was prompt to take up any poor devil's quarrel and risk his neck to right him. the common folk held him dear, and his memory is still green in ballad and tradition. he used to go on the highway and rob rich wayfarers; and other times he would swoop down from his high castle on the hills of the neckar and capture passing cargoes of merchandise. in his memoirs he piously thanks the giver of all good for remembering him in his needs and delivering sundry such cargoes into his hands at times when only special providences could have relieved him. he was a doughty warrior and found a deep joy in battle. in an assault upon a stronghold in bavaria when he was only twenty-three years old, his right hand was shot away, but he was so interested in the fight that he did not observe it for a while. he said that the iron hand which was made for him afterward, and which he wore for more than half a century, was nearly as clever a member as the fleshy one had been. i was glad to get a facsimile of the letter written by this fine old german robin hood, though i was not able to read it. he was a better artist with his sword than with his pen. we went down by the river and saw the square tower. it was a very venerable structure, very strong, and very ornamental. there was no opening near the ground. they had to use a ladder to get into it, no doubt. we visited the principal church, also--a curious old structure, with a towerlike spire adorned with all sorts of grotesque images. the inner walls of the church were placarded with large mural tablets of copper, bearing engraved inscriptions celebrating the merits of old heilbronn worthies of two or three centuries ago, and also bearing rudely painted effigies of themselves and their families tricked out in the queer costumes of those days. the head of the family sat in the foreground, and beyond him extended a sharply receding and diminishing row of sons; facing him sat his wife, and beyond her extended a low row of diminishing daughters. the family was usually large, but the perspective bad. then we hired the hack and the horse which goetz von berlichingen used to use, and drove several miles into the country to visit the place called weibertreu--wife's fidelity i suppose it means. it was a feudal castle of the middle ages. when we reached its neighborhood we found it was beautifully situated, but on top of a mound, or hill, round and tolerably steep, and about two hundred feet high. therefore, as the sun was blazing hot, we did not climb up there, but took the place on trust, and observed it from a distance while the horse leaned up against a fence and rested. the place has no interest except that which is lent it by its legend, which is a very pretty one--to this effect: the legend in the middle ages, a couple of young dukes, brothers, took opposite sides in one of the wars, the one fighting for the emperor, the other against him. one of them owned the castle and village on top of the mound which i have been speaking of, and in his absence his brother came with his knights and soldiers and began a siege. it was a long and tedious business, for the people made a stubborn and faithful defense. but at last their supplies ran out and starvation began its work; more fell by hunger than by the missiles of the enemy. they by and by surrendered, and begged for charitable terms. but the beleaguering prince was so incensed against them for their long resistance that he said he would spare none but the women and children--all men should be put to the sword without exception, and all their goods destroyed. then the women came and fell on their knees and begged for the lives of their husbands. "no," said the prince, "not a man of them shall escape alive; you yourselves shall go with your children into houseless and friendless banishment; but that you may not starve i grant you this one grace, that each woman may bear with her from this place as much of her most valuable property as she is able to carry." very well, presently the gates swung open and out filed those women carrying their husbands on their shoulders. the besiegers, furious at the trick, rushed forward to slaughter the men, but the duke stepped between and said: "no, put up your swords--a prince's word is inviolable." when we got back to the hotel, king arthur's round table was ready for us in its white drapery, and the head waiter and his first assistant, in swallow-tails and white cravats, brought in the soup and the hot plates at once. mr. x had ordered the dinner, and when the wine came on, he picked up a bottle, glanced at the label, and then turned to the grave, the melancholy, the sepulchral head waiter and said it was not the sort of wine he had asked for. the head waiter picked up the bottle, cast his undertaker-eye on it and said: "it is true; i beg pardon." then he turned on his subordinate and calmly said, "bring another label." at the same time he slid the present label off with his hand and laid it aside; it had been newly put on, its paste was still wet. when the new label came, he put it on; our french wine being now turned into german wine, according to desire, the head waiter went blandly about his other duties, as if the working of this sort of miracle was a common and easy thing to him. mr. x said he had not known, before, that there were people honest enough to do this miracle in public, but he was aware that thousands upon thousands of labels were imported into america from europe every year, to enable dealers to furnish to their customers in a quiet and inexpensive way all the different kinds of foreign wines they might require. we took a turn around the town, after dinner, and found it fully as interesting in the moonlight as it had been in the daytime. the streets were narrow and roughly paved, and there was not a sidewalk or a street-lamp anywhere. the dwellings were centuries old, and vast enough for hotels. they widened all the way up; the stories projected further and further forward and aside as they ascended, and the long rows of lighted windows, filled with little bits of panes, curtained with figured white muslin and adorned outside with boxes of flowers, made a pretty effect. the moon was bright, and the light and shadow very strong; and nothing could be more picturesque than those curving streets, with their rows of huge high gables leaning far over toward each other in a friendly gossiping way, and the crowds below drifting through the alternating blots of gloom and mellow bars of moonlight. nearly everybody was abroad, chatting, singing, romping, or massed in lazy comfortable attitudes in the doorways. in one place there was a public building which was fenced about with a thick, rusty chain, which sagged from post to post in a succession of low swings. the pavement, here, was made of heavy blocks of stone. in the glare of the moon a party of barefooted children were swinging on those chains and having a noisy good time. they were not the first ones who have done that; even their great-great-grandfathers had not been the first to do it when they were children. the strokes of the bare feet had worn grooves inches deep in the stone flags; it had taken many generations of swinging children to accomplish that. everywhere in the town were the mold and decay that go with antiquity, and evidence of it; but i do not know that anything else gave us so vivid a sense of the old age of heilbronn as those footworn grooves in the paving-stones. chapter xiii [my long crawl in the dark] when we got back to the hotel i wound and set the pedometer and put it in my pocket, for i was to carry it next day and keep record of the miles we made. the work which we had given the instrument to do during the day which had just closed had not fatigued it perceptibly. we were in bed by ten, for we wanted to be up and away on our tramp homeward with the dawn. i hung fire, but harris went to sleep at once. i hate a man who goes to sleep at once; there is a sort of indefinable something about it which is not exactly an insult, and yet is an insolence; and one which is hard to bear, too. i lay there fretting over this injury, and trying to go to sleep; but the harder i tried, the wider awake i grew. i got to feeling very lonely in the dark, with no company but an undigested dinner. my mind got a start by and by, and began to consider the beginning of every subject which has ever been thought of; but it never went further than the beginning; it was touch and go; it fled from topic to topic with a frantic speed. at the end of an hour my head was in a perfect whirl and i was dead tired, fagged out. the fatigue was so great that it presently began to make some head against the nervous excitement; while imagining myself wide awake, i would really doze into momentary unconsciousness, and come suddenly out of it with a physical jerk which nearly wrenched my joints apart--the delusion of the instant being that i was tumbling backward over a precipice. after i had fallen over eight or nine precipices and thus found out that one half of my brain had been asleep eight or nine times without the wide-awake, hard-working other half suspecting it, the periodical unconsciousnesses began to extend their spell gradually over more of my brain-territory, and at last i sank into a drowse which grew deeper and deeper and was doubtless just on the very point of being a solid, blessed dreamless stupor, when--what was that? my dulled faculties dragged themselves partly back to life and took a receptive attitude. now out of an immense, a limitless distance, came a something which grew and grew, and approached, and presently was recognizable as a sound--it had rather seemed to be a feeling, before. this sound was a mile away, now--perhaps it was the murmur of a storm; and now it was nearer--not a quarter of a mile away; was it the muffled rasping and grinding of distant machinery? no, it came still nearer; was it the measured tramp of a marching troop? but it came nearer still, and still nearer--and at last it was right in the room: it was merely a mouse gnawing the woodwork. so i had held my breath all that time for such a trifle. well, what was done could not be helped; i would go to sleep at once and make up the lost time. that was a thoughtless thought. without intending it--hardly knowing it--i fell to listening intently to that sound, and even unconsciously counting the strokes of the mouse's nutmeg-grater. presently i was deriving exquisite suffering from this employment, yet maybe i could have endured it if the mouse had attended steadily to his work; but he did not do that; he stopped every now and then, and i suffered more while waiting and listening for him to begin again than i did while he was gnawing. along at first i was mentally offering a reward of five--six--seven--ten--dollars for that mouse; but toward the last i was offering rewards which were entirely beyond my means. i close-reefed my ears--that is to say, i bent the flaps of them down and furled them into five or six folds, and pressed them against the hearing-orifice--but it did no good: the faculty was so sharpened by nervous excitement that it was become a microphone and could hear through the overlays without trouble. my anger grew to a frenzy. i finally did what all persons before me have done, clear back to adam,--resolved to throw something. i reached down and got my walking-shoes, then sat up in bed and listened, in order to exactly locate the noise. but i couldn't do it; it was as unlocatable as a cricket's noise; and where one thinks that that is, is always the very place where it isn't. so i presently hurled a shoe at random, and with a vicious vigor. it struck the wall over harris's head and fell down on him; i had not imagined i could throw so far. it woke harris, and i was glad of it until i found he was not angry; then i was sorry. he soon went to sleep again, which pleased me; but straightway the mouse began again, which roused my temper once more. i did not want to wake harris a second time, but the gnawing continued until i was compelled to throw the other shoe. this time i broke a mirror--there were two in the room--i got the largest one, of course. harris woke again, but did not complain, and i was sorrier than ever. i resolved that i would suffer all possible torture before i would disturb him a third time. the mouse eventually retired, and by and by i was sinking to sleep, when a clock began to strike; i counted till it was done, and was about to drowse again when another clock began; i counted; then the two great rathhaus clock angels began to send forth soft, rich, melodious blasts from their long trumpets. i had never heard anything that was so lovely, or weird, or mysterious--but when they got to blowing the quarter-hours, they seemed to me to be overdoing the thing. every time i dropped off for the moment, a new noise woke me. each time i woke i missed my coverlet, and had to reach down to the floor and get it again. at last all sleepiness forsook me. i recognized the fact that i was hopelessly and permanently wide awake. wide awake, and feverish and thirsty. when i had lain tossing there as long as i could endure it, it occurred to me that it would be a good idea to dress and go out in the great square and take a refreshing wash in the fountain, and smoke and reflect there until the remnant of the night was gone. i believed i could dress in the dark without waking harris. i had banished my shoes after the mouse, but my slippers would do for a summer night. so i rose softly, and gradually got on everything--down to one sock. i couldn't seem to get on the track of that sock, any way i could fix it. but i had to have it; so i went down on my hands and knees, with one slipper on and the other in my hand, and began to paw gently around and rake the floor, but with no success. i enlarged my circle, and went on pawing and raking. with every pressure of my knee, how the floor creaked! and every time i chanced to rake against any article, it seemed to give out thirty-five or thirty-six times more noise than it would have done in the daytime. in those cases i always stopped and held my breath till i was sure harris had not awakened--then i crept along again. i moved on and on, but i could not find the sock; i could not seem to find anything but furniture. i could not remember that there was much furniture in the room when i went to bed, but the place was alive with it now --especially chairs--chairs everywhere--had a couple of families moved in, in the mean time? and i never could seem to glance on one of those chairs, but always struck it full and square with my head. my temper rose, by steady and sure degrees, and as i pawed on and on, i fell to making vicious comments under my breath. finally, with a venomous access of irritation, i said i would leave without the sock; so i rose up and made straight for the door--as i supposed--and suddenly confronted my dim spectral image in the unbroken mirror. it startled the breath out of me, for an instant; it also showed me that i was lost, and had no sort of idea where i was. when i realized this, i was so angry that i had to sit down on the floor and take hold of something to keep from lifting the roof off with an explosion of opinion. if there had been only one mirror, it might possibly have helped to locate me; but there were two, and two were as bad as a thousand; besides, these were on opposite sides of the room. i could see the dim blur of the windows, but in my turned-around condition they were exactly where they ought not to be, and so they only confused me instead of helping me. i started to get up, and knocked down an umbrella; it made a noise like a pistol-shot when it struck that hard, slick, carpetless floor; i grated my teeth and held my breath--harris did not stir. i set the umbrella slowly and carefully on end against the wall, but as soon as i took my hand away, its heel slipped from under it, and down it came again with another bang. i shrunk together and listened a moment in silent fury--no harm done, everything quiet. with the most painstaking care and nicety, i stood the umbrella up once more, took my hand away, and down it came again. i have been strictly reared, but if it had not been so dark and solemn and awful there in that lonely, vast room, i do believe i should have said something then which could not be put into a sunday-school book without injuring the sale of it. if my reasoning powers had not been already sapped dry by my harassments, i would have known better than to try to set an umbrella on end on one of those glassy german floors in the dark; it can't be done in the daytime without four failures to one success. i had one comfort, though--harris was yet still and silent--he had not stirred. the umbrella could not locate me--there were four standing around the room, and all alike. i thought i would feel along the wall and find the door in that way. i rose up and began this operation, but raked down a picture. it was not a large one, but it made noise enough for a panorama. harris gave out no sound, but i felt that if i experimented any further with the pictures i should be sure to wake him. better give up trying to get out. yes, i would find king arthur's round table once more--i had already found it several times--and use it for a base of departure on an exploring tour for my bed; if i could find my bed i could then find my water pitcher; i would quench my raging thirst and turn in. so i started on my hands and knees, because i could go faster that way, and with more confidence, too, and not knock down things. by and by i found the table--with my head--rubbed the bruise a little, then rose up and started, with hands abroad and fingers spread, to balance myself. i found a chair; then a wall; then another chair; then a sofa; then an alpenstock, then another sofa; this confounded me, for i had thought there was only one sofa. i hunted up the table again and took a fresh start; found some more chairs. it occurred to me, now, as it ought to have done before, that as the table was round, it was therefore of no value as a base to aim from; so i moved off once more, and at random among the wilderness of chairs and sofas--wandering off into unfamiliar regions, and presently knocked a candlestick and knocked off a lamp, grabbed at the lamp and knocked off a water pitcher with a rattling crash, and thought to myself, "i've found you at last--i judged i was close upon you." harris shouted "murder," and "thieves," and finished with "i'm absolutely drowned." the crash had roused the house. mr. x pranced in, in his long night-garment, with a candle, young z after him with another candle; a procession swept in at another door, with candles and lanterns--landlord and two german guests in their nightgowns and a chambermaid in hers. i looked around; i was at harris's bed, a sabbath-day's journey from my own. there was only one sofa; it was against the wall; there was only one chair where a body could get at it--i had been revolving around it like a planet, and colliding with it like a comet half the night. i explained how i had been employing myself, and why. then the landlord's party left, and the rest of us set about our preparations for breakfast, for the dawn was ready to break. i glanced furtively at my pedometer, and found i had made 47 miles. but i did not care, for i had come out for a pedestrian tour anyway. chapter xiv [rafting down the neckar] when the landlord learned that i and my agents were artists, our party rose perceptibly in his esteem; we rose still higher when he learned that we were making a pedestrian tour of europe. he told us all about the heidelberg road, and which were the best places to avoid and which the best ones to tarry at; he charged me less than cost for the things i broke in the night; he put up a fine luncheon for us and added to it a quantity of great light-green plums, the pleasantest fruit in germany; he was so anxious to do us honor that he would not allow us to walk out of heilbronn, but called up goetz von berlichingen's horse and cab and made us ride. i made a sketch of the turnout. it is not a work, it is only what artists call a "study"--a thing to make a finished picture from. this sketch has several blemishes in it; for instance, the wagon is not traveling as fast as the horse is. this is wrong. again, the person trying to get out of the way is too small; he is out of perspective, as we say. the two upper lines are not the horse's back, they are the reigns; there seems to be a wheel missing--this would be corrected in a finished work, of course. this thing flying out behind is not a flag, it is a curtain. that other thing up there is the sun, but i didn't get enough distance on it. i do not remember, now, what that thing is that is in front of the man who is running, but i think it is a haystack or a woman. this study was exhibited in the paris salon of 1879, but did not take any medal; they do not give medals for studies. we discharged the carriage at the bridge. the river was full of logs--long, slender, barkless pine logs--and we leaned on the rails of the bridge, and watched the men put them together into rafts. these rafts were of a shape and construction to suit the crookedness and extreme narrowness of the neckar. they were from fifty to one hundred yards long, and they gradually tapered from a nine-log breadth at their sterns, to a three-log breadth at their bow-ends. the main part of the steering is done at the bow, with a pole; the three-log breadth there furnishes room for only the steersman, for these little logs are not larger around than an average young lady's waist. the connections of the several sections of the raft are slack and pliant, so that the raft may be readily bent into any sort of curve required by the shape of the river. the neckar is in many places so narrow that a person can throw a dog across it, if he has one; when it is also sharply curved in such places, the raftsman has to do some pretty nice snug piloting to make the turns. the river is not always allowed to spread over its whole bed--which is as much as thirty, and sometimes forty yards wide--but is split into three equal bodies of water, by stone dikes which throw the main volume, depth, and current into the central one. in low water these neat narrow-edged dikes project four or five inches above the surface, like the comb of a submerged roof, but in high water they are overflowed. a hatful of rain makes high water in the neckar, and a basketful produces an overflow. there are dikes abreast the schloss hotel, and the current is violently swift at that point. i used to sit for hours in my glass cage, watching the long, narrow rafts slip along through the central channel, grazing the right-bank dike and aiming carefully for the middle arch of the stone bridge below; i watched them in this way, and lost all this time hoping to see one of them hit the bridge-pier and wreck itself sometime or other, but was always disappointed. one was smashed there one morning, but i had just stepped into my room a moment to light a pipe, so i lost it. while i was looking down upon the rafts that morning in heilbronn, the daredevil spirit of adventure came suddenly upon me, and i said to my comrades: "i am going to heidelberg on a raft. will you venture with me?" their faces paled a little, but they assented with as good a grace as they could. harris wanted to cable his mother--thought it his duty to do that, as he was all she had in this world--so, while he attended to this, i went down to the longest and finest raft and hailed the captain with a hearty "ahoy, shipmate!" which put us upon pleasant terms at once, and we entered upon business. i said we were on a pedestrian tour to heidelberg, and would like to take passage with him. i said this partly through young z, who spoke german very well, and partly through mr. x, who spoke it peculiarly. i can understand german as well as the maniac that invented it, but i talk it best through an interpreter. the captain hitched up his trousers, then shifted his quid thoughtfully. presently he said just what i was expecting he would say--that he had no license to carry passengers, and therefore was afraid the law would be after him in case the matter got noised about or any accident happened. so i chartered the raft and the crew and took all the responsibilities on myself. with a rattling song the starboard watch bent to their work and hove the cable short, then got the anchor home, and our bark moved off with a stately stride, and soon was bowling along at about two knots an hour. our party were grouped amidships. at first the talk was a little gloomy, and ran mainly upon the shortness of life, the uncertainty of it, the perils which beset it, and the need and wisdom of being always prepared for the worst; this shaded off into low-voiced references to the dangers of the deep, and kindred matters; but as the gray east began to redden and the mysterious solemnity and silence of the dawn to give place to the joy-songs of the birds, the talk took a cheerier tone, and our spirits began to rise steadily. germany, in the summer, is the perfection of the beautiful, but nobody has understood, and realized, and enjoyed the utmost possibilities of this soft and peaceful beauty unless he has voyaged down the neckar on a raft. the motion of a raft is the needful motion; it is gentle, and gliding, and smooth, and noiseless; it calms down all feverish activities, it soothes to sleep all nervous hurry and impatience; under its restful influence all the troubles and vexations and sorrows that harass the mind vanish away, and existence becomes a dream, a charm, a deep and tranquil ecstasy. how it contrasts with hot and perspiring pedestrianism, and dusty and deafening railroad rush, and tedious jolting behind tired horses over blinding white roads! we went slipping silently along, between the green and fragrant banks, with a sense of pleasure and contentment that grew, and grew, all the time. sometimes the banks were overhung with thick masses of willows that wholly hid the ground behind; sometimes we had noble hills on one hand, clothed densely with foliage to their tops, and on the other hand open levels blazing with poppies, or clothed in the rich blue of the corn-flower; sometimes we drifted in the shadow of forests, and sometimes along the margin of long stretches of velvety grass, fresh and green and bright, a tireless charm to the eye. and the birds!--they were everywhere; they swept back and forth across the river constantly, and their jubilant music was never stilled. it was a deep and satisfying pleasure to see the sun create the new morning, and gradually, patiently, lovingly, clothe it on with splendor after splendor, and glory after glory, till the miracle was complete. how different is this marvel observed from a raft, from what it is when one observes it through the dingy windows of a railway-station in some wretched village while he munches a petrified sandwich and waits for the train. a tramp abroad, part 3. by mark twain (samuel l. clemens) first published in 1880 illustrations taken from an 1880 first edition * * * * * * illustrations: 1.   portrait of the author 2.   titian's moses 3.   the author's memories 73.  a deep and tranquil ecstacy 74.  "which answered just as well" 75.  life on a raft 76.  lady gertrude 77.  mouth of the cavern 78.  a fatal mistake 79.  tail piece 80.  rafting on the neckar 81.  the lorelei 82.  the lover's fate 84.  the unknown knight 85.  the embrace 86.  perilous posttion 87.  the raft in a storm 88.  all safe on shore 89.  "it was the cat" 90.  tailpiece 91.  breakfast in the garden 162 92.  easily understood 93.  experimenting through harris 94.  at the ball room door 95.  the town of dilsberg 96.  our advance on dilsberg 97.  inside the town 95.  the old well 99.  send hither the lord ulrich 100.  lead me to her grave 102.  an excellent pilot, once 103.  scatteration 104.  the river bath 101.  etruscan tear jug 106.  henri ii. plate l07.  old blue china 108.  a real antique 109.  bric-a-brac shop 110.  "put it there" 111.  the parson captured 112.  tail piece 113.  a comprehensive yawn 114.  testing the coin 115.  beauty at the bath 116.  in the bath 117.  jersey indians 118.  not particularly sociable contents: chapter xv down the river--german women's duties--bathing as we went--a handsome picture: girls in the willows--we sight a tug--steamers on the neckar--dinner on board--legend "cave of the spectre "--lady gertrude the heiress--the crusader--the lady in the cave--a tragedy chapter xvi an ancient legend of the rhine--"the lorelei"--count hermann--falling in love--a sight of the enchantress--sad effect on count hermann--an evening visit--a sad mistake--count hermann drowned--the song and music--different trans lations--curiosities in titles chapter xvii another legend--the unconquered monster--the unknown knight --his queer shaped knapsack--the knight pitied and advised--he attacks the monster--victory for the fire extinguisher--the knight rewarded--his strange request----spectacles made popular--danger to the raft--blasting rocks--an inglorious death in view--escaped--a storm overtakes us--greatdanger--man overboard--breakers ahead--springing a leak--ashore safe--a general embracing--a tramp in the dark--the naturalist tavern--a night's troubles--"it is the cat" chapter xviii breakfast in a garden--the old raven--castle of hirschhorn--attempt to hire a boat--high dutch--what you can find out by enquiring--what i found out about the students--a good german custom--harris practices it--anembarrassing position--a nice party--at a ball--stopped at the door--assistance at hand and rendered--worthy to be an empress chapter xix arrive at neckarsteinach--castle of dilsberg--a walled town--on a hill--exclusiveness of the people--a queer old place--an ancient well--an outlet proved--legend of dilsberg castle--the haunted chamber--the betrothed's request--the knight's slumbers and awakening--horror of the lover--the wicked jest--the lover a maniac--under the linden--turning pilot--accident to the raft--fearful disaster chapter xx good news--"slow freight"--keramics--my collection of bric-abrac--my tear jug--henri ii. plate--specimen of blue china--indifference to the laugh of the world--i discover an antique en-route to baden--baden--meeting an old acquaintance--a young american--embryo horse doctor--an american, sure--a minister captured chapter xxi baden--baden--energetic girls--a comprehensive yawn--a beggar's trick--cool impudence--the bath woman--insolence of shop keepers--taking a bath--early and late hours--popular belief regarding indians--an old cemetery--a pious hag--curious table companions chapter xv [charming waterside pictures] men and women and cattle were at work in the dewy fields by this time. the people often stepped aboard the raft, as we glided along the grassy shores, and gossiped with us and with the crew for a hundred yards or so, then stepped ashore again, refreshed by the ride. only the men did this; the women were too busy. the women do all kinds of work on the continent. they dig, they hoe, they reap, they sow, they bear monstrous burdens on their backs, they shove similar ones long distances on wheelbarrows, they drag the cart when there is no dog or lean cow to drag it--and when there is, they assist the dog or cow. age is no matter--the older the woman the stronger she is, apparently. on the farm a woman's duties are not defined--she does a little of everything; but in the towns it is different, there she only does certain things, the men do the rest. for instance, a hotel chambermaid has nothing to do but make beds and fires in fifty or sixty rooms, bring towels and candles, and fetch several tons of water up several flights of stairs, a hundred pounds at a time, in prodigious metal pitchers. she does not have to work more than eighteen or twenty hours a day, and she can always get down on her knees and scrub the floors of halls and closets when she is tired and needs a rest. as the morning advanced and the weather grew hot, we took off our outside clothing and sat in a row along the edge of the raft and enjoyed the scenery, with our sun-umbrellas over our heads and our legs dangling in the water. every now and then we plunged in and had a swim. every projecting grassy cape had its joyous group of naked children, the boys to themselves and the girls to themselves, the latter usually in care of some motherly dame who sat in the shade of a tree with her knitting. the little boys swam out to us, sometimes, but the little maids stood knee-deep in the water and stopped their splashing and frolicking to inspect the raft with their innocent eyes as it drifted by. once we turned a corner suddenly and surprised a slender girl of twelve years or upward, just stepping into the water. she had not time to run, but she did what answered just as well; she promptly drew a lithe young willow bough athwart her white body with one hand, and then contemplated us with a simple and untroubled interest. thus she stood while we glided by. she was a pretty creature, and she and her willow bough made a very pretty picture, and one which could not offend the modesty of the most fastidious spectator. her white skin had a low bank of fresh green willows for background and effective contrast--for she stood against them--and above and out of them projected the eager faces and white shoulders of two smaller girls. toward noon we heard the inspiriting cry,-"sail ho!" "where away?" shouted the captain. "three points off the weather bow!" we ran forward to see the vessel. it proved to be a steamboat--for they had begun to run a steamer up the neckar, for the first time in may. she was a tug, and one of a very peculiar build and aspect. i had often watched her from the hotel, and wondered how she propelled herself, for apparently she had no propeller or paddles. she came churning along, now, making a deal of noise of one kind or another, and aggravating it every now and then by blowing a hoarse whistle. she had nine keel-boats hitched on behind and following after her in a long, slender rank. we met her in a narrow place, between dikes, and there was hardly room for us both in the cramped passage. as she went grinding and groaning by, we perceived the secret of her moving impulse. she did not drive herself up the river with paddles or propeller, she pulled herself by hauling on a great chain. this chain is laid in the bed of the river and is only fastened at the two ends. it is seventy miles long. it comes in over the boat's bow, passes around a drum, and is payed out astern. she pulls on that chain, and so drags herself up the river or down it. she has neither bow or stern, strictly speaking, for she has a long-bladed rudder on each end and she never turns around. she uses both rudders all the time, and they are powerful enough to enable her to turn to the right or the left and steer around curves, in spite of the strong resistance of the chain. i would not have believed that that impossible thing could be done; but i saw it done, and therefore i know that there is one impossible thing which can be done. what miracle will man attempt next? we met many big keel-boats on their way up, using sails, mule power, and profanity--a tedious and laborious business. a wire rope led from the foretopmast to the file of mules on the tow-path a hundred yards ahead, and by dint of much banging and swearing and urging, the detachment of drivers managed to get a speed of two or three miles an hour out of the mules against the stiff current. the neckar has always been used as a canal, and thus has given employment to a great many men and animals; but now that this steamboat is able, with a small crew and a bushel or so of coal, to take nine keel-boats farther up the river in one hour than thirty men and thirty mules can do it in two, it is believed that the old-fashioned towing industry is on its death-bed. a second steamboat began work in the neckar three months after the first one was put in service. [figure 4] at noon we stepped ashore and bought some bottled beer and got some chickens cooked, while the raft waited; then we immediately put to sea again, and had our dinner while the beer was cold and the chickens hot. there is no pleasanter place for such a meal than a raft that is gliding down the winding neckar past green meadows and wooded hills, and slumbering villages, and craggy heights graced with crumbling towers and battlements. in one place we saw a nicely dressed german gentleman without any spectacles. before i could come to anchor he had got underway. it was a great pity. i so wanted to make a sketch of him. the captain comforted me for my loss, however, by saying that the man was without any doubt a fraud who had spectacles, but kept them in his pocket in order to make himself conspicuous. below hassmersheim we passed hornberg, goetz von berlichingen's old castle. it stands on a bold elevation two hundred feet above the surface of the river; it has high vine-clad walls enclosing trees, and a peaked tower about seventy-five feet high. the steep hillside, from the castle clear down to the water's edge, is terraced, and clothed thick with grape vines. this is like farming a mansard roof. all the steeps along that part of the river which furnish the proper exposure, are given up to the grape. that region is a great producer of rhine wines. the germans are exceedingly fond of rhine wines; they are put up in tall, slender bottles, and are considered a pleasant beverage. one tells them from vinegar by the label. the hornberg hill is to be tunneled, and the new railway will pass under the castle. the cave of the specter two miles below hornberg castle is a cave in a low cliff, which the captain of the raft said had once been occupied by a beautiful heiress of hornberg--the lady gertrude--in the old times. it was seven hundred years ago. she had a number of rich and noble lovers and one poor and obscure one, sir wendel lobenfeld. with the native chuckleheadedness of the heroine of romance, she preferred the poor and obscure lover. with the native sound judgment of the father of a heroine of romance, the von berlichingen of that day shut his daughter up in his donjon keep, or his oubliette, or his culverin, or some such place, and resolved that she should stay there until she selected a husband from among her rich and noble lovers. the latter visited her and persecuted her with their supplications, but without effect, for her heart was true to her poor despised crusader, who was fighting in the holy land. finally, she resolved that she would endure the attentions of the rich lovers no longer; so one stormy night she escaped and went down the river and hid herself in the cave on the other side. her father ransacked the country for her, but found not a trace of her. as the days went by, and still no tidings of her came, his conscience began to torture him, and he caused proclamation to be made that if she were yet living and would return, he would oppose her no longer, she might marry whom she would. the months dragged on, all hope forsook the old man, he ceased from his customary pursuits and pleasures, he devoted himself to pious works, and longed for the deliverance of death. now just at midnight, every night, the lost heiress stood in the mouth of her cave, arrayed in white robes, and sang a little love ballad which her crusader had made for her. she judged that if he came home alive the superstitious peasants would tell him about the ghost that sang in the cave, and that as soon as they described the ballad he would know that none but he and she knew that song, therefore he would suspect that she was alive, and would come and find her. as time went on, the people of the region became sorely distressed about the specter of the haunted cave. it was said that ill luck of one kind or another always overtook any one who had the misfortune to hear that song. eventually, every calamity that happened thereabouts was laid at the door of that music. consequently, no boatmen would consent to pass the cave at night; the peasants shunned the place, even in the daytime. but the faithful girl sang on, night after night, month after month, and patiently waited; her reward must come at last. five years dragged by, and still, every night at midnight, the plaintive tones floated out over the silent land, while the distant boatmen and peasants thrust their fingers into their ears and shuddered out a prayer. and now came the crusader home, bronzed and battle-scarred, but bringing a great and splendid fame to lay at the feet of his bride. the old lord of hornberg received him as his son, and wanted him to stay by him and be the comfort and blessing of his age; but the tale of that young girl's devotion to him and its pathetic consequences made a changed man of the knight. he could not enjoy his well-earned rest. he said his heart was broken, he would give the remnant of his life to high deeds in the cause of humanity, and so find a worthy death and a blessed reunion with the brave true heart whose love had more honored him than all his victories in war. when the people heard this resolve of his, they came and told him there was a pitiless dragon in human disguise in the haunted cave, a dread creature which no knight had yet been bold enough to face, and begged him to rid the land of its desolating presence. he said he would do it. they told him about the song, and when he asked what song it was, they said the memory of it was gone, for nobody had been hardy enough to listen to it for the past four years and more. toward midnight the crusader came floating down the river in a boat, with his trusty cross-bow in his hands. he drifted silently through the dim reflections of the crags and trees, with his intent eyes fixed upon the low cliff which he was approaching. as he drew nearer, he discerned the black mouth of the cave. now--is that a white figure? yes. the plaintive song begins to well forth and float away over meadow and river--the cross-bow is slowly raised to position, a steady aim is taken, the bolt flies straight to the mark--the figure sinks down, still singing, the knight takes the wool out of his ears, and recognizes the old ballad--too late! ah, if he had only not put the wool in his ears! the crusader went away to the wars again, and presently fell in battle, fighting for the cross. tradition says that during several centuries the spirit of the unfortunate girl sang nightly from the cave at midnight, but the music carried no curse with it; and although many listened for the mysterious sounds, few were favored, since only those could hear them who had never failed in a trust. it is believed that the singing still continues, but it is known that nobody has heard it during the present century. chapter xvi an ancient legend of the rhine [the lorelei] the last legend reminds one of the "lorelei"--a legend of the rhine. there is a song called "the lorelei." germany is rich in folk-songs, and the words and airs of several of them are peculiarly beautiful--but "the lorelei" is the people's favorite. i could not endure it at first, but by and by it began to take hold of me, and now there is no tune which i like so well. it is not possible that it is much known in america, else i should have heard it there. the fact that i never heard it there, is evidence that there are others in my country who have fared likewise; therefore, for the sake of these, i mean to print the words and music in this chapter. and i will refresh the reader's memory by printing the legend of the lorelei, too. i have it by me in the legends of the rhine, done into english by the wildly gifted garnham, bachelor of arts. i print the legend partly to refresh my own memory, too, for i have never read it before. the legend lore (two syllables) was a water nymph who used to sit on a high rock called the ley or lei (pronounced like our word lie) in the rhine, and lure boatmen to destruction in a furious rapid which marred the channel at that spot. she so bewitched them with her plaintive songs and her wonderful beauty that they forgot everything else to gaze up at her, and so they presently drifted among the broken reefs and were lost. in those old, old times, the count bruno lived in a great castle near there with his son, the count hermann, a youth of twenty. hermann had heard a great deal about the beautiful lore, and had finally fallen very deeply in love with her without having seen her. so he used to wander to the neighborhood of the lei, evenings, with his zither and "express his longing in low singing," as garnham says. on one of these occasions, "suddenly there hovered around the top of the rock a brightness of unequaled clearness and color, which, in increasingly smaller circles thickened, was the enchanting figure of the beautiful lore. "an unintentional cry of joy escaped the youth, he let his zither fall, and with extended arms he called out the name of the enigmatical being, who seemed to stoop lovingly to him and beckon to him in a friendly manner; indeed, if his ear did not deceive him, she called his name with unutterable sweet whispers, proper to love. beside himself with delight the youth lost his senses and sank senseless to the earth." after that he was a changed person. he went dreaming about, thinking only of his fairy and caring for naught else in the world. "the old count saw with affliction this changement in his son," whose cause he could not divine, and tried to divert his mind into cheerful channels, but to no purpose. then the old count used authority. he commanded the youth to betake himself to the camp. obedience was promised. garnham says: "it was on the evening before his departure, as he wished still once to visit the lei and offer to the nymph of the rhine his sighs, the tones of his zither, and his songs. he went, in his boat, this time accompanied by a faithful squire, down the stream. the moon shed her silvery light over the whole country; the steep bank mountains appeared in the most fantastical shapes, and the high oaks on either side bowed their branches on hermann's passing. as soon as he approached the lei, and was aware of the surf-waves, his attendant was seized with an inexpressible anxiety and he begged permission to land; but the knight swept the strings of his guitar and sang: "once i saw thee in dark night, in supernatural beauty bright; of light-rays, was the figure wove, to share its light, locked-hair strove. "thy garment color wave-dove by thy hand the sign of love, thy eyes sweet enchantment, raying to me, oh! enchantment. "o, wert thou but my sweetheart, how willingly thy love to part! with delight i should be bound to thy rocky house in deep ground." that hermann should have gone to that place at all, was not wise; that he should have gone with such a song as that in his mouth was a most serious mistake. the lorelei did not "call his name in unutterable sweet whispers" this time. no, that song naturally worked an instant and thorough "changement" in her; and not only that, but it stirred the bowels of the whole afflicted region around about there--for-"scarcely had these tones sounded, everywhere there began tumult and sound, as if voices above and below the water. on the lei rose flames, the fairy stood above, at that time, and beckoned with her right hand clearly and urgently to the infatuated knight, while with a staff in her left hand she called the waves to her service. they began to mount heavenward; the boat was upset, mocking every exertion; the waves rose to the gunwale, and splitting on the hard stones, the boat broke into pieces. the youth sank into the depths, but the squire was thrown on shore by a powerful wave." the bitterest things have been said about the lorelei during many centuries, but surely her conduct upon this occasion entitles her to our respect. one feels drawn tenderly toward her and is moved to forget her many crimes and remember only the good deed that crowned and closed her career. "the fairy was never more seen; but her enchanting tones have often been heard. in the beautiful, refreshing, still nights of spring, when the moon pours her silver light over the country, the listening shipper hears from the rushing of the waves, the echoing clang of a wonderfully charming voice, which sings a song from the crystal castle, and with sorrow and fear he thinks on the young count hermann, seduced by the nymph." here is the music, and the german words by heinrich heine. this song has been a favorite in germany for forty years, and will remain a favorite always, maybe. [figure 5] i have a prejudice against people who print things in a foreign language and add no translation. when i am the reader, and the author considers me able to do the translating myself, he pays me quite a nice compliment--but if he would do the translating for me i would try to get along without the compliment. if i were at home, no doubt i could get a translation of this poem, but i am abroad and can't; therefore i will make a translation myself. it may not be a good one, for poetry is out of my line, but it will serve my purpose--which is, to give the ungerman young girl a jingle of words to hang the tune on until she can get hold of a good version, made by some one who is a poet and knows how to convey a poetical thought from one language to another. the lorelei i cannot divine what it meaneth, this haunting nameless pain: a tale of the bygone ages keeps brooding through my brain: the faint air cools in the glooming, and peaceful flows the rhine, the thirsty summits are drinking the sunset's flooding wine; the loveliest maiden is sitting high-throned in yon blue air, her golden jewels are shining, she combs her golden hair; she combs with a comb that is golden, and sings a weird refrain that steeps in a deadly enchantment the list'ner's ravished brain: the doomed in his drifting shallop, is tranced with the sad sweet tone, he sees not the yawning breakers, he sees but the maid alone: the pitiless billows engulf him!- so perish sailor and bark; and this, with her baleful singing, is the lorelei's gruesome work. i have a translation by garnham, bachelor of arts, in the legends of the rhine, but it would not answer the purpose i mentioned above, because the measure is too nobly irregular; it don't fit the tune snugly enough; in places it hangs over at the ends too far, and in other places one runs out of words before he gets to the end of a bar. still, garnham's translation has high merits, and i am not dreaming of leaving it out of my book. i believe this poet is wholly unknown in america and england; i take peculiar pleasure in bringing him forward because i consider that i discovered him: the lorelei translated by l. w. garnham, b.a. i do not know what it signifies. that i am so sorrowful? a fable of old times so terrifies, leaves my heart so thoughtful. the air is cool and it darkens, and calmly flows the rhine; the summit of the mountain hearkens in evening sunshine line. the most beautiful maiden entrances above wonderfully there, her beautiful golden attire glances, she combs her golden hair. with golden comb so lustrous, and thereby a song sings, it has a tone so wondrous, that powerful melody rings. the shipper in the little ship it effects with woe sad might; he does not see the rocky slip, he only regards dreaded height. i believe the turbulent waves swallow the last shipper and boat; she with her singing craves all to visit hermagic moat. no translation could be closer. he has got in all the facts; and in their regular order, too. there is not a statistic wanting. it is as succinct as an invoice. that is what a translation ought to be; it should exactly reflect the thought of the original. you can't sing "above wonderfully there," because it simply won't go to the tune, without damaging the singer; but it is a most clingingly exact translation of dort oben wunderbar--fits it like a blister. mr. garnham's reproduction has other merits--a hundred of them--but it is not necessary to point them out. they will be detected. no one with a specialty can hope to have a monopoly of it. even garnham has a rival. mr. x had a small pamphlet with him which he had bought while on a visit to munich. it was entitled a catalogue of pictures in the old pinacotek, and was written in a peculiar kind of english. here are a few extracts: "it is not permitted to make use of the work in question to a publication of the same contents as well as to the pirated edition of it." "an evening landscape. in the foreground near a pond and a group of white beeches is leading a footpath animated by travelers." "a learned man in a cynical and torn dress holding an open book in his hand." "st. bartholomew and the executioner with the knife to fulfil the martyr." "portrait of a young man. a long while this picture was thought to be bindi altoviti's portrait; now somebody will again have it to be the self-portrait of raphael." "susan bathing, surprised by the two old man. in the background the lapidation of the condemned." ("lapidation" is good; it is much more elegant than "stoning.") "st. rochus sitting in a landscape with an angel who looks at his plague-sore, whilst the dog the bread in his mouth attents him." "spring. the goddess flora, sitting. behind her a fertile valley perfused by a river." "a beautiful bouquet animated by may-bugs, etc." "a warrior in armor with a gypseous pipe in his hand leans against a table and blows the smoke far away of himself." "a dutch landscape along a navigable river which perfuses it till to the background." "some peasants singing in a cottage. a woman lets drink a child out of a cup." "st. john's head as a boy--painted in fresco on a brick." (meaning a tile.) "a young man of the riccio family, his hair cut off right at the end, dressed in black with the same cap. attributed to raphael, but the signation is false." "the virgin holding the infant. it is very painted in the manner of sassoferrato." "a larder with greens and dead game animated by a cook-maid and two kitchen-boys." however, the english of this catalogue is at least as happy as that which distinguishes an inscription upon a certain picture in rome--to wit: "revelations-view. st. john in patterson's island." but meanwhile the raft is moving on. chapter xvii [why germans wear spectacles] a mile or two above eberbach we saw a peculiar ruin projecting above the foliage which clothed the peak of a high and very steep hill. this ruin consisted of merely a couple of crumbling masses of masonry which bore a rude resemblance to human faces; they leaned forward and touched foreheads, and had the look of being absorbed in conversation. this ruin had nothing very imposing or picturesque about it, and there was no great deal of it, yet it was called the "spectacular ruin." legend of the "spectacular ruin" the captain of the raft, who was as full of history as he could stick, said that in the middle ages a most prodigious fire-breathing dragon used to live in that region, and made more trouble than a tax-collector. he was as long as a railway-train, and had the customary impenetrable green scales all over him. his breath bred pestilence and conflagration, and his appetite bred famine. he ate men and cattle impartially, and was exceedingly unpopular. the german emperor of that day made the usual offer: he would grant to the destroyer of the dragon, any one solitary thing he might ask for; for he had a surplusage of daughters, and it was customary for dragon-killers to take a daughter for pay. so the most renowned knights came from the four corners of the earth and retired down the dragon's throat one after the other. a panic arose and spread. heroes grew cautious. the procession ceased. the dragon became more destructive than ever. the people lost all hope of succor, and fled to the mountains for refuge. at last sir wissenschaft, a poor and obscure knight, out of a far country, arrived to do battle with the monster. a pitiable object he was, with his armor hanging in rags about him, and his strange-shaped knapsack strapped upon his back. everybody turned up their noses at him, and some openly jeered him. but he was calm. he simply inquired if the emperor's offer was still in force. the emperor said it was--but charitably advised him to go and hunt hares and not endanger so precious a life as his in an attempt which had brought death to so many of the world's most illustrious heroes. but this tramp only asked--"were any of these heroes men of science?" this raised a laugh, of course, for science was despised in those days. but the tramp was not in the least ruffled. he said he might be a little in advance of his age, but no matter--science would come to be honored, some time or other. he said he would march against the dragon in the morning. out of compassion, then, a decent spear was offered him, but he declined, and said, "spears were useless to men of science." they allowed him to sup in the servants' hall, and gave him a bed in the stables. when he started forth in the morning, thousands were gathered to see. the emperor said: "do not be rash, take a spear, and leave off your knapsack." but the tramp said: "it is not a knapsack," and moved straight on. the dragon was waiting and ready. he was breathing forth vast volumes of sulphurous smoke and lurid blasts of flame. the ragged knight stole warily to a good position, then he unslung his cylindrical knapsack--which was simply the common fire-extinguisher known to modern times--and the first chance he got he turned on his hose and shot the dragon square in the center of his cavernous mouth. out went the fires in an instant, and the dragon curled up and died. this man had brought brains to his aid. he had reared dragons from the egg, in his laboratory, he had watched over them like a mother, and patiently studied them and experimented upon them while they grew. thus he had found out that fire was the life principle of a dragon; put out the dragon's fires and it could make steam no longer, and must die. he could not put out a fire with a spear, therefore he invented the extinguisher. the dragon being dead, the emperor fell on the hero's neck and said: "deliverer, name your request," at the same time beckoning out behind with his heel for a detachment of his daughters to form and advance. but the tramp gave them no observance. he simply said: "my request is, that upon me be conferred the monopoly of the manufacture and sale of spectacles in germany." the emperor sprang aside and exclaimed: "this transcends all the impudence i ever heard! a modest demand, by my halidome! why didn't you ask for the imperial revenues at once, and be done with it?" but the monarch had given his word, and he kept it. to everybody's surprise, the unselfish monopolist immediately reduced the price of spectacles to such a degree that a great and crushing burden was removed from the nation. the emperor, to commemorate this generous act, and to testify his appreciation of it, issued a decree commanding everybody to buy this benefactor's spectacles and wear them, whether they needed them or not. so originated the wide-spread custom of wearing spectacles in germany; and as a custom once established in these old lands is imperishable, this one remains universal in the empire to this day. such is the legend of the monopolist's once stately and sumptuous castle, now called the "spectacular ruin." on the right bank, two or three miles below the spectacular ruin, we passed by a noble pile of castellated buildings overlooking the water from the crest of a lofty elevation. a stretch of two hundred yards of the high front wall was heavily draped with ivy, and out of the mass of buildings within rose three picturesque old towers. the place was in fine order, and was inhabited by a family of princely rank. this castle had its legend, too, but i should not feel justified in repeating it because i doubted the truth of some of its minor details. along in this region a multitude of italian laborers were blasting away the frontage of the hills to make room for the new railway. they were fifty or a hundred feet above the river. as we turned a sharp corner they began to wave signals and shout warnings to us to look out for the explosions. it was all very well to warn us, but what could we do? you can't back a raft upstream, you can't hurry it downstream, you can't scatter out to one side when you haven't any room to speak of, you won't take to the perpendicular cliffs on the other shore when they appear to be blasting there, too. your resources are limited, you see. there is simply nothing for it but to watch and pray. for some hours we had been making three and a half or four miles an hour and we were still making that. we had been dancing right along until those men began to shout; then for the next ten minutes it seemed to me that i had never seen a raft go so slowly. when the first blast went off we raised our sun-umbrellas and waited for the result. no harm done; none of the stones fell in the water. another blast followed, and another and another. some of the rubbish fell in the water just astern of us. we ran that whole battery of nine blasts in a row, and it was certainly one of the most exciting and uncomfortable weeks i ever spent, either aship or ashore. of course we frequently manned the poles and shoved earnestly for a second or so, but every time one of those spurts of dust and debris shot aloft every man dropped his pole and looked up to get the bearings of his share of it. it was very busy times along there for a while. it appeared certain that we must perish, but even that was not the bitterest thought; no, the abjectly unheroic nature of the death--that was the sting--that and the bizarre wording of the resulting obituary: "shot with a rock, on a raft." there would be no poetry written about it. none could be written about it. example: not by war's shock, or war's shaft,--shot, with a rock, on a raft. no poet who valued his reputation would touch such a theme as that. i should be distinguished as the only "distinguished dead" who went down to the grave unsonneted, in 1878. but we escaped, and i have never regretted it. the last blast was a peculiarly strong one, and after the small rubbish was done raining around us and we were just going to shake hands over our deliverance, a later and larger stone came down amongst our little group of pedestrians and wrecked an umbrella. it did no other harm, but we took to the water just the same. it seems that the heavy work in the quarries and the new railway gradings is done mainly by italians. that was a revelation. we have the notion in our country that italians never do heavy work at all, but confine themselves to the lighter arts, like organ-grinding, operatic singing, and assassination. we have blundered, that is plain. all along the river, near every village, we saw little station-houses for the future railway. they were finished and waiting for the rails and business. they were as trim and snug and pretty as they could be. they were always of brick or stone; they were of graceful shape, they had vines and flowers about them already, and around them the grass was bright and green, and showed that it was carefully looked after. they were a decoration to the beautiful landscape, not an offense. wherever one saw a pile of gravel or a pile of broken stone, it was always heaped as trimly and exactly as a new grave or a stack of cannon-balls; nothing about those stations or along the railroad or the wagon-road was allowed to look shabby or be unornamental. the keeping a country in such beautiful order as germany exhibits, has a wise practical side to it, too, for it keeps thousands of people in work and bread who would otherwise be idle and mischievous. as the night shut down, the captain wanted to tie up, but i thought maybe we might make hirschhorn, so we went on. presently the sky became overcast, and the captain came aft looking uneasy. he cast his eye aloft, then shook his head, and said it was coming on to blow. my party wanted to land at once--therefore i wanted to go on. the captain said we ought to shorten sail anyway, out of common prudence. consequently, the larboard watch was ordered to lay in his pole. it grew quite dark, now, and the wind began to rise. it wailed through the swaying branches of the trees, and swept our decks in fitful gusts. things were taking on an ugly look. the captain shouted to the steersman on the forward log: "how's she landing?" the answer came faint and hoarse from far forward: "nor'-east-and-by-nor'--east-by-east, half-east, sir." "let her go off a point!" "aye-aye, sir!" "what water have you got?" "shoal, sir. two foot large, on the stabboard, two and a half scant on the labboard!" "let her go off another point!" "aye-aye, sir!" "forward, men, all of you! lively, now! stand by to crowd her round the weather corner!" "aye-aye, sir!" then followed a wild running and trampling and hoarse shouting, but the forms of the men were lost in the darkness and the sounds were distorted and confused by the roaring of the wind through the shingle-bundles. by this time the sea was running inches high, and threatening every moment to engulf the frail bark. now came the mate, hurrying aft, and said, close to the captain's ear, in a low, agitated voice: "prepare for the worst, sir--we have sprung a leak!" "heavens! where?" "right aft the second row of logs." "nothing but a miracle can save us! don't let the men know, or there will be a panic and mutiny! lay her in shore and stand by to jump with the stern-line the moment she touches. gentlemen, i must look to you to second my endeavors in this hour of peril. you have hats--go forward and bail for your lives!" down swept another mighty blast of wind, clothed in spray and thick darkness. at such a moment as this, came from away forward that most appalling of all cries that are ever heard at sea: "man overboard!" the captain shouted: "hard a-port! never mind the man! let him climb aboard or wade ashore!" another cry came down the wind: "breakers ahead!" "where away?" "not a log's length off her port fore-foot!" we had groped our slippery way forward, and were now bailing with the frenzy of despair, when we heard the mate's terrified cry, from far aft: "stop that dashed bailing, or we shall be aground!" but this was immediately followed by the glad shout: "land aboard the starboard transom!" "saved!" cried the captain. "jump ashore and take a turn around a tree and pass the bight aboard!" the next moment we were all on shore weeping and embracing for joy, while the rain poured down in torrents. the captain said he had been a mariner for forty years on the neckar, and in that time had seen storms to make a man's cheek blanch and his pulses stop, but he had never, never seen a storm that even approached this one. how familiar that sounded! for i have been at sea a good deal and have heard that remark from captains with a frequency accordingly. we framed in our minds the usual resolution of thanks and admiration and gratitude, and took the first opportunity to vote it, and put it in writing and present it to the captain, with the customary speech. we tramped through the darkness and the drenching summer rain full three miles, and reached "the naturalist tavern" in the village of hirschhorn just an hour before midnight, almost exhausted from hardship, fatigue, and terror. i can never forget that night. the landlord was rich, and therefore could afford to be crusty and disobliging; he did not at all like being turned out of his warm bed to open his house for us. but no matter, his household got up and cooked a quick supper for us, and we brewed a hot punch for ourselves, to keep off consumption. after supper and punch we had an hour's soothing smoke while we fought the naval battle over again and voted the resolutions; then we retired to exceedingly neat and pretty chambers upstairs that had clean, comfortable beds in them with heirloom pillowcases most elaborately and tastefully embroidered by hand. such rooms and beds and embroidered linen are as frequent in german village inns as they are rare in ours. our villages are superior to german villages in more merits, excellences, conveniences, and privileges than i can enumerate, but the hotels do not belong in the list. "the naturalist tavern" was not a meaningless name; for all the halls and all the rooms were lined with large glass cases which were filled with all sorts of birds and animals, glass-eyed, ably stuffed, and set up in the most natural eloquent and dramatic attitudes. the moment we were abed, the rain cleared away and the moon came out. i dozed off to sleep while contemplating a great white stuffed owl which was looking intently down on me from a high perch with the air of a person who thought he had met me before, but could not make out for certain. but young z did not get off so easily. he said that as he was sinking deliciously to sleep, the moon lifted away the shadows and developed a huge cat, on a bracket, dead and stuffed, but crouching, with every muscle tense, for a spring, and with its glittering glass eyes aimed straight at him. it made z uncomfortable. he tried closing his own eyes, but that did not answer, for a natural instinct kept making him open them again to see if the cat was still getting ready to launch at him--which she always was. he tried turning his back, but that was a failure; he knew the sinister eyes were on him still. so at last he had to get up, after an hour or two of worry and experiment, and set the cat out in the hall. so he won, that time. chapter xviii [the kindly courtesy of germans] in the morning we took breakfast in the garden, under the trees, in the delightful german summer fashion. the air was filled with the fragrance of flowers and wild animals; the living portion of the menagerie of the "naturalist tavern" was all about us. there were great cages populous with fluttering and chattering foreign birds, and other great cages and greater wire pens, populous with quadrupeds, both native and foreign. there were some free creatures, too, and quite sociable ones they were. white rabbits went loping about the place, and occasionally came and sniffed at our shoes and shins; a fawn, with a red ribbon on its neck, walked up and examined us fearlessly; rare breeds of chickens and doves begged for crumbs, and a poor old tailless raven hopped about with a humble, shamefaced mein which said, "please do not notice my exposure--think how you would feel in my circumstances, and be charitable." if he was observed too much, he would retire behind something and stay there until he judged the party's interest had found another object. i never have seen another dumb creature that was so morbidly sensitive. bayard taylor, who could interpret the dim reasonings of animals, and understood their moral natures better than most men, would have found some way to make this poor old chap forget his troubles for a while, but we have not his kindly art, and so had to leave the raven to his griefs. after breakfast we climbed the hill and visited the ancient castle of hirschhorn, and the ruined church near it. there were some curious old bas-reliefs leaning against the inner walls of the church--sculptured lords of hirschhorn in complete armor, and ladies of hirschhorn in the picturesque court costumes of the middle ages. these things are suffering damage and passing to decay, for the last hirschhorn has been dead two hundred years, and there is nobody now who cares to preserve the family relics. in the chancel was a twisted stone column, and the captain told us a legend about it, of course, for in the matter of legends he could not seem to restrain himself; but i do not repeat his tale because there was nothing plausible about it except that the hero wrenched this column into its present screw-shape with his hands --just one single wrench. all the rest of the legend was doubtful. but hirschhorn is best seen from a distance, down the river. then the clustered brown towers perched on the green hilltop, and the old battlemented stone wall, stretching up and over the grassy ridge and disappearing in the leafy sea beyond, make a picture whose grace and beauty entirely satisfy the eye. we descended from the church by steep stone stairways which curved this way and that down narrow alleys between the packed and dirty tenements of the village. it was a quarter well stocked with deformed, leering, unkempt and uncombed idiots, who held out hands or caps and begged piteously. the people of the quarter were not all idiots, of course, but all that begged seemed to be, and were said to be. i was thinking of going by skiff to the next town, necharsteinach; so i ran to the riverside in advance of the party and asked a man there if he had a boat to hire. i suppose i must have spoken high german--court german--i intended it for that, anyway--so he did not understand me. i turned and twisted my question around and about, trying to strike that man's average, but failed. he could not make out what i wanted. now mr. x arrived, faced this same man, looked him in the eye, and emptied this sentence on him, in the most glib and confident way: "can man boat get here?" the mariner promptly understood and promptly answered. i can comprehend why he was able to understand that particular sentence, because by mere accident all the words in it except "get" have the same sound and the same meaning in german that they have in english; but how he managed to understand mr. x's next remark puzzled me. i will insert it, presently. x turned away a moment, and i asked the mariner if he could not find a board, and so construct an additional seat. i spoke in the purest german, but i might as well have spoken in the purest choctaw for all the good it did. the man tried his best to understand me; he tried, and kept on trying, harder and harder, until i saw it was really of no use, and said: "there, don't strain yourself--it is of no consequence." then x turned to him and crisply said: "machen sie a flat board." i wish my epitaph may tell the truth about me if the man did not answer up at once, and say he would go and borrow a board as soon as he had lit the pipe which he was filling. we changed our mind about taking a boat, so we did not have to go. i have given mr. x's two remarks just as he made them. four of the five words in the first one were english, and that they were also german was only accidental, not intentional; three out of the five words in the second remark were english, and english only, and the two german ones did not mean anything in particular, in such a connection. x always spoke english to germans, but his plan was to turn the sentence wrong end first and upside down, according to german construction, and sprinkle in a german word without any essential meaning to it, here and there, by way of flavor. yet he always made himself understood. he could make those dialect-speaking raftsmen understand him, sometimes, when even young z had failed with them; and young z was a pretty good german scholar. for one thing, x always spoke with such confidence--perhaps that helped. and possibly the raftsmen's dialect was what is called platt-deutsch, and so they found his english more familiar to their ears than another man's german. quite indifferent students of german can read fritz reuter's charming platt-deutch tales with some little facility because many of the words are english. i suppose this is the tongue which our saxon ancestors carried to england with them. by and by i will inquire of some other philologist. however, in the mean time it had transpired that the men employed to calk the raft had found that the leak was not a leak at all, but only a crack between the logs--a crack that belonged there, and was not dangerous, but had been magnified into a leak by the disordered imagination of the mate. therefore we went aboard again with a good degree of confidence, and presently got to sea without accident. as we swam smoothly along between the enchanting shores, we fell to swapping notes about manners and customs in germany and elsewhere. as i write, now, many months later, i perceive that each of us, by observing and noting and inquiring, diligently and day by day, had managed to lay in a most varied and opulent stock of misinformation. but this is not surprising; it is very difficult to get accurate details in any country. for example, i had the idea once, in heidelberg, to find out all about those five student-corps. i started with the white cap corps. i began to inquire of this and that and the other citizen, and here is what i found out: 1. it is called the prussian corps, because none but prussians are admitted to it. 2. it is called the prussian corps for no particular reason. it has simply pleased each corps to name itself after some german state. 3. it is not named the prussian corps at all, but only the white cap corps. 4. any student can belong to it who is a german by birth. 5. any student can belong to it who is european by birth. 6. any european-born student can belong to it, except he be a frenchman. 7. any student can belong to it, no matter where he was born. 8. no student can belong to it who is not of noble blood. 9. no student can belong to it who cannot show three full generations of noble descent. 10. nobility is not a necessary qualification. 11. no moneyless student can belong to it. 12. money qualification is nonsense--such a thing has never been thought of. i got some of this information from students themselves--students who did not belong to the corps. i finally went to headquarters--to the white caps--where i would have gone in the first place if i had been acquainted. but even at headquarters i found difficulties; i perceived that there were things about the white cap corps which one member knew and another one didn't. it was natural; for very few members of any organization know all that can be known about it. i doubt there is a man or a woman in heidelberg who would not answer promptly and confidently three out of every five questions about the white cap corps which a stranger might ask; yet it is a very safe bet that two of the three answers would be incorrect every time. there is one german custom which is universal--the bowing courteously to strangers when sitting down at table or rising up from it. this bow startles a stranger out of his self-possession, the first time it occurs, and he is likely to fall over a chair or something, in his embarrassment, but it pleases him, nevertheless. one soon learns to expect this bow and be on the lookout and ready to return it; but to learn to lead off and make the initial bow one's self is a difficult matter for a diffident man. one thinks, "if i rise to go, and tender my bow, and these ladies and gentlemen take it into their heads to ignore the custom of their nation, and not return it, how shall i feel, in case i survive to feel anything." therefore he is afraid to venture. he sits out the dinner, and makes the strangers rise first and originate the bowing. a table d'hôte dinner is a tedious affair for a man who seldom touches anything after the three first courses; therefore i used to do some pretty dreary waiting because of my fears. it took me months to assure myself that those fears were groundless, but i did assure myself at last by experimenting diligently through my agent. i made harris get up and bow and leave; invariably his bow was returned, then i got up and bowed myself and retired. thus my education proceeded easily and comfortably for me, but not for harris. three courses of a table d'hôte dinner were enough for me, but harris preferred thirteen. even after i had acquired full confidence, and no longer needed the agent's help, i sometimes encountered difficulties. once at baden-baden i nearly lost a train because i could not be sure that three young ladies opposite me at table were germans, since i had not heard them speak; they might be american, they might be english, it was not safe to venture a bow; but just as i had got that far with my thought, one of them began a german remark, to my great relief and gratitude; and before she got out her third word, our bows had been delivered and graciously returned, and we were off. there is a friendly something about the german character which is very winning. when harris and i were making a pedestrian tour through the black forest, we stopped at a little country inn for dinner one day; two young ladies and a young gentleman entered and sat down opposite us. they were pedestrians, too. our knapsacks were strapped upon our backs, but they had a sturdy youth along to carry theirs for them. all parties were hungry, so there was no talking. by and by the usual bows were exchanged, and we separated. as we sat at a late breakfast in the hotel at allerheiligen, next morning, these young people entered and took places near us without observing us; but presently they saw us and at once bowed and smiled; not ceremoniously, but with the gratified look of people who have found acquaintances where they were expecting strangers. then they spoke of the weather and the roads. we also spoke of the weather and the roads. next, they said they had had an enjoyable walk, notwithstanding the weather. we said that that had been our case, too. then they said they had walked thirty english miles the day before, and asked how many we had walked. i could not lie, so i told harris to do it. harris told them we had made thirty english miles, too. that was true; we had "made" them, though we had had a little assistance here and there. after breakfast they found us trying to blast some information out of the dumb hotel clerk about routes, and observing that we were not succeeding pretty well, they went and got their maps and things, and pointed out and explained our course so clearly that even a new york detective could have followed it. and when we started they spoke out a hearty good-by and wished us a pleasant journey. perhaps they were more generous with us than they might have been with native wayfarers because we were a forlorn lot and in a strange land; i don't know; i only know it was lovely to be treated so. very well, i took an american young lady to one of the fine balls in baden-baden, one night, and at the entrance-door upstairs we were halted by an official--something about miss jones's dress was not according to rule; i don't remember what it was, now; something was wanting--her back hair, or a shawl, or a fan, or a shovel, or something. the official was ever so polite, and ever so sorry, but the rule was strict, and he could not let us in. it was very embarrassing, for many eyes were on us. but now a richly dressed girl stepped out of the ballroom, inquired into the trouble, and said she could fix it in a moment. she took miss jones to the robing-room, and soon brought her back in regulation trim, and then we entered the ballroom with this benefactress unchallenged. being safe, now, i began to puzzle through my sincere but ungrammatical thanks, when there was a sudden mutual recognition --the benefactress and i had met at allerheiligen. two weeks had not altered her good face, and plainly her heart was in the right place yet, but there was such a difference between these clothes and the clothes i had seen her in before, when she was walking thirty miles a day in the black forest, that it was quite natural that i had failed to recognize her sooner. i had on my other suit, too, but my german would betray me to a person who had heard it once, anyway. she brought her brother and sister, and they made our way smooth for that evening. well--months afterward, i was driving through the streets of munich in a cab with a german lady, one day, when she said: "there, that is prince ludwig and his wife, walking along there." everybody was bowing to them--cabmen, little children, and everybody else--and they were returning all the bows and overlooking nobody, when a young lady met them and made a deep courtesy. "that is probably one of the ladies of the court," said my german friend. i said: "she is an honor to it, then. i know her. i don't know her name, but i know her. i have known her at allerheiligen and baden-baden. she ought to be an empress, but she may be only a duchess; it is the way things go in this way." if one asks a german a civil question, he will be quite sure to get a civil answer. if you stop a german in the street and ask him to direct you to a certain place, he shows no sign of feeling offended. if the place be difficult to find, ten to one the man will drop his own matters and go with you and show you. in london, too, many a time, strangers have walked several blocks with me to show me my way. there is something very real about this sort of politeness. quite often, in germany, shopkeepers who could not furnish me the article i wanted have sent one of their employees with me to show me a place where it could be had. chapter xix [the deadly jest of dilsberg] however, i wander from the raft. we made the port of necharsteinach in good season, and went to the hotel and ordered a trout dinner, the same to be ready against our return from a two-hour pedestrian excursion to the village and castle of dilsberg, a mile distant, on the other side of the river. i do not mean that we proposed to be two hours making two miles--no, we meant to employ most of the time in inspecting dilsberg. for dilsberg is a quaint place. it is most quaintly and picturesquely situated, too. imagine the beautiful river before you; then a few rods of brilliant green sward on its opposite shore; then a sudden hill--no preparatory gently rising slopes, but a sort of instantaneous hill--a hill two hundred and fifty or three hundred feet high, as round as a bowl, with the same taper upward that an inverted bowl has, and with about the same relation of height to diameter that distinguishes a bowl of good honest depth--a hill which is thickly clothed with green bushes--a comely, shapely hill, rising abruptly out of the dead level of the surrounding green plains, visible from a great distance down the bends of the river, and with just exactly room on the top of its head for its steepled and turreted and roof-clustered cap of architecture, which same is tightly jammed and compacted within the perfectly round hoop of the ancient village wall. there is no house outside the wall on the whole hill, or any vestige of a former house; all the houses are inside the wall, but there isn't room for another one. it is really a finished town, and has been finished a very long time. there is no space between the wall and the first circle of buildings; no, the village wall is itself the rear wall of the first circle of buildings, and the roofs jut a little over the wall and thus furnish it with eaves. the general level of the massed roofs is gracefully broken and relieved by the dominating towers of the ruined castle and the tall spires of a couple of churches; so, from a distance dilsberg has rather more the look of a king's crown than a cap. that lofty green eminence and its quaint coronet form quite a striking picture, you may be sure, in the flush of the evening sun. we crossed over in a boat and began the ascent by a narrow, steep path which plunged us at once into the leafy deeps of the bushes. but they were not cool deeps by any means, for the sun's rays were weltering hot and there was little or no breeze to temper them. as we panted up the sharp ascent, we met brown, bareheaded and barefooted boys and girls, occasionally, and sometimes men; they came upon us without warning, they gave us good day, flashed out of sight in the bushes, and were gone as suddenly and mysteriously as they had come. they were bound for the other side of the river to work. this path had been traveled by many generations of these people. they have always gone down to the valley to earn their bread, but they have always climbed their hill again to eat it, and to sleep in their snug town. it is said that the dilsbergers do not emigrate much; they find that living up there above the world, in their peaceful nest, is pleasanter than living down in the troublous world. the seven hundred inhabitants are all blood-kin to each other, too; they have always been blood-kin to each other for fifteen hundred years; they are simply one large family, and they like the home folks better than they like strangers, hence they persistently stay at home. it has been said that for ages dilsberg has been merely a thriving and diligent idiot-factory. i saw no idiots there, but the captain said, "because of late years the government has taken to lugging them off to asylums and otherwheres; and government wants to cripple the factory, too, and is trying to get these dilsbergers to marry out of the family, but they don't like to." the captain probably imagined all this, as modern science denies that the intermarrying of relatives deteriorates the stock. arrived within the wall, we found the usual village sights and life. we moved along a narrow, crooked lane which had been paved in the middle ages. a strapping, ruddy girl was beating flax or some such stuff in a little bit of a good-box of a barn, and she swung her flail with a will--if it was a flail; i was not farmer enough to know what she was at; a frowsy, barelegged girl was herding half a dozen geese with a stick--driving them along the lane and keeping them out of the dwellings; a cooper was at work in a shop which i know he did not make so large a thing as a hogshead in, for there was not room. in the front rooms of dwellings girls and women were cooking or spinning, and ducks and chickens were waddling in and out, over the threshold, picking up chance crumbs and holding pleasant converse; a very old and wrinkled man sat asleep before his door, with his chin upon his breast and his extinguished pipe in his lap; soiled children were playing in the dirt everywhere along the lane, unmindful of the sun. except the sleeping old man, everybody was at work, but the place was very still and peaceful, nevertheless; so still that the distant cackle of the successful hen smote upon the ear but little dulled by intervening sounds. that commonest of village sights was lacking here--the public pump, with its great stone tank or trough of limpid water, and its group of gossiping pitcher-bearers; for there is no well or fountain or spring on this tall hill; cisterns of rain-water are used. our alpenstocks and muslin tails compelled attention, and as we moved through the village we gathered a considerable procession of little boys and girls, and so went in some state to the castle. it proved to be an extensive pile of crumbling walls, arches, and towers, massive, properly grouped for picturesque effect, weedy, grass-grown, and satisfactory. the children acted as guides; they walked us along the top of the highest walls, then took us up into a high tower and showed us a wide and beautiful landscape, made up of wavy distances of woody hills, and a nearer prospect of undulating expanses of green lowlands, on the one hand, and castle-graced crags and ridges on the other, with the shining curves of the neckar flowing between. but the principal show, the chief pride of the children, was the ancient and empty well in the grass-grown court of the castle. its massive stone curb stands up three or four feet above-ground, and is whole and uninjured. the children said that in the middle ages this well was four hundred feet deep, and furnished all the village with an abundant supply of water, in war and peace. they said that in the old day its bottom was below the level of the neckar, hence the water-supply was inexhaustible. but there were some who believed it had never been a well at all, and was never deeper than it is now--eighty feet; that at that depth a subterranean passage branched from it and descended gradually to a remote place in the valley, where it opened into somebody's cellar or other hidden recess, and that the secret of this locality is now lost. those who hold this belief say that herein lies the explanation that dilsberg, besieged by tilly and many a soldier before him, was never taken: after the longest and closest sieges the besiegers were astonished to perceive that the besieged were as fat and hearty as ever, and were well furnished with munitions of war--therefore it must be that the dilsbergers had been bringing these things in through the subterranean passage all the time. the children said that there was in truth a subterranean outlet down there, and they would prove it. so they set a great truss of straw on fire and threw it down the well, while we leaned on the curb and watched the glowing mass descend. it struck bottom and gradually burned out. no smoke came up. the children clapped their hands and said: "you see! nothing makes so much smoke as burning straw--now where did the smoke go to, if there is no subterranean outlet?" so it seemed quite evident that the subterranean outlet indeed existed. but the finest thing within the ruin's limits was a noble linden, which the children said was four hundred years old, and no doubt it was. it had a mighty trunk and a mighty spread of limb and foliage. the limbs near the ground were nearly the thickness of a barrel. that tree had witnessed the assaults of men in mail--how remote such a time seems, and how ungraspable is the fact that real men ever did fight in real armor!--and it had seen the time when these broken arches and crumbling battlements were a trim and strong and stately fortress, fluttering its gay banners in the sun, and peopled with vigorous humanity--how impossibly long ago that seems!--and here it stands yet, and possibly may still be standing here, sunning itself and dreaming its historical dreams, when today shall have been joined to the days called "ancient." well, we sat down under the tree to smoke, and the captain delivered himself of his legend: the legend of dilsberg castle it was to this effect. in the old times there was once a great company assembled at the castle, and festivity ran high. of course there was a haunted chamber in the castle, and one day the talk fell upon that. it was said that whoever slept in it would not wake again for fifty years. now when a young knight named conrad von geisberg heard this, he said that if the castle were his he would destroy that chamber, so that no foolish person might have the chance to bring so dreadful a misfortune upon himself and afflict such as loved him with the memory of it. straightway, the company privately laid their heads together to contrive some way to get this superstitious young man to sleep in that chamber. and they succeeded--in this way. they persuaded his betrothed, a lovely mischievous young creature, niece of the lord of the castle, to help them in their plot. she presently took him aside and had speech with him. she used all her persuasions, but could not shake him; he said his belief was firm, that if he should sleep there he would wake no more for fifty years, and it made him shudder to think of it. catharina began to weep. this was a better argument; conrad could not hold out against it. he yielded and said she should have her wish if she would only smile and be happy again. she flung her arms about his neck, and the kisses she gave him showed that her thankfulness and her pleasure were very real. then she flew to tell the company her success, and the applause she received made her glad and proud she had undertaken her mission, since all alone she had accomplished what the multitude had failed in. at midnight, that night, after the usual feasting, conrad was taken to the haunted chamber and left there. he fell asleep, by and by. when he awoke again and looked about him, his heart stood still with horror! the whole aspect of the chamber was changed. the walls were moldy and hung with ancient cobwebs; the curtains and beddings were rotten; the furniture was rickety and ready to fall to pieces. he sprang out of bed, but his quaking knees sunk under him and he fell to the floor. "this is the weakness of age," he said. he rose and sought his clothing. it was clothing no longer. the colors were gone, the garments gave way in many places while he was putting them on. he fled, shuddering, into the corridor, and along it to the great hall. here he was met by a middle-aged stranger of a kind countenance, who stopped and gazed at him with surprise. conrad said: "good sir, will you send hither the lord ulrich?" the stranger looked puzzled a moment, then said: "the lord ulrich?" "yes--if you will be so good." the stranger called--"wilhelm!" a young serving-man came, and the stranger said to him: "is there a lord ulrich among the guests?" "i know none of the name, so please your honor." conrad said, hesitatingly: "i did not mean a guest, but the lord of the castle, sir." the stranger and the servant exchanged wondering glances. then the former said: "i am the lord of the castle." "since when, sir?" "since the death of my father, the good lord ulrich more than forty years ago." conrad sank upon a bench and covered his face with his hands while he rocked his body to and fro and moaned. the stranger said in a low voice to the servant: "i fear me this poor old creature is mad. call some one." in a moment several people came, and grouped themselves about, talking in whispers. conrad looked up and scanned the faces about him wistfully. then he shook his head and said, in a grieved voice: "no, there is none among ye that i know. i am old and alone in the world. they are dead and gone these many years that cared for me. but sure, some of these aged ones i see about me can tell me some little word or two concerning them." several bent and tottering men and women came nearer and answered his questions about each former friend as he mentioned the names. this one they said had been dead ten years, that one twenty, another thirty. each succeeding blow struck heavier and heavier. at last the sufferer said: "there is one more, but i have not the courage to--o my lost catharina!" one of the old dames said: "ah, i knew her well, poor soul. a misfortune overtook her lover, and she died of sorrow nearly fifty years ago. she lieth under the linden tree without the court." conrad bowed his head and said: "ah, why did i ever wake! and so she died of grief for me, poor child. so young, so sweet, so good! she never wittingly did a hurtful thing in all the little summer of her life. her loving debt shall be repaid--for i will die of grief for her." his head drooped upon his breast. in the moment there was a wild burst of joyous laughter, a pair of round young arms were flung about conrad's neck and a sweet voice cried: "there, conrad mine, thy kind words kill me--the farce shall go no further! look up, and laugh with us--'twas all a jest!" and he did look up, and gazed, in a dazed wonderment--for the disguises were stripped away, and the aged men and women were bright and young and gay again. catharina's happy tongue ran on: "'twas a marvelous jest, and bravely carried out. they gave you a heavy sleeping-draught before you went to bed, and in the night they bore you to a ruined chamber where all had fallen to decay, and placed these rags of clothing by you. and when your sleep was spent and you came forth, two strangers, well instructed in their parts, were here to meet you; and all we, your friends, in our disguises, were close at hand, to see and hear, you may be sure. ah, 'twas a gallant jest! come, now, and make thee ready for the pleasures of the day. how real was thy misery for the moment, thou poor lad! look up and have thy laugh, now!" he looked up, searched the merry faces about him in a dreamy way, then sighed and said: "i am aweary, good strangers, i pray you lead me to her grave." all the smile vanished away, every cheek blanched, catharina sunk to the ground in a swoon. all day the people went about the castle with troubled faces, and communed together in undertones. a painful hush pervaded the place which had lately been so full of cheery life. each in his turn tried to arouse conrad out of his hallucination and bring him to himself; but all the answer any got was a meek, bewildered stare, and then the words: "good stranger, i have no friends, all are at rest these many years; ye speak me fair, ye mean me well, but i know ye not; i am alone and forlorn in the world--prithee lead me to her grave." during two years conrad spent his days, from the early morning till the night, under the linden tree, mourning over the imaginary grave of his catharina. catharina was the only company of the harmless madman. he was very friendly toward her because, as he said, in some ways she reminded him of his catharina whom he had lost "fifty years ago." he often said: "she was so gay, so happy-hearted--but you never smile; and always when you think i am not looking, you cry." when conrad died, they buried him under the linden, according to his directions, so that he might rest "near his poor catharina." then catharina sat under the linden alone, every day and all day long, a great many years, speaking to no one, and never smiling; and at last her long repentance was rewarded with death, and she was buried by conrad's side. harris pleased the captain by saying it was good legend; and pleased him further by adding: "now that i have seen this mighty tree, vigorous with its four hundred years, i feel a desire to believe the legend for its sake; so i will humor the desire, and consider that the tree really watches over those poor hearts and feels a sort of human tenderness for them." we returned to necharsteinach, plunged our hot heads into the trough at the town pump, and then went to the hotel and ate our trout dinner in leisurely comfort, in the garden, with the beautiful neckar flowing at our feet, the quaint dilsberg looming beyond, and the graceful towers and battlements of a couple of medieval castles (called the "swallow's nest" [1] and "the brothers.") assisting the rugged scenery of a bend of the river down to our right. we got to sea in season to make the eight-mile run to heidelberg before the night shut down. we sailed by the hotel in the mellow glow of sunset, and came slashing down with the mad current into the narrow passage between the dikes. i believed i could shoot the bridge myself, and i went to the forward triplet of logs and relieved the pilot of his pole and his responsibility. 1. the seeker after information is referred to appendix e for our captain's legend of the "swallow's nest" and "the brothers." we went tearing along in a most exhilarating way, and i performed the delicate duties of my office very well indeed for a first attempt; but perceiving, presently, that i really was going to shoot the bridge itself instead of the archway under it, i judiciously stepped ashore. the next moment i had my long-coveted desire: i saw a raft wrecked. it hit the pier in the center and went all to smash and scatteration like a box of matches struck by lightning. i was the only one of our party who saw this grand sight; the others were attitudinizing, for the benefit of the long rank of young ladies who were promenading on the bank, and so they lost it. but i helped to fish them out of the river, down below the bridge, and then described it to them as well as i could. they were not interested, though. they said they were wet and felt ridiculous and did not care anything for descriptions of scenery. the young ladies, and other people, crowded around and showed a great deal of sympathy, but that did not help matters; for my friends said they did not want sympathy, they wanted a back alley and solitude. chapter xx [my precious, priceless tear-jug] next morning brought good news--our trunks had arrived from hamburg at last. let this be a warning to the reader. the germans are very conscientious, and this trait makes them very particular. therefore if you tell a german you want a thing done immediately, he takes you at your word; he thinks you mean what you say; so he does that thing immediately--according to his idea of immediately--which is about a week; that is, it is a week if it refers to the building of a garment, or it is an hour and a half if it refers to the cooking of a trout. very well; if you tell a german to send your trunk to you by "slow freight," he takes you at your word; he sends it by "slow freight," and you cannot imagine how long you will go on enlarging your admiration of the expressiveness of that phrase in the german tongue, before you get that trunk. the hair on my trunk was soft and thick and youthful, when i got it ready for shipment in hamburg; it was baldheaded when it reached heidelberg. however, it was still sound, that was a comfort, it was not battered in the least; the baggagemen seemed to be conscientiously careful, in germany, of the baggage entrusted to their hands. there was nothing now in the way of our departure, therefore we set about our preparations. naturally my chief solicitude was about my collection of ceramics. of course i could not take it with me, that would be inconvenient, and dangerous besides. i took advice, but the best brick-a-brackers were divided as to the wisest course to pursue; some said pack the collection and warehouse it; others said try to get it into the grand ducal museum at mannheim for safe keeping. so i divided the collection, and followed the advice of both parties. i set aside, for the museum, those articles which were the most frail and precious. among these was my etruscan tear-jug. i have made a little sketch of it here; that thing creeping up the side is not a bug, it is a hole. i bought this tear-jug of a dealer in antiquities for four hundred and fifty dollars. it is very rare. the man said the etruscans used to keep tears or something in these things, and that it was very hard to get hold of a broken one, now. i also set aside my henri ii. plate. see sketch from my pencil; it is in the main correct, though i think i have foreshortened one end of it a little too much, perhaps. this is very fine and rare; the shape is exceedingly beautiful and unusual. it has wonderful decorations on it, but i am not able to reproduce them. it cost more than the tear-jug, as the dealer said there was not another plate just like it in the world. he said there was much false henri ii ware around, but that the genuineness of this piece was unquestionable. he showed me its pedigree, or its history, if you please; it was a document which traced this plate's movements all the way down from its birth--showed who bought it, from whom, and what he paid for it--from the first buyer down to me, whereby i saw that it had gone steadily up from thirty-five cents to seven hundred dollars. he said that the whole ceramic world would be informed that it was now in my possession and would make a note of it, with the price paid. [figure 8] there were masters in those days, but, alas--it is not so now. of course the main preciousness of this piece lies in its color; it is that old sensuous, pervading, ramifying, interpolating, transboreal blue which is the despair of modern art. the little sketch which i have made of this gem cannot and does not do it justice, since i have been obliged to leave out the color. but i've got the expression, though. however, i must not be frittering away the reader's time with these details. i did not intend to go into any detail at all, at first, but it is the failing of the true ceramiker, or the true devotee in any department of brick-a-brackery, that once he gets his tongue or his pen started on his darling theme, he cannot well stop until he drops from exhaustion. he has no more sense of the flight of time than has any other lover when talking of his sweetheart. the very "marks" on the bottom of a piece of rare crockery are able to throw me into a gibbering ecstasy; and i could forsake a drowning relative to help dispute about whether the stopple of a departed buon retiro scent-bottle was genuine or spurious. many people say that for a male person, bric-a-brac hunting is about as robust a business as making doll-clothes, or decorating japanese pots with decalcomania butterflies would be, and these people fling mud at the elegant englishman, byng, who wrote a book called the bric-a-brac hunter, and make fun of him for chasing around after what they choose to call "his despicable trifles"; and for "gushing" over these trifles; and for exhibiting his "deep infantile delight" in what they call his "tuppenny collection of beggarly trivialities"; and for beginning his book with a picture of himself seated, in a "sappy, self-complacent attitude, in the midst of his poor little ridiculous bric-a-brac junk shop." it is easy to say these things; it is easy to revile us, easy to despise us; therefore, let these people rail on; they cannot feel as byng and i feel--it is their loss, not ours. for my part i am content to be a brick-a-bracker and a ceramiker--more, i am proud to be so named. i am proud to know that i lose my reason as immediately in the presence of a rare jug with an illustrious mark on the bottom of it, as if i had just emptied that jug. very well; i packed and stored a part of my collection, and the rest of it i placed in the care of the grand ducal museum in mannheim, by permission. my old blue china cat remains there yet. i presented it to that excellent institution. i had but one misfortune with my things. an egg which i had kept back from breakfast that morning, was broken in packing. it was a great pity. i had shown it to the best connoisseurs in heidelberg, and they all said it was an antique. we spent a day or two in farewell visits, and then left for baden-baden. we had a pleasant trip to it, for the rhine valley is always lovely. the only trouble was that the trip was too short. if i remember rightly it only occupied a couple of hours, therefore i judge that the distance was very little, if any, over fifty miles. we quitted the train at oos, and walked the entire remaining distance to baden-baden, with the exception of a lift of less than an hour which we got on a passing wagon, the weather being exhaustingly warm. we came into town on foot. one of the first persons we encountered, as we walked up the street, was the rev. mr. ------, an old friend from america--a lucky encounter, indeed, for his is a most gentle, refined, and sensitive nature, and his company and companionship are a genuine refreshment. we knew he had been in europe some time, but were not at all expecting to run across him. both parties burst forth into loving enthusiasms, and rev. mr. -----said: "i have got a brimful reservoir of talk to pour out on you, and an empty one ready and thirsting to receive what you have got; we will sit up till midnight and have a good satisfying interchange, for i leave here early in the morning." we agreed to that, of course. i had been vaguely conscious, for a while, of a person who was walking in the street abreast of us; i had glanced furtively at him once or twice, and noticed that he was a fine, large, vigorous young fellow, with an open, independent countenance, faintly shaded with a pale and even almost imperceptible crop of early down, and that he was clothed from head to heel in cool and enviable snow-white linen. i thought i had also noticed that his head had a sort of listening tilt to it. now about this time the rev. mr. -----said: "the sidewalk is hardly wide enough for three, so i will walk behind; but keep the talk going, keep the talk going, there's no time to lose, and you may be sure i will do my share." he ranged himself behind us, and straightway that stately snow-white young fellow closed up to the sidewalk alongside him, fetched him a cordial slap on the shoulder with his broad palm, and sung out with a hearty cheeriness: "americans for two-and-a-half and the money up! hey?" the reverend winced, but said mildly: "yes--we are americans." "lord love you, you can just bet that's what _i_ am, every time! put it there!" he held out his sahara of his palm, and the reverend laid his diminutive hand in it, and got so cordial a shake that we heard his glove burst under it. "say, didn't i put you up right?" "oh, yes." "sho! i spotted you for my kind the minute i heard your clack. you been over here long?" "about four months. have you been over long?" "long? well, i should say so! going on two years, by geeminy! say, are you homesick?" "no, i can't say that i am. are you?" "oh, hell, yes!" this with immense enthusiasm. the reverend shrunk a little, in his clothes, and we were aware, rather by instinct than otherwise, that he was throwing out signals of distress to us; but we did not interfere or try to succor him, for we were quite happy. the young fellow hooked his arm into the reverend's, now, with the confiding and grateful air of a waif who has been longing for a friend, and a sympathetic ear, and a chance to lisp once more the sweet accents of the mother-tongue--and then he limbered up the muscles of his mouth and turned himself loose--and with such a relish! some of his words were not sunday-school words, so i am obliged to put blanks where they occur. "yes indeedy! if _i_ ain't an american there ain't any americans, that's all. and when i heard you fellows gassing away in the good old american language, i'm -----if it wasn't all i could do to keep from hugging you! my tongue's all warped with trying to curl it around these -----forsaken wind-galled nine-jointed german words here; now i tell you it's awful good to lay it over a christian word once more and kind of let the old taste soak it. i'm from western new york. my name is cholley adams. i'm a student, you know. been here going on two years. i'm learning to be a horse-doctor! i like that part of it, you know, but ------these people, they won't learn a fellow in his own language, they make him learn in german; so before i could tackle the horse-doctoring i had to tackle this miserable language. "first off, i thought it would certainly give me the botts, but i don't mind now. i've got it where the hair's short, i think; and dontchuknow, they made me learn latin, too. now between you and me, i wouldn't give a ------for all the latin that was ever jabbered; and the first thing _i_ calculate to do when i get through, is to just sit down and forget it. 'twon't take me long, and i don't mind the time, anyway. and i tell you what! the difference between school-teaching over yonder and school-teaching over here--sho! we don't know anything about it! here you've got to peg and peg and peg and there just ain't any let-up--and what you learn here, you've got to know, dontchuknow --or else you'll have one of these -----spavined, spectacles, ring-boned, knock-kneed old professors in your hair. i've been here long enough, and i'm getting blessed tired of it, mind i tell you. the old man wrote me that he was coming over in june, and said he'd take me home in august, whether i was done with my education or not, but durn him, he didn't come; never said why; just sent me a hamper of sunday-school books, and told me to be good, and hold on a while. i don't take to sunday-school books, dontchuknow--i don't hanker after them when i can get pie--but i read them, anyway, because whatever the old man tells me to do, that's the thing that i'm a-going to do, or tear something, you know. i buckled in and read all those books, because he wanted me to; but that kind of thing don't excite me, i like something hearty. but i'm awful homesick. i'm homesick from ear-socket to crupper, and from crupper to hock-joint; but it ain't any use, i've got to stay here, till the old man drops the rag and give the word--yes, sir, right here in this -----country i've got to linger till the old man says come!--and you bet your bottom dollar, johnny, it ain't just as easy as it is for a cat to have twins!" at the end of this profane and cordial explosion he fetched a prodigious "whoosh!" to relieve his lungs and make recognition of the heat, and then he straightway dived into his narrative again for "johnny's" benefit, beginning, "well, ------it ain't any use talking, some of those old american words do have a kind of a bully swing to them; a man can express himself with 'em--a man can get at what he wants to say, dontchuknow." when we reached our hotel and it seemed that he was about to lose the reverend, he showed so much sorrow, and begged so hard and so earnestly that the reverend's heart was not hard enough to hold out against the pleadings--so he went away with the parent-honoring student, like a right christian, and took supper with him in his lodgings, and sat in the surf-beat of his slang and profanity till near midnight, and then left him--left him pretty well talked out, but grateful "clear down to his frogs," as he expressed it. the reverend said it had transpired during the interview that "cholley" adams's father was an extensive dealer in horses in western new york; this accounted for cholley's choice of a profession. the reverend brought away a pretty high opinion of cholley as a manly young fellow, with stuff in him for a useful citizen; he considered him rather a rough gem, but a gem, nevertheless. chapter xxi [insolent shopkeepers and gabbling americans] baden-baden sits in the lap of the hills, and the natural and artificial beauties of the surroundings are combined effectively and charmingly. the level strip of ground which stretches through and beyond the town is laid out in handsome pleasure grounds, shaded by noble trees and adorned at intervals with lofty and sparkling fountain-jets. thrice a day a fine band makes music in the public promenade before the conversation house, and in the afternoon and evening that locality is populous with fashionably dressed people of both sexes, who march back and forth past the great music-stand and look very much bored, though they make a show of feeling otherwise. it seems like a rather aimless and stupid existence. a good many of these people are there for a real purpose, however; they are racked with rheumatism, and they are there to stew it out in the hot baths. these invalids looked melancholy enough, limping about on their canes and crutches, and apparently brooding over all sorts of cheerless things. people say that germany, with her damp stone houses, is the home of rheumatism. if that is so, providence must have foreseen that it would be so, and therefore filled the land with the healing baths. perhaps no other country is so generously supplied with medicinal springs as germany. some of these baths are good for one ailment, some for another; and again, peculiar ailments are conquered by combining the individual virtues of several different baths. for instance, for some forms of disease, the patient drinks the native hot water of baden-baden, with a spoonful of salt from the carlsbad springs dissolved in it. that is not a dose to be forgotten right away. they don't sell this hot water; no, you go into the great trinkhalle, and stand around, first on one foot and then on the other, while two or three young girls sit pottering at some sort of ladylike sewing-work in your neighborhood and can't seem to see you --polite as three-dollar clerks in government offices. by and by one of these rises painfully, and "stretches"--stretches fists and body heavenward till she raises her heels from the floor, at the same time refreshing herself with a yawn of such comprehensiveness that the bulk of her face disappears behind her upper lip and one is able to see how she is constructed inside--then she slowly closes her cavern, brings down her fists and her heels, comes languidly forward, contemplates you contemptuously, draws you a glass of hot water and sets it down where you can get it by reaching for it. you take it and say: "how much?"--and she returns you, with elaborate indifference, a beggar's answer: "nach beliebe" (what you please.) this thing of using the common beggar's trick and the common beggar's shibboleth to put you on your liberality when you were expecting a simple straightforward commercial transaction, adds a little to your prospering sense of irritation. you ignore her reply, and ask again: "how much?" --and she calmly, indifferently, repeats: "nach beliebe." you are getting angry, but you are trying not to show it; you resolve to keep on asking your question till she changes her answer, or at least her annoyingly indifferent manner. therefore, if your case be like mine, you two fools stand there, and without perceptible emotion of any kind, or any emphasis on any syllable, you look blandly into each other's eyes, and hold the following idiotic conversation: "how much?" "nach beliebe." "how much?" "nach beliebe." "how much?" "nach beliebe." "how much?" "nach beliebe." "how much?" "nach beliebe." "how much?" "nach beliebe." i do not know what another person would have done, but at this point i gave up; that cast-iron indifference, that tranquil contemptuousness, conquered me, and i struck my colors. now i knew she was used to receiving about a penny from manly people who care nothing about the opinions of scullery-maids, and about tuppence from moral cowards; but i laid a silver twenty-five cent piece within her reach and tried to shrivel her up with this sarcastic speech: "if it isn't enough, will you stoop sufficiently from your official dignity to say so?" she did not shrivel. without deigning to look at me at all, she languidly lifted the coin and bit it!--to see if it was good. then she turned her back and placidly waddled to her former roost again, tossing the money into an open till as she went along. she was victor to the last, you see. i have enlarged upon the ways of this girl because they are typical; her manners are the manners of a goodly number of the baden-baden shopkeepers. the shopkeeper there swindles you if he can, and insults you whether he succeeds in swindling you or not. the keepers of baths also take great and patient pains to insult you. the frowsy woman who sat at the desk in the lobby of the great friederichsbad and sold bath tickets, not only insulted me twice every day, with rigid fidelity to her great trust, but she took trouble enough to cheat me out of a shilling, one day, to have fairly entitled her to ten. baden-baden's splendid gamblers are gone, only her microscopic knaves remain. an english gentleman who had been living there several years, said: "if you could disguise your nationality, you would not find any insolence here. these shopkeepers detest the english and despise the americans; they are rude to both, more especially to ladies of your nationality and mine. if these go shopping without a gentleman or a man-servant, they are tolerably sure to be subjected to petty insolences--insolences of manner and tone, rather than word, though words that are hard to bear are not always wanting. i know of an instance where a shopkeeper tossed a coin back to an american lady with the remark, snappishly uttered, 'we don't take french money here.' and i know of a case where an english lady said to one of these shopkeepers, 'don't you think you ask too much for this article?' and he replied with the question, 'do you think you are obliged to buy it?' however, these people are not impolite to russians or germans. and as to rank, they worship that, for they have long been used to generals and nobles. if you wish to see what abysses servility can descend, present yourself before a baden-baden shopkeeper in the character of a russian prince." it is an inane town, filled with sham, and petty fraud, and snobbery, but the baths are good. i spoke with many people, and they were all agreed in that. i had the twinges of rheumatism unceasingly during three years, but the last one departed after a fortnight's bathing there, and i have never had one since. i fully believe i left my rheumatism in baden-baden. baden-baden is welcome to it. it was little, but it was all i had to give. i would have preferred to leave something that was catching, but it was not in my power. there are several hot springs there, and during two thousand years they have poured forth a never-diminishing abundance of the healing water. this water is conducted in pipe to the numerous bath-houses, and is reduced to an endurable temperature by the addition of cold water. the new friederichsbad is a very large and beautiful building, and in it one may have any sort of bath that has ever been invented, and with all the additions of herbs and drugs that his ailment may need or that the physician of the establishment may consider a useful thing to put into the water. you go there, enter the great door, get a bow graduated to your style and clothes from the gorgeous portier, and a bath ticket and an insult from the frowsy woman for a quarter; she strikes a bell and a serving-man conducts you down a long hall and shuts you into a commodious room which has a washstand, a mirror, a bootjack, and a sofa in it, and there you undress at your leisure. the room is divided by a great curtain; you draw this curtain aside, and find a large white marble bathtub, with its rim sunk to the level of the floor, and with three white marble steps leading down to it. this tub is full of water which is as clear as crystal, and is tempered to 28 degrees re'aumur (about 95 degrees fahrenheit). sunk into the floor, by the tub, is a covered copper box which contains some warm towels and a sheet. you look fully as white as an angel when you are stretched out in that limpid bath. you remain in it ten minutes, the first time, and afterward increase the duration from day to day, till you reach twenty-five or thirty minutes. there you stop. the appointments of the place are so luxurious, the benefit so marked, the price so moderate, and the insults so sure, that you very soon find yourself adoring the friederichsbad and infesting it. we had a plain, simple, unpretending, good hotel, in baden-baden--the hôtel de france--and alongside my room i had a giggling, cackling, chattering family who always went to bed just two hours after me and always got up two hours ahead of me. but this is common in german hotels; the people generally go to bed long after eleven and get up long before eight. the partitions convey sound like a drum-head, and everybody knows it; but no matter, a german family who are all kindness and consideration in the daytime make apparently no effort to moderate their noises for your benefit at night. they will sing, laugh, and talk loudly, and bang furniture around in a most pitiless way. if you knock on your wall appealingly, they will quiet down and discuss the matter softly among themselves for a moment--then, like the mice, they fall to persecuting you again, and as vigorously as before. they keep cruelly late and early hours, for such noisy folk. of course, when one begins to find fault with foreign people's ways, he is very likely to get a reminder to look nearer home, before he gets far with it. i open my note-book to see if i can find some more information of a valuable nature about baden-baden, and the first thing i fall upon is this: "baden-baden (no date). lot of vociferous americans at breakfast this morning. talking at everybody, while pretending to talk among themselves. on their first travels, manifestly. showing off. the usual signs--airy, easy-going references to grand distances and foreign places. 'well good-by, old fellow--if i don't run across you in italy, you hunt me up in london before you sail.'" the next item which i find in my note-book is this one: "the fact that a band of 6,000 indians are now murdering our frontiersmen at their impudent leisure, and that we are only able to send 1,200 soldiers against them, is utilized here to discourage emigration to america. the common people think the indians are in new jersey." this is a new and peculiar argument against keeping our army down to a ridiculous figure in the matter of numbers. it is rather a striking one, too. i have not distorted the truth in saying that the facts in the above item, about the army and the indians, are made use of to discourage emigration to america. that the common people should be rather foggy in their geography, and foggy as to the location of the indians, is a matter for amusement, maybe, but not of surprise. there is an interesting old cemetery in baden-baden, and we spent several pleasant hours in wandering through it and spelling out the inscriptions on the aged tombstones. apparently after a man has laid there a century or two, and has had a good many people buried on top of him, it is considered that his tombstone is not needed by him any longer. i judge so from the fact that hundreds of old gravestones have been removed from the graves and placed against the inner walls of the cemetery. what artists they had in the old times! they chiseled angels and cherubs and devils and skeletons on the tombstones in the most lavish and generous way--as to supply--but curiously grotesque and outlandish as to form. it is not always easy to tell which of the figures belong among the blest and which of them among the opposite party. but there was an inscription, in french, on one of those old stones, which was quaint and pretty, and was plainly not the work of any other than a poet. it was to this effect: here reposes in god, caroline de clery, a religieuse of st. denis aged 83 years--and blind. the light was restored to her in baden the 5th of january, 1839 we made several excursions on foot to the neighboring villages, over winding and beautiful roads and through enchanting woodland scenery. the woods and roads were similar to those at heidelberg, but not so bewitching. i suppose that roads and woods which are up to the heidelberg mark are rare in the world. once we wandered clear away to la favorita palace, which is several miles from baden-baden. the grounds about the palace were fine; the palace was a curiosity. it was built by a margravine in 1725, and remains as she left it at her death. we wandered through a great many of its rooms, and they all had striking peculiarities of decoration. for instance, the walls of one room were pretty completely covered with small pictures of the margravine in all conceivable varieties of fanciful costumes, some of them male. the walls of another room were covered with grotesquely and elaborately figured hand-wrought tapestry. the musty ancient beds remained in the chambers, and their quilts and curtains and canopies were decorated with curious handwork, and the walls and ceilings frescoed with historical and mythological scenes in glaring colors. there was enough crazy and rotten rubbish in the building to make a true brick-a-bracker green with envy. a painting in the dining-hall verged upon the indelicate--but then the margravine was herself a trifle indelicate. it is in every way a wildly and picturesquely decorated house, and brimful of interest as a reflection of the character and tastes of that rude bygone time. in the grounds, a few rods from the palace, stands the margravine's chapel, just as she left it--a coarse wooden structure, wholly barren of ornament. it is said that the margravine would give herself up to debauchery and exceedingly fast living for several months at a time, and then retire to this miserable wooden den and spend a few months in repenting and getting ready for another good time. she was a devoted catholic, and was perhaps quite a model sort of a christian as christians went then, in high life. tradition says she spent the last two years of her life in the strange den i have been speaking of, after having indulged herself in one final, triumphant, and satisfying spree. she shut herself up there, without company, and without even a servant, and so abjured and forsook the world. in her little bit of a kitchen she did her own cooking; she wore a hair shirt next the skin, and castigated herself with whips--these aids to grace are exhibited there yet. she prayed and told her beads, in another little room, before a waxen virgin niched in a little box against the wall; she bedded herself like a slave. in another small room is an unpainted wooden table, and behind it sit half-life-size waxen figures of the holy family, made by the very worst artist that ever lived, perhaps, and clothed in gaudy, flimsy drapery. [1] the margravine used to bring her meals to this table and dine with the holy family. what an idea that was! what a grisly spectacle it must have been! imagine it: those rigid, shock-headed figures, with corpsy complexions and fish glass eyes, occupying one side of the table in the constrained attitudes and dead fixedness that distinguish all men that are born of wax, and this wrinkled, smoldering old fire-eater occupying the other side, mumbling her prayers and munching her sausages in the ghostly stillness and shadowy indistinctness of a winter twilight. it makes one feel crawly even to think of it. [1] the savior was represented as a lad of about fifteen years of age. this figure had lost one eye. in this sordid place, and clothed, bedded, and fed like a pauper, this strange princess lived and worshiped during two years, and in it she died. two or three hundred years ago, this would have made the poor den holy ground; and the church would have set up a miracle-factory there and made plenty of money out of it. the den could be moved into some portions of france and made a good property even now. a tramp abroad, part 6. by mark twain (samuel l. clemens) first published in 1880 illustrations taken from an 1880 first edition * * * * * * illustrations: 1.    portrait of the author 2.    titian's moses 3.    the author's memories 236.  a sunday morning's demon 237.  just saved 238.  scene in valley of zermatt 239.  arrival at zermatt 240.  fitted out 241.  a fearful fall 242.  tail piece 243.  all ready 244.  the march 245.  the caravan 246.  the hook 247.  the disabled chaplain 248.  trying experiments 249.  saved! saved! 250.  twenty minutes work 251.  the black ram 252.  the miracle 253.  the new guide 251.  scientific researches 255.  mountain chalet 256.  the grandson 257.  occasionly met with 258.  summit of the gorner grat 259.  chiefs of the advance guard 260.  my picture of the matterhorn 261.  everybody had an excuse 262.  sprung a leak 263.  a scientific question 264.  a terminal moraine 265.  front of glacier 266.  an old moraine 267.  glacier of zermatt with lateral moraine 269.  unexpected meeting of friends 269.  village of chamonix 270.  the matterhorn 271.  on the summit 272.  accident on the matterhorn (1865) 273.  roped together 274.  storage of ancestors 275.  falling out of his farm 276.  child life in switzerland 277.  a sunday play 278.  the combination 279.  chillon 280.  the tete noir 281.  mont blanc's neighbors 282.  an exquisite thing 283.  a wild ride 284.  swiss peasant girl contents: chapter xxxvi sunday church bells--a cause of profanity--a magnificent glacier--fault finding by harris--almost an accident--selfishness of harris--approaching zermatt--the matterhorn--zermatt--home of mountain climbers--fitted out for climbing--a fearful adventure --never satisfied chapter xxxvii a calm decision--"i will ascend the riffelberg"--preparations for the trip--all zermatt on the alert--schedule of persons and things--an unprecedented display--a general turn--out--ready for a start--the post of danger--the advance directed--grand display of umbrellas--the first camp--almost a panic--supposed to be lost--the first accident--a chaplain disabled--an experimenting mule--good effects of a blunder--badly lost--a reconnoiter--mystery and doubt--stern measures taken--a black ram--saved by a miracle--the guide's guide chapter xxxviii our expedition continued--experiments with the barometer--boiling thermometer--barometer soup--an interesting scientific discovery--crippling a latinist--a chaplain injured--short of barkeepers--digging a mountain cellar--a young american specimen--somebody's grandson--arrival at riffelberg botel--ascent of gorner grat--faith in thermometers--the matterhorn chapter xxxix guide books--plans for the return of the expedition--a glacier train--parachute descent from gorner grat--proposed honors to harris declined--all had an excuse--a magnificent idea abandoned--descent to the glacier--a supposed leak--a slow train--the glacier abandoned--journey to zermatt--a scientific question chapter xl glaciers--glacier perils--moraines--terminal moraines--lateral moraines--immense size of glacier--traveling glacier----general movements of glaciers--ascent of mont blacc--loss of guides--finding of remains--meeting of old friends--the dead and living--proposed museum--the relics at chamonix chapter xli the matterhorn catastrophe of 1563--mr whymper's narrative--ascent of the matterhorn--the summit--the matterhorn conquered--the descent commenced--a fearful disaster--death of lord douglas and two others--the graves of the two chapter xlii switzerland--graveyard at zermatt--balloting for marriage--farmers as heroes--falling off a farm--from st nicholas to visp--dangerous traveling--children's play--the parson's children--a landlord's daughter--a rare combination--ch iiion--lost sympathy--mont blanc and its neighbors--beauty of soap bubbles--a wild drive--the king of drivers--benefit of getting drunk chapter xxxvi [the fiendish fun of alp-climbing] we did not oversleep at st. nicholas. the church-bell began to ring at four-thirty in the morning, and from the length of time it continued to ring i judged that it takes the swiss sinner a good while to get the invitation through his head. most church-bells in the world are of poor quality, and have a harsh and rasping sound which upsets the temper and produces much sin, but the st. nicholas bell is a good deal the worst one that has been contrived yet, and is peculiarly maddening in its operation. still, it may have its right and its excuse to exist, for the community is poor and not every citizen can afford a clock, perhaps; but there cannot be any excuse for our church-bells at home, for there is no family in america without a clock, and consequently there is no fair pretext for the usual sunday medley of dreadful sounds that issues from our steeples. there is much more profanity in america on sunday than in all in the other six days of the week put together, and it is of a more bitter and malignant character than the week-day profanity, too. it is produced by the cracked-pot clangor of the cheap church-bells. we build our churches almost without regard to cost; we rear an edifice which is an adornment to the town, and we gild it, and fresco it, and mortgage it, and do everything we can think of to perfect it, and then spoil it all by putting a bell on it which afflicts everybody who hears it, giving some the headache, others st. vitus's dance, and the rest the blind staggers. an american village at ten o'clock on a summer sunday is the quietest and peacefulest and holiest thing in nature; but it is a pretty different thing half an hour later. mr. poe's poem of the "bells" stands incomplete to this day; but it is well enough that it is so, for the public reciter or "reader" who goes around trying to imitate the sounds of the various sorts of bells with his voice would find himself "up a stump" when he got to the church-bell--as joseph addison would say. the church is always trying to get other people to reform; it might not be a bad idea to reform itself a little, by way of example. it is still clinging to one or two things which were useful once, but which are not useful now, neither are they ornamental. one is the bell-ringing to remind a clock-caked town that it is church-time, and another is the reading from the pulpit of a tedious list of "notices" which everybody who is interested has already read in the newspaper. the clergyman even reads the hymn through--a relic of an ancient time when hymn-books are scarce and costly; but everybody has a hymn-book, now, and so the public reading is no longer necessary. it is not merely unnecessary, it is generally painful; for the average clergyman could not fire into his congregation with a shotgun and hit a worse reader than himself, unless the weapon scattered shamefully. i am not meaning to be flippant and irreverent, i am only meaning to be truthful. the average clergyman, in all countries and of all denominations, is a very bad reader. one would think he would at least learn how to read the lord's prayer, by and by, but it is not so. he races through it as if he thought the quicker he got it in, the sooner it would be answered. a person who does not appreciate the exceeding value of pauses, and does not know how to measure their duration judiciously, cannot render the grand simplicity and dignity of a composition like that effectively. we took a tolerably early breakfast, and tramped off toward zermatt through the reeking lanes of the village, glad to get away from that bell. by and by we had a fine spectacle on our right. it was the wall-like butt end of a huge glacier, which looked down on us from an alpine height which was well up in the blue sky. it was an astonishing amount of ice to be compacted together in one mass. we ciphered upon it and decided that it was not less than several hundred feet from the base of the wall of solid ice to the top of it--harris believed it was really twice that. we judged that if st. paul's, st. peter's, the great pyramid, the strasburg cathedral and the capitol in washington were clustered against that wall, a man sitting on its upper edge could not hang his hat on the top of any one of them without reaching down three or four hundred feet--a thing which, of course, no man could do. to me, that mighty glacier was very beautiful. i did not imagine that anybody could find fault with it; but i was mistaken. harris had been snarling for several days. he was a rabid protestant, and he was always saying: "in the protestant cantons you never see such poverty and dirt and squalor as you do in this catholic one; you never see the lanes and alleys flowing with foulness; you never see such wretched little sties of houses; you never see an inverted tin turnip on top of a church for a dome; and as for a church-bell, why, you never hear a church-bell at all." all this morning he had been finding fault, straight along. first it was with the mud. he said, "it ain't muddy in a protestant canton when it rains." then it was with the dogs: "they don't have those lop-eared dogs in a protestant canton." then it was with the roads: "they don't leave the roads to make themselves in a protestant canton, the people make them--and they make a road that is a road, too." next it was the goats: "you never see a goat shedding tears in a protestant canton--a goat, there, is one of the cheerfulest objects in nature." next it was the chamois: "you never see a protestant chamois act like one of these--they take a bite or two and go; but these fellows camp with you and stay." then it was the guide-boards: "in a protestant canton you couldn't get lost if you wanted to, but you never see a guide-board in a catholic canton." next, "you never see any flower-boxes in the windows, here--never anything but now and then a cat--a torpid one; but you take a protestant canton: windows perfectly lovely with flowers--and as for cats, there's just acres of them. these folks in this canton leave a road to make itself, and then fine you three francs if you 'trot' over it--as if a horse could trot over such a sarcasm of a road." next about the goiter: "they talk about goiter!--i haven't seen a goiter in this whole canton that i couldn't put in a hat." he had growled at everything, but i judged it would puzzle him to find anything the matter with this majestic glacier. i intimated as much; but he was ready, and said with surly discontent: "you ought to see them in the protestant cantons." this irritated me. but i concealed the feeling, and asked: "what is the matter with this one?" "matter? why, it ain't in any kind of condition. they never take any care of a glacier here. the moraine has been spilling gravel around it, and got it all dirty." "why, man, they can't help that." "they? you're right. that is, they won't. they could if they wanted to. you never see a speck of dirt on a protestant glacier. look at the rhone glacier. it is fifteen miles long, and seven hundred feet thick. if this was a protestant glacier you wouldn't see it looking like this, i can tell you." "that is nonsense. what would they do with it?" "they would whitewash it. they always do." i did not believe a word of this, but rather than have trouble i let it go; for it is a waste of breath to argue with a bigot. i even doubted if the rhone glacier was in a protestant canton; but i did not know, so i could not make anything by contradicting a man who would probably put me down at once with manufactured evidence. about nine miles from st. nicholas we crossed a bridge over the raging torrent of the visp, and came to a log strip of flimsy fencing which was pretending to secure people from tumbling over a perpendicular wall forty feet high and into the river. three children were approaching; one of them, a little girl, about eight years old, was running; when pretty close to us she stumbled and fell, and her feet shot under the rail of the fence and for a moment projected over the stream. it gave us a sharp shock, for we thought she was gone, sure, for the ground slanted steeply, and to save herself seemed a sheer impossibility; but she managed to scramble up, and ran by us laughing. we went forward and examined the place and saw the long tracks which her feet had made in the dirt when they darted over the verge. if she had finished her trip she would have struck some big rocks in the edge of the water, and then the torrent would have snatched her downstream among the half-covered boulders and she would have been pounded to pulp in two minutes. we had come exceedingly near witnessing her death. and now harris's contrary nature and inborn selfishness were strikingly manifested. he has no spirit of self-denial. he began straight off, and continued for an hour, to express his gratitude that the child was not destroyed. i never saw such a man. that was the kind of person he was; just so he was gratified, he never cared anything about anybody else. i had noticed that trait in him, over and over again. often, of course, it was mere heedlessness, mere want of reflection. doubtless this may have been the case in most instances, but it was not the less hard to bar on that account--and after all, its bottom, its groundwork, was selfishness. there is no avoiding that conclusion. in the instance under consideration, i did think the indecency of running on in that way might occur to him; but no, the child was saved and he was glad, that was sufficient--he cared not a straw for my feelings, or my loss of such a literary plum, snatched from my very mouth at the instant it was ready to drop into it. his selfishness was sufficient to place his own gratification in being spared suffering clear before all concern for me, his friend. apparently, he did not once reflect upon the valuable details which would have fallen like a windfall to me: fishing the child out--witnessing the surprise of the family and the stir the thing would have made among the peasants--then a swiss funeral--then the roadside monument, to be paid for by us and have our names mentioned in it. and we should have gone into baedeker and been immortal. i was silent. i was too much hurt to complain. if he could act so, and be so heedless and so frivolous at such a time, and actually seem to glory in it, after all i had done for him, i would have cut my hand off before i would let him see that i was wounded. we were approaching zermatt; consequently, we were approaching the renowned matterhorn. a month before, this mountain had been only a name to us, but latterly we had been moving through a steadily thickening double row of pictures of it, done in oil, water, chromo, wood, steel, copper, crayon, and photography, and so it had at length become a shape to us--and a very distinct, decided, and familiar one, too. we were expecting to recognize that mountain whenever or wherever we should run across it. we were not deceived. the monarch was far away when we first saw him, but there was no such thing as mistaking him. he has the rare peculiarity of standing by himself; he is peculiarly steep, too, and is also most oddly shaped. he towers into the sky like a colossal wedge, with the upper third of its blade bent a little to the left. the broad base of this monster wedge is planted upon a grand glacier-paved alpine platform whose elevation is ten thousand feet above sea-level; as the wedge itself is some five thousand feet high, it follows that its apex is about fifteen thousand feet above sea-level. so the whole bulk of this stately piece of rock, this sky-cleaving monolith, is above the line of eternal snow. yet while all its giant neighbors have the look of being built of solid snow, from their waists up, the matterhorn stands black and naked and forbidding, the year round, or merely powdered or streaked with white in places, for its sides are so steep that the snow cannot stay there. its strange form, its august isolation, and its majestic unkinship with its own kind, make it--so to speak--the napoleon of the mountain world. "grand, gloomy, and peculiar," is a phrase which fits it as aptly as it fitted the great captain. think of a monument a mile high, standing on a pedestal two miles high! this is what the matterhorn is--a monument. its office, henceforth, for all time, will be to keep watch and ward over the secret resting-place of the young lord douglas, who, in 1865, was precipitated from the summit over a precipice four thousand feet high, and never seen again. no man ever had such a monument as this before; the most imposing of the world's other monuments are but atoms compared to it; and they will perish, and their places will pass from memory, but this will remain. [the accident which cost lord douglas his life (see chapter xii) also cost the lives of three other men. these three fell four-fifths of a mile, and their bodies were afterward found, lying side by side, upon a glacier, whence they were borne to zermatt and buried in the churchyard. the remains of lord douglas have never been found. the secret of his sepulture, like that of moses, must remain a mystery always.] a walk from st. nicholas to zermatt is a wonderful experience. nature is built on a stupendous plan in that region. one marches continually between walls that are piled into the skies, with their upper heights broken into a confusion of sublime shapes that gleam white and cold against the background of blue; and here and there one sees a big glacier displaying its grandeurs on the top of a precipice, or a graceful cascade leaping and flashing down the green declivities. there is nothing tame, or cheap, or trivial--it is all magnificent. that short valley is a picture-gallery of a notable kind, for it contains no mediocrities; from end to end the creator has hung it with his masterpieces. we made zermatt at three in the afternoon, nine hours out from st. nicholas. distance, by guide-book, twelve miles; by pedometer seventy-two. we were in the heart and home of the mountain-climbers, now, as all visible things testified. the snow-peaks did not hold themselves aloof, in aristocratic reserve; they nestled close around, in a friendly, sociable way; guides, with the ropes and axes and other implements of their fearful calling slung about their persons, roosted in a long line upon a stone wall in front of the hotel, and waited for customers; sun-burnt climbers, in mountaineering costume, and followed by their guides and porters, arrived from time to time, from breakneck expeditions among the peaks and glaciers of the high alps; male and female tourists, on mules, filed by, in a continuous procession, hotelward-bound from wild adventures which would grow in grandeur every time they were described at the english or american fireside, and at last outgrow the possible itself. we were not dreaming; this was not a make-believe home of the alp-climber, created by our heated imaginations; no, for here was mr. girdlestone himself, the famous englishman who hunts his way to the most formidable alpine summits without a guide. i was not equal to imagining a girdlestone; it was all i could do to even realize him, while looking straight at him at short range. i would rather face whole hyde parks of artillery than the ghastly forms of death which he has faced among the peaks and precipices of the mountains. there is probably no pleasure equal to the pleasure of climbing a dangerous alp; but it is a pleasure which is confined strictly to people who can find pleasure in it. i have not jumped to this conclusion; i have traveled to it per gravel-train, so to speak. i have thought the thing all out, and am quite sure i am right. a born climber's appetite for climbing is hard to satisfy; when it comes upon him he is like a starving man with a feast before him; he may have other business on hand, but it must wait. mr. girdlestone had had his usual summer holiday in the alps, and had spent it in his usual way, hunting for unique chances to break his neck; his vacation was over, and his luggage packed for england, but all of a sudden a hunger had come upon him to climb the tremendous weisshorn once more, for he had heard of a new and utterly impossible route up it. his baggage was unpacked at once, and now he and a friend, laden with knapsacks, ice-axes, coils of rope, and canteens of milk, were just setting out. they would spend the night high up among the snows, somewhere, and get up at two in the morning and finish the enterprise. i had a strong desire to go with them, but forced it down--a feat which mr. girdlestone, with all his fortitude, could not do. even ladies catch the climbing mania, and are unable to throw it off. a famous climber, of that sex, had attempted the weisshorn a few days before our arrival, and she and her guides had lost their way in a snow-storm high up among the peaks and glaciers and been forced to wander around a good while before they could find a way down. when this lady reached the bottom, she had been on her feet twenty-three hours! our guides, hired on the gemmi, were already at zermatt when we reached there. so there was nothing to interfere with our getting up an adventure whenever we should choose the time and the object. i resolved to devote my first evening in zermatt to studying up the subject of alpine climbing, by way of preparation. i read several books, and here are some of the things i found out. one's shoes must be strong and heavy, and have pointed hobnails in them. the alpenstock must be of the best wood, for if it should break, loss of life might be the result. one should carry an ax, to cut steps in the ice with, on the great heights. there must be a ladder, for there are steep bits of rock which can be surmounted with this instrument--or this utensil--but could not be surmounted without it; such an obstruction has compelled the tourist to waste hours hunting another route, when a ladder would have saved him all trouble. one must have from one hundred and fifty to five hundred feet of strong rope, to be used in lowering the party down steep declivities which are too steep and smooth to be traversed in any other way. one must have a steel hook, on another rope--a very useful thing; for when one is ascending and comes to a low bluff which is yet too high for the ladder, he swings this rope aloft like a lasso, the hook catches at the top of the bluff, and then the tourist climbs the rope, hand over hand--being always particular to try and forget that if the hook gives way he will never stop falling till he arrives in some part of switzerland where they are not expecting him. another important thing--there must be a rope to tie the whole party together with, so that if one falls from a mountain or down a bottomless chasm in a glacier, the others may brace back on the rope and save him. one must have a silk veil, to protect his face from snow, sleet, hail and gale, and colored goggles to protect his eyes from that dangerous enemy, snow-blindness. finally, there must be some porters, to carry provisions, wine and scientific instruments, and also blanket bags for the party to sleep in. i closed my readings with a fearful adventure which mr. whymper once had on the matterhorn when he was prowling around alone, five thousand feet above the town of breil. he was edging his way gingerly around the corner of a precipice where the upper edge of a sharp declivity of ice-glazed snow joined it. this declivity swept down a couple of hundred feet, into a gully which curved around and ended at a precipice eight hundred feet high, overlooking a glacier. his foot slipped, and he fell. he says: "my knapsack brought my head down first, and i pitched into some rocks about a dozen feet below; they caught something, and tumbled me off the edge, head over heels, into the gully; the baton was dashed from my hands, and i whirled downward in a series of bounds, each longer than the last; now over ice, now into rocks, striking my head four or five times, each time with increased force. the last bound sent me spinning through the air in a leap of fifty or sixty feet, from one side of the gully to the other, and i struck the rocks, luckily, with the whole of my left side. they caught my clothes for a moment, and i fell back on to the snow with motion arrested. my head fortunately came the right side up, and a few frantic catches brought me to a halt, in the neck of the gully and on the verge of the precipice. baton, hat, and veil skimmed by and disappeared, and the crash of the rocks--which i had started--as they fell on to the glacier, told how narrow had been the escape from utter destruction. as it was, i fell nearly two hundred feet in seven or eight bounds. ten feet more would have taken me in one gigantic leap of eight hundred feet on to the glacier below. "the situation was sufficiently serious. the rocks could not be let go for a moment, and the blood was spurting out of more than twenty cuts. the most serious ones were in the head, and i vainly tried to close them with one hand, while holding on with the other. it was useless; the blood gushed out in blinding jets at each pulsation. at last, in a moment of inspiration, i kicked out a big lump of snow and struck it as plaster on my head. the idea was a happy one, and the flow of blood diminished. then, scrambling up, i got, not a moment too soon, to a place of safety, and fainted away. the sun was setting when consciousness returned, and it was pitch-dark before the great staircase was descended; but by a combination of luck and care, the whole four thousand seven hundred feet of descent to breil was accomplished without a slip, or once missing the way." his wounds kept him abed some days. then he got up and climbed that mountain again. that is the way with a true alp-climber; the more fun he has, the more he wants. chapter xxxvii [our imposing column starts upward] after i had finished my readings, i was no longer myself; i was tranced, uplifted, intoxicated, by the almost incredible perils and adventures i had been following my authors through, and the triumphs i had been sharing with them. i sat silent some time, then turned to harris and said: "my mind is made up." something in my tone struck him: and when he glanced at my eye and read what was written there, his face paled perceptibly. he hesitated a moment, then said: "speak." i answered, with perfect calmness: "i will ascend the riffelberg." if i had shot my poor friend he could not have fallen from his chair more suddenly. if i had been his father he could not have pleaded harder to get me to give up my purpose. but i turned a deaf ear to all he said. when he perceived at last that nothing could alter my determination, he ceased to urge, and for a while the deep silence was broken only by his sobs. i sat in marble resolution, with my eyes fixed upon vacancy, for in spirit i was already wrestling with the perils of the mountains, and my friend sat gazing at me in adoring admiration through his tears. at last he threw himself upon me in a loving embrace and exclaimed in broken tones: "your harris will never desert you. we will die together." i cheered the noble fellow with praises, and soon his fears were forgotten and he was eager for the adventure. he wanted to summon the guides at once and leave at two in the morning, as he supposed the custom was; but i explained that nobody was looking at that hour; and that the start in the dark was not usually made from the village but from the first night's resting-place on the mountain side. i said we would leave the village at 3 or 4 p.m. on the morrow; meantime he could notify the guides, and also let the public know of the attempt which we proposed to make. i went to bed, but not to sleep. no man can sleep when he is about to undertake one of these alpine exploits. i tossed feverishly all night long, and was glad enough when i heard the clock strike half past eleven and knew it was time to get up for dinner. i rose, jaded and rusty, and went to the noon meal, where i found myself the center of interest and curiosity; for the news was already abroad. it is not easy to eat calmly when you are a lion; but it is very pleasant, nevertheless. as usual, at zermatt, when a great ascent is about to be undertaken, everybody, native and foreign, laid aside his own projects and took up a good position to observe the start. the expedition consisted of 198 persons, including the mules; or 205, including the cows. as follows:   chiefs of service   subordinates   myself 1 veterinary surgeon   mr. harris 1 butler 17 guides 12 waiters 4 surgeons 1 footman 1 geologist    1 barber 1 botanist 1 head cook 3 chaplains 9 assistants 2 draftsman 4 pastry cooks 15 barkeepers 1 confectionery artist 1 latinist   transportation, etc. 27 porters 3 coarse washers and ironers 44 mules 1 fine ditto 44 muleteers 7 cows     2 milkers total, 154 men, 51 animals. grand total, 205.     rations, etc.       apparatus 16 cases hams 25 spring mattresses 2 barrels flour 2 hair ditto 22 barrels whiskey bedding for same 1 barrel sugar 2 mosquito-nets 1 keg lemons 29 tents 2,000 cigars   scientific instruments 1 barrel pies 97 ice-axes 1 ton of pemmican 5 cases dynamite 143 pair crutches 7 cans nitroglycerin 2 barrels arnica 22 40-foot ladders 1 bale of lint 2 miles of rope 27 kegs paregoric 154 umbrellas it was full four o'clock in the afternoon before my cavalcade was entirely ready. at that hour it began to move. in point of numbers and spectacular effect, it was the most imposing expedition that had ever marched from zermatt. i commanded the chief guide to arrange the men and animals in single file, twelve feet apart, and lash them all together on a strong rope. he objected that the first two miles was a dead level, with plenty of room, and that the rope was never used except in very dangerous places. but i would not listen to that. my reading had taught me that many serious accidents had happened in the alps simply from not having the people tied up soon enough; i was not going to add one to the list. the guide then obeyed my order. when the procession stood at ease, roped together, and ready to move, i never saw a finer sight. it was 3,122 feet long--over half a mile; every man and me was on foot, and had on his green veil and his blue goggles, and his white rag around his hat, and his coil of rope over one shoulder and under the other, and his ice-ax in his belt, and carried his alpenstock in his left hand, his umbrella (closed) in his right, and his crutches slung at his back. the burdens of the pack-mules and the horns of the cows were decked with the edelweiss and the alpine rose. i and my agent were the only persons mounted. we were in the post of danger in the extreme rear, and tied securely to five guides apiece. our armor-bearers carried our ice-axes, alpenstocks, and other implements for us. we were mounted upon very small donkeys, as a measure of safety; in time of peril we could straighten our legs and stand up, and let the donkey walk from under. still, i cannot recommend this sort of animal--at least for excursions of mere pleasure--because his ears interrupt the view. i and my agent possessed the regulation mountaineering costumes, but concluded to leave them behind. out of respect for the great numbers of tourists of both sexes who would be assembled in front of the hotels to see us pass, and also out of respect for the many tourists whom we expected to encounter on our expedition, we decided to make the ascent in evening dress. we watered the caravan at the cold stream which rushes down a trough near the end of the village, and soon afterward left the haunts of civilization behind us. about half past five o'clock we arrived at a bridge which spans the visp, and after throwing over a detachment to see if it was safe, the caravan crossed without accident. the way now led, by a gentle ascent, carpeted with fresh green grass, to the church at winkelmatten. without stopping to examine this edifice, i executed a flank movement to the right and crossed the bridge over the findelenbach, after first testing its strength. here i deployed to the right again, and presently entered an inviting stretch of meadowland which was unoccupied save by a couple of deserted huts toward the furthest extremity. these meadows offered an excellent camping-place. we pitched our tents, supped, established a proper grade, recorded the events of the day, and then went to bed. we rose at two in the morning and dressed by candle-light. it was a dismal and chilly business. a few stars were shining, but the general heavens were overcast, and the great shaft of the matterhorn was draped in a cable pall of clouds. the chief guide advised a delay; he said he feared it was going to rain. we waited until nine o'clock, and then got away in tolerably clear weather. our course led up some terrific steeps, densely wooded with larches and cedars, and traversed by paths which the rains had guttered and which were obstructed by loose stones. to add to the danger and inconvenience, we were constantly meeting returning tourists on foot and horseback, and as constantly being crowded and battered by ascending tourists who were in a hurry and wanted to get by. our troubles thickened. about the middle of the afternoon the seventeen guides called a halt and held a consultation. after consulting an hour they said their first suspicion remained intact--that is to say, they believed they were lost. i asked if they did not know it? no, they said, they couldn't absolutely know whether they were lost or not, because none of them had ever been in that part of the country before. they had a strong instinct that they were lost, but they had no proofs--except that they did not know where they were. they had met no tourists for some time, and they considered that a suspicious sign. plainly we were in an ugly fix. the guides were naturally unwilling to go alone and seek a way out of the difficulty; so we all went together. for better security we moved slow and cautiously, for the forest was very dense. we did not move up the mountain, but around it, hoping to strike across the old trail. toward nightfall, when we were about tired out, we came up against a rock as big as a cottage. this barrier took all the remaining spirit out of the men, and a panic of fear and despair ensued. they moaned and wept, and said they should never see their homes and their dear ones again. then they began to upbraid me for bringing them upon this fatal expedition. some even muttered threats against me. clearly it was no time to show weakness. so i made a speech in which i said that other alp-climbers had been in as perilous a position as this, and yet by courage and perseverance had escaped. i promised to stand by them, i promised to rescue them. i closed by saying we had plenty of provisions to maintain us for quite a siege--and did they suppose zermatt would allow half a mile of men and mules to mysteriously disappear during any considerable time, right above their noses, and make no inquiries? no, zermatt would send out searching-expeditions and we should be saved. this speech had a great effect. the men pitched the tents with some little show of cheerfulness, and we were snugly under cover when the night shut down. i now reaped the reward of my wisdom in providing one article which is not mentioned in any book of alpine adventure but this. i refer to the paregoric. but for that beneficent drug, would have not one of those men slept a moment during that fearful night. but for that gentle persuader they must have tossed, unsoothed, the night through; for the whiskey was for me. yes, they would have risen in the morning unfitted for their heavy task. as it was, everybody slept but my agent and me--only we and the barkeepers. i would not permit myself to sleep at such a time. i considered myself responsible for all those lives. i meant to be on hand and ready, in case of avalanches up there, but i did not know it then. we watched the weather all through that awful night, and kept an eye on the barometer, to be prepared for the least change. there was not the slightest change recorded by the instrument, during the whole time. words cannot describe the comfort that that friendly, hopeful, steadfast thing was to me in that season of trouble. it was a defective barometer, and had no hand but the stationary brass pointer, but i did not know that until afterward. if i should be in such a situation again, i should not wish for any barometer but that one. all hands rose at two in the morning and took breakfast, and as soon as it was light we roped ourselves together and went at that rock. for some time we tried the hook-rope and other means of scaling it, but without success--that is, without perfect success. the hook caught once, and harris started up it hand over hand, but the hold broke and if there had not happened to be a chaplain sitting underneath at the time, harris would certainly have been crippled. as it was, it was the chaplain. he took to his crutches, and i ordered the hook-rope to be laid aside. it was too dangerous an implement where so many people are standing around. we were puzzled for a while; then somebody thought of the ladders. one of these was leaned against the rock, and the men went up it tied together in couples. another ladder was sent up for use in descending. at the end of half an hour everybody was over, and that rock was conquered. we gave our first grand shout of triumph. but the joy was short-lived, for somebody asked how we were going to get the animals over. this was a serious difficulty; in fact, it was an impossibility. the courage of the men began to waver immediately; once more we were threatened with a panic. but when the danger was most imminent, we were saved in a mysterious way. a mule which had attracted attention from the beginning by its disposition to experiment, tried to eat a five-pound can of nitroglycerin. this happened right alongside the rock. the explosion threw us all to the ground, and covered us with dirt and debris; it frightened us extremely, too, for the crash it made was deafening, and the violence of the shock made the ground tremble. however, we were grateful, for the rock was gone. its place was occupied by a new cellar, about thirty feet across, by fifteen feet deep. the explosion was heard as far as zermatt; and an hour and a half afterward, many citizens of that town were knocked down and quite seriously injured by descending portions of mule meat, frozen solid. this shows, better than any estimate in figures, how high the experimenter went. we had nothing to do, now, but bridge the cellar and proceed on our way. with a cheer the men went at their work. i attended to the engineering, myself. i appointed a strong detail to cut down trees with ice-axes and trim them for piers to support the bridge. this was a slow business, for ice-axes are not good to cut wood with. i caused my piers to be firmly set up in ranks in the cellar, and upon them i laid six of my forty-foot ladders, side by side, and laid six more on top of them. upon this bridge i caused a bed of boughs to be spread, and on top of the boughs a bed of earth six inches deep. i stretched ropes upon either side to serve as railings, and then my bridge was complete. a train of elephants could have crossed it in safety and comfort. by nightfall the caravan was on the other side and the ladders were taken up. next morning we went on in good spirits for a while, though our way was slow and difficult, by reason of the steep and rocky nature of the ground and the thickness of the forest; but at last a dull despondency crept into the men's faces and it was apparent that not only they, but even the guides, were now convinced that we were lost. the fact that we still met no tourists was a circumstance that was but too significant. another thing seemed to suggest that we were not only lost, but very badly lost; for there must surely be searching-parties on the road before this time, yet we had seen no sign of them. demoralization was spreading; something must be done, and done quickly, too. fortunately, i am not unfertile in expedients. i contrived one now which commended itself to all, for it promised well. i took three-quarters of a mile of rope and fastened one end of it around the waist of a guide, and told him to go find the road, while the caravan waited. i instructed him to guide himself back by the rope, in case of failure; in case of success, he was to give the rope a series of violent jerks, whereupon the expedition would go to him at once. he departed, and in two minutes had disappeared among the trees. i payed out the rope myself, while everybody watched the crawling thing with eager eyes. the rope crept away quite slowly, at times, at other times with some briskness. twice or thrice we seemed to get the signal, and a shout was just ready to break from the men's lips when they perceived it was a false alarm. but at last, when over half a mile of rope had slidden away, it stopped gliding and stood absolutely still--one minute--two minutes--three--while we held our breath and watched. was the guide resting? was he scanning the country from some high point? was he inquiring of a chance mountaineer? stop,--had he fainted from excess of fatigue and anxiety? this thought gave us a shock. i was in the very first act of detailing an expedition to succor him, when the cord was assailed with a series of such frantic jerks that i could hardly keep hold of it. the huzza that went up, then, was good to hear. "saved! saved!" was the word that rang out, all down the long rank of the caravan. we rose up and started at once. we found the route to be good enough for a while, but it began to grow difficult, by and by, and this feature steadily increased. when we judged we had gone half a mile, we momently expected to see the guide; but no, he was not visible anywhere; neither was he waiting, for the rope was still moving, consequently he was doing the same. this argued that he had not found the road, yet, but was marching to it with some peasant. there was nothing for us to do but plod along--and this we did. at the end of three hours we were still plodding. this was not only mysterious, but exasperating. and very fatiguing, too; for we had tried hard, along at first, to catch up with the guide, but had only fagged ourselves, in vain; for although he was traveling slowly he was yet able to go faster than the hampered caravan over such ground. at three in the afternoon we were nearly dead with exhaustion--and still the rope was slowly gliding out. the murmurs against the guide had been growing steadily, and at last they were become loud and savage. a mutiny ensued. the men refused to proceed. they declared that we had been traveling over and over the same ground all day, in a kind of circle. they demanded that our end of the rope be made fast to a tree, so as to halt the guide until we could overtake him and kill him. this was not an unreasonable requirement, so i gave the order. as soon as the rope was tied, the expedition moved forward with that alacrity which the thirst for vengeance usually inspires. but after a tiresome march of almost half a mile, we came to a hill covered thick with a crumbly rubbish of stones, and so steep that no man of us all was now in a condition to climb it. every attempt failed, and ended in crippling somebody. within twenty minutes i had five men on crutches. whenever a climber tried to assist himself by the rope, it yielded and let him tumble backward. the frequency of this result suggested an idea to me. i ordered the caravan to 'bout face and form in marching order; i then made the tow-rope fast to the rear mule, and gave the command: "mark time--by the right flank--forward--march!" the procession began to move, to the impressive strains of a battle-chant, and i said to myself, "now, if the rope don't break i judge this will fetch that guide into the camp." i watched the rope gliding down the hill, and presently when i was all fixed for triumph i was confronted by a bitter disappointment; there was no guide tied to the rope, it was only a very indignant old black ram. the fury of the baffled expedition exceeded all bounds. they even wanted to wreak their unreasoning vengeance on this innocent dumb brute. but i stood between them and their prey, menaced by a bristling wall of ice-axes and alpenstocks, and proclaimed that there was but one road to this murder, and it was directly over my corpse. even as i spoke i saw that my doom was sealed, except a miracle supervened to divert these madmen from their fell purpose. i see the sickening wall of weapons now; i see that advancing host as i saw it then, i see the hate in those cruel eyes; i remember how i drooped my head upon my breast, i feel again the sudden earthquake shock in my rear, administered by the very ram i was sacrificing myself to save; i hear once more the typhoon of laughter that burst from the assaulting column as i clove it from van to rear like a sepoy shot from a rodman gun. i was saved. yes, i was saved, and by the merciful instinct of ingratitude which nature had planted in the breast of that treacherous beast. the grace which eloquence had failed to work in those men's hearts, had been wrought by a laugh. the ram was set free and my life was spared. we lived to find out that that guide had deserted us as soon as he had placed a half-mile between himself and us. to avert suspicion, he had judged it best that the line should continue to move; so he caught that ram, and at the time that he was sitting on it making the rope fast to it, we were imagining that he was lying in a swoon, overcome by fatigue and distress. when he allowed the ram to get up it fell to plunging around, trying to rid itself of the rope, and this was the signal which we had risen up with glad shouts to obey. we had followed this ram round and round in a circle all day--a thing which was proven by the discovery that we had watered the expedition seven times at one and same spring in seven hours. as expert a woodman as i am, i had somehow failed to notice this until my attention was called to it by a hog. this hog was always wallowing there, and as he was the only hog we saw, his frequent repetition, together with his unvarying similarity to himself, finally caused me to reflect that he must be the same hog, and this led me to the deduction that this must be the same spring, also--which indeed it was. i made a note of this curious thing, as showing in a striking manner the relative difference between glacial action and the action of the hog. it is now a well-established fact that glaciers move; i consider that my observations go to show, with equal conclusiveness, that a hog in a spring does not move. i shall be glad to receive the opinions of other observers upon this point. to return, for an explanatory moment, to that guide, and then i shall be done with him. after leaving the ram tied to the rope, he had wandered at large a while, and then happened to run across a cow. judging that a cow would naturally know more than a guide, he took her by the tail, and the result justified his judgment. she nibbled her leisurely way downhill till it was near milking-time, then she struck for home and towed him into zermatt. chapter xxxviii [i conquer the gorner grat] we went into camp on that wild spot to which that ram had brought us. the men were greatly fatigued. their conviction that we were lost was forgotten in the cheer of a good supper, and before the reaction had a chance to set in, i loaded them up with paregoric and put them to bed. next morning i was considering in my mind our desperate situation and trying to think of a remedy, when harris came to me with a baedeker map which showed conclusively that the mountain we were on was still in switzerland--yes, every part of it was in switzerland. so we were not lost, after all. this was an immense relief; it lifted the weight of two such mountains from my breast. i immediately had the news disseminated and the map was exhibited. the effect was wonderful. as soon as the men saw with their own eyes that they knew where they were, and that it was only the summit that was lost and not themselves, they cheered up instantly and said with one accord, let the summit take care of itself. our distresses being at an end, i now determined to rest the men in camp and give the scientific department of the expedition a chance. first, i made a barometric observation, to get our altitude, but i could not perceive that there was any result. i knew, by my scientific reading, that either thermometers or barometers ought to be boiled, to make them accurate; i did not know which it was, so i boiled them both. there was still no result; so i examined these instruments and discovered that they possessed radical blemishes: the barometer had no hand but the brass pointer and the ball of the thermometer was stuffed with tin-foil. i might have boiled those things to rags, and never found out anything. i hunted up another barometer; it was new and perfect. i boiled it half an hour in a pot of bean soup which the cooks were making. the result was unexpected: the instrument was not affecting at all, but there was such a strong barometer taste to the soup that the head cook, who was a most conscientious person, changed its name in the bill of fare. the dish was so greatly liked by all, that i ordered the cook to have barometer soup every day. it was believed that the barometer might eventually be injured, but i did not care for that. i had demonstrated to my satisfaction that it could not tell how high a mountain was, therefore i had no real use for it. changes in the weather i could take care of without it; i did not wish to know when the weather was going to be good, what i wanted to know was when it was going to be bad, and this i could find out from harris's corns. harris had had his corns tested and regulated at the government observatory in heidelberg, and one could depend upon them with confidence. so i transferred the new barometer to the cooking department, to be used for the official mess. it was found that even a pretty fair article of soup could be made from the defective barometer; so i allowed that one to be transferred to the subordinate mess. i next boiled the thermometer, and got a most excellent result; the mercury went up to about 200 degrees fahrenheit. in the opinion of the other scientists of the expedition, this seemed to indicate that we had attained the extraordinary altitude of two hundred thousand feet above sea-level. science places the line of eternal snow at about ten thousand feet above sea-level. there was no snow where we were, consequently it was proven that the eternal snow-line ceases somewhere above the ten-thousand-foot level and does not begin any more. this was an interesting fact, and one which had not been observed by any observer before. it was as valuable as interesting, too, since it would open up the deserted summits of the highest alps to population and agriculture. it was a proud thing to be where we were, yet it caused us a pang to reflect that but for that ram we might just as well have been two hundred thousand feet higher. the success of my last experiment induced me to try an experiment with my photographic apparatus. i got it out, and boiled one of my cameras, but the thing was a failure; it made the wood swell up and burst, and i could not see that the lenses were any better than they were before. i now concluded to boil a guide. it might improve him, it could not impair his usefulness. but i was not allowed to proceed. guides have no feeling for science, and this one would not consent to be made uncomfortable in its interest. in the midst of my scientific work, one of those needless accidents happened which are always occurring among the ignorant and thoughtless. a porter shot at a chamois and missed it and crippled the latinist. this was not a serious matter to me, for a latinist's duties are as well performed on crutches as otherwise--but the fact remained that if the latinist had not happened to be in the way a mule would have got that load. that would have been quite another matter, for when it comes down to a question of value there is a palpable difference between a latinist and a mule. i could not depend on having a latinist in the right place every time; so, to make things safe, i ordered that in the future the chamois must not be hunted within limits of the camp with any other weapon than the forefinger. my nerves had hardly grown quiet after this affair when they got another shake-up--one which utterly unmanned me for a moment: a rumor swept suddenly through the camp that one of the barkeepers had fallen over a precipice! however, it turned out that it was only a chaplain. i had laid in an extra force of chaplains, purposely to be prepared for emergencies like this, but by some unaccountable oversight had come away rather short-handed in the matter of barkeepers. on the following morning we moved on, well refreshed and in good spirits. i remember this day with peculiar pleasure, because it saw our road restored to us. yes, we found our road again, and in quite an extraordinary way. we had plodded along some two hours and a half, when we came up against a solid mass of rock about twenty feet high. i did not need to be instructed by a mule this time. i was already beginning to know more than any mule in the expedition. i at once put in a blast of dynamite, and lifted that rock out of the way. but to my surprise and mortification, i found that there had been a chalet on top of it. i picked up such members of the family as fell in my vicinity, and subordinates of my corps collected the rest. none of these poor people were injured, happily, but they were much annoyed. i explained to the head chaleteer just how the thing happened, and that i was only searching for the road, and would certainly have given him timely notice if i had known he was up there. i said i had meant no harm, and hoped i had not lowered myself in his estimation by raising him a few rods in the air. i said many other judicious things, and finally when i offered to rebuild his chalet, and pay for the breakages, and throw in the cellar, he was mollified and satisfied. he hadn't any cellar at all, before; he would not have as good a view, now, as formerly, but what he had lost in view he had gained in cellar, by exact measurement. he said there wasn't another hole like that in the mountains--and he would have been right if the late mule had not tried to eat up the nitroglycerin. i put a hundred and sixteen men at work, and they rebuilt the chalet from its own debris in fifteen minutes. it was a good deal more picturesque than it was before, too. the man said we were now on the feil-stutz, above the schwegmatt--information which i was glad to get, since it gave us our position to a degree of particularity which we had not been accustomed to for a day or so. we also learned that we were standing at the foot of the riffelberg proper, and that the initial chapter of our work was completed. we had a fine view, from here, of the energetic visp, as it makes its first plunge into the world from under a huge arch of solid ice, worn through the foot-wall of the great gorner glacier; and we could also see the furggenbach, which is the outlet of the furggen glacier. the mule-road to the summit of the riffelberg passed right in front of the chalet, a circumstance which we almost immediately noticed, because a procession of tourists was filing along it pretty much all the time. "pretty much" may not be elegant english, but it is high time it was. there is no elegant word or phrase which means just what it means.--m.t. the chaleteer's business consisted in furnishing refreshments to tourists. my blast had interrupted this trade for a few minutes, by breaking all the bottles on the place; but i gave the man a lot of whiskey to sell for alpine champagne, and a lot of vinegar which would answer for rhine wine, consequently trade was soon as brisk as ever. leaving the expedition outside to rest, i quartered myself in the chalet, with harris, proposing to correct my journals and scientific observations before continuing the ascent. i had hardly begun my work when a tall, slender, vigorous american youth of about twenty-three, who was on his way down the mountain, entered and came toward me with that breezy self-complacency which is the adolescent's idea of the well-bred ease of the man of the world. his hair was short and parted accurately in the middle, and he had all the look of an american person who would be likely to begin his signature with an initial, and spell his middle name out. he introduced himself, smiling a smirky smile borrowed from the courtiers of the stage, extended a fair-skinned talon, and while he gripped my hand in it he bent his body forward three times at the hips, as the stage courtier does, and said in the airiest and most condescending and patronizing way--i quite remember his exact language: "very glad to make your acquaintance, 'm sure; very glad indeed, assure you. i've read all your little efforts and greatly admired them, and when i heard you were here, i ..." i indicated a chair, and he sat down. this grandee was the grandson of an american of considerable note in his day, and not wholly forgotten yet--a man who came so near being a great man that he was quite generally accounted one while he lived. i slowly paced the floor, pondering scientific problems, and heard this conversation: grandson. first visit to europe? harris. mine? yes. g.s. (with a soft reminiscent sigh suggestive of bygone joys that may be tasted in their freshness but once.) ah, i know what it is to you. a first visit!--ah, the romance of it! i wish i could feel it again. h. yes, i find it exceeds all my dreams. it is enchantment. i go... g.s. (with a dainty gesture of the hand signifying "spare me your callow enthusiasms, good friend.") yes, _i_ know, i know; you go to cathedrals, and exclaim; and you drag through league-long picture-galleries and exclaim; and you stand here, and there, and yonder, upon historic ground, and continue to exclaim; and you are permeated with your first crude conceptions of art, and are proud and happy. ah, yes, proud and happy--that expresses it. yes-yes, enjoy it--it is right--it is an innocent revel. h. and you? don't you do these things now? g.s. i! oh, that is very good! my dear sir, when you are as old a traveler as i am, you will not ask such a question as that. _i_ visit the regulation gallery, moon around the regulation cathedral, do the worn round of the regulation sights, yet?--excuse me! h. well, what do you do, then? g.s. do? i flit--and flit--for i am ever on the wing--but i avoid the herd. today i am in paris, tomorrow in berlin, anon in rome; but you would look for me in vain in the galleries of the louvre or the common resorts of the gazers in those other capitals. if you would find me, you must look in the unvisited nooks and corners where others never think of going. one day you will find me making myself at home in some obscure peasant's cabin, another day you will find me in some forgotten castle worshiping some little gem or art which the careless eye has overlooked and which the unexperienced would despise; again you will find me as guest in the inner sanctuaries of palaces while the herd is content to get a hurried glimpse of the unused chambers by feeing a servant. h. you are a guest in such places? g.s. and a welcoming one. h. it is surprising. how does it come? g.s. my grandfather's name is a passport to all the courts in europe. i have only to utter that name and every door is open to me. i flit from court to court at my own free will and pleasure, and am always welcome. i am as much at home in the palaces of europe as you are among your relatives. i know every titled person in europe, i think. i have my pockets full of invitations all the time. i am under promise to go to italy, where i am to be the guest of a succession of the noblest houses in the land. in berlin my life is a continued round of gaiety in the imperial palace. it is the same, wherever i go. h. it must be very pleasant. but it must make boston seem a little slow when you are at home. g.s. yes, of course it does. but i don't go home much. there's no life there--little to feed a man's higher nature. boston's very narrow, you know. she doesn't know it, and you couldn't convince her of it--so i say nothing when i'm there: where's the use? yes, boston is very narrow, but she has such a good opinion of herself that she can't see it. a man who has traveled as much as i have, and seen as much of the world, sees it plain enough, but he can't cure it, you know, so the best is to leave it and seek a sphere which is more in harmony with his tastes and culture. i run across there, once a year, perhaps, when i have nothing important on hand, but i'm very soon back again. i spend my time in europe. h. i see. you map out your plans and ... g.s. no, excuse me. i don't map out any plans. i simply follow the inclination of the day. i am limited by no ties, no requirements, i am not bound in any way. i am too old a traveler to hamper myself with deliberate purposes. i am simply a traveler--an inveterate traveler--a man of the world, in a word--i can call myself by no other name. i do not say, "i am going here, or i am going there"--i say nothing at all, i only act. for instance, next week you may find me the guest of a grandee of spain, or you may find me off for venice, or flitting toward dresden. i shall probably go to egypt presently; friends will say to friends, "he is at the nile cataracts"--and at that very moment they will be surprised to learn that i'm away off yonder in india somewhere. i am a constant surprise to people. they are always saying, "yes, he was in jerusalem when we heard of him last, but goodness knows where he is now." presently the grandson rose to leave--discovered he had an appointment with some emperor, perhaps. he did his graces over again: gripped me with one talon, at arm's-length, pressed his hat against his stomach with the other, bent his body in the middle three times, murmuring: "pleasure, 'm sure; great pleasure, 'm sure. wish you much success." then he removed his gracious presence. it is a great and solemn thing to have a grandfather. i have not purposed to misrepresent this boy in any way, for what little indignation he excited in me soon passed and left nothing behind it but compassion. one cannot keep up a grudge against a vacuum. i have tried to repeat this lad's very words; if i have failed anywhere i have at least not failed to reproduce the marrow and meaning of what he said. he and the innocent chatterbox whom i met on the swiss lake are the most unique and interesting specimens of young america i came across during my foreign tramping. i have made honest portraits of them, not caricatures. the grandson of twenty-three referred to himself five or six times as an "old traveler," and as many as three times (with a serene complacency which was maddening) as a "man of the world." there was something very delicious about his leaving boston to her "narrowness," unreproved and uninstructed. i formed the caravan in marching order, presently, and after riding down the line to see that it was properly roped together, gave the command to proceed. in a little while the road carried us to open, grassy land. we were above the troublesome forest, now, and had an uninterrupted view, straight before us, of our summit--the summit of the riffelberg. we followed the mule-road, a zigzag course, now to the right, now to the left, but always up, and always crowded and incommoded by going and coming files of reckless tourists who were never, in a single instance, tied together. i was obliged to exert the utmost care and caution, for in many places the road was not two yards wide, and often the lower side of it sloped away in slanting precipices eight and even nine feet deep. i had to encourage the men constantly, to keep them from giving way to their unmanly fears. we might have made the summit before night, but for a delay caused by the loss of an umbrella. i was allowing the umbrella to remain lost, but the men murmured, and with reason, for in this exposed region we stood in peculiar need of protection against avalanches; so i went into camp and detached a strong party to go after the missing article. the difficulties of the next morning were severe, but our courage was high, for our goal was near. at noon we conquered the last impediment--we stood at last upon the summit, and without the loss of a single man except the mule that ate the glycerin. our great achievement was achieved--the possibility of the impossible was demonstrated, and harris and i walked proudly into the great dining-room of the riffelberg hotel and stood our alpenstocks up in the corner. yes, i had made the grand ascent; but it was a mistake to do it in evening dress. the plug hats were battered, the swallow-tails were fluttering rags, mud added no grace, the general effect was unpleasant and even disreputable. there were about seventy-five tourists at the hotel--mainly ladies and little children--and they gave us an admiring welcome which paid us for all our privations and sufferings. the ascent had been made, and the names and dates now stand recorded on a stone monument there to prove it to all future tourists. i boiled a thermometer and took an altitude, with a most curious result: the summit was not as high as the point on the mountainside where i had taken the first altitude. suspecting that i had made an important discovery, i prepared to verify it. there happened to be a still higher summit (called the gorner grat), above the hotel, and notwithstanding the fact that it overlooks a glacier from a dizzy height, and that the ascent is difficult and dangerous, i resolved to venture up there and boil a thermometer. so i sent a strong party, with some borrowed hoes, in charge of two chiefs of service, to dig a stairway in the soil all the way up, and this i ascended, roped to the guides. this breezy height was the summit proper--so i accomplished even more than i had originally purposed to do. this foolhardy exploit is recorded on another stone monument. i boiled my thermometer, and sure enough, this spot, which purported to be two thousand feet higher than the locality of the hotel, turned out to be nine thousand feet lower. thus the fact was clearly demonstrated that, above a certain point, the higher a point seems to be, the lower it actually is. our ascent itself was a great achievement, but this contribution to science was an inconceivably greater matter. cavilers object that water boils at a lower and lower temperature the higher and higher you go, and hence the apparent anomaly. i answer that i do not base my theory upon what the boiling water does, but upon what a boiled thermometer says. you can't go behind the thermometer. i had a magnificent view of monte rosa, and apparently all the rest of the alpine world, from that high place. all the circling horizon was piled high with a mighty tumult of snowy crests. one might have imagined he saw before him the tented camps of a beleaguering host of brobdingnagians. note.--i had the very unusual luck to catch one little momentary glimpse of the matterhorn wholly unencumbered by clouds. i leveled my photographic apparatus at it without the loss of an instant, and should have got an elegant picture if my donkey had not interfered. it was my purpose to draw this photograph all by myself for my book, but was obliged to put the mountain part of it into the hands of the professional artist because i found i could not do landscape well. but lonely, conspicuous, and superb, rose that wonderful upright wedge, the matterhorn. its precipitous sides were powdered over with snow, and the upper half hidden in thick clouds which now and then dissolved to cobweb films and gave brief glimpses of the imposing tower as through a veil. a little later the matterhorn took to himself the semblance of a volcano; he was stripped naked to his apex--around this circled vast wreaths of white cloud which strung slowly out and streamed away slantwise toward the sun, a twenty-mile stretch of rolling and tumbling vapor, and looking just as if it were pouring out of a crater. later again, one of the mountain's sides was clean and clear, and another side densely clothed from base to summit in thick smokelike cloud which feathered off and flew around the shaft's sharp edge like the smoke around the corners of a burning building. the matterhorn is always experimenting, and always gets up fine effects, too. in the sunset, when all the lower world is palled in gloom, it points toward heaven out of the pervading blackness like a finger of fire. in the sunrise--well, they say it is very fine in the sunrise. authorities agree that there is no such tremendous "layout" of snowy alpine magnitude, grandeur, and sublimity to be seen from any other accessible point as the tourist may see from the summit of the riffelberg. therefore, let the tourist rope himself up and go there; for i have shown that with nerve, caution, and judgment, the thing can be done. i wish to add one remark, here--in parentheses, so to speak--suggested by the word "snowy," which i have just used. we have all seen hills and mountains and levels with snow on them, and so we think we know all the aspects and effects produced by snow. but indeed we do not until we have seen the alps. possibly mass and distance add something--at any rate, something is added. among other noticeable things, there is a dazzling, intense whiteness about the distant alpine snow, when the sun is on it, which one recognizes as peculiar, and not familiar to the eye. the snow which one is accustomed to has a tint to it--painters usually give it a bluish cast--but there is no perceptible tint to the distant alpine snow when it is trying to look its whitest. as to the unimaginable splendor of it when the sun is blazing down on it--well, it simply is unimaginable. chapter xxxix [we travel by glacier] a guide-book is a queer thing. the reader has just seen what a man who undertakes the great ascent from zermatt to the riffelberg hotel must experience. yet baedeker makes these strange statements concerning this matter: 1. distance--3 hours. 2. the road cannot be mistaken. 3. guide unnecessary. 4. distance from riffelberg hotel to the gorner grat, one hour and a half. 5. ascent simple and easy. guide unnecessary. 6. elevation of zermatt above sea-level, 5,315 feet. 7. elevation of riffelberg hotel above sea-level, 8,429 feet. 8. elevation of the gorner grat above sea-level, 10,289 feet. i have pretty effectually throttled these errors by sending him the following demonstrated facts: 1. distance from zermatt to riffelberg hotel, 7 days. 2. the road can be mistaken. if i am the first that did it, i want the credit of it, too. 3. guides are necessary, for none but a native can read those finger-boards. 4. the estimate of the elevation of the several localities above sea-level is pretty correct--for baedeker. he only misses it about a hundred and eighty or ninety thousand feet. i found my arnica invaluable. my men were suffering excruciatingly, from the friction of sitting down so much. during two or three days, not one of them was able to do more than lie down or walk about; yet so effective was the arnica, that on the fourth all were able to sit up. i consider that, more than to anything else, i owe the success of our great undertaking to arnica and paregoric. my men are being restored to health and strength, my main perplexity, now, was how to get them down the mountain again. i was not willing to expose the brave fellows to the perils, fatigues, and hardships of that fearful route again if it could be helped. first i thought of balloons; but, of course, i had to give that idea up, for balloons were not procurable. i thought of several other expedients, but upon consideration discarded them, for cause. but at last i hit it. i was aware that the movement of glaciers is an established fact, for i had read it in baedeker; so i resolved to take passage for zermatt on the great gorner glacier. very good. the next thing was, how to get down the glacier comfortably--for the mule-road to it was long, and winding, and wearisome. i set my mind at work, and soon thought out a plan. one looks straight down upon the vast frozen river called the gorner glacier, from the gorner grat, a sheer precipice twelve hundred feet high. we had one hundred and fifty-four umbrellas--and what is an umbrella but a parachute? i mentioned this noble idea to harris, with enthusiasm, and was about to order the expedition to form on the gorner grat, with their umbrellas, and prepare for flight by platoons, each platoon in command of a guide, when harris stopped me and urged me not to be too hasty. he asked me if this method of descending the alps had ever been tried before. i said no, i had not heard of an instance. then, in his opinion, it was a matter of considerable gravity; in his opinion it would not be well to send the whole command over the cliff at once; a better way would be to send down a single individual, first, and see how he fared. i saw the wisdom in this idea instantly. i said as much, and thanked my agent cordially, and told him to take his umbrella and try the thing right away, and wave his hat when he got down, if he struck in a soft place, and then i would ship the rest right along. harris was greatly touched with this mark of confidence, and said so, in a voice that had a perceptible tremble in it; but at the same time he said he did not feel himself worthy of so conspicuous a favor; that it might cause jealousy in the command, for there were plenty who would not hesitate to say he had used underhanded means to get the appointment, whereas his conscience would bear him witness that he had not sought it at all, nor even, in his secret heart, desired it. i said these words did him extreme credit, but that he must not throw away the imperishable distinction of being the first man to descend an alp per parachute, simply to save the feelings of some envious underlings. no, i said, he must accept the appointment--it was no longer an invitation, it was a command. he thanked me with effusion, and said that putting the thing in this form removed every objection. he retired, and soon returned with his umbrella, his eye flaming with gratitude and his cheeks pallid with joy. just then the head guide passed along. harris's expression changed to one of infinite tenderness, and he said: "that man did me a cruel injury four days ago, and i said in my heart he should live to perceive and confess that the only noble revenge a man can take upon his enemy is to return good for evil. i resign in his favor. appoint him." i threw my arms around the generous fellow and said: "harris, you are the noblest soul that lives. you shall not regret this sublime act, neither shall the world fail to know of it. you shall have opportunity far transcending this one, too, if i live--remember that." i called the head guide to me and appointed him on the spot. but the thing aroused no enthusiasm in him. he did not take to the idea at all. he said: "tie myself to an umbrella and jump over the gorner grat! excuse me, there are a great many pleasanter roads to the devil than that." upon a discussion of the subject with him, it appeared that he considered the project distinctly and decidedly dangerous. i was not convinced, yet i was not willing to try the experiment in any risky way--that is, in a way that might cripple the strength and efficiency of the expedition. i was about at my wits' end when it occurred to me to try it on the latinist. he was called in. but he declined, on the plea of inexperience, diffidence in public, lack of curiosity, and i didn't know what all. another man declined on account of a cold in the head; thought he ought to avoid exposure. another could not jump well--never could jump well--did not believe he could jump so far without long and patient practice. another was afraid it was going to rain, and his umbrella had a hole in it. everybody had an excuse. the result was what the reader has by this time guessed: the most magnificent idea that was ever conceived had to be abandoned, from sheer lack of a person with enterprise enough to carry it out. yes, i actually had to give that thing up--while doubtless i should live to see somebody use it and take all the credit from me. well, i had to go overland--there was no other way. i marched the expedition down the steep and tedious mule-path and took up as good a position as i could upon the middle of the glacier--because baedeker said the middle part travels the fastest. as a measure of economy, however, i put some of the heavier baggage on the shoreward parts, to go as slow freight. i waited and waited, but the glacier did not move. night was coming on, the darkness began to gather--still we did not budge. it occurred to me then, that there might be a time-table in baedeker; it would be well to find out the hours of starting. i called for the book--it could not be found. bradshaw would certainly contain a time-table; but no bradshaw could be found. very well, i must make the best of the situation. so i pitched the tents, picketed the animals, milked the cows, had supper, paregoricked the men, established the watch, and went to bed--with orders to call me as soon as we came in sight of zermatt. i awoke about half past ten next morning, and looked around. we hadn't budged a peg! at first i could not understand it; then it occurred to me that the old thing must be aground. so i cut down some trees and rigged a spar on the starboard and another on the port side, and fooled away upward of three hours trying to spar her off. but it was no use. she was half a mile wide and fifteen or twenty miles long, and there was no telling just whereabouts she was aground. the men began to show uneasiness, too, and presently they came flying to me with ashy faces, saying she had sprung a leak. nothing but my cool behavior at this critical time saved us from another panic. i ordered them to show me the place. they led me to a spot where a huge boulder lay in a deep pool of clear and brilliant water. it did look like a pretty bad leak, but i kept that to myself. i made a pump and set the men to work to pump out the glacier. we made a success of it. i perceived, then, that it was not a leak at all. this boulder had descended from a precipice and stopped on the ice in the middle of the glacier, and the sun had warmed it up, every day, and consequently it had melted its way deeper and deeper into the ice, until at last it reposed, as we had found it, in a deep pool of the clearest and coldest water. presently baedeker was found again, and i hunted eagerly for the time-table. there was none. the book simply said the glacier was moving all the time. this was satisfactory, so i shut up the book and chose a good position to view the scenery as we passed along. i stood there some time enjoying the trip, but at last it occurred to me that we did not seem to be gaining any on the scenery. i said to myself, "this confounded old thing's aground again, sure,"--and opened baedeker to see if i could run across any remedy for these annoying interruptions. i soon found a sentence which threw a dazzling light upon the matter. it said, "the gorner glacier travels at an average rate of a little less than an inch a day." i have seldom felt so outraged. i have seldom had my confidence so wantonly betrayed. i made a small calculation: one inch a day, say thirty feet a year; estimated distance to zermatt, three and one-eighteenth miles. time required to go by glacier, a little over five hundred years! i said to myself, "i can walk it quicker--and before i will patronize such a fraud as this, i will do it." when i revealed to harris the fact that the passenger part of this glacier--the central part--the lightning-express part, so to speak--was not due in zermatt till the summer of 2378, and that the baggage, coming along the slow edge, would not arrive until some generations later, he burst out with: "that is european management, all over! an inch a day--think of that! five hundred years to go a trifle over three miles! but i am not a bit surprised. it's a catholic glacier. you can tell by the look of it. and the management." i said, no, i believed nothing but the extreme end of it was in a catholic canton. "well, then, it's a government glacier," said harris. "it's all the same. over here the government runs everything--so everything's slow; slow, and ill-managed. but with us, everything's done by private enterprise--and then there ain't much lolling around, you can depend on it. i wish tom scott could get his hands on this torpid old slab once--you'd see it take a different gait from this." i said i was sure he would increase the speed, if there was trade enough to justify it. "he'd make trade," said harris. "that's the difference between governments and individuals. governments don't care, individuals do. tom scott would take all the trade; in two years gorner stock would go to two hundred, and inside of two more you would see all the other glaciers under the hammer for taxes." after a reflective pause, harris added, "a little less than an inch a day; a little less than an inch, mind you. well, i'm losing my reverence for glaciers." i was feeling much the same way myself. i have traveled by canal-boat, ox-wagon, raft, and by the ephesus and smyrna railway; but when it comes down to good solid honest slow motion, i bet my money on the glacier. as a means of passenger transportation, i consider the glacier a failure; but as a vehicle of slow freight, i think she fills the bill. in the matter of putting the fine shades on that line of business, i judge she could teach the germans something. i ordered the men to break camp and prepare for the land journey to zermatt. at this moment a most interesting find was made; a dark object, bedded in the glacial ice, was cut out with the ice-axes, and it proved to be a piece of the undressed skin of some animal--a hair trunk, perhaps; but a close inspection disabled the hair-trunk theory, and further discussion and examination exploded it entirely--that is, in the opinion of all the scientists except the one who had advanced it. this one clung to his theory with affectionate fidelity characteristic of originators of scientific theories, and afterward won many of the first scientists of the age to his view, by a very able pamphlet which he wrote, entitled, "evidences going to show that the hair trunk, in a wild state, belonged to the early glacial period, and roamed the wastes of chaos in the company with the cave-bear, primeval man, and the other ooelitics of the old silurian family." each of our scientists had a theory of his own, and put forward an animal of his own as a candidate for the skin. i sided with the geologist of the expedition in the belief that this patch of skin had once helped to cover a siberian elephant, in some old forgotten age--but we divided there, the geologist believing that this discovery proved that siberia had formerly been located where switzerland is now, whereas i held the opinion that it merely proved that the primeval swiss was not the dull savage he is represented to have been, but was a being of high intellectual development, who liked to go to the menagerie. we arrived that evening, after many hardships and adventures, in some fields close to the great ice-arch where the mad visp boils and surges out from under the foot of the great gorner glacier, and here we camped, our perils over and our magnificent undertaking successfully completed. we marched into zermatt the next day, and were received with the most lavish honors and applause. a document, signed and sealed by the authorities, was given to me which established and endorsed the fact that i had made the ascent of the riffelberg. this i wear around my neck, and it will be buried with me when i am no more. chapter xl [piteous relics at chamonix] i am not so ignorant about glacial movement, now, as i was when i took passage on the gorner glacier. i have "read up" since. i am aware that these vast bodies of ice do not travel at the same rate of speed; while the gorner glacier makes less than an inch a day, the unter-aar glacier makes as much as eight; and still other glaciers are said to go twelve, sixteen, and even twenty inches a day. one writer says that the slowest glacier travels twenty-five feet a year, and the fastest four hundred. what is a glacier? it is easy to say it looks like a frozen river which occupies the bed of a winding gorge or gully between mountains. but that gives no notion of its vastness. for it is sometimes six hundred feet thick, and we are not accustomed to rivers six hundred feet deep; no, our rivers are six feet, twenty feet, and sometimes fifty feet deep; we are not quite able to grasp so large a fact as an ice-river six hundred feet deep. the glacier's surface is not smooth and level, but has deep swales and swelling elevations, and sometimes has the look of a tossing sea whose turbulent billows were frozen hard in the instant of their most violent motion; the glacier's surface is not a flawless mass, but is a river with cracks or crevices, some narrow, some gaping wide. many a man, the victim of a slip or a misstep, has plunged down one of these and met his death. men have been fished out of them alive; but it was when they did not go to a great depth; the cold of the great depths would quickly stupefy a man, whether he was hurt or unhurt. these cracks do not go straight down; one can seldom see more than twenty to forty feet down them; consequently men who have disappeared in them have been sought for, in the hope that they had stopped within helping distance, whereas their case, in most instances, had really been hopeless from the beginning. in 1864 a party of tourists was descending mont blanc, and while picking their way over one of the mighty glaciers of that lofty region, roped together, as was proper, a young porter disengaged himself from the line and started across an ice-bridge which spanned a crevice. it broke under him with a crash, and he disappeared. the others could not see how deep he had gone, so it might be worthwhile to try and rescue him. a brave young guide named michel payot volunteered. two ropes were made fast to his leather belt and he bore the end of a third one in his hand to tie to the victim in case he found him. he was lowered into the crevice, he descended deeper and deeper between the clear blue walls of solid ice, he approached a bend in the crack and disappeared under it. down, and still down, he went, into this profound grave; when he had reached a depth of eighty feet he passed under another bend in the crack, and thence descended eighty feet lower, as between perpendicular precipices. arrived at this stage of one hundred and sixty feet below the surface of the glacier, he peered through the twilight dimness and perceived that the chasm took another turn and stretched away at a steep slant to unknown deeps, for its course was lost in darkness. what a place that was to be in--especially if that leather belt should break! the compression of the belt threatened to suffocate the intrepid fellow; he called to his friends to draw him up, but could not make them hear. they still lowered him, deeper and deeper. then he jerked his third cord as vigorously as he could; his friends understood, and dragged him out of those icy jaws of death. then they attached a bottle to a cord and sent it down two hundred feet, but it found no bottom. it came up covered with congelations--evidence enough that even if the poor porter reached the bottom with unbroken bones, a swift death from cold was sure, anyway. a glacier is a stupendous, ever-progressing, resistless plow. it pushes ahead of it masses of boulders which are packed together, and they stretch across the gorge, right in front of it, like a long grave or a long, sharp roof. this is called a moraine. it also shoves out a moraine along each side of its course. imposing as the modern glaciers are, they are not so huge as were some that once existed. for instance, mr. whymper says: "at some very remote period the valley of aosta was occupied by a vast glacier, which flowed down its entire length from mont blanc to the plain of piedmont, remained stationary, or nearly so, at its mouth for many centuries, and deposited there enormous masses of debris. the length of this glacier exceeded eighty miles, and it drained a basin twenty-five to thirty-five miles across, bounded by the highest mountains in the alps. "the great peaks rose several thousand feet above the glaciers, and then, as now, shattered by sun and frost, poured down their showers of rocks and stones, in witness of which there are the immense piles of angular fragments that constitute the moraines of ivrea. "the moraines around ivrea are of extraordinary dimensions. that which was on the left bank of the glacier is about thirteen miles long, and in some places rises to a height of two thousand one hundred and thirty feet above the floor of the valley! the terminal moraines (those which are pushed in front of the glaciers) cover something like twenty square miles of country. at the mouth of the valley of aosta, the thickness of the glacier must have been at least two thousand feet, and its width, at that part, five miles and a quarter." it is not easy to get at a comprehension of a mass of ice like that. if one could cleave off the butt end of such a glacier--an oblong block two or three miles wide by five and a quarter long and two thousand feet thick--he could completely hide the city of new york under it, and trinity steeple would only stick up into it relatively as far as a shingle-nail would stick up into the bottom of a saratoga trunk. "the boulders from mont blanc, upon the plain below ivrea, assure us that the glacier which transported them existed for a prodigious length of time. their present distance from the cliffs from which they were derived is about 420,000 feet, and if we assume that they traveled at the rate of 400 feet per annum, their journey must have occupied them no less than 1,055 years! in all probability they did not travel so fast." glaciers are sometimes hurried out of their characteristic snail-pace. a marvelous spectacle is presented then. mr. whymper refers to a case which occurred in iceland in 1721: "it seems that in the neighborhood of the mountain kotlugja, large bodies of water formed underneath, or within the glaciers (either on account of the interior heat of the earth, or from other causes), and at length acquired irresistible power, tore the glaciers from their mooring on the land, and swept them over every obstacle into the sea. prodigious masses of ice were thus borne for a distance of about ten miles over land in the space of a few hours; and their bulk was so enormous that they covered the sea for seven miles from the shore, and remained aground in six hundred feet of water! the denudation of the land was upon a grand scale. all superficial accumulations were swept away, and the bedrock was exposed. it was described, in graphic language, how all irregularities and depressions were obliterated, and a smooth surface of several miles' area laid bare, and that this area had the appearance of having been planed by a plane." the account translated from the icelandic says that the mountainlike ruins of this majestic glacier so covered the sea that as far as the eye could reach no open water was discoverable, even from the highest peaks. a monster wall or barrier of ice was built across a considerable stretch of land, too, by this strange irruption: "one can form some idea of the altitude of this barrier of ice when it is mentioned that from hofdabrekka farm, which lies high up on a fjeld, one could not see hjorleifshofdi opposite, which is a fell six hundred and forty feet in height; but in order to do so had to clamber up a mountain slope east of hofdabrekka twelve hundred feet high." these things will help the reader to understand why it is that a man who keeps company with glaciers comes to feel tolerably insignificant by and by. the alps and the glaciers together are able to take every bit of conceit out of a man and reduce his self-importance to zero if he will only remain within the influence of their sublime presence long enough to give it a fair and reasonable chance to do its work. the alpine glaciers move--that is granted, now, by everybody. but there was a time when people scoffed at the idea; they said you might as well expect leagues of solid rock to crawl along the ground as expect leagues of ice to do it. but proof after proof was furnished, and the finally the world had to believe. the wise men not only said the glacier moved, but they timed its movement. they ciphered out a glacier's gait, and then said confidently that it would travel just so far in so many years. there is record of a striking and curious example of the accuracy which may be attained in these reckonings. in 1820 the ascent of mont blanc was attempted by a russian and two englishmen, with seven guides. they had reached a prodigious altitude, and were approaching the summit, when an avalanche swept several of the party down a sharp slope of two hundred feet and hurled five of them (all guides) into one of the crevices of a glacier. the life of one of the five was saved by a long barometer which was strapped to his back--it bridged the crevice and suspended him until help came. the alpenstock or baton of another saved its owner in a similar way. three men were lost--pierre balmat, pierre carrier, and auguste tairraz. they had been hurled down into the fathomless great deeps of the crevice. dr. forbes, the english geologist, had made frequent visits to the mont blanc region, and had given much attention to the disputed question of the movement of glaciers. during one of these visits he completed his estimates of the rate of movement of the glacier which had swallowed up the three guides, and uttered the prediction that the glacier would deliver up its dead at the foot of the mountain thirty-five years from the time of the accident, or possibly forty. a dull, slow journey--a movement imperceptible to any eye--but it was proceeding, nevertheless, and without cessation. it was a journey which a rolling stone would make in a few seconds--the lofty point of departure was visible from the village below in the valley. the prediction cut curiously close to the truth; forty-one years after the catastrophe, the remains were cast forth at the foot of the glacier. i find an interesting account of the matter in the histoire du mont blanc, by stephen d'arve. i will condense this account, as follows: on the 12th of august, 1861, at the hour of the close of mass, a guide arrived out of breath at the mairie of chamonix, and bearing on his shoulders a very lugubrious burden. it was a sack filled with human remains which he had gathered from the orifice of a crevice in the glacier des bossons. he conjectured that these were remains of the victims of the catastrophe of 1820, and a minute inquest, immediately instituted by the local authorities, soon demonstrated the correctness of his supposition. the contents of the sack were spread upon a long table, and officially inventoried, as follows: portions of three human skulls. several tufts of black and blonde hair. a human jaw, furnished with fine white teeth. a forearm and hand, all the fingers of the latter intact. the flesh was white and fresh, and both the arm and hand preserved a degree of flexibility in the articulations. the ring-finger had suffered a slight abrasion, and the stain of the blood was still visible and unchanged after forty-one years. a left foot, the flesh white and fresh. along with these fragments were portions of waistcoats, hats, hobnailed shoes, and other clothing; a wing of a pigeon, with black feathers; a fragment of an alpenstock; a tin lantern; and lastly, a boiled leg of mutton, the only flesh among all the remains that exhaled an unpleasant odor. the guide said that the mutton had no odor when he took it from the glacier; an hour's exposure to the sun had already begun the work of decomposition upon it. persons were called for, to identify these poor pathetic relics, and a touching scene ensued. two men were still living who had witnessed the grim catastrophe of nearly half a century before--marie couttet (saved by his baton) and julien davouassoux (saved by the barometer). these aged men entered and approached the table. davouassoux, more than eighty years old, contemplated the mournful remains mutely and with a vacant eye, for his intelligence and his memory were torpid with age; but couttet's faculties were still perfect at seventy-two, and he exhibited strong emotion. he said: "pierre balmat was fair; he wore a straw hat. this bit of skull, with the tuft of blond hair, was his; this is his hat. pierre carrier was very dark; this skull was his, and this felt hat. this is balmat's hand, i remember it so well!" and the old man bent down and kissed it reverently, then closed his fingers upon it in an affectionate grasp, crying out, "i could never have dared to believe that before quitting this world it would be granted me to press once more the hand of one of those brave comrades, the hand of my good friend balmat." there is something weirdly pathetic about the picture of that white-haired veteran greeting with his loving handshake this friend who had been dead forty years. when these hands had met last, they were alike in the softness and freshness of youth; now, one was brown and wrinkled and horny with age, while the other was still as young and fair and blemishless as if those forty years had come and gone in a single moment, leaving no mark of their passage. time had gone on, in the one case; it had stood still in the other. a man who has not seen a friend for a generation, keeps him in mind always as he saw him last, and is somehow surprised, and is also shocked, to see the aging change the years have wrought when he sees him again. marie couttet's experience, in finding his friend's hand unaltered from the image of it which he had carried in his memory for forty years, is an experience which stands alone in the history of man, perhaps. couttet identified other relics: "this hat belonged to auguste tairraz. he carried the cage of pigeons which we proposed to set free upon the summit. here is the wing of one of those pigeons. and here is the fragment of my broken baton; it was by grace of that baton that my life was saved. who could have told me that i should one day have the satisfaction to look again upon this bit of wood that supported me above the grave that swallowed up my unfortunate companions!" no portions of the body of tairraz, other than a piece of the skull, had been found. a diligent search was made, but without result. however, another search was instituted a year later, and this had better success. many fragments of clothing which had belonged to the lost guides were discovered; also, part of a lantern, and a green veil with blood-stains on it. but the interesting feature was this: one of the searchers came suddenly upon a sleeved arm projecting from a crevice in the ice-wall, with the hand outstretched as if offering greeting! "the nails of this white hand were still rosy, and the pose of the extended fingers seemed to express an eloquent welcome to the long-lost light of day." the hand and arm were alone; there was no trunk. after being removed from the ice the flesh-tints quickly faded out and the rosy nails took on the alabaster hue of death. this was the third right hand found; therefore, all three of the lost men were accounted for, beyond cavil or question. dr. hamel was the russian gentleman of the party which made the ascent at the time of the famous disaster. he left chamonix as soon as he conveniently could after the descent; and as he had shown a chilly indifference about the calamity, and offered neither sympathy nor assistance to the widows and orphans, he carried with him the cordial execrations of the whole community. four months before the first remains were found, a chamonix guide named balmat--a relative of one of the lost men--was in london, and one day encountered a hale old gentleman in the british museum, who said: "i overheard your name. are you from chamonix, monsieur balmat?" "yes, sir." "haven't they found the bodies of my three guides, yet? i am dr. hamel." "alas, no, monsieur." "well, you'll find them, sooner or later." "yes, it is the opinion of dr. forbes and mr. tyndall, that the glacier will sooner or later restore to us the remains of the unfortunate victims." "without a doubt, without a doubt. and it will be a great thing for chamonix, in the matter of attracting tourists. you can get up a museum with those remains that will draw!" this savage idea has not improved the odor of dr. hamel's name in chamonix by any means. but after all, the man was sound on human nature. his idea was conveyed to the public officials of chamonix, and they gravely discussed it around the official council-table. they were only prevented from carrying it into execution by the determined opposition of the friends and descendants of the lost guides, who insisted on giving the remains christian burial, and succeeded in their purpose. a close watch had to be kept upon all the poor remnants and fragments, to prevent embezzlement. a few accessory odds and ends were sold. rags and scraps of the coarse clothing were parted with at the rate equal to about twenty dollars a yard; a piece of a lantern and one or two other trifles brought nearly their weight in gold; and an englishman offered a pound sterling for a single breeches-button. chapter xli [the fearful disaster of 1865] one of the most memorable of all the alpine catastrophes was that of july, 1865, on the matterhorn--already slightly referred to, a few pages back. the details of it are scarcely known in america. to the vast majority of readers they are not known at all. mr. whymper's account is the only authentic one. i will import the chief portion of it into this book, partly because of its intrinsic interest, and partly because it gives such a vivid idea of what the perilous pastime of alp-climbing is. this was mr. whymper's ninth attempt during a series of years, to vanquish that steep and stubborn pillar or rock; it succeeded, the other eight were failures. no man had ever accomplished the ascent before, though the attempts had been numerous. mr. whymper's narrative we started from zermatt on the 13th of july, at half past five, on a brilliant and perfectly cloudless morning. we were eight in number--croz (guide), old peter taugwalder (guide) and his two sons; lord f. douglas, mr. hadow, rev. mr. hudson, and i. to insure steady motion, one tourist and one native walked together. the youngest taugwalder fell to my share. the wine-bags also fell to my lot to carry, and throughout the day, after each drink, i replenished them secretly with water, so that at the next halt they were found fuller than before! this was considered a good omen, and little short of miraculous. on the first day we did not intend to ascend to any great height, and we mounted, accordingly, very leisurely. before twelve o'clock we had found a good position for the tent, at a height of eleven thousand feet. we passed the remaining hours of daylight--some basking in the sunshine, some sketching, some collecting; hudson made tea, i coffee, and at length we retired, each one to his blanket bag. we assembled together before dawn on the 14th and started directly it was light enough to move. one of the young taugwalders returned to zermatt. in a few minutes we turned the rib which had intercepted the view of the eastern face from our tent platform. the whole of this great slope was now revealed, rising for three thousand feet like a huge natural staircase. some parts were more, and others were less easy, but we were not once brought to a halt by any serious impediment, for when an obstruction was met in front it could always be turned to the right or to the left. for the greater part of the way there was no occasion, indeed, for the rope, and sometimes hudson led, sometimes myself. at six-twenty we had attained a height of twelve thousand eight hundred feet, and halted for half an hour; we then continued the ascent without a break until nine-fifty-five, when we stopped for fifty minutes, at a height of fourteen thousand feet. we had now arrived at the foot of that part which, seen from the riffelberg, seems perpendicular or overhanging. we could no longer continue on the eastern side. for a little distance we ascended by snow upon the arête--that is, the ridge--then turned over to the right, or northern side. the work became difficult, and required caution. in some places there was little to hold; the general slope of the mountain was less than forty degrees, and snow had accumulated in, and had filled up, the interstices of the rock-face, leaving only occasional fragments projecting here and there. these were at times covered with a thin film of ice. it was a place which any fair mountaineer might pass in safety. we bore away nearly horizontally for about four hundred feet, then ascended directly toward the summit for about sixty feet, then doubled back to the ridge which descends toward zermatt. a long stride round a rather awkward corner brought us to snow once more. that last doubt vanished! the matterhorn was ours! nothing but two hundred feet of easy snow remained to be surmounted. the higher we rose, the more intense became the excitement. the slope eased off, at length we could be detached, and croz and i, dashed away, ran a neck-and-neck race, which ended in a dead heat. at 1:40 p.m., the world was at our feet, and the matterhorn was conquered! the others arrived. croz now took the tent-pole, and planted it in the highest snow. "yes," we said, "there is the flag-staff, but where is the flag?" "here it is," he answered, pulling off his blouse and fixing it to the stick. it made a poor flag, and there was no wind to float it out, yet it was seen all around. they saw it at zermatt--at the riffel--in the val tournanche... . we remained on the summit for one hour-one crowded hour of glorious life. it passed away too quickly, and we began to prepare for the descent. hudson and i consulted as to the best and safest arrangement of the party. we agreed that it was best for croz to go first, and hadow second; hudson, who was almost equal to a guide in sureness of foot, wished to be third; lord douglas was placed next, and old peter, the strongest of the remainder, after him. i suggested to hudson that we should attach a rope to the rocks on our arrival at the difficult bit, and hold it as we descended, as an additional protection. he approved the idea, but it was not definitely decided that it should be done. the party was being arranged in the above order while i was sketching the summit, and they had finished, and were waiting for me to be tied in line, when some one remembered that our names had not been left in a bottle. they requested me to write them down, and moved off while it was being done. a few minutes afterward i tied myself to young peter, ran down after the others, and caught them just as they were commencing the descent of the difficult part. great care was being taken. only one man was moving at a time; when he was firmly planted the next advanced, and so on. they had not, however, attached the additional rope to rocks, and nothing was said about it. the suggestion was not made for my own sake, and i am not sure that it ever occurred to me again. for some little distance we two followed the others, detached from them, and should have continued so had not lord douglas asked me, about 3 p.m., to tie on to old peter, as he feared, he said, that taugwalder would not be able to hold his ground if a slip occurred. a few minutes later, a sharp-eyed lad ran into the monte rosa hotel, at zermatt, saying that he had seen an avalanche fall from the summit of the matterhorn onto the matterhorn glacier. the boy was reproved for telling idle stories; he was right, nevertheless, and this was what he saw. michel croz had laid aside his ax, and in order to give mr. hadow greater security, was absolutely taking hold of his legs, and putting his feet, one by one, into their proper positions. as far as i know, no one was actually descending. i cannot speak with certainty, because the two leading men were partially hidden from my sight by an intervening mass of rock, but it is my belief, from the movements of their shoulders, that croz, having done as i said, was in the act of turning round to go down a step or two himself; at this moment mr. hadow slipped, fell against him, and knocked him over. i heard one startled exclamation from croz, then saw him and mr. hadow flying downward; in another moment hudson was dragged from his steps, and lord douglas immediately after him. all this was the work of a moment. immediately we heard croz's exclamation, old peter and i planted ourselves as firmly as the rocks would permit; the rope was taut between us, and the jerk came on us both as on one man. we held; but the rope broke midway between taugwalder and lord francis douglas. for a few seconds we saw our unfortunate companions sliding downward on their backs, and spreading out their hands, endeavoring to save themselves. they passed from our sight uninjured, disappeared one by one, and fell from the precipice to precipice onto the matterhorn glacier below, a distance of nearly four thousand feet in height. from the moment the rope broke it was impossible to help them. so perished our comrades! for more than two hours afterward i thought almost every moment that the next would be my last; for the taugwalders, utterly unnerved, were not only incapable of giving assistance, but were in such a state that a slip might have been expected from them at any moment. after a time we were able to do that which should have been done at first, and fixed rope to firm rocks, in addition to being tied together. these ropes were cut from time to time, and were left behind. even with their assurance the men were afraid to proceed, and several times old peter turned, with ashy face and faltering limbs, and said, with terrible emphasis, "i cannot!" about 6 p.m., we arrived at the snow upon the ridge descending toward zermatt, and all peril was over. we frequently looked, but in vain, for traces of our unfortunate companions; we bent over the ridge and cried to them, but no sound returned. convinced at last that they were neither within sight nor hearing, we ceased from our useless efforts; and, too cast down for speech, silently gathered up our things, and the little effects of those who were lost, and then completed the descent. such is mr. whymper's graphic and thrilling narrative. zermatt gossip darkly hints that the elder taugwalder cut the rope, when the accident occurred, in order to preserve himself from being dragged into the abyss; but mr. whymper says that the ends of the rope showed no evidence of cutting, but only of breaking. he adds that if taugwalder had had the disposition to cut the rope, he would not have had time to do it, the accident was so sudden and unexpected. lord douglas' body has never been found. it probably lodged upon some inaccessible shelf in the face of the mighty precipice. lord douglas was a youth of nineteen. the three other victims fell nearly four thousand feet, and their bodies lay together upon the glacier when found by mr. whymper and the other searchers the next morning. their graves are beside the little church in zermatt. chapter xlii [chillon has a nice, roomy dungeon] switzerland is simply a large, humpy, solid rock, with a thin skin of grass stretched over it. consequently, they do not dig graves, they blast them out with powder and fuse. they cannot afford to have large graveyards, the grass skin is too circumscribed and too valuable. it is all required for the support of the living. the graveyard in zermatt occupies only about one-eighth of an acre. the graves are sunk in the living rock, and are very permanent; but occupation of them is only temporary; the occupant can only stay till his grave is needed by a later subject, he is removed, then, for they do not bury one body on top of another. as i understand it, a family owns a grave, just as it owns a house. a man dies and leaves his house to his son--and at the same time, this dead father succeeds to his own father's grave. he moves out of the house and into the grave, and his predecessor moves out of the grave and into the cellar of the chapel. i saw a black box lying in the churchyard, with skull and cross-bones painted on it, and was told that this was used in transferring remains to the cellar. in that cellar the bones and skulls of several hundred of former citizens were compactly corded up. they made a pile eighteen feet long, seven feet high, and eight feet wide. i was told that in some of the receptacles of this kind in the swiss villages, the skulls were all marked, and if a man wished to find the skulls of his ancestors for several generations back, he could do it by these marks, preserved in the family records. an english gentleman who had lived some years in this region, said it was the cradle of compulsory education. but he said that the english idea that compulsory education would reduce bastardy and intemperance was an error--it has not that effect. he said there was more seduction in the protestant than in the catholic cantons, because the confessional protected the girls. i wonder why it doesn't protect married women in france and spain? this gentleman said that among the poorer peasants in the valais, it was common for the brothers in a family to cast lots to determine which of them should have the coveted privilege of marrying, and his brethren--doomed bachelors--heroically banded themselves together to help support the new family. we left zermatt in a wagon--and in a rain-storm, too--for st. nicholas about ten o'clock one morning. again we passed between those grass-clad prodigious cliffs, specked with wee dwellings peeping over at us from velvety green walls ten and twelve hundred feet high. it did not seem possible that the imaginary chamois even could climb those precipices. lovers on opposite cliffs probably kiss through a spy-glass, and correspond with a rifle. in switzerland the farmer's plow is a wide shovel, which scrapes up and turns over the thin earthy skin of his native rock--and there the man of the plow is a hero. now here, by our st. nicholas road, was a grave, and it had a tragic story. a plowman was skinning his farm one morning--not the steepest part of it, but still a steep part--that is, he was not skinning the front of his farm, but the roof of it, near the eaves--when he absent-mindedly let go of the plow-handles to moisten his hands, in the usual way; he lost his balance and fell out of his farm backward; poor fellow, he never touched anything till he struck bottom, fifteen hundred feet below. [this was on a sunday.--m.t.] we throw a halo of heroism around the life of the soldier and the sailor, because of the deadly dangers they are facing all the time. but we are not used to looking upon farming as a heroic occupation. this is because we have not lived in switzerland. from st. nicholas we struck out for visp--or vispach--on foot. the rain-storms had been at work during several days, and had done a deal of damage in switzerland and savoy. we came to one place where a stream had changed its course and plunged down a mountain in a new place, sweeping everything before it. two poor but precious farms by the roadside were ruined. one was washed clear away, and the bed-rock exposed; the other was buried out of sight under a tumbled chaos of rocks, gravel, mud, and rubbish. the resistless might of water was well exemplified. some saplings which had stood in the way were bent to the ground, stripped clean of their bark, and buried under rocky debris. the road had been swept away, too. in another place, where the road was high up on the mountain's face, and its outside edge protected by flimsy masonry, we frequently came across spots where this masonry had carved off and left dangerous gaps for mules to get over; and with still more frequency we found the masonry slightly crumbled, and marked by mule-hoofs, thus showing that there had been danger of an accident to somebody. when at last we came to a badly ruptured bit of masonry, with hoof-prints evidencing a desperate struggle to regain the lost foothold, i looked quite hopefully over the dizzy precipice. but there was nobody down there. they take exceedingly good care of their rivers in switzerland and other portions of europe. they wall up both banks with slanting solid stone masonry--so that from end to end of these rivers the banks look like the wharves at st. louis and other towns on the mississippi river. it was during this walk from st. nicholas, in the shadow of the majestic alps, that we came across some little children amusing themselves in what seemed, at first, a most odd and original way--but it wasn't; it was in simply a natural and characteristic way. they were roped together with a string, they had mimic alpenstocks and ice-axes, and were climbing a meek and lowly manure-pile with a most blood-curdling amount of care and caution. the "guide" at the head of the line cut imaginary steps, in a laborious and painstaking way, and not a monkey budged till the step above was vacated. if we had waited we should have witnessed an imaginary accident, no doubt; and we should have heard the intrepid band hurrah when they made the summit and looked around upon the "magnificent view," and seen them throw themselves down in exhausted attitudes for a rest in that commanding situation. in nevada i used to see the children play at silver-mining. of course, the great thing was an accident in a mine, and there were two "star" parts; that of the man who fell down the mimic shaft, and that of the daring hero who was lowered into the depths to bring him up. i knew one small chap who always insisted on playing both of these parts--and he carried his point. he would tumble into the shaft and die, and then come to the surface and go back after his own remains. it is the smartest boy that gets the hero part everywhere; he is head guide in switzerland, head miner in nevada, head bull-fighter in spain, etc.; but i knew a preacher's son, seven years old, who once selected a part for himself compared to which those just mentioned are tame and unimpressive. jimmy's father stopped him from driving imaginary horse-cars one sunday--stopped him from playing captain of an imaginary steamboat next sunday--stopped him from leading an imaginary army to battle the following sunday--and so on. finally the little fellow said: "i've tried everything, and they won't any of them do. what can i play?" "i hardly know, jimmy; but you must play only things that are suitable to the sabbath-day." next sunday the preacher stepped softly to a back-room door to see if the children were rightly employed. he peeped in. a chair occupied the middle of the room, and on the back of it hung jimmy's cap; one of his little sisters took the cap down, nibbled at it, then passed it to another small sister and said, "eat of this fruit, for it is good." the reverend took in the situation--alas, they were playing the expulsion from eden! yet he found one little crumb of comfort. he said to himself, "for once jimmy has yielded the chief role--i have been wronging him, i did not believe there was so much modesty in him; i should have expected him to be either adam or eve." this crumb of comfort lasted but a very little while; he glanced around and discovered jimmy standing in an imposing attitude in a corner, with a dark and deadly frown on his face. what that meant was very plain--he was impersonating the deity! think of the guileless sublimity of that idea. we reached vispach at 8 p.m., only about seven hours out from st. nicholas. so we must have made fully a mile and a half an hour, and it was all downhill, too, and very muddy at that. we stayed all night at the hotel de soleil; i remember it because the landlady, the portier, the waitress, and the chambermaid were not separate persons, but were all contained in one neat and chipper suit of spotless muslin, and she was the prettiest young creature i saw in all that region. she was the landlord's daughter. and i remember that the only native match to her i saw in all europe was the young daughter of the landlord of a village inn in the black forest. why don't more people in europe marry and keep hotel? next morning we left with a family of english friends and went by train to brevet, and thence by boat across the lake to ouchy (lausanne). ouchy is memorable to me, not on account of its beautiful situation and lovely surroundings--although these would make it stick long in one's memory--but as the place where _i_ caught the london times dropping into humor. it was not aware of it, though. it did not do it on purpose. an english friend called my attention to this lapse, and cut out the reprehensible paragraph for me. think of encountering a grin like this on the face of that grim journal: erratum.--we are requested by reuter's telegram company to correct an erroneous announcement made in their brisbane telegram of the 2d inst., published in our impression of the 5th inst., stating that "lady kennedy had given birth to twins, the eldest being a son." the company explain that the message they received contained the words "governor of queensland, twins first son." being, however, subsequently informed that sir arthur kennedy was unmarried and that there must be some mistake, a telegraphic repetition was at once demanded. it has been received today (11th inst.) and shows that the words really telegraphed by reuter's agent were "governor queensland turns first sod," alluding to the maryborough-gympic railway in course of construction. the words in italics were mutilated by the telegraph in transmission from australia, and reaching the company in the form mentioned above gave rise to the mistake. i had always had a deep and reverent compassion for the sufferings of the "prisoner of chillon," whose story byron had told in such moving verse; so i took the steamer and made pilgrimage to the dungeons of the castle of chillon, to see the place where poor bonnivard endured his dreary captivity three hundred years ago. i am glad i did that, for it took away some of the pain i was feeling on the prisoner's account. his dungeon was a nice, cool, roomy place, and i cannot see why he should have been dissatisfied with it. if he had been imprisoned in a st. nicholas private dwelling, where the fertilizer prevails, and the goat sleeps with the guest, and the chickens roost on him and the cow comes in and bothers him when he wants to muse, it would have been another matter altogether; but he surely could not have had a very cheerless time of it in that pretty dungeon. it has romantic window-slits that let in generous bars of light, and it has tall, noble columns, carved apparently from the living rock; and what is more, they are written all over with thousands of names; some of them--like byron's and victor hugo's--of the first celebrity. why didn't he amuse himself reading these names? then there are the couriers and tourists--swarms of them every day--what was to hinder him from having a good time with them? i think bonnivard's sufferings have been overrated. next, we took the train and went to martigny, on the way to mont blanc. next morning we started, about eight o'clock, on foot. we had plenty of company, in the way of wagon-loads and mule-loads of tourists--and dust. this scattering procession of travelers was perhaps a mile long. the road was uphill--interminable uphill--and tolerably steep. the weather was blisteringly hot, and the man or woman who had to sit on a creeping mule, or in a crawling wagon, and broil in the beating sun, was an object to be pitied. we could dodge among the bushes, and have the relief of shade, but those people could not. they paid for a conveyance, and to get their money's worth they rode. we went by the way of the tête noir, and after we reached high ground there was no lack of fine scenery. in one place the road was tunneled through a shoulder of the mountain; from there one looked down into a gorge with a rushing torrent in it, and on every hand was a charming view of rocky buttresses and wooded heights. there was a liberal allowance of pretty waterfalls, too, on the tête noir route. about half an hour before we reached the village of argentière a vast dome of snow with the sun blazing on it drifted into view and framed itself in a strong v-shaped gateway of the mountains, and we recognized mont blanc, the "monarch of the alps." with every step, after that, this stately dome rose higher and higher into the blue sky, and at last seemed to occupy the zenith. some of mont blanc's neighbors--bare, light-brown, steeplelike rocks--were very peculiarly shaped. some were whittled to a sharp point, and slightly bent at the upper end, like a lady's finger; one monster sugar-loaf resembled a bishop's hat; it was too steep to hold snow on its sides, but had some in the division. while we were still on very high ground, and before the descent toward argentière began, we looked up toward a neighboring mountain-top, and saw exquisite prismatic colors playing about some white clouds which were so delicate as to almost resemble gossamer webs. the faint pinks and greens were peculiarly beautiful; none of the colors were deep, they were the lightest shades. they were bewitching commingled. we sat down to study and enjoy this singular spectacle. the tints remained during several minutes--flitting, changing, melting into each other; paling almost away for a moment, then reflushing--a shifting, restless, unstable succession of soft opaline gleams, shimmering over that air film of white cloud, and turning it into a fabric dainty enough to clothe an angel with. by and by we perceived what those super-delicate colors, and their continuous play and movement, reminded us of; it is what one sees in a soap-bubble that is drifting along, catching changes of tint from the objects it passes. a soap-bubble is the most beautiful thing, and the most exquisite, in nature; that lovely phantom fabric in the sky was suggestive of a soap-bubble split open, and spread out in the sun. i wonder how much it would take to buy a soap-bubble, if there was only one in the world? one could buy a hatful of koh-i-noors with the same money, no doubt. we made the tramp from martigny to argentière in eight hours. we beat all the mules and wagons; we didn't usually do that. we hired a sort of open baggage-wagon for the trip down the valley to chamonix, and then devoted an hour to dining. this gave the driver time to get drunk. he had a friend with him, and this friend also had had time to get drunk. when we drove off, the driver said all the tourists had arrived and gone by while we were at dinner; "but," said he, impressively, "be not disturbed by that--remain tranquil--give yourselves no uneasiness--their dust rises far before us--rest you tranquil, leave all to me--i am the king of drivers. behold!" down came his whip, and away we clattered. i never had such a shaking up in my life. the recent flooding rains had washed the road clear away in places, but we never stopped, we never slowed down for anything. we tore right along, over rocks, rubbish, gullies, open fields--sometimes with one or two wheels on the ground, but generally with none. every now and then that calm, good-natured madman would bend a majestic look over his shoulder at us and say, "ah, you perceive? it is as i have said--i am the king of drivers." every time we just missed going to destruction, he would say, with tranquil happiness, "enjoy it, gentlemen, it is very rare, it is very unusual--it is given to few to ride with the king of drivers--and observe, it is as i have said, i am he." he spoke in french, and punctuated with hiccoughs. his friend was french, too, but spoke in german--using the same system of punctuation, however. the friend called himself the "captain of mont blanc," and wanted us to make the ascent with him. he said he had made more ascents than any other man--forty seven--and his brother had made thirty-seven. his brother was the best guide in the world, except himself--but he, yes, observe him well--he was the "captain of mont blanc"--that title belonged to none other. the "king" was as good as his word--he overtook that long procession of tourists and went by it like a hurricane. the result was that we got choicer rooms at the hotel in chamonix than we should have done if his majesty had been a slower artist--or rather, if he hadn't most providentially got drunk before he left argentière. a tramp abroad, part 5. by mark twain (samuel l. clemens) first published in 1880 illustrations taken from an 1880 first edition * * * * * * illustrations: 1.    portrait of the author 2.    titian's moses 3.    the author's memories 178.  exceedingly comfortable 179.  the sunrise 180.  the rigi-kulm 181.  an optical illusion 182.  tail piece 183.  railway down the mountain 184.  source of the rhone 185.  a glacier table 186.  glacier of grindelwald 187.  dawn on the mountains 188.  tail piece 189.  new and old style 190.  st nicholas, as a hermit 191.  a landslide 192.  goldau valley before and after the landslide 193.  the way they do it 194.  our gallant driver 195.  a mountain pass 196.  "i'm oful dry" 197.  it's the fashion 198.  what we expected 199.  we missed the scenery 200.  the tourists 201.  the young bride 202.  "it was a famous victory 203.  promenade in interlaken 204.  the jungfrau by m.t. 205.  street in interlaken 206.  without a courier 207.  traveling with a courier 208.  tail piece 209.  grape and whey patients 210.  sociable drivers 211.  a mountain cascade 212.  the gasternthal 213.  exhilarating sport 214.  falls 215.  what might be 216.  an alpine bouquet 217.  the end of the world 218.  the forget-me-not 219.  a needle of ice 220.  climbing the mountain 221.  snow crevasses 222.  cutting steps 223.  the guide 224.  view from the cliff 225.  gemmi pass and lake daubensee 226.  almost a tragedy 227.  the alpine litter 228.  social bathers 229.  death of countess herlincourt 230.  they've got it all 231.  model for an empress 232.  bath houses at leuke 233.  the bathers at leuke 234.  rattier mixed up 235.  tail piece contents: chapter xxix everything convenient--looking for a western sunrise--mutual recrimination--view from the summit--down the mountain--railroading--confidence wanted and acquired chapter xxx a trip by proxy--a visit to the furka regions--deadman's lake--source of the rhone--glacier tables--storm in the mountains--at grindelwald--dawn on the mountains--an explanation required--dead language--criticism of harris's report chapter xxxi preparations for a tramp--from lucerne to interlaken--the brunig pass--modern and ancient chalets--death of pontius pilate--hermit home of st nicholas--landslides--children selling refreshments--how they harness a horse--a great man--honors to a hero--a thirsty bride--for better or worse--german fashions--anticipations--solid comfort--an unsatisfactory awakening--what we had lost--our surroundings chapter xxxii the jungfrau hotel--a whiskered waitress--an arkansas bride--perfection in discord--a famous victory--a look from a window--about the jungfrau chapter xxxiii the giesbach falls--the spirit of the alps--why people visit them--whey and grapes as medicines--the kursaal--a formidable undertaking--from interlaken to zermatt on foot--we concluded to take a buggy--a pair of jolly drivers--we meet with companions--a cheerful ride--kandersteg valley--an alpine parlor--exercise and amusement--a race with a log chapter xxxiv an old guide--possible accidents--dangerous habitation--mountain flowers--embryo lions--mountain pigs--the end of the world--ghastly desolation--proposed adventure--reading-up adventures--ascent of monte rosa--precipices and crevasses--among the snows--exciting experiences--lee ridges--the summit--adventures postponed chapter xxxv a new interest--magnificent views--a mule's prefereoces--turning mountain corners--terror of a horse--lady tourists--death of a young countess--a search for a hat--what we did find--harris's opinion of chamois--a disappointed man--a giantess--model for an empress--baths at leuk--sport in the water--the gemmi precipices--a palace for an emperor--the famous ladders--considerably mixed up--sad plight of a minister chapter xxix [looking west for sunrise] he kept his word. we heard his horn and instantly got up. it was dark and cold and wretched. as i fumbled around for the matches, knocking things down with my quaking hands, i wished the sun would rise in the middle of the day, when it was warm and bright and cheerful, and one wasn't sleepy. we proceeded to dress by the gloom of a couple sickly candles, but we could hardly button anything, our hands shook so. i thought of how many happy people there were in europe, asia, and america, and everywhere, who were sleeping peacefully in their beds, and did not have to get up and see the rigi sunrise--people who did not appreciate their advantage, as like as not, but would get up in the morning wanting more boons of providence. while thinking these thoughts i yawned, in a rather ample way, and my upper teeth got hitched on a nail over the door, and while i was mounting a chair to free myself, harris drew the window-curtain, and said: "oh, this is luck! we shan't have to go out at all--yonder are the mountains, in full view." that was glad news, indeed. it made us cheerful right away. one could see the grand alpine masses dimly outlined against the black firmament, and one or two faint stars blinking through rifts in the night. fully clothed, and wrapped in blankets, and huddled ourselves up, by the window, with lighted pipes, and fell into chat, while we waited in exceeding comfort to see how an alpine sunrise was going to look by candlelight. by and by a delicate, spiritual sort of effulgence spread itself by imperceptible degrees over the loftiest altitudes of the snowy wastes--but there the effort seemed to stop. i said, presently: "there is a hitch about this sunrise somewhere. it doesn't seem to go. what do you reckon is the matter with it?" "i don't know. it appears to hang fire somewhere. i never saw a sunrise act like that before. can it be that the hotel is playing anything on us?" "of course not. the hotel merely has a property interest in the sun, it has nothing to do with the management of it. it is a precarious kind of property, too; a succession of total eclipses would probably ruin this tavern. now what can be the matter with this sunrise?" harris jumped up and said: "i've got it! i know what's the matter with it! we've been looking at the place where the sun set last night!" "it is perfectly true! why couldn't you have thought of that sooner? now we've lost another one! and all through your blundering. it was exactly like you to light a pipe and sit down to wait for the sun to rise in the west." "it was exactly like me to find out the mistake, too. you never would have found it out. i find out all the mistakes." "you make them all, too, else your most valuable faculty would be wasted on you. but don't stop to quarrel, now--maybe we are not too late yet." but we were. the sun was well up when we got to the exhibition-ground. on our way up we met the crowd returning--men and women dressed in all sorts of queer costumes, and exhibiting all degrees of cold and wretchedness in their gaits and countenances. a dozen still remained on the ground when we reached there, huddled together about the scaffold with their backs to the bitter wind. they had their red guide-books open at the diagram of the view, and were painfully picking out the several mountains and trying to impress their names and positions on their memories. it was one of the saddest sights i ever saw. two sides of this place were guarded by railings, to keep people from being blown over the precipices. the view, looking sheer down into the broad valley, eastward, from this great elevation--almost a perpendicular mile--was very quaint and curious. counties, towns, hilly ribs and ridges, wide stretches of green meadow, great forest tracts, winding streams, a dozen blue lakes, a block of busy steamboats--we saw all this little world in unique circumstantiality of detail--saw it just as the birds see it--and all reduced to the smallest of scales and as sharply worked out and finished as a steel engraving. the numerous toy villages, with tiny spires projecting out of them, were just as the children might have left them when done with play the day before; the forest tracts were diminished to cushions of moss; one or two big lakes were dwarfed to ponds, the smaller ones to puddles--though they did not look like puddles, but like blue teardrops which had fallen and lodged in slight depressions, conformable to their shapes, among the moss-beds and the smooth levels of dainty green farm-land; the microscopic steamboats glided along, as in a city reservoir, taking a mighty time to cover the distance between ports which seemed only a yard apart; and the isthmus which separated two lakes looked as if one might stretch out on it and lie with both elbows in the water, yet we knew invisible wagons were toiling across it and finding the distance a tedious one. this beautiful miniature world had exactly the appearance of those "relief maps" which reproduce nature precisely, with the heights and depressions and other details graduated to a reduced scale, and with the rocks, trees, lakes, etc., colored after nature. i believed we could walk down to waeggis or vitznau in a day, but i knew we could go down by rail in about an hour, so i chose the latter method. i wanted to see what it was like, anyway. the train came along about the middle of the afternoon, and an odd thing it was. the locomotive-boiler stood on end, and it and the whole locomotive were tilted sharply backward. there were two passenger-cars, roofed, but wide open all around. these cars were not tilted back, but the seats were; this enables the passenger to sit level while going down a steep incline. there are three railway-tracks; the central one is cogged; the "lantern wheel" of the engine grips its way along these cogs, and pulls the train up the hill or retards its motion on the down trip. about the same speed--three miles an hour--is maintained both ways. whether going up or down, the locomotive is always at the lower end of the train. it pushes in the one case, braces back in the other. the passenger rides backward going up, and faces forward going down. we got front seats, and while the train moved along about fifty yards on level ground, i was not the least frightened; but now it started abruptly downstairs, and i caught my breath. and i, like my neighbors, unconsciously held back all i could, and threw my weight to the rear, but, of course, that did no particular good. i had slidden down the balusters when i was a boy, and thought nothing of it, but to slide down the balusters in a railway-train is a thing to make one's flesh creep. sometimes we had as much as ten yards of almost level ground, and this gave us a few full breaths in comfort; but straightway we would turn a corner and see a long steep line of rails stretching down below us, and the comfort was at an end. one expected to see the locomotive pause, or slack up a little, and approach this plunge cautiously, but it did nothing of the kind; it went calmly on, and went it reached the jumping-off place it made a sudden bow, and went gliding smoothly downstairs, untroubled by the circumstances. it was wildly exhilarating to slide along the edge of the precipices, after this grisly fashion, and look straight down upon that far-off valley which i was describing a while ago. there was no level ground at the kaltbad station; the railbed was as steep as a roof; i was curious to see how the stop was going to be managed. but it was very simple; the train came sliding down, and when it reached the right spot it just stopped--that was all there was "to it"--stopped on the steep incline, and when the exchange of passengers and baggage had been made, it moved off and went sliding down again. the train can be stopped anywhere, at a moment's notice. there was one curious effect, which i need not take the trouble to describe--because i can scissor a description of it out of the railway company's advertising pamphlet, and save my ink: "on the whole tour, particularly at the descent, we undergo an optical illusion which often seems to be incredible. all the shrubs, fir trees, stables, houses, etc., seem to be bent in a slanting direction, as by an immense pressure of air. they are all standing awry, so much awry that the chalets and cottages of the peasants seem to be tumbling down. it is the consequence of the steep inclination of the line. those who are seated in the carriage do not observe that they are going down a declivity of twenty to twenty-five degrees (their seats being adapted to this course of proceeding and being bent down at their backs). they mistake their carriage and its horizontal lines for a proper measure of the normal plain, and therefore all the objects outside which really are in a horizontal position must show a disproportion of twenty to twenty-five degrees declivity, in regard to the mountain." by the time one reaches kaltbad, he has acquired confidence in the railway, and he now ceases to try to ease the locomotive by holding back. thenceforth he smokes his pipe in serenity, and gazes out upon the magnificent picture below and about him with unfettered enjoyment. there is nothing to interrupt the view or the breeze; it is like inspecting the world on the wing. however--to be exact--there is one place where the serenity lapses for a while; this is while one is crossing the schnurrtobel bridge, a frail structure which swings its gossamer frame down through the dizzy air, over a gorge, like a vagrant spider-strand. one has no difficulty in remembering his sins while the train is creeping down this bridge; and he repents of them, too; though he sees, when he gets to vitznau, that he need not have done it, the bridge was perfectly safe. so ends the eventual trip which we made to the rigi-kulm to see an alpine sunrise. chapter xxx [harris climbs mountains for me] an hour's sail brought us to lucerne again. i judged it best to go to bed and rest several days, for i knew that the man who undertakes to make the tour of europe on foot must take care of himself. thinking over my plans, as mapped out, i perceived that they did not take in the furka pass, the rhone glacier, the finsteraarhorn, the wetterhorn, etc. i immediately examined the guide-book to see if these were important, and found they were; in fact, a pedestrian tour of europe could not be complete without them. of course that decided me at once to see them, for i never allow myself to do things by halves, or in a slurring, slipshod way. i called in my agent and instructed him to go without delay and make a careful examination of these noted places, on foot, and bring me back a written report of the result, for insertion in my book. i instructed him to go to hospenthal as quickly as possible, and make his grand start from there; to extend his foot expedition as far as the giesbach fall, and return to me from thence by diligence or mule. i told him to take the courier with him. he objected to the courier, and with some show of reason, since he was about to venture upon new and untried ground; but i thought he might as well learn how to take care of the courier now as later, therefore i enforced my point. i said that the trouble, delay, and inconvenience of traveling with a courier were balanced by the deep respect which a courier's presence commands, and i must insist that as much style be thrown into my journeys as possible. so the two assumed complete mountaineering costumes and departed. a week later they returned, pretty well used up, and my agent handed me the following: official report of a visit to the furka region. by h. harris, agent about seven o'clock in the morning, with perfectly fine weather, we started from hospenthal, and arrived at the maison on the furka in a little under quatre hours. the want of variety in the scenery from hospenthal made the kahkahponeeka wearisome; but let none be discouraged; no one can fail to be completely r'ecompens'ee for his fatigue, when he sees, for the first time, the monarch of the oberland, the tremendous finsteraarhorn. a moment before all was dullness, but a pas further has placed us on the summit of the furka; and exactly in front of us, at a hopow of only fifteen miles, this magnificent mountain lifts its snow-wreathed precipices into the deep blue sky. the inferior mountains on each side of the pass form a sort of frame for the picture of their dread lord, and close in the view so completely that no other prominent feature in the oberland is visible from this bong-a-bong; nothing withdraws the attention from the solitary grandeur of the finsteraarhorn and the dependent spurs which form the abutments of the central peak. with the addition of some others, who were also bound for the grimsel, we formed a large xhvloj as we descended the steg which winds round the shoulder of a mountain toward the rhone glacier. we soon left the path and took to the ice; and after wandering amongst the crevices un peu, to admire the wonders of these deep blue caverns, and hear the rushing of waters through their subglacial channels, we struck out a course toward l'autre côte and crossed the glacier successfully, a little above the cave from which the infant rhone takes its first bound from under the grand precipice of ice. half a mile below this we began to climb the flowery side of the meienwand. one of our party started before the rest, but the hitze was so great, that we found ihm quite exhausted, and lying at full length in the shade of a large gestein. we sat down with him for a time, for all felt the heat exceedingly in the climb up this very steep bolwoggoly, and then we set out again together, and arrived at last near the dead man's lake, at the foot of the sidelhorn. this lonely spot, once used for an extempore burying-place, after a sanguinary battue between the french and austrians, is the perfection of desolation; there is nothing in sight to mark the hand of man, except the line of weather-beaten whitened posts, set up to indicate the direction of the pass in the owdawakk of winter. near this point the footpath joins the wider track, which connects the grimsel with the head of the rhone schnawp; this has been carefully constructed, and leads with a tortuous course among and over les pierres, down to the bank of the gloomy little swosh-swosh, which almost washes against the walls of the grimsel hospice. we arrived a little before four o'clock at the end of our day's journey, hot enough to justify the step, taking by most of the partie, of plunging into the crystal water of the snow-fed lake. the next afternoon we started for a walk up the unteraar glacier, with the intention of, at all events, getting as far as the hütte which is used as a sleeping-place by most of those who cross the strahleck pass to grindelwald. we got over the tedious collection of stones and débris which covers the pied of the gletcher, and had walked nearly three hours from the grimsel, when, just as we were thinking of crossing over to the right, to climb the cliffs at the foot of the hut, the clouds, which had for some time assumed a threatening appearance, suddenly dropped, and a huge mass of them, driving toward us from the finsteraarhorn, poured down a deluge of haboolong and hail. fortunately, we were not far from a very large glacier-table; it was a huge rock balanced on a pedestal of ice high enough to admit of our all creeping under it for gowkarak. a stream of puckittypukk had furrowed a course for itself in the ice at its base, and we were obliged to stand with one fuss on each side of this, and endeavor to keep ourselves chaud by cutting steps in the steep bank of the pedestal, so as to get a higher place for standing on, as the wasser rose rapidly in its trench. a very cold bzzzzzzzzeee accompanied the storm, and made our position far from pleasant; and presently came a flash of blitzen, apparently in the middle of our little party, with an instantaneous clap of yokky, sounding like a large gun fired close to our ears; the effect was startling; but in a few seconds our attention was fixed by the roaring echoes of the thunder against the tremendous mountains which completely surrounded us. this was followed by many more bursts, none of welche, however, was so dangerously near; and after waiting a long demi-hour in our icy prison, we sallied out to talk through a haboolong which, though not so heavy as before, was quite enough to give us a thorough soaking before our arrival at the hospice. the grimsel is certainement a wonderful place; situated at the bottom of a sort of huge crater, the sides of which are utterly savage gebirge, composed of barren rocks which cannot even support a single pine arbre, and afford only scanty food for a herd of gmwkwllolp, it looks as if it must be completely begraben in the winter snows. enormous avalanches fall against it every spring, sometimes covering everything to the depth of thirty or forty feet; and, in spite of walls four feet thick, and furnished with outside shutters, the two men who stay here when the voyageurs are snugly quartered in their distant homes can tell you that the snow sometimes shakes the house to its foundations. next morning the hogglebumgullup still continued bad, but we made up our minds to go on, and make the best of it. half an hour after we started, the regen thickened unpleasantly, and we attempted to get shelter under a projecting rock, but being far to nass already to make standing at all agréable, we pushed on for the handeck, consoling ourselves with the reflection that from the furious rushing of the river aar at our side, we should at all events see the celebrated wasserfall in grande perfection. nor were we nappersocket in our expectation; the water was roaring down its leap of two hundred and fifty feet in a most magnificent frenzy, while the trees which cling to its rocky sides swayed to and fro in the violence of the hurricane which it brought down with it; even the stream, which falls into the main cascade at right angles, and toutefois forms a beautiful feature in the scene, was now swollen into a raging torrent; and the violence of this "meeting of the waters," about fifty feet below the frail bridge where we stood, was fearfully grand. while we were looking at it, glüecklicheweise a gleam of sunshine came out, and instantly a beautiful rainbow was formed by the spray, and hung in mid-air suspended over the awful gorge. on going into the chalet above the fall, we were informed that a bruecke had broken down near guttanen, and that it would be impossible to proceed for some time; accordingly we were kept in our drenched condition for ein stunde, when some voyageurs arrived from meiringen, and told us that there had been a trifling accident, aber that we could now cross. on arriving at the spot, i was much inclined to suspect that the whole story was a ruse to make us slowwk and drink the more at the handeck inn, for only a few planks had been carried away, and though there might perhaps have been some difficulty with mules, the gap was certainly not larger than a mmbglx might cross with a very slight leap. near guttanen the haboolong happily ceased, and we had time to walk ourselves tolerably dry before arriving at reichenback, wo we enjoyed a good diné at the hotel des alps. next morning we walked to rosenlaui, the beau idéal of swiss scenery, where we spent the middle of the day in an excursion to the glacier. this was more beautiful than words can describe, for in the constant progress of the ice it has changed the form of its extremity and formed a vast cavern, as blue as the sky above, and rippled like a frozen ocean. a few steps cut in the whoopjamboreehoo enabled us to walk completely under this, and feast our eyes upon one of the loveliest objects in creation. the glacier was all around divided by numberless fissures of the same exquisite color, and the finest wood-erdbeeren were growing in abundance but a few yards from the ice. the inn stands in a charmant spot close to the côté de la rivière, which, lower down, forms the reichenbach fall, and embosomed in the richest of pine woods, while the fine form of the wellhorn looking down upon it completes the enchanting bopple. in the afternoon we walked over the great scheideck to grindelwald, stopping to pay a visit to the upper glacier by the way; but we were again overtaken by bad hogglebumgullup and arrived at the hotel in a solche a state that the landlord's wardrobe was in great request. the clouds by this time seemed to have done their worst, for a lovely day succeeded, which we determined to devote to an ascent of the faulhorn. we left grindelwald just as a thunder-storm was dying away, and we hoped to find guten wetter up above; but the rain, which had nearly ceased, began again, and we were struck by the rapidly increasing froid as we ascended. two-thirds of the way up were completed when the rain was exchanged for gnillic, with which the boden was thickly covered, and before we arrived at the top the gnillic and mist became so thick that we could not see one another at more than twenty poopoo distance, and it became difficult to pick our way over the rough and thickly covered ground. shivering with cold, we turned into bed with a double allowance of clothes, and slept comfortably while the wind howled autour de la maison; when i awoke, the wall and the window looked equally dark, but in another hour i found i could just see the form of the latter; so i jumped out of bed, and forced it open, though with great difficulty from the frost and the quantities of gnillic heaped up against it. a row of huge icicles hung down from the edge of the roof, and anything more wintry than the whole anblick could not well be imagined; but the sudden appearance of the great mountains in front was so startling that i felt no inclination to move toward bed again. the snow which had collected upon la fêntre had increased the finsterniss oder der dunkelheit, so that when i looked out i was surprised to find that the daylight was considerable, and that the balragoomah would evidently rise before long. only the brightest of les e'toiles were still shining; the sky was cloudless overhead, though small curling mists lay thousands of feet below us in the valleys, wreathed around the feet of the mountains, and adding to the splendor of their lofty summits. we were soon dressed and out of the house, watching the gradual approach of dawn, thoroughly absorbed in the first near view of the oberland giants, which broke upon us unexpectedly after the intense obscurity of the evening before. "kabaugwakko songwashee kum wetterhorn snawpo!" cried some one, as that grand summit gleamed with the first rose of dawn; and in a few moments the double crest of the schreckhorn followed its example; peak after peak seemed warmed with life, the jungfrau blushed even more beautifully than her neighbors, and soon, from the wetterhorn in the east to the wildstrubel in the west, a long row of fires glowed upon mighty altars, truly worthy of the gods. the wlgw was very severe; our sleeping-place could hardly be distingueé from the snow around it, which had fallen to a depth of a flirk during the past evening, and we heartily enjoyed a rough scramble en bas to the giesbach falls, where we soon found a warm climate. at noon the day before grindelwald the thermometer could not have stood at less than 100 degrees fahr. in the sun; and in the evening, judging from the icicles formed, and the state of the windows, there must have been at least twelve dingblatter of frost, thus giving a change of 80 degrees during a few hours. i said: "you have done well, harris; this report is concise, compact, well expressed; the language is crisp, the descriptions are vivid and not needlessly elaborated; your report goes straight to the point, attends strictly to business, and doesn't fool around. it is in many ways an excellent document. but it has a fault--it is too learned, it is much too learned. what is 'dingblatter'? "'dingblatter' is a fiji word meaning 'degrees.'" "you knew the english of it, then?" "oh, yes." "what is 'gnillic'? "that is the eskimo term for 'snow.'" "so you knew the english for that, too?" "why, certainly." "what does 'mmbglx' stand for?" "that is zulu for 'pedestrian.'" "'while the form of the wellhorn looking down upon it completes the enchanting bopple.' what is 'bopple'?" "'picture.' it's choctaw." "what is 'schnawp'?" "'valley.' that is choctaw, also." "what is 'bolwoggoly'?" "that is chinese for 'hill.'" "'kahkahponeeka'?" "'ascent.' choctaw." "'but we were again overtaken by bad hogglebumgullup.' what does 'hogglebumgullup' mean?" "that is chinese for 'weather.'" "is 'hogglebumgullup' better than the english word? is it any more descriptive?" "no, it means just the same." "and 'dingblatter' and 'gnillic,' and 'bopple,' and 'schnawp'--are they better than the english words?" "no, they mean just what the english ones do." "then why do you use them? why have you used all this chinese and choctaw and zulu rubbish?" "because i didn't know any french but two or three words, and i didn't know any latin or greek at all." "that is nothing. why should you want to use foreign words, anyhow?" "they adorn my page. they all do it." "who is 'all'?" "everybody. everybody that writes elegantly. anybody has a right to that wants to." "i think you are mistaken." i then proceeded in the following scathing manner. "when really learned men write books for other learned men to read, they are justified in using as many learned words as they please--their audience will understand them; but a man who writes a book for the general public to read is not justified in disfiguring his pages with untranslated foreign expressions. it is an insolence toward the majority of the purchasers, for it is a very frank and impudent way of saying, 'get the translations made yourself if you want them, this book is not written for the ignorant classes.' there are men who know a foreign language so well and have used it so long in their daily life that they seem to discharge whole volleys of it into their english writings unconsciously, and so they omit to translate, as much as half the time. that is a great cruelty to nine out of ten of the man's readers. what is the excuse for this? the writer would say he only uses the foreign language where the delicacy of his point cannot be conveyed in english. very well, then he writes his best things for the tenth man, and he ought to warn the nine other not to buy his book. however, the excuse he offers is at least an excuse; but there is another set of men who are like you; they know a word here and there, of a foreign language, or a few beggarly little three-word phrases, filched from the back of the dictionary, and these are continually peppering into their literature, with a pretense of knowing that language--what excuse can they offer? the foreign words and phrases which they use have their exact equivalents in a nobler language--english; yet they think they 'adorn their page' when they say strasse for street, and bahnhof for railway-station, and so on--flaunting these fluttering rags of poverty in the reader's face and imagining he will be ass enough to take them for the sign of untold riches held in reserve. i will let your 'learning' remain in your report; you have as much right, i suppose, to 'adorn your page' with zulu and chinese and choctaw rubbish as others of your sort have to adorn theirs with insolent odds and ends smouched from half a dozen learned tongues whose a-b abs they don't even know." when the musing spider steps upon the red-hot shovel, he first exhibits a wild surprise, then he shrivels up. similar was the effect of these blistering words upon the tranquil and unsuspecting agent. i can be dreadfully rough on a person when the mood takes me. chapter xxxi [alp-scaling by carriage] we now prepared for a considerable walk--from lucerne to interlaken, over the bruenig pass. but at the last moment the weather was so good that i changed my mind and hired a four-horse carriage. it was a huge vehicle, roomy, as easy in its motion as a palanquin, and exceedingly comfortable. we got away pretty early in the morning, after a hot breakfast, and went bowling over a hard, smooth road, through the summer loveliness of switzerland, with near and distant lakes and mountains before and about us for the entertainment of the eye, and the music of multitudinous birds to charm the ear. sometimes there was only the width of the road between the imposing precipices on the right and the clear cool water on the left with its shoals of uncatchable fish skimming about through the bars of sun and shadow; and sometimes, in place of the precipices, the grassy land stretched away, in an apparently endless upward slant, and was dotted everywhere with snug little chalets, the peculiarly captivating cottage of switzerland. the ordinary chalet turns a broad, honest gable end to the road, and its ample roof hovers over the home in a protecting, caressing way, projecting its sheltering eaves far outward. the quaint windows are filled with little panes, and garnished with white muslin curtains, and brightened with boxes of blooming flowers. across the front of the house, and up the spreading eaves and along the fanciful railings of the shallow porch, are elaborate carvings--wreaths, fruits, arabesques, verses from scripture, names, dates, etc. the building is wholly of wood, reddish brown in tint, a very pleasing color. it generally has vines climbing over it. set such a house against the fresh green of the hillside, and it looks ever so cozy and inviting and picturesque, and is a decidedly graceful addition to the landscape. one does not find out what a hold the chalet has taken upon him, until he presently comes upon a new house--a house which is aping the town fashions of germany and france, a prim, hideous, straight-up-and-down thing, plastered all over on the outside to look like stone, and altogether so stiff, and formal, and ugly, and forbidding, and so out of tune with the gracious landscape, and so deaf and dumb and dead to the poetry of its surroundings, that it suggests an undertaker at a picnic, a corpse at a wedding, a puritan in paradise. in the course of the morning we passed the spot where pontius pilate is said to have thrown himself into the lake. the legend goes that after the crucifixion his conscience troubled him, and he fled from jerusalem and wandered about the earth, weary of life and a prey to tortures of the mind. eventually, he hid himself away, on the heights of mount pilatus, and dwelt alone among the clouds and crags for years; but rest and peace were still denied him, so he finally put an end to his misery by drowning himself. presently we passed the place where a man of better odor was born. this was the children's friend, santa claus, or st. nicholas. there are some unaccountable reputations in the world. this saint's is an instance. he has ranked for ages as the peculiar friend of children, yet it appears he was not much of a friend to his own. he had ten of them, and when fifty years old he left them, and sought out as dismal a refuge from the world as possible, and became a hermit in order that he might reflect upon pious themes without being disturbed by the joyous and other noises from the nursery, doubtless. judging by pilate and st. nicholas, there exists no rule for the construction of hermits; they seem made out of all kinds of material. but pilate attended to the matter of expiating his sin while he was alive, whereas st. nicholas will probably have to go on climbing down sooty chimneys, christmas eve, forever, and conferring kindness on other people's children, to make up for deserting his own. his bones are kept in a church in a village (sachseln) which we visited, and are naturally held in great reverence. his portrait is common in the farmhouses of the region, but is believed by many to be but an indifferent likeness. during his hermit life, according to legend, he partook of the bread and wine of the communion once a month, but all the rest of the month he fasted. a constant marvel with us, as we sped along the bases of the steep mountains on this journey, was, not that avalanches occur, but that they are not occurring all the time. one does not understand why rocks and landslides do not plunge down these declivities daily. a landslip occurred three quarters of a century ago, on the route from arth to brunnen, which was a formidable thing. a mass of conglomerate two miles long, a thousand feet broad, and a hundred feet thick, broke away from a cliff three thousand feet high and hurled itself into the valley below, burying four villages and five hundred people, as in a grave. we had such a beautiful day, and such endless pictures of limpid lakes, and green hills and valleys, and majestic mountains, and milky cataracts dancing down the steeps and gleaming in the sun, that we could not help feeling sweet toward all the world; so we tried to drink all the milk, and eat all the grapes and apricots and berries, and buy all the bouquets of wild flowers which the little peasant boys and girls offered for sale; but we had to retire from this contract, for it was too heavy. at short distances--and they were entirely too short--all along the road, were groups of neat and comely children, with their wares nicely and temptingly set forth in the grass under the shade trees, and as soon as we approached they swarmed into the road, holding out their baskets and milk bottles, and ran beside the carriage, barefoot and bareheaded, and importuned us to buy. they seldom desisted early, but continued to run and insist--beside the wagon while they could, and behind it until they lost breath. then they turned and chased a returning carriage back to their trading-post again. after several hours of this, without any intermission, it becomes almost annoying. i do not know what we should have done without the returning carriages to draw off the pursuit. however, there were plenty of these, loaded with dusty tourists and piled high with luggage. indeed, from lucerne to interlaken we had the spectacle, among other scenery, of an unbroken procession of fruit-peddlers and tourists carriages. our talk was mostly anticipatory of what we should see on the down-grade of the bruenig, by and by, after we should pass the summit. all our friends in lucerne had said that to look down upon meiringen, and the rushing blue-gray river aar, and the broad level green valley; and across at the mighty alpine precipices that rise straight up to the clouds out of that valley; and up at the microscopic chalets perched upon the dizzy eaves of those precipices and winking dimly and fitfully through the drifting veil of vapor; and still up and up, at the superb oltschiback and the other beautiful cascades that leap from those rugged heights, robed in powdery spray, ruffled with foam, and girdled with rainbows--to look upon these things, they say, was to look upon the last possibility of the sublime and the enchanting. therefore, as i say, we talked mainly of these coming wonders; if we were conscious of any impatience, it was to get there in favorable season; if we felt any anxiety, it was that the day might remain perfect, and enable us to see those marvels at their best. as we approached the kaiserstuhl, a part of the harness gave way. we were in distress for a moment, but only a moment. it was the fore-and-aft gear that was broken--the thing that leads aft from the forward part of the horse and is made fast to the thing that pulls the wagon. in america this would have been a heavy leathern strap; but, all over the continent it is nothing but a piece of rope the size of your little finger--clothes-line is what it is. cabs use it, private carriages, freight-carts and wagons, all sorts of vehicles have it. in munich i afterward saw it used on a long wagon laden with fifty-four half-barrels of beer; i had before noticed that the cabs in heidelberg used it--not new rope, but rope that had been in use since abraham's time --and i had felt nervous, sometimes, behind it when the cab was tearing down a hill. but i had long been accustomed to it now, and had even become afraid of the leather strap which belonged in its place. our driver got a fresh piece of clothes-line out of his locker and repaired the break in two minutes. so much for one european fashion. every country has its own ways. it may interest the reader to know how they "put horses to" on the continent. the man stands up the horses on each side of the thing that projects from the front end of the wagon, and then throws the tangled mess of gear forward through a ring, and hauls it aft, and passes the other thing through the other ring and hauls it aft on the other side of the other horse, opposite to the first one, after crossing them and bringing the loose end back, and then buckles the other thing underneath the horse, and takes another thing and wraps it around the thing i spoke of before, and puts another thing over each horse's head, with broad flappers to it to keep the dust out of his eyes, and puts the iron thing in his mouth for him to grit his teeth on, uphill, and brings the ends of these things aft over his back, after buckling another one around under his neck to hold his head up, and hitching another thing on a thing that goes over his shoulders to keep his head up when he is climbing a hill, and then takes the slack of the thing which i mentioned a while ago, and fetches it aft and makes it fast to the thing that pulls the wagon, and hands the other things up to the driver to steer with. i never have buckled up a horse myself, but i do not think we do it that way. we had four very handsome horses, and the driver was very proud of his turnout. he would bowl along on a reasonable trot, on the highway, but when he entered a village he did it on a furious run, and accompanied it with a frenzy of ceaseless whip-crackings that sounded like volleys of musketry. he tore through the narrow streets and around the sharp curves like a moving earthquake, showering his volleys as he went, and before him swept a continuous tidal wave of scampering children, ducks, cats, and mothers clasping babies which they had snatched out of the way of the coming destruction; and as this living wave washed aside, along the walls, its elements, being safe, forgot their fears and turned their admiring gaze upon that gallant driver till he thundered around the next curve and was lost to sight. he was a great man to those villagers, with his gaudy clothes and his terrific ways. whenever he stopped to have his cattle watered and fed with loaves of bread, the villagers stood around admiring him while he swaggered about, the little boys gazed up at his face with humble homage, and the landlord brought out foaming mugs of beer and conversed proudly with him while he drank. then he mounted his lofty box, swung his explosive whip, and away he went again, like a storm. i had not seen anything like this before since i was a boy, and the stage used to flourish the village with the dust flying and the horn tooting. when we reached the base of the kaiserstuhl, we took two more horses; we had to toil along with difficulty for an hour and a half or two hours, for the ascent was not very gradual, but when we passed the backbone and approached the station, the driver surpassed all his previous efforts in the way of rush and clatter. he could not have six horses all the time, so he made the most of his chance while he had it. up to this point we had been in the heart of the william tell region. the hero is not forgotten, by any means, or held in doubtful veneration. his wooden image, with his bow drawn, above the doors of taverns, was a frequent feature of the scenery. about noon we arrived at the foot of the bruenig pass, and made a two-hour stop at the village hotel, another of those clean, pretty, and thoroughly well-kept inns which are such an astonishment to people who are accustomed to hotels of a dismally different pattern in remote country-towns. there was a lake here, in the lap of the great mountains, the green slopes that rose toward the lower crags were graced with scattered swiss cottages nestling among miniature farms and gardens, and from out a leafy ambuscade in the upper heights tumbled a brawling cataract. carriage after carriage, laden with tourists and trunks, arrived, and the quiet hotel was soon populous. we were early at the table d'hôte and saw the people all come in. there were twenty-five, perhaps. they were of various nationalities, but we were the only americans. next to me sat an english bride, and next to her sat her new husband, whom she called "neddy," though he was big enough and stalwart enough to be entitled to his full name. they had a pretty little lovers' quarrel over what wine they should have. neddy was for obeying the guide-book and taking the wine of the country; but the bride said: "what, that nahsty stuff!" "it isn't nahsty, pet, it's quite good." "it is nahsty." "no, it isn't nahsty." "it's oful nahsty, neddy, and i shahn't drink it." then the question was, what she must have. she said he knew very well that she never drank anything but champagne. she added: "you know very well papa always has champagne on his table, and i've always been used to it." neddy made a playful pretense of being distressed about the expense, and this amused her so much that she nearly exhausted herself with laughter--and this pleased him so much that he repeated his jest a couple of times, and added new and killing varieties to it. when the bride finally recovered, she gave neddy a love-box on the arm with her fan, and said with arch severity: "well, you would have me--nothing else would do--so you'll have to make the best of a bad bargain. do order the champagne, i'm oful dry." so with a mock groan which made her laugh again, neddy ordered the champagne. the fact that this young woman had never moistened the selvedge edge of her soul with a less plebeian tipple than champagne, had a marked and subduing effect on harris. he believed she belonged to the royal family. but i had my doubts. we heard two or three different languages spoken by people at the table and guessed out the nationalities of most of the guests to our satisfaction, but we failed with an elderly gentleman and his wife and a young girl who sat opposite us, and with a gentleman of about thirty-five who sat three seats beyond harris. we did not hear any of these speak. but finally the last-named gentleman left while we were not noticing, but we looked up as he reached the far end of the table. he stopped there a moment, and made his toilet with a pocket comb. so he was a german; or else he had lived in german hotels long enough to catch the fashion. when the elderly couple and the young girl rose to leave, they bowed respectfully to us. so they were germans, too. this national custom is worth six of the other one, for export. after dinner we talked with several englishmen, and they inflamed our desire to a hotter degree than ever, to see the sights of meiringen from the heights of the bruenig pass. they said the view was marvelous, and that one who had seen it once could never forget it. they also spoke of the romantic nature of the road over the pass, and how in one place it had been cut through a flank of the solid rock, in such a way that the mountain overhung the tourist as he passed by; and they furthermore said that the sharp turns in the road and the abruptness of the descent would afford us a thrilling experience, for we should go down in a flying gallop and seem to be spinning around the rings of a whirlwind, like a drop of whiskey descending the spirals of a corkscrew. i got all the information out of these gentlemen that we could need; and then, to make everything complete, i asked them if a body could get hold of a little fruit and milk here and there, in case of necessity. they threw up their hands in speechless intimation that the road was simply paved with refreshment-peddlers. we were impatient to get away, now, and the rest of our two-hour stop rather dragged. but finally the set time arrived and we began the ascent. indeed it was a wonderful road. it was smooth, and compact, and clean, and the side next the precipices was guarded all along by dressed stone posts about three feet high, placed at short distances apart. the road could not have been better built if napoleon the first had built it. he seems to have been the introducer of the sort of roads which europe now uses. all literature which describes life as it existed in england, france, and germany up to the close of the last century, is filled with pictures of coaches and carriages wallowing through these three countries in mud and slush half-wheel deep; but after napoleon had floundered through a conquered kingdom he generally arranged things so that the rest of the world could follow dry-shod. we went on climbing, higher and higher, and curving hither and thither, in the shade of noble woods, and with a rich variety and profusion of wild flowers all about us; and glimpses of rounded grassy backbones below us occupied by trim chalets and nibbling sheep, and other glimpses of far lower altitudes, where distance diminished the chalets to toys and obliterated the sheep altogether; and every now and then some ermined monarch of the alps swung magnificently into view for a moment, then drifted past an intervening spur and disappeared again. it was an intoxicating trip altogether; the exceeding sense of satisfaction that follows a good dinner added largely to the enjoyment; the having something especial to look forward to and muse about, like the approaching grandeurs of meiringen, sharpened the zest. smoking was never so good before, solid comfort was never solider; we lay back against the thick cushions silent, meditative, steeped in felicity. * * * * * * * * i rubbed my eyes, opened them, and started. i had been dreaming i was at sea, and it was a thrilling surprise to wake up and find land all around me. it took me a couple seconds to "come to," as you may say; then i took in the situation. the horses were drinking at a trough in the edge of a town, the driver was taking beer, harris was snoring at my side, the courier, with folded arms and bowed head, was sleeping on the box, two dozen barefooted and bareheaded children were gathered about the carriage, with their hands crossed behind, gazing up with serious and innocent admiration at the dozing tourists baking there in the sun. several small girls held night-capped babies nearly as big as themselves in their arms, and even these fat babies seemed to take a sort of sluggish interest in us. we had slept an hour and a half and missed all the scenery! i did not need anybody to tell me that. if i had been a girl, i could have cursed for vexation. as it was, i woke up the agent and gave him a piece of my mind. instead of being humiliated, he only upbraided me for being so wanting in vigilance. he said he had expected to improve his mind by coming to europe, but a man might travel to the ends of the earth with me and never see anything, for i was manifestly endowed with the very genius of ill luck. he even tried to get up some emotion about that poor courier, who never got a chance to see anything, on account of my heedlessness. but when i thought i had borne about enough of this kind of talk, i threatened to make harris tramp back to the summit and make a report on that scenery, and this suggestion spiked his battery. we drove sullenly through brienz, dead to the seductions of its bewildering array of swiss carvings and the clamorous hoo-hooing of its cuckoo clocks, and had not entirely recovered our spirits when we rattled across a bridge over the rushing blue river and entered the pretty town of interlaken. it was just about sunset, and we had made the trip from lucerne in ten hours. chapter xxxii [the jungfrau, the bride, and the piano] we located ourselves at the jungfrau hotel, one of those huge establishments which the needs of modern travel have created in every attractive spot on the continent. there was a great gathering at dinner, and, as usual, one heard all sorts of languages. the table d'hôte was served by waitresses dressed in the quaint and comely costume of the swiss peasants. this consists of a simple gros de laine, trimmed with ashes of roses, with overskirt of scare bleu ventre saint gris, cut bias on the off-side, with facings of petit polonaise and narrow insertions of pâte de foie gras backstitched to the mise en sce`ne in the form of a jeu d'esprit. it gives to the wearer a singularly piquant and alluring aspect. one of these waitresses, a woman of forty, had side-whiskers reaching half-way down her jaws. they were two fingers broad, dark in color, pretty thick, and the hairs were an inch long. one sees many women on the continent with quite conspicuous mustaches, but this was the only woman i saw who had reached the dignity of whiskers. after dinner the guests of both sexes distributed themselves about the front porches and the ornamental grounds belonging to the hotel, to enjoy the cool air; but, as the twilight deepened toward darkness, they gathered themselves together in that saddest and solemnest and most constrained of all places, the great blank drawing-room which is the chief feature of all continental summer hotels. there they grouped themselves about, in couples and threes, and mumbled in bated voices, and looked timid and homeless and forlorn. there was a small piano in this room, a clattery, wheezy, asthmatic thing, certainly the very worst miscarriage in the way of a piano that the world has seen. in turn, five or six dejected and homesick ladies approached it doubtingly, gave it a single inquiring thump, and retired with the lockjaw. but the boss of that instrument was to come, nevertheless; and from my own country--from arkansaw. she was a brand-new bride, innocent, girlish, happy in herself and her grave and worshiping stripling of a husband; she was about eighteen, just out of school, free from affectations, unconscious of that passionless multitude around her; and the very first time she smote that old wreck one recognized that it had met its destiny. her stripling brought an armful of aged sheet-music from their room--for this bride went "heeled," as you might say--and bent himself lovingly over and got ready to turn the pages. the bride fetched a swoop with her fingers from one end of the keyboard to the other, just to get her bearings, as it were, and you could see the congregation set their teeth with the agony of it. then, without any more preliminaries, she turned on all the horrors of the "battle of prague," that venerable shivaree, and waded chin-deep in the blood of the slain. she made a fair and honorable average of two false notes in every five, but her soul was in arms and she never stopped to correct. the audience stood it with pretty fair grit for a while, but when the cannonade waxed hotter and fiercer, and the discord average rose to four in five, the procession began to move. a few stragglers held their ground ten minutes longer, but when the girl began to wring the true inwardness out of the "cries of the wounded," they struck their colors and retired in a kind of panic. there never was a completer victory; i was the only non-combatant left on the field. i would not have deserted my countrywoman anyhow, but indeed i had no desires in that direction. none of us like mediocrity, but we all reverence perfection. this girl's music was perfection in its way; it was the worst music that had ever been achieved on our planet by a mere human being. i moved up close, and never lost a strain. when she got through, i asked her to play it again. she did it with a pleased alacrity and a heightened enthusiasm. she made it all discords, this time. she got an amount of anguish into the cries of the wounded that shed a new light on human suffering. she was on the war-path all the evening. all the time, crowds of people gathered on the porches and pressed their noses against the windows to look and marvel, but the bravest never ventured in. the bride went off satisfied and happy with her young fellow, when her appetite was finally gorged, and the tourists swarmed in again. what a change has come over switzerland, and in fact all europe, during this century! seventy or eighty years ago napoleon was the only man in europe who could really be called a traveler; he was the only man who had devoted his attention to it and taken a powerful interest in it; he was the only man who had traveled extensively; but now everybody goes everywhere; and switzerland, and many other regions which were unvisited and unknown remotenesses a hundred years ago, are in our days a buzzing hive of restless strangers every summer. but i digress. in the morning, when we looked out of our windows, we saw a wonderful sight. across the valley, and apparently quite neighborly and close at hand, the giant form of the jungfrau rose cold and white into the clear sky, beyond a gateway in the nearer highlands. it reminded me, somehow, of one of those colossal billows which swells suddenly up beside one's ship, at sea, sometimes, with its crest and shoulders snowy white, and the rest of its noble proportions streaked downward with creamy foam. i took out my sketch-book and made a little picture of the jungfrau, merely to get the shape. i do not regard this as one of my finished works, in fact i do not rank it among my works at all; it is only a study; it is hardly more than what one might call a sketch. other artists have done me the grace to admire it; but i am severe in my judgments of my own pictures, and this one does not move me. it was hard to believe that that lofty wooded rampart on the left which so overtops the jungfrau was not actually the higher of the two, but it was not, of course. it is only two or three thousand feet high, and of course has no snow upon it in summer, whereas the jungfrau is not much shorter of fourteen thousand feet high and therefore that lowest verge of snow on her side, which seems nearly down to the valley level, is really about seven thousand feet higher up in the air than the summit of that wooded rampart. it is the distance that makes the deception. the wooded height is but four or five miles removed from us, but the jungfrau is four or five times that distance away. walking down the street of shops, in the fore-noon, i was attracted by a large picture, carved, frame and all, from a single block of chocolate-colored wood. there are people who know everything. some of these had told us that continental shopkeepers always raise their prices on english and americans. many people had told us it was expensive to buy things through a courier, whereas i had supposed it was just the reverse. when i saw this picture, i conjectured that it was worth more than the friend i proposed to buy it for would like to pay, but still it was worth while to inquire; so i told the courier to step in and ask the price, as if he wanted it for himself; i told him not to speak in english, and above all not to reveal the fact that he was a courier. then i moved on a few yards, and waited. the courier came presently and reported the price. i said to myself, "it is a hundred francs too much," and so dismissed the matter from my mind. but in the afternoon i was passing that place with harris, and the picture attracted me again. we stepped in, to see how much higher broken german would raise the price. the shopwoman named a figure just a hundred francs lower than the courier had named. this was a pleasant surprise. i said i would take it. after i had given directions as to where it was to be shipped, the shopwoman said, appealingly: "if you please, do not let your courier know you bought it." this was an unexpected remark. i said: "what makes you think i have a courier?" "ah, that is very simple; he told me himself." "he was very thoughtful. but tell me--why did you charge him more than you are charging me?" "that is very simple, also: i do not have to pay you a percentage." "oh, i begin to see. you would have had to pay the courier a percentage." "undoubtedly. the courier always has his percentage. in this case it would have been a hundred francs." "then the tradesman does not pay a part of it--the purchaser pays all of it?" "there are occasions when the tradesman and the courier agree upon a price which is twice or thrice the value of the article, then the two divide, and both get a percentage." "i see. but it seems to me that the purchaser does all the paying, even then." "oh, to be sure! it goes without saying." "but i have bought this picture myself; therefore why shouldn't the courier know it?" the woman exclaimed, in distress: "ah, indeed it would take all my little profit! he would come and demand his hundred francs, and i should have to pay." "he has not done the buying. you could refuse." "i could not dare to refuse. he would never bring travelers here again. more than that, he would denounce me to the other couriers, they would divert custom from me, and my business would be injured." i went away in a thoughtful frame of mind. i began to see why a courier could afford to work for fifty-five dollars a month and his fares. a month or two later i was able to understand why a courier did not have to pay any board and lodging, and why my hotel bills were always larger when i had him with me than when i left him behind, somewhere, for a few days. another thing was also explained, now, apparently. in one town i had taken the courier to the bank to do the translating when i drew some money. i had sat in the reading-room till the transaction was finished. then a clerk had brought the money to me in person, and had been exceedingly polite, even going so far as to precede me to the door and holding it open for me and bow me out as if i had been a distinguished personage. it was a new experience. exchange had been in my favor ever since i had been in europe, but just that one time. i got simply the face of my draft, and no extra francs, whereas i had expected to get quite a number of them. this was the first time i had ever used the courier at the bank. i had suspected something then, and as long as he remained with me afterward i managed bank matters by myself. still, if i felt that i could afford the tax, i would never travel without a courier, for a good courier is a convenience whose value cannot be estimated in dollars and cents. without him, travel is a bitter harassment, a purgatory of little exasperating annoyances, a ceaseless and pitiless punishment--i mean to an irascible man who has no business capacity and is confused by details. without a courier, travel hasn't a ray of pleasure in it, anywhere; but with him it is a continuous and unruffled delight. he is always at hand, never has to be sent for; if your bell is not answered promptly--and it seldom is--you have only to open the door and speak, the courier will hear, and he will have the order attended to or raise an insurrection. you tell him what day you will start, and whither you are going--leave all the rest to him. you need not inquire about trains, or fares, or car changes, or hotels, or anything else. at the proper time he will put you in a cab or an omnibus, and drive you to the train or the boat; he has packed your luggage and transferred it, he has paid all the bills. other people have preceded you half an hour to scramble for impossible places and lose their tempers, but you can take your time; the courier has secured your seats for you, and you can occupy them at your leisure. at the station, the crowd mash one another to pulp in the effort to get the weigher's attention to their trunks; they dispute hotly with these tyrants, who are cool and indifferent; they get their baggage billets, at last, and then have another squeeze and another rage over the disheartening business of trying to get them recorded and paid for, and still another over the equally disheartening business of trying to get near enough to the ticket office to buy a ticket; and now, with their tempers gone to the dogs, they must stand penned up and packed together, laden with wraps and satchels and shawl-straps, with the weary wife and babies, in the waiting-room, till the doors are thrown open--and then all hands make a grand final rush to the train, find it full, and have to stand on the platform and fret until some more cars are put on. they are in a condition to kill somebody by this time. meantime, you have been sitting in your car, smoking, and observing all this misery in the extremest comfort. on the journey the guard is polite and watchful--won't allow anybody to get into your compartment--tells them you are just recovering from the small-pox and do not like to be disturbed. for the courier has made everything right with the guard. at way-stations the courier comes to your compartment to see if you want a glass of water, or a newspaper, or anything; at eating-stations he sends luncheon out to you, while the other people scramble and worry in the dining-rooms. if anything breaks about the car you are in, and a station-master proposes to pack you and your agent into a compartment with strangers, the courier reveals to him confidentially that you are a french duke born deaf and dumb, and the official comes and makes affable signs that he has ordered a choice car to be added to the train for you. at custom-houses the multitude file tediously through, hot and irritated, and look on while the officers burrow into the trunks and make a mess of everything; but you hand your keys to the courier and sit still. perhaps you arrive at your destination in a rain-storm at ten at night--you generally do. the multitude spend half an hour verifying their baggage and getting it transferred to the omnibuses; but the courier puts you into a vehicle without a moment's loss of time, and when you reach your hotel you find your rooms have been secured two or three days in advance, everything is ready, you can go at once to bed. some of those other people will have to drift around to two or three hotels, in the rain, before they find accommodations. i have not set down half of the virtues that are vested in a good courier, but i think i have set down a sufficiency of them to show that an irritable man who can afford one and does not employ him is not a wise economist. my courier was the worst one in europe, yet he was a good deal better than none at all. it could not pay him to be a better one than he was, because i could not afford to buy things through him. he was a good enough courier for the small amount he got out of his service. yes, to travel with a courier is bliss, to travel without one is the reverse. i have had dealings with some very bad couriers; but i have also had dealings with one who might fairly be called perfection. he was a young polander, named joseph n. verey. he spoke eight languages, and seemed to be equally at home in all of them; he was shrewd, prompt, posted, and punctual; he was fertile in resources, and singularly gifted in the matter of overcoming difficulties; he not only knew how to do everything in his line, but he knew the best ways and the quickest; he was handy with children and invalids; all his employer needed to do was to take life easy and leave everything to the courier. his address is, care of messrs. gay & son, strand, london; he was formerly a conductor of gay's tourist parties. excellent couriers are somewhat rare; if the reader is about to travel, he will find it to his advantage to make a note of this one. chapter xxxiii [we climb far--by buggy] the beautiful giesbach fall is near interlaken, on the other side of the lake of brienz, and is illuminated every night with those gorgeous theatrical fires whose name i cannot call just at this moment. this was said to be a spectacle which the tourist ought by no means to miss. i was strongly tempted, but i could not go there with propriety, because one goes in a boat. the task which i had set myself was to walk over europe on foot, not skim over it in a boat. i had made a tacit contract with myself; it was my duty to abide by it. i was willing to make boat trips for pleasure, but i could not conscientiously make them in the way of business. it cost me something of a pang to lose that fine sight, but i lived down the desire, and gained in my self-respect through the triumph. i had a finer and a grander sight, however, where i was. this was the mighty dome of the jungfrau softly outlined against the sky and faintly silvered by the starlight. there was something subduing in the influence of that silent and solemn and awful presence; one seemed to meet the immutable, the indestructible, the eternal, face to face, and to feel the trivial and fleeting nature of his own existence the more sharply by the contrast. one had the sense of being under the brooding contemplation of a spirit, not an inert mass of rocks and ice--a spirit which had looked down, through the slow drift of the ages, upon a million vanished races of men, and judged them; and would judge a million more--and still be there, watching, unchanged and unchangeable, after all life should be gone and the earth have become a vacant desolation. while i was feeling these things, i was groping, without knowing it, toward an understanding of what the spell is which people find in the alps, and in no other mountains--that strange, deep, nameless influence, which, once felt, cannot be forgotten--once felt, leaves always behind it a restless longing to feel it again--a longing which is like homesickness; a grieving, haunting yearning which will plead, implore, and persecute till it has its will. i met dozens of people, imaginative and unimaginative, cultivated and uncultivated, who had come from far countries and roamed through the swiss alps year after year--they could not explain why. they had come first, they said, out of idle curiosity, because everybody talked about it; they had come since because they could not help it, and they should keep on coming, while they lived, for the same reason; they had tried to break their chains and stay away, but it was futile; now, they had no desire to break them. others came nearer formulating what they felt; they said they could find perfect rest and peace nowhere else when they were troubled: all frets and worries and chafings sank to sleep in the presence of the benignant serenity of the alps; the great spirit of the mountain breathed his own peace upon their hurt minds and sore hearts, and healed them; they could not think base thoughts or do mean and sordid things here, before the visible throne of god. down the road a piece was a kursaal--whatever that may be--and we joined the human tide to see what sort of enjoyment it might afford. it was the usual open-air concert, in an ornamental garden, with wines, beer, milk, whey, grapes, etc.--the whey and the grapes being necessaries of life to certain invalids whom physicians cannot repair, and who only continue to exist by the grace of whey or grapes. one of these departed spirits told me, in a sad and lifeless way, that there is no way for him to live but by whey, and dearly, dearly loved whey, he didn't know whey he did, but he did. after making this pun he died--that is the whey it served him. some other remains, preserved from decomposition by the grape system, told me that the grapes were of a peculiar breed, highly medicinal in their nature, and that they were counted out and administered by the grape-doctors as methodically as if they were pills. the new patient, if very feeble, began with one grape before breakfast, took three during breakfast, a couple between meals, five at luncheon, three in the afternoon, seven at dinner, four for supper, and part of a grape just before going to bed, by way of a general regulator. the quantity was gradually and regularly increased, according to the needs and capacities of the patient, until by and by you would find him disposing of his one grape per second all the day long, and his regular barrel per day. he said that men cured in this way, and enabled to discard the grape system, never afterward got over the habit of talking as if they were dictating to a slow amanuensis, because they always made a pause between each two words while they sucked the substance out of an imaginary grape. he said these were tedious people to talk with. he said that men who had been cured by the other process were easily distinguished from the rest of mankind because they always tilted their heads back, between every two words, and swallowed a swig of imaginary whey. he said it was an impressive thing to observe two men, who had been cured by the two processes, engaged in conversation--said their pauses and accompanying movements were so continuous and regular that a stranger would think himself in the presence of a couple of automatic machines. one finds out a great many wonderful things, by traveling, if he stumbles upon the right person. i did not remain long at the kursaal; the music was good enough, but it seemed rather tame after the cyclone of that arkansaw expert. besides, my adventurous spirit had conceived a formidable enterprise--nothing less than a trip from interlaken, by the gemmi and visp, clear to zermatt, on foot! so it was necessary to plan the details, and get ready for an early start. the courier (this was not the one i have just been speaking of) thought that the portier of the hotel would be able to tell us how to find our way. and so it turned out. he showed us the whole thing, on a relief-map, and we could see our route, with all its elevations and depressions, its villages and its rivers, as clearly as if we were sailing over it in a balloon. a relief-map is a great thing. the portier also wrote down each day's journey and the nightly hotel on a piece of paper, and made our course so plain that we should never be able to get lost without high-priced outside help. i put the courier in the care of a gentleman who was going to lausanne, and then we went to bed, after laying out the walking-costumes and putting them into condition for instant occupation in the morning. however, when we came down to breakfast at 8 a.m., it looked so much like rain that i hired a two-horse top-buggy for the first third of the journey. for two or three hours we jogged along the level road which skirts the beautiful lake of thun, with a dim and dreamlike picture of watery expanses and spectral alpine forms always before us, veiled in a mellowing mist. then a steady downpour set in, and hid everything but the nearest objects. we kept the rain out of our faces with umbrellas, and away from our bodies with the leather apron of the buggy; but the driver sat unsheltered and placidly soaked the weather in and seemed to like it. we had the road to ourselves, and i never had a pleasanter excursion. the weather began to clear while we were driving up a valley called the kienthal, and presently a vast black cloud-bank in front of us dissolved away and uncurtained the grand proportions and the soaring loftiness of the blumis alp. it was a sort of breath-taking surprise; for we had not supposed there was anything behind that low-hung blanket of sable cloud but level valley. what we had been mistaking for fleeting glimpses of sky away aloft there, were really patches of the blumis's snowy crest caught through shredded rents in the drifting pall of vapor. we dined in the inn at frutigen, and our driver ought to have dined there, too, but he would not have had time to dine and get drunk both, so he gave his mind to making a masterpiece of the latter, and succeeded. a german gentleman and his two young-lady daughters had been taking their nooning at the inn, and when they left, just ahead of us, it was plain that their driver was as drunk as ours, and as happy and good-natured, too, which was saying a good deal. these rascals overflowed with attentions and information for their guests, and with brotherly love for each other. they tied their reins, and took off their coats and hats, so that they might be able to give unencumbered attention to conversation and to the gestures necessary for its illustration. the road was smooth; it led up and over and down a continual succession of hills; but it was narrow, the horses were used to it, and could not well get out of it anyhow; so why shouldn't the drivers entertain themselves and us? the noses of our horses projected sociably into the rear of the forward carriage, and as we toiled up the long hills our driver stood up and talked to his friend, and his friend stood up and talked back to him, with his rear to the scenery. when the top was reached and we went flying down the other side, there was no change in the program. i carry in my memory yet the picture of that forward driver, on his knees on his high seat, resting his elbows on its back, and beaming down on his passengers, with happy eye, and flying hair, and jolly red face, and offering his card to the old german gentleman while he praised his hack and horses, and both teams were whizzing down a long hill with nobody in a position to tell whether we were bound to destruction or an undeserved safety. toward sunset we entered a beautiful green valley dotted with chalets, a cozy little domain hidden away from the busy world in a cloistered nook among giant precipices topped with snowy peaks that seemed to float like islands above the curling surf of the sea of vapor that severed them from the lower world. down from vague and vaporous heights, little ruffled zigzag milky currents came crawling, and found their way to the verge of one of those tremendous overhanging walls, whence they plunged, a shaft of silver, shivered to atoms in mid-descent and turned to an air puff of luminous dust. here and there, in grooved depressions among the snowy desolations of the upper altitudes, one glimpsed the extremity of a glacier, with its sea-green and honeycombed battlements of ice. up the valley, under a dizzy precipice, nestled the village of kandersteg, our halting-place for the night. we were soon there, and housed in the hotel. but the waning day had such an inviting influence that we did not remain housed many moments, but struck out and followed a roaring torrent of ice-water up to its far source in a sort of little grass-carpeted parlor, walled in all around by vast precipices and overlooked by clustering summits of ice. this was the snuggest little croquet-ground imaginable; it was perfectly level, and not more than a mile long by half a mile wide. the walls around it were so gigantic, and everything about it was on so mighty a scale that it was belittled, by contrast, to what i have likened it to--a cozy and carpeted parlor. it was so high above the kandersteg valley that there was nothing between it and the snowy-peaks. i had never been in such intimate relations with the high altitudes before; the snow-peaks had always been remote and unapproachable grandeurs, hitherto, but now we were hob-a-nob--if one may use such a seemingly irreverent expression about creations so august as these. we could see the streams which fed the torrent we had followed issuing from under the greenish ramparts of glaciers; but two or three of these, instead of flowing over the precipices, sank down into the rock and sprang in big jets out of holes in the mid-face of the walls. the green nook which i have been describing is called the gasternthal. the glacier streams gather and flow through it in a broad and rushing brook to a narrow cleft between lofty precipices; here the rushing brook becomes a mad torrent and goes booming and thundering down toward kandersteg, lashing and thrashing its way over and among monster boulders, and hurling chance roots and logs about like straws. there was no lack of cascades along this route. the path by the side of the torrent was so narrow that one had to look sharp, when he heard a cow-bell, and hunt for a place that was wide enough to accommodate a cow and a christian side by side, and such places were not always to be had at an instant's notice. the cows wear church-bells, and that is a good idea in the cows, for where that torrent is, you couldn't hear an ordinary cow-bell any further than you could hear the ticking of a watch. i needed exercise, so i employed my agent in setting stranded logs and dead trees adrift, and i sat on a boulder and watched them go whirling and leaping head over heels down the boiling torrent. it was a wonderfully exhilarating spectacle. when i had had enough exercise, i made the agent take some, by running a race with one of those logs. i made a trifle by betting on the log. after dinner we had a walk up and down the kandersteg valley, in the soft gloaming, with the spectacle of the dying lights of day playing about the crests and pinnacles of the still and solemn upper realm for contrast, and text for talk. there were no sounds but the dulled complaining of the torrent and the occasional tinkling of a distant bell. the spirit of the place was a sense of deep, pervading peace; one might dream his life tranquilly away there, and not miss it or mind it when it was gone. the summer departed with the sun, and winter came with the stars. it grew to be a bitter night in that little hotel, backed up against a precipice that had no visible top to it, but we kept warm, and woke in time in the morning to find that everybody else had left for gemmi three hours before--so our little plan of helping that german family (principally the old man) over the pass, was a blocked generosity. chapter xxxiv [the world's highest pig farm] we hired the only guide left, to lead us on our way. he was over seventy, but he could have given me nine-tenths of his strength and still had all his age entitled him to. he shouldered our satchels, overcoats, and alpenstocks, and we set out up the steep path. it was hot work. the old man soon begged us to hand over our coats and waistcoats to him to carry, too, and we did it; one could not refuse so little a thing to a poor old man like that; he should have had them if he had been a hundred and fifty. when we began that ascent, we could see a microscopic chalet perched away up against heaven on what seemed to be the highest mountain near us. it was on our right, across the narrow head of the valley. but when we got up abreast it on its own level, mountains were towering high above on every hand, and we saw that its altitude was just about that of the little gasternthal which we had visited the evening before. still it seemed a long way up in the air, in that waste and lonely wilderness of rocks. it had an unfenced grass-plot in front of it which seemed about as big as a billiard-table, and this grass-plot slanted so sharply downward, and was so brief, and ended so exceedingly soon at the verge of the absolute precipice, that it was a shuddery thing to think of a person's venturing to trust his foot on an incline so situated at all. suppose a man stepped on an orange peel in that yard; there would be nothing for him to seize; nothing could keep him from rolling; five revolutions would bring him to the edge, and over he would go. what a frightful distance he would fall!--for there are very few birds that fly as high as his starting-point. he would strike and bounce, two or three times, on his way down, but this would be no advantage to him. i would as soon take an airing on the slant of a rainbow as in such a front yard. i would rather, in fact, for the distance down would be about the same, and it is pleasanter to slide than to bounce. i could not see how the peasants got up to that chalet--the region seemed too steep for anything but a balloon. as we strolled on, climbing up higher and higher, we were continually bringing neighboring peaks into view and lofty prominence which had been hidden behind lower peaks before; so by and by, while standing before a group of these giants, we looked around for the chalet again; there it was, away down below us, apparently on an inconspicuous ridge in the valley! it was as far below us, now, as it had been above us when we were beginning the ascent. after a while the path led us along a railed precipice, and we looked over--far beneath us was the snug parlor again, the little gasternthal, with its water jets spouting from the face of its rock walls. we could have dropped a stone into it. we had been finding the top of the world all along--and always finding a still higher top stealing into view in a disappointing way just ahead; when we looked down into the gasternthal we felt pretty sure that we had reached the genuine top at last, but it was not so; there were much higher altitudes to be scaled yet. we were still in the pleasant shade of forest trees, we were still in a region which was cushioned with beautiful mosses and aglow with the many-tinted luster of innumerable wild flowers. we found, indeed, more interest in the wild flowers than in anything else. we gathered a specimen or two of every kind which we were unacquainted with; so we had sumptuous bouquets. but one of the chief interests lay in chasing the seasons of the year up the mountain, and determining them by the presence of flowers and berries which we were acquainted with. for instance, it was the end of august at the level of the sea; in the kandersteg valley at the base of the pass, we found flowers which would not be due at the sea-level for two or three weeks; higher up, we entered october, and gathered fringed gentians. i made no notes, and have forgotten the details, but the construction of the floral calendar was very entertaining while it lasted. in the high regions we found rich store of the splendid red flower called the alpine rose, but we did not find any examples of the ugly swiss favorite called edelweiss. its name seems to indicate that it is a noble flower and that it is white. it may be noble enough, but it is not attractive, and it is not white. the fuzzy blossom is the color of bad cigar ashes, and appears to be made of a cheap quality of gray plush. it has a noble and distant way of confining itself to the high altitudes, but that is probably on account of its looks; it apparently has no monopoly of those upper altitudes, however, for they are sometimes intruded upon by some of the loveliest of the valley families of wild flowers. everybody in the alps wears a sprig of edelweiss in his hat. it is the native's pet, and also the tourist's. all the morning, as we loafed along, having a good time, other pedestrians went staving by us with vigorous strides, and with the intent and determined look of men who were walking for a wager. these wore loose knee-breeches, long yarn stockings, and hobnailed high-laced walking-shoes. they were gentlemen who would go home to england or germany and tell how many miles they had beaten the guide-book every day. but i doubted if they ever had much real fun, outside of the mere magnificent exhilaration of the tramp through the green valleys and the breezy heights; for they were almost always alone, and even the finest scenery loses incalculably when there is no one to enjoy it with. all the morning an endless double procession of mule-mounted tourists filed past us along the narrow path--the one procession going, the other coming. we had taken a good deal of trouble to teach ourselves the kindly german custom of saluting all strangers with doffed hat, and we resolutely clung to it, that morning, although it kept us bareheaded most of the time and was not always responded to. still we found an interest in the thing, because we naturally liked to know who were english and americans among the passers-by. all continental natives responded of course; so did some of the english and americans, but, as a general thing, these two races gave no sign. whenever a man or a woman showed us cold neglect, we spoke up confidently in our own tongue and asked for such information as we happened to need, and we always got a reply in the same language. the english and american folk are not less kindly than other races, they are only more reserved, and that comes of habit and education. in one dreary, rocky waste, away above the line of vegetation, we met a procession of twenty-five mounted young men, all from america. we got answering bows enough from these, of course, for they were of an age to learn to do in rome as rome does, without much effort. at one extremity of this patch of desolation, overhung by bare and forbidding crags which husbanded drifts of everlasting snow in their shaded cavities, was a small stretch of thin and discouraged grass, and a man and a family of pigs were actually living here in some shanties. consequently this place could be really reckoned as "property"; it had a money value, and was doubtless taxed. i think it must have marked the limit of real estate in this world. it would be hard to set a money value upon any piece of earth that lies between that spot and the empty realm of space. that man may claim the distinction of owning the end of the world, for if there is any definite end to the world he has certainly found it. from here forward we moved through a storm-swept and smileless desolation. all about us rose gigantic masses, crags, and ramparts of bare and dreary rock, with not a vestige or semblance of plant or tree or flower anywhere, or glimpse of any creature that had life. the frost and the tempests of unnumbered ages had battered and hacked at these cliffs, with a deathless energy, destroying them piecemeal; so all the region about their bases was a tumbled chaos of great fragments which had been split off and hurled to the ground. soiled and aged banks of snow lay close about our path. the ghastly desolation of the place was as tremendously complete as if doré had furnished the working-plans for it. but every now and then, through the stern gateways around us we caught a view of some neighboring majestic dome, sheathed with glittering ice, and displaying its white purity at an elevation compared to which ours was groveling and plebeian, and this spectacle always chained one's interest and admiration at once, and made him forget there was anything ugly in the world. i have just said that there was nothing but death and desolation in these hideous places, but i forgot. in the most forlorn and arid and dismal one of all, where the racked and splintered debris was thickest, where the ancient patches of snow lay against the very path, where the winds blew bitterest and the general aspect was mournfulest and dreariest, and furthest from any suggestion of cheer or hope, i found a solitary wee forget-me-not flourishing away, not a droop about it anywhere, but holding its bright blue star up with the prettiest and gallantest air in the world, the only happy spirit, the only smiling thing, in all that grisly desert. she seemed to say, "cheer up!--as long as we are here, let us make the best of it." i judged she had earned a right to a more hospitable place; so i plucked her up and sent her to america to a friend who would respect her for the fight she had made, all by her small self, to make a whole vast despondent alpine desolation stop breaking its heart over the unalterable, and hold up its head and look at the bright side of things for once. we stopped for a nooning at a strongly built little inn called the schwarenbach. it sits in a lonely spot among the peaks, where it is swept by the trailing fringes of the cloud-rack, and is rained on, and snowed on, and pelted and persecuted by the storms, nearly every day of its life. it was the only habitation in the whole gemmi pass. close at hand, now, was a chance for a blood-curdling alpine adventure. close at hand was the snowy mass of the great altels cooling its topknot in the sky and daring us to an ascent. i was fired with the idea, and immediately made up my mind to procure the necessary guides, ropes, etc., and undertake it. i instructed harris to go to the landlord of the inn and set him about our preparations. meantime, i went diligently to work to read up and find out what this much-talked-of mountain-climbing was like, and how one should go about it--for in these matters i was ignorant. i opened mr. hinchliff's summer months among the alps (published 1857), and selected his account of his ascent of monte rosa. it began: "it is very difficult to free the mind from excitement on the evening before a grand expedition--" i saw that i was too calm; so i walked the room a while and worked myself into a high excitement; but the book's next remark --that the adventurer must get up at two in the morning--came as near as anything to flatting it all out again. however, i reinforced it, and read on, about how mr. hinchliff dressed by candle-light and was "soon down among the guides, who were bustling about in the passage, packing provisions, and making every preparation for the start"; and how he glanced out into the cold clear night and saw that-"the whole sky was blazing with stars, larger and brighter than they appear through the dense atmosphere breathed by inhabitants of the lower parts of the earth. they seemed actually suspended from the dark vault of heaven, and their gentle light shed a fairylike gleam over the snow-fields around the foot of the matterhorn, which raised its stupendous pinnacle on high, penetrating to the heart of the great bear, and crowning itself with a diadem of his magnificent stars. not a sound disturbed the deep tranquillity of the night, except the distant roar of streams which rush from the high plateau of the st. theodule glacier, and fall headlong over precipitous rocks till they lose themselves in the mazes of the gorner glacier." he took his hot toast and coffee, and then about half past three his caravan of ten men filed away from the riffel hotel, and began the steep climb. at half past five he happened to turn around, and "beheld the glorious spectacle of the matterhorn, just touched by the rosy-fingered morning, and looking like a huge pyramid of fire rising out of the barren ocean of ice and rock around it." then the breithorn and the dent blanche caught the radiant glow; but "the intervening mass of monte rosa made it necessary for us to climb many long hours before we could hope to see the sun himself, yet the whole air soon grew warmer after the splendid birth of the day." he gazed at the lofty crown of monte rosa and the wastes of snow that guarded its steep approaches, and the chief guide delivered the opinion that no man could conquer their awful heights and put his foot upon that summit. but the adventurers moved steadily on, nevertheless. they toiled up, and up, and still up; they passed the grand plateau; then toiled up a steep shoulder of the mountain, clinging like flies to its rugged face; and now they were confronted by a tremendous wall from which great blocks of ice and snow were evidently in the habit of falling. they turned aside to skirt this wall, and gradually ascended until their way was barred by a "maze of gigantic snow crevices,"--so they turned aside again, and "began a long climb of sufficient steepness to make a zigzag course necessary." fatigue compelled them to halt frequently, for a moment or two. at one of these halts somebody called out, "look at mont blanc!" and "we were at once made aware of the very great height we had attained by actually seeing the monarch of the alps and his attendant satellites right over the top of the breithorn, itself at least 14,000 feet high!" these people moved in single file, and were all tied to a strong rope, at regular distances apart, so that if one of them slipped on those giddy heights, the others could brace themselves on their alpenstocks and save him from darting into the valley, thousands of feet below. by and by they came to an ice-coated ridge which was tilted up at a sharp angle, and had a precipice on one side of it. they had to climb this, so the guide in the lead cut steps in the ice with his hatchet, and as fast as he took his toes out of one of these slight holes, the toes of the man behind him occupied it. "slowly and steadily we kept on our way over this dangerous part of the ascent, and i dare say it was fortunate for some of us that attention was distracted from the head by the paramount necessity of looking after the feet; for, while on the left the incline of ice was so steep that it would be impossible for any man to save himself in case of a slip, unless the others could hold him up, on the right we might drop a pebble from the hand over precipices of unknown extent down upon the tremendous glacier below. "great caution, therefore, was absolutely necessary, and in this exposed situation we were attacked by all the fury of that grand enemy of aspirants to monte rosa--a severe and bitterly cold wind from the north. the fine powdery snow was driven past us in the clouds, penetrating the interstices of our clothes, and the pieces of ice which flew from the blows of peter's ax were whisked into the air, and then dashed over the precipice. we had quite enough to do to prevent ourselves from being served in the same ruthless fashion, and now and then, in the more violent gusts of wind, were glad to stick our alpenstocks into the ice and hold on hard." having surmounted this perilous steep, they sat down and took a brief rest with their backs against a sheltering rock and their heels dangling over a bottomless abyss; then they climbed to the base of another ridge--a more difficult and dangerous one still: "the whole of the ridge was exceedingly narrow, and the fall on each side desperately steep, but the ice in some of these intervals between the masses of rock assumed the form of a mere sharp edge, almost like a knife; these places, though not more than three or four short paces in length, looked uncommonly awkward; but, like the sword leading true believers to the gates of paradise, they must needs be passed before we could attain to the summit of our ambition. these were in one or two places so narrow, that in stepping over them with toes well turned out for greater security, one end of the foot projected over the awful precipice on the right, while the other was on the beginning of the ice slope on the left, which was scarcely less steep than the rocks. on these occasions peter would take my hand, and each of us stretching as far as we could, he was thus enabled to get a firm footing two paces or rather more from me, whence a spring would probably bring him to the rock on the other side; then, turning around, he called to me to come, and, taking a couple of steps carefully, i was met at the third by his outstretched hand ready to clasp mine, and in a moment stood by his side. the others followed in much the same fashion. once my right foot slipped on the side toward the precipice, but i threw out my left arm in a moment so that it caught the icy edge under my armpit as i fell, and supported me considerably; at the same instant i cast my eyes down the side on which i had slipped, and contrived to plant my right foot on a piece of rock as large as a cricket-ball, which chanced to protrude through the ice, on the very edge of the precipice. being thus anchored fore and aft, as it were, i believe i could easily have recovered myself, even if i had been alone, though it must be confessed the situation would have been an awful one; as it was, however, a jerk from peter settled the matter very soon, and i was on my legs all right in an instant. the rope is an immense help in places of this kind." now they arrived at the base of a great knob or dome veneered with ice and powdered with snow--the utmost, summit, the last bit of solidity between them and the hollow vault of heaven. they set to work with their hatchets, and were soon creeping, insectlike, up its surface, with their heels projecting over the thinnest kind of nothingness, thickened up a little with a few wandering shreds and films of cloud moving in a lazy procession far below. presently, one man's toe-hold broke and he fell! there he dangled in mid-air at the end of the rope, like a spider, till his friends above hauled him into place again. a little bit later, the party stood upon the wee pedestal of the very summit, in a driving wind, and looked out upon the vast green expanses of italy and a shoreless ocean of billowy alps. when i had read thus far, harris broke into the room in a noble excitement and said the ropes and the guides were secured, and asked if i was ready. i said i believed i wouldn't ascend the altels this time. i said alp-climbing was a different thing from what i had supposed it was, and so i judged we had better study its points a little more before we went definitely into it. but i told him to retain the guides and order them to follow us to zermatt, because i meant to use them there. i said i could feel the spirit of adventure beginning to stir in me, and was sure that the fell fascination of alp-climbing would soon be upon me. i said he could make up his mind to it that we would do a deed before we were a week older which would make the hair of the timid curl with fright. this made harris happy, and filled him with ambitious anticipations. he went at once to tell the guides to follow us to zermatt and bring all their paraphernalia with them. chapter xxxv [swindling the coroner] a great and priceless thing is a new interest! how it takes possession of a man! how it clings to him, how it rides him! i strode onward from the schwarenbach hostelry a changed man, a reorganized personality. i walked into a new world, i saw with new eyes. i had been looking aloft at the giant show-peaks only as things to be worshiped for their grandeur and magnitude, and their unspeakable grace of form; i looked up at them now, as also things to be conquered and climbed. my sense of their grandeur and their noble beauty was neither lost nor impaired; i had gained a new interest in the mountains without losing the old ones. i followed the steep lines up, inch by inch, with my eye, and noted the possibility or impossibility of following them with my feet. when i saw a shining helmet of ice projecting above the clouds, i tried to imagine i saw files of black specks toiling up it roped together with a gossamer thread. we skirted the lonely little lake called the daubensee, and presently passed close by a glacier on the right--a thing like a great river frozen solid in its flow and broken square off like a wall at its mouth. i had never been so near a glacier before. here we came upon a new board shanty, and found some men engaged in building a stone house; so the schwarenbach was soon to have a rival. we bought a bottle or so of beer here; at any rate they called it beer, but i knew by the price that it was dissolved jewelry, and i perceived by the taste that dissolved jewelry is not good stuff to drink. we were surrounded by a hideous desolation. we stepped forward to a sort of jumping-off place, and were confronted by a startling contrast: we seemed to look down into fairyland. two or three thousand feet below us was a bright green level, with a pretty town in its midst, and a silvery stream winding among the meadows; the charming spot was walled in on all sides by gigantic precipices clothed with pines; and over the pines, out of the softened distances, rose the snowy domes and peaks of the monte rosa region. how exquisitely green and beautiful that little valley down there was! the distance was not great enough to obliterate details, it only made them little, and mellow, and dainty, like landscapes and towns seen through the wrong end of a spy-glass. right under us a narrow ledge rose up out of the valley, with a green, slanting, bench-shaped top, and grouped about upon this green-baize bench were a lot of black and white sheep which looked merely like oversized worms. the bench seemed lifted well up into our neighborhood, but that was a deception--it was a long way down to it. we began our descent, now, by the most remarkable road i have ever seen. it wound its corkscrew curves down the face of the colossal precipice--a narrow way, with always the solid rock wall at one elbow, and perpendicular nothingness at the other. we met an everlasting procession of guides, porters, mules, litters, and tourists climbing up this steep and muddy path, and there was no room to spare when you had to pass a tolerably fat mule. i always took the inside, when i heard or saw the mule coming, and flattened myself against the wall. i preferred the inside, of course, but i should have had to take it anyhow, because the mule prefers the outside. a mule's preference--on a precipice--is a thing to be respected. well, his choice is always the outside. his life is mostly devoted to carrying bulky panniers and packages which rest against his body--therefore he is habituated to taking the outside edge of mountain paths, to keep his bundles from rubbing against rocks or banks on the other. when he goes into the passenger business he absurdly clings to his old habit, and keeps one leg of his passenger always dangling over the great deeps of the lower world while that passenger's heart is in the highlands, so to speak. more than once i saw a mule's hind foot cave over the outer edge and send earth and rubbish into the bottom abyss; and i noticed that upon these occasions the rider, whether male or female, looked tolerably unwell. there was one place where an eighteen-inch breadth of light masonry had been added to the verge of the path, and as there was a very sharp turn here, a panel of fencing had been set up there at some time, as a protection. this panel was old and gray and feeble, and the light masonry had been loosened by recent rains. a young american girl came along on a mule, and in making the turn the mule's hind foot caved all the loose masonry and one of the fence-posts overboard; the mule gave a violent lurch inboard to save himself, and succeeded in the effort, but that girl turned as white as the snows of mont blanc for a moment. the path was simply a groove cut into the face of the precipice; there was a four-foot breadth of solid rock under the traveler, and four-foot breadth of solid rock just above his head, like the roof of a narrow porch; he could look out from this gallery and see a sheer summitless and bottomless wall of rock before him, across a gorge or crack a biscuit's toss in width--but he could not see the bottom of his own precipice unless he lay down and projected his nose over the edge. i did not do this, because i did not wish to soil my clothes. every few hundred yards, at particularly bad places, one came across a panel or so of plank fencing; but they were always old and weak, and they generally leaned out over the chasm and did not make any rash promises to hold up people who might need support. there was one of these panels which had only its upper board left; a pedestrianizing english youth came tearing down the path, was seized with an impulse to look over the precipice, and without an instant's thought he threw his weight upon that crazy board. it bent outward a foot! i never made a gasp before that came so near suffocating me. the english youth's face simply showed a lively surprise, but nothing more. he went swinging along valleyward again, as if he did not know he had just swindled a coroner by the closest kind of a shave. the alpine litter is sometimes like a cushioned box made fast between the middles of two long poles, and sometimes it is a chair with a back to it and a support for the feet. it is carried by relays of strong porters. the motion is easier than that of any other conveyance. we met a few men and a great many ladies in litters; it seemed to me that most of the ladies looked pale and nauseated; their general aspect gave me the idea that they were patiently enduring a horrible suffering. as a rule, they looked at their laps, and left the scenery to take care of itself. but the most frightened creature i saw, was a led horse that overtook us. poor fellow, he had been born and reared in the grassy levels of the kandersteg valley and had never seen anything like this hideous place before. every few steps he would stop short, glance wildly out from the dizzy height, and then spread his red nostrils wide and pant as violently as if he had been running a race; and all the while he quaked from head to heel as with a palsy. he was a handsome fellow, and he made a fine statuesque picture of terror, but it was pitiful to see him suffer so. this dreadful path has had its tragedy. baedeker, with his customary over terseness, begins and ends the tale thus: "the descent on horseback should be avoided. in 1861 a comtesse d'herlincourt fell from her saddle over the precipice and was killed on the spot." we looked over the precipice there, and saw the monument which commemorates the event. it stands in the bottom of the gorge, in a place which has been hollowed out of the rock to protect it from the torrent and the storms. our old guide never spoke but when spoken to, and then limited himself to a syllable or two, but when we asked him about this tragedy he showed a strong interest in the matter. he said the countess was very pretty, and very young--hardly out of her girlhood, in fact. she was newly married, and was on her bridal tour. the young husband was riding a little in advance; one guide was leading the husband's horse, another was leading the bride's. the old man continued: "the guide that was leading the husband's horse happened to glance back, and there was that poor young thing sitting up staring out over the precipice; and her face began to bend downward a little, and she put up her two hands slowly and met it--so,--and put them flat against her eyes--so--and then she sank out of the saddle, with a sharp shriek, and one caught only the flash of a dress, and it was all over." then after a pause: "ah, yes, that guide saw these things--yes, he saw them all. he saw them all, just as i have told you." after another pause: "ah, yes, he saw them all. my god, that was me. i was that guide!" this had been the one event of the old man's life; so one may be sure he had forgotten no detail connected with it. we listened to all he had to say about what was done and what happened and what was said after the sorrowful occurrence, and a painful story it was. when we had wound down toward the valley until we were about on the last spiral of the corkscrew, harris's hat blew over the last remaining bit of precipice--a small cliff a hundred or hundred and fifty feet high--and sailed down toward a steep slant composed of rough chips and fragments which the weather had flaked away from the precipices. we went leisurely down there, expecting to find it without any trouble, but we had made a mistake, as to that. we hunted during a couple of hours--not because the old straw hat was valuable, but out of curiosity to find out how such a thing could manage to conceal itself in open ground where there was nothing left for it to hide behind. when one is reading in bed, and lays his paper-knife down, he cannot find it again if it is smaller than a saber; that hat was as stubborn as any paper-knife could have been, and we finally had to give it up; but we found a fragment that had once belonged to an opera-glass, and by digging around and turning over the rocks we gradually collected all the lenses and the cylinders and the various odds and ends that go to making up a complete opera-glass. we afterward had the thing reconstructed, and the owner can have his adventurous lost-property by submitting proofs and paying costs of rehabilitation. we had hopes of finding the owner there, distributed around amongst the rocks, for it would have made an elegant paragraph; but we were disappointed. still, we were far from being disheartened, for there was a considerable area which we had not thoroughly searched; we were satisfied he was there, somewhere, so we resolved to wait over a day at leuk and come back and get him. then we sat down to polish off the perspiration and arrange about what we would do with him when we got him. harris was for contributing him to the british museum; but i was for mailing him to his widow. that is the difference between harris and me: harris is all for display, i am all for the simple right, even though i lose money by it. harris argued in favor of his proposition against mine, i argued in favor of mine and against his. the discussion warmed into a dispute; the dispute warmed into a quarrel. i finally said, very decidedly: "my mind is made up. he goes to the widow." harris answered sharply: "and my mind is made up. he goes to the museum." i said, calmly: "the museum may whistle when it gets him." harris retorted: "the widow may save herself the trouble of whistling, for i will see that she never gets him." after some angry bandying of epithets, i said: "it seems to me that you are taking on a good many airs about these remains. i don't quite see what you've got to say about them?" "i? i've got all to say about them. they'd never have been thought of if i hadn't found their opera-glass. the corpse belongs to me, and i'll do as i please with him." i was leader of the expedition, and all discoveries achieved by it naturally belonged to me. i was entitled to these remains, and could have enforced my right; but rather than have bad blood about the matter, i said we would toss up for them. i threw heads and won, but it was a barren victory, for although we spent all the next day searching, we never found a bone. i cannot imagine what could ever have become of that fellow. the town in the valley is called leuk or leukerbad. we pointed our course toward it, down a verdant slope which was adorned with fringed gentians and other flowers, and presently entered the narrow alleys of the outskirts and waded toward the middle of the town through liquid "fertilizer." they ought to either pave that village or organize a ferry. harris's body was simply a chamois-pasture; his person was populous with the little hungry pests; his skin, when he stripped, was splotched like a scarlet-fever patient's; so, when we were about to enter one of the leukerbad inns, and he noticed its sign, "chamois hotel," he refused to stop there. he said the chamois was plentiful enough, without hunting up hotels where they made a specialty of it. i was indifferent, for the chamois is a creature that will neither bite me nor abide with me; but to calm harris, we went to the hôtel des alpes. at the table d'hôte, we had this, for an incident. a very grave man--in fact his gravity amounted to solemnity, and almost to austerity--sat opposite us and he was "tight," but doing his best to appear sober. he took up a corked bottle of wine, tilted it over his glass awhile, then set it out of the way, with a contented look, and went on with his dinner. presently he put his glass to his mouth, and of course found it empty. he looked puzzled, and glanced furtively and suspiciously out of the corner of his eye at a benignant and unconscious old lady who sat at his right. shook his head, as much as to say, "no, she couldn't have done it." he tilted the corked bottle over his glass again, meantime searching around with his watery eye to see if anybody was watching him. he ate a few mouthfuls, raised his glass to his lips, and of course it was still empty. he bent an injured and accusing side-glance upon that unconscious old lady, which was a study to see. she went on eating and gave no sign. he took up his glass and his bottle, with a wise private nod of his head, and set them gravely on the left-hand side of his plate--poured himself another imaginary drink--went to work with his knife and fork once more--presently lifted his glass with good confidence, and found it empty, as usual. this was almost a petrifying surprise. he straightened himself up in his chair and deliberately and sorrowfully inspected the busy old ladies at his elbows, first one and then the other. at last he softly pushed his plate away, set his glass directly in front of him, held on to it with his left hand, and proceeded to pour with his right. this time he observed that nothing came. he turned the bottle clear upside down; still nothing issued from it; a plaintive look came into his face, and he said, as if to himself, "'ic! they've got it all!" then he set the bottle down, resignedly, and took the rest of his dinner dry. it was at that table d'hôte, too, that i had under inspection the largest lady i have ever seen in private life. she was over seven feet high, and magnificently proportioned. what had first called my attention to her, was my stepping on an outlying flange of her foot, and hearing, from up toward the ceiling, a deep "pardon, m'sieu, but you encroach!" that was when we were coming through the hall, and the place was dim, and i could see her only vaguely. the thing which called my attention to her the second time was, that at a table beyond ours were two very pretty girls, and this great lady came in and sat down between them and me and blotted out my view. she had a handsome face, and she was very finely formed--perfectly formed, i should say. but she made everybody around her look trivial and commonplace. ladies near her looked like children, and the men about her looked mean. they looked like failures; and they looked as if they felt so, too. she sat with her back to us. i never saw such a back in my life. i would have so liked to see the moon rise over it. the whole congregation waited, under one pretext or another, till she finished her dinner and went out; they wanted to see her at full altitude, and they found it worth tarrying for. she filled one's idea of what an empress ought to be, when she rose up in her unapproachable grandeur and moved superbly out of that place. we were not at leuk in time to see her at her heaviest weight. she had suffered from corpulence and had come there to get rid of her extra flesh in the baths. five weeks of soaking--five uninterrupted hours of it every day--had accomplished her purpose and reduced her to the right proportions. those baths remove fat, and also skin-diseases. the patients remain in the great tanks for hours at a time. a dozen gentlemen and ladies occupy a tank together, and amuse themselves with rompings and various games. they have floating desks and tables, and they read or lunch or play chess in water that is breast-deep. the tourist can step in and view this novel spectacle if he chooses. there's a poor-box, and he will have to contribute. there are several of these big bathing-houses, and you can always tell when you are near one of them by the romping noises and shouts of laughter that proceed from it. the water is running water, and changes all the time, else a patient with a ringworm might take the bath with only a partial success, since, while he was ridding himself of the ringworm, he might catch the itch. the next morning we wandered back up the green valley, leisurely, with the curving walls of those bare and stupendous precipices rising into the clouds before us. i had never seen a clean, bare precipice stretching up five thousand feet above me before, and i never shall expect to see another one. they exist, perhaps, but not in places where one can easily get close to them. this pile of stone is peculiar. from its base to the soaring tops of its mighty towers, all its lines and all its details vaguely suggest human architecture. there are rudimentary bow-windows, cornices, chimneys, demarcations of stories, etc. one could sit and stare up there and study the features and exquisite graces of this grand structure, bit by bit, and day after day, and never weary his interest. the termination, toward the town, observed in profile, is the perfection of shape. it comes down out of the clouds in a succession of rounded, colossal, terracelike projections--a stairway for the gods; at its head spring several lofty storm-scarred towers, one after another, with faint films of vapor curling always about them like spectral banners. if there were a king whose realms included the whole world, here would be the place meet and proper for such a monarch. he would only need to hollow it out and put in the electric light. he could give audience to a nation at a time under its roof. our search for those remains having failed, we inspected with a glass the dim and distant track of an old-time avalanche that once swept down from some pine-grown summits behind the town and swept away the houses and buried the people; then we struck down the road that leads toward the rhone, to see the famous ladders. these perilous things are built against the perpendicular face of a cliff two or three hundred feet high. the peasants, of both sexes, were climbing up and down them, with heavy loads on their backs. i ordered harris to make the ascent, so i could put the thrill and horror of it in my book, and he accomplished the feat successfully, through a subagent, for three francs, which i paid. it makes me shudder yet when i think of what i felt when i was clinging there between heaven and earth in the person of that proxy. at times the world swam around me, and i could hardly keep from letting go, so dizzying was the appalling danger. many a person would have given up and descended, but i stuck to my task, and would not yield until i had accomplished it. i felt a just pride in my exploit, but i would not have repeated it for the wealth of the world. i shall break my neck yet with some such foolhardy performance, for warnings never seem to have any lasting effect on me. when the people of the hotel found that i had been climbing those crazy ladders, it made me an object of considerable attention. next morning, early, we drove to the rhone valley and took the train for visp. there we shouldered our knapsacks and things, and set out on foot, in a tremendous rain, up the winding gorge, toward zermatt. hour after hour we slopped along, by the roaring torrent, and under noble lesser alps which were clothed in rich velvety green all the way up and had little atomy swiss homes perched upon grassy benches along their mist-dimmed heights. the rain continued to pour and the torrent to boom, and we continued to enjoy both. at the one spot where this torrent tossed its white mane highest, and thundered loudest, and lashed the big boulders fiercest, the canton had done itself the honor to build the flimsiest wooden bridge that exists in the world. while we were walking over it, along with a party of horsemen, i noticed that even the larger raindrops made it shake. i called harris's attention to it, and he noticed it, too. it seemed to me that if i owned an elephant that was a keepsake, and i thought a good deal of him, i would think twice before i would ride him over that bridge. we climbed up to the village of st. nicholas, about half past four in the afternoon, waded ankle-deep through the fertilizer-juice, and stopped at a new and nice hotel close by the little church. we stripped and went to bed, and sent our clothes down to be baked. and the horde of soaked tourists did the same. that chaos of clothing got mixed in the kitchen, and there were consequences. i did not get back the same drawers i sent down, when our things came up at six-fifteen; i got a pair on a new plan. they were merely a pair of white ruffle-cuffed absurdities, hitched together at the top with a narrow band, and they did not come quite down to my knees. they were pretty enough, but they made me feel like two people, and disconnected at that. the man must have been an idiot that got himself up like that, to rough it in the swiss mountains. the shirt they brought me was shorter than the drawers, and hadn't any sleeves to it--at least it hadn't anything more than what mr. darwin would call "rudimentary" sleeves; these had "edging" around them, but the bosom was ridiculously plain. the knit silk undershirt they brought me was on a new plan, and was really a sensible thing; it opened behind, and had pockets in it to put your shoulder-blades in; but they did not seem to fit mine, and so i found it a sort of uncomfortable garment. they gave my bobtail coat to somebody else, and sent me an ulster suitable for a giraffe. i had to tie my collar on, because there was no button behind on that foolish little shirt which i described a while ago. when i was dressed for dinner at six-thirty, i was too loose in some places and too tight in others, and altogether i felt slovenly and ill-conditioned. however, the people at the table d'hôte were no better off than i was; they had everybody's clothes but their own on. a long stranger recognized his ulster as soon as he saw the tail of it following me in, but nobody claimed my shirt or my drawers, though i described them as well as i was able. i gave them to the chambermaid that night when i went to bed, and she probably found the owner, for my own things were on a chair outside my door in the morning. there was a lovable english clergyman who did not get to the table d'hôte at all. his breeches had turned up missing, and without any equivalent. he said he was not more particular than other people, but he had noticed that a clergyman at dinner without any breeches was almost sure to excite remark. a tramp abroad, part 4. by mark twain (samuel l. clemens) first published in 1880 illustrations taken from an 1880 first edition * * * * * * illustrations: 1.    portrait of the author 2.    titian's moses 3.    the author's memories 119.  black forest grandee 120.  the grandee's daughter 121.  rich old huss 122.  gretchen 123.  paul hoch 124.  hans schmidt 125.  electing a new member 126.  overcoming obstacles 127.  friends 128.  prospecting 129.  tail piece 130.  a general howl 131.  seeking a situation 132.  standing guard 133.  result of a joke 134.  descending a farm 155.  a german sabbath 136.  an object of sympathy 137.  a non-classical style 138.  the traditional chamois 139.  hunting chamois the true way 140.  chamois hunter as reported 141.  marking alpenstocks 142.  is she eighteen or twenty 143.  i knew i wasn't mistaken 144.  harris astonished 145.  tail piece 146.  the lion of lucerne 147.  he liked clocks 148.  "i will tell you" 149.  couldn't wait 150.  didn't care for style 151.  a pair better than four 152.  two wasn't necessary 153.  just the trick 154.  going to make them stare 155.  not thrown away 156.  what the doctor recommended 157.  wanted to feel safe 158.  preferred to tramp on foot 159.  dern a dog, anyway 160.  tail piece 161.  the glacier garden 162.  lake and mountains (mont pilatus) 163.  mountain paths 164.  "you're an american--so am i" 165.  enterprise 166.  the constant searcher 167.  the mountain boy 168.  the englishman 169.  the jodler 170.  another vocalist 171.  the felsenthor 172.  a view from the station 173.  lost in the mist 174.  the rigi-kulm hotel 175.  what awakened us 176.  a summit sunrise 177.  tail piece contents: chapter xxii the black forest--a grandee and his family--the wealthy nabob--a new standard of wealth--skeleton for a new novel--trying situation--the common council--choosing a new member studying natural history--the ant a fraud--eccentricities of the ant--his deceit and ignorance--a german dish--boiled oranges chapter xxiii off for a day's tramp--tramping and talking--story telling--dentistry in camp--nicodemus dodge--seeking a situation--a butt for jokes--jimmy finn's skeleton--descending a farm--unexpected notoriety chapter xxiv sunday on the continent--a day of rest--an incident at church--an object of sympathy--royalty at church--public grounds concert--power and grades of music--hiring a courier chapter xxv lucerne--beauty of its lake--the wild chamois--a great error exposed--methods of hunting the chamois--beauties of lucerne--the alpenstock--marking alpenstocks--guessing at nationalities--an american party--an unexpected acquaintance--getting mixed up--following blind trails--a happy half--hour--defeat and revenge chapter xxvi commerce of lucerne--benefits of martyrdom--a bit of history--the home of cuckoo clocks--a satisfactory revenge--the alan who put up at gadsby's--a forgotten story--wanted to be postmaster--a tennessean at washington--he concluded to stay a while--application of the story chapter xxvii the glacier garden--excursion on the lake--life on the mountains--a specimen tourist--"where're you from?"--an advertising dodge--a righteous verdict--the guide-book student--i believe that's all chapter xxviii the rigi-kulm--its ascent--stripping for business--a mountain lad--an english tourist--railroad up the mountain--villages and mountain--the jodlers--about ice water--the felsenthor--too late--lost in the fog--the rigi-kulm hotel--the alpine horn--sunrise at night chapter xxii [the black forest and its treasures] from baden-baden we made the customary trip into the black forest. we were on foot most of the time. one cannot describe those noble woods, nor the feeling with which they inspire him. a feature of the feeling, however, is a deep sense of contentment; another feature of it is a buoyant, boyish gladness; and a third and very conspicuous feature of it is one's sense of the remoteness of the work-day world and his entire emancipation from it and its affairs. those woods stretch unbroken over a vast region; and everywhere they are such dense woods, and so still, and so piney and fragrant. the stems of the trees are trim and straight, and in many places all the ground is hidden for miles under a thick cushion of moss of a vivid green color, with not a decayed or ragged spot in its surface, and not a fallen leaf or twig to mar its immaculate tidiness. a rich cathedral gloom pervades the pillared aisles; so the stray flecks of sunlight that strike a trunk here and a bough yonder are strongly accented, and when they strike the moss they fairly seem to burn. but the weirdest effect, and the most enchanting is that produced by the diffused light of the low afternoon sun; no single ray is able to pierce its way in, then, but the diffused light takes color from moss and foliage, and pervades the place like a faint, green-tinted mist, the theatrical fire of fairyland. the suggestion of mystery and the supernatural which haunts the forest at all times is intensified by this unearthly glow. we found the black forest farmhouses and villages all that the black forest stories have pictured them. the first genuine specimen which we came upon was the mansion of a rich farmer and member of the common council of the parish or district. he was an important personage in the land and so was his wife also, of course. his daughter was the "catch" of the region, and she may be already entering into immortality as the heroine of one of auerbach's novels, for all i know. we shall see, for if he puts her in i shall recognize her by her black forest clothes, and her burned complexion, her plump figure, her fat hands, her dull expression, her gentle spirit, her generous feet, her bonnetless head, and the plaited tails of hemp-colored hair hanging down her back. the house was big enough for a hotel; it was a hundred feet long and fifty wide, and ten feet high, from ground to eaves; but from the eaves to the comb of the mighty roof was as much as forty feet, or maybe even more. this roof was of ancient mud-colored straw thatch a foot thick, and was covered all over, except in a few trifling spots, with a thriving and luxurious growth of green vegetation, mainly moss. the mossless spots were places where repairs had been made by the insertion of bright new masses of yellow straw. the eaves projected far down, like sheltering, hospitable wings. across the gable that fronted the road, and about ten feet above the ground, ran a narrow porch, with a wooden railing; a row of small windows filled with very small panes looked upon the porch. above were two or three other little windows, one clear up under the sharp apex of the roof. before the ground-floor door was a huge pile of manure. the door of the second-story room on the side of the house was open, and occupied by the rear elevation of a cow. was this probably the drawing-room? all of the front half of the house from the ground up seemed to be occupied by the people, the cows, and the chickens, and all the rear half by draught-animals and hay. but the chief feature, all around this house, was the big heaps of manure. we became very familiar with the fertilizer in the forest. we fell unconsciously into the habit of judging of a man's station in life by this outward and eloquent sign. sometimes we said, "here is a poor devil, this is manifest." when we saw a stately accumulation, we said, "here is a banker." when we encountered a country-seat surrounded by an alpine pomp of manure, we said, "doubtless a duke lives here." the importance of this feature has not been properly magnified in the black forest stories. manure is evidently the black-forester's main treasure--his coin, his jewel, his pride, his old master, his ceramics, his bric-a-brac, his darling, his title to public consideration, envy, veneration, and his first solicitude when he gets ready to make his will. the true black forest novel, if it is ever written, will be skeletoned somewhat in this way: skeleton for a black forest novel rich old farmer, named huss. has inherited great wealth of manure, and by diligence has added to it. it is double-starred in baedeker. [1] the black forest artist paints it--his masterpiece. the king comes to see it. gretchen huss, daughter and heiress. paul hoch, young neighbor, suitor for gretchen's hand--ostensibly; he really wants the manure. hoch has a good many cart-loads of the black forest currency himself, and therefore is a good catch; but he is sordid, mean, and without sentiment, whereas gretchen is all sentiment and poetry. hans schmidt, young neighbor, full of sentiment, full of poetry, loves gretchen, gretchen loves him. but he has no manure. old huss forbids him in the house. his heart breaks, he goes away to die in the woods, far from the cruel world--for he says, bitterly, "what is man, without manure?" 1. when baedeker's guide-books mention a thing and put two stars (**) after it, it means well worth visiting. m.t. [interval of six months.] paul hoch comes to old huss and says, "i am at last as rich as you required--come and view the pile." old huss views it and says, "it is sufficient--take her and be happy,"--meaning gretchen. [interval of two weeks.] wedding party assembled in old huss's drawing-room. hoch placid and content, gretchen weeping over her hard fate. enter old huss's head bookkeeper. huss says fiercely, "i gave you three weeks to find out why your books don't balance, and to prove that you are not a defaulter; the time is up--find me the missing property or you go to prison as a thief." bookkeeper: "i have found it." "where?" bookkeeper (sternly--tragically): "in the bridegroom's pile!--behold the thief--see him blench and tremble!" [sensation.] paul hoch: "lost, lost!"--falls over the cow in a swoon and is handcuffed. gretchen: "saved!" falls over the calf in a swoon of joy, but is caught in the arms of hans schmidt, who springs in at that moment. old huss: "what, you here, varlet? unhand the maid and quit the place." hans (still supporting the insensible girl): "never! cruel old man, know that i come with claims which even you cannot despise." huss: "what, you? name them." hans: "listen then. the world has forsaken me, i forsook the world, i wandered in the solitude of the forest, longing for death but finding none. i fed upon roots, and in my bitterness i dug for the bitterest, loathing the sweeter kind. digging, three days agone, i struck a manure mine!--a golconda, a limitless bonanza, of solid manure! i can buy you all, and have mountain ranges of manure left! ha-ha, now thou smilest a smile!" [immense sensation.] exhibition of specimens from the mine. old huss (enthusiastically): "wake her up, shake her up, noble young man, she is yours!" wedding takes place on the spot; bookkeeper restored to his office and emoluments; paul hoch led off to jail. the bonanza king of the black forest lives to a good old age, blessed with the love of his wife and of his twenty-seven children, and the still sweeter envy of everybody around. we took our noon meal of fried trout one day at the plow inn, in a very pretty village (ottenhoefen), and then went into the public room to rest and smoke. there we found nine or ten black forest grandees assembled around a table. they were the common council of the parish. they had gathered there at eight o'clock that morning to elect a new member, and they had now been drinking beer four hours at the new member's expense. they were men of fifty or sixty years of age, with grave good-natured faces, and were all dressed in the costume made familiar to us by the black forest stories; broad, round-topped black felt hats with the brims curled up all round; long red waistcoats with large metal buttons, black alpaca coats with the waists up between the shoulders. there were no speeches, there was but little talk, there were no frivolities; the council filled themselves gradually, steadily, but surely, with beer, and conducted themselves with sedate decorum, as became men of position, men of influence, men of manure. we had a hot afternoon tramp up the valley, along the grassy bank of a rushing stream of clear water, past farmhouses, water-mills, and no end of wayside crucifixes and saints and virgins. these crucifixes, etc., are set up in memory of departed friends, by survivors, and are almost as frequent as telegraph-poles are in other lands. we followed the carriage-road, and had our usual luck; we traveled under a beating sun, and always saw the shade leave the shady places before we could get to them. in all our wanderings we seldom managed to strike a piece of road at its time for being shady. we had a particularly hot time of it on that particular afternoon, and with no comfort but what we could get out of the fact that the peasants at work away up on the steep mountainsides above our heads were even worse off than we were. by and by it became impossible to endure the intolerable glare and heat any longer; so we struck across the ravine and entered the deep cool twilight of the forest, to hunt for what the guide-book called the "old road." we found an old road, and it proved eventually to be the right one, though we followed it at the time with the conviction that it was the wrong one. if it was the wrong one there could be no use in hurrying; therefore we did not hurry, but sat down frequently on the soft moss and enjoyed the restful quiet and shade of the forest solitudes. there had been distractions in the carriage-road--school-children, peasants, wagons, troops of pedestrianizing students from all over germany--but we had the old road to ourselves. now and then, while we rested, we watched the laborious ant at his work. i found nothing new in him--certainly nothing to change my opinion of him. it seems to me that in the matter of intellect the ant must be a strangely overrated bird. during many summers, now, i have watched him, when i ought to have been in better business, and i have not yet come across a living ant that seemed to have any more sense than a dead one. i refer to the ordinary ant, of course; i have had no experience of those wonderful swiss and african ones which vote, keep drilled armies, hold slaves, and dispute about religion. those particular ants may be all that the naturalist paints them, but i am persuaded that the average ant is a sham. i admit his industry, of course; he is the hardest-working creature in the world--when anybody is looking--but his leather-headedness is the point i make against him. he goes out foraging, he makes a capture, and then what does he do? go home? no--he goes anywhere but home. he doesn't know where home is. his home may be only three feet away--no matter, he can't find it. he makes his capture, as i have said; it is generally something which can be of no sort of use to himself or anybody else; it is usually seven times bigger than it ought to be; he hunts out the awkwardest place to take hold of it; he lifts it bodily up in the air by main force, and starts; not toward home, but in the opposite direction; not calmly and wisely, but with a frantic haste which is wasteful of his strength; he fetches up against a pebble, and instead of going around it, he climbs over it backward dragging his booty after him, tumbles down on the other side, jumps up in a passion, kicks the dust off his clothes, moistens his hands, grabs his property viciously, yanks it this way, then that, shoves it ahead of him a moment, turns tail and lugs it after him another moment, gets madder and madder, then presently hoists it into the air and goes tearing away in an entirely new direction; comes to a weed; it never occurs to him to go around it; no, he must climb it; and he does climb it, dragging his worthless property to the top--which is as bright a thing to do as it would be for me to carry a sack of flour from heidelberg to paris by way of strasburg steeple; when he gets up there he finds that that is not the place; takes a cursory glance at the scenery and either climbs down again or tumbles down, and starts off once more--as usual, in a new direction. at the end of half an hour, he fetches up within six inches of the place he started from and lays his burden down; meantime he has been over all the ground for two yards around, and climbed all the weeds and pebbles he came across. now he wipes the sweat from his brow, strokes his limbs, and then marches aimlessly off, in as violently a hurry as ever. he does not remember to have ever seen it before; he looks around to see which is not the way home, grabs his bundle and starts; he goes through the same adventures he had before; finally stops to rest, and a friend comes along. evidently the friend remarks that a last year's grasshopper leg is a very noble acquisition, and inquires where he got it. evidently the proprietor does not remember exactly where he did get it, but thinks he got it "around here somewhere." evidently the friend contracts to help him freight it home. then, with a judgment peculiarly antic (pun not intended), they take hold of opposite ends of that grasshopper leg and begin to tug with all their might in opposite directions. presently they take a rest and confer together. they decide that something is wrong, they can't make out what. then they go at it again, just as before. same result. mutual recriminations follow. evidently each accuses the other of being an obstructionist. they lock themselves together and chew each other's jaws for a while; then they roll and tumble on the ground till one loses a horn or a leg and has to haul off for repairs. they make up and go to work again in the same old insane way, but the crippled ant is at a disadvantage; tug as he may, the other one drags off the booty and him at the end of it. instead of giving up, he hangs on, and gets his shins bruised against every obstruction that comes in the way. by and by, when that grasshopper leg has been dragged all over the same old ground once more, it is finally dumped at about the spot where it originally lay, the two perspiring ants inspect it thoughtfully and decide that dried grasshopper legs are a poor sort of property after all, and then each starts off in a different direction to see if he can't find an old nail or something else that is heavy enough to afford entertainment and at the same time valueless enough to make an ant want to own it. there in the black forest, on the mountainside, i saw an ant go through with such a performance as this with a dead spider of fully ten times his own weight. the spider was not quite dead, but too far gone to resist. he had a round body the size of a pea. the little ant--observing that i was noticing--turned him on his back, sunk his fangs into his throat, lifted him into the air and started vigorously off with him, stumbling over little pebbles, stepping on the spider's legs and tripping himself up, dragging him backward, shoving him bodily ahead, dragging him up stones six inches high instead of going around them, climbing weeds twenty times his own height and jumping from their summits--and finally leaving him in the middle of the road to be confiscated by any other fool of an ant that wanted him. i measured the ground which this ass traversed, and arrived at the conclusion that what he had accomplished inside of twenty minutes would constitute some such job as this--relatively speaking--for a man; to wit: to strap two eight-hundred-pound horses together, carry them eighteen hundred feet, mainly over (not around) boulders averaging six feet high, and in the course of the journey climb up and jump from the top of one precipice like niagara, and three steeples, each a hundred and twenty feet high; and then put the horses down, in an exposed place, without anybody to watch them, and go off to indulge in some other idiotic miracle for vanity's sake. science has recently discovered that the ant does not lay up anything for winter use. this will knock him out of literature, to some extent. he does not work, except when people are looking, and only then when the observer has a green, naturalistic look, and seems to be taking notes. this amounts to deception, and will injure him for the sunday-schools. he has not judgment enough to know what is good to eat from what isn't. this amounts to ignorance, and will impair the world's respect for him. he cannot stroll around a stump and find his way home again. this amounts to idiocy, and once the damaging fact is established, thoughtful people will cease to look up to him, the sentimental will cease to fondle him. his vaunted industry is but a vanity and of no effect, since he never gets home with anything he starts with. this disposes of the last remnant of his reputation and wholly destroys his main usefulness as a moral agent, since it will make the sluggard hesitate to go to him any more. it is strange, beyond comprehension, that so manifest a humbug as the ant has been able to fool so many nations and keep it up so many ages without being found out. the ant is strong, but we saw another strong thing, where we had not suspected the presence of much muscular power before. a toadstool--that vegetable which springs to full growth in a single night--had torn loose and lifted a matted mass of pine needles and dirt of twice its own bulk into the air, and supported it there, like a column supporting a shed. ten thousand toadstools, with the right purchase, could lift a man, i suppose. but what good would it do? all our afternoon's progress had been uphill. about five or half past we reached the summit, and all of a sudden the dense curtain of the forest parted and we looked down into a deep and beautiful gorge and out over a wide panorama of wooded mountains with their summits shining in the sun and their glade-furrowed sides dimmed with purple shade. the gorge under our feet--called allerheiligen--afforded room in the grassy level at its head for a cozy and delightful human nest, shut away from the world and its botherations, and consequently the monks of the old times had not failed to spy it out; and here were the brown and comely ruins of their church and convent to prove that priests had as fine an instinct seven hundred years ago in ferreting out the choicest nooks and corners in a land as priests have today. a big hotel crowds the ruins a little, now, and drives a brisk trade with summer tourists. we descended into the gorge and had a supper which would have been very satisfactory if the trout had not been boiled. the germans are pretty sure to boil a trout or anything else if left to their own devices. this is an argument of some value in support of the theory that they were the original colonists of the wild islands of the coast of scotland. a schooner laden with oranges was wrecked upon one of those islands a few years ago, and the gentle savages rendered the captain such willing assistance that he gave them as many oranges as they wanted. next day he asked them how they liked them. they shook their heads and said: "baked, they were tough; and even boiled, they warn't things for a hungry man to hanker after." we went down the glen after supper. it is beautiful--a mixture of sylvan loveliness and craggy wildness. a limpid torrent goes whistling down the glen, and toward the foot of it winds through a narrow cleft between lofty precipices and hurls itself over a succession of falls. after one passes the last of these he has a backward glimpse at the falls which is very pleasing--they rise in a seven-stepped stairway of foamy and glittering cascades, and make a picture which is as charming as it is unusual. chapter xxiii [nicodemus dodge and the skeleton] we were satisfied that we could walk to oppenau in one day, now that we were in practice; so we set out the next morning after breakfast determined to do it. it was all the way downhill, and we had the loveliest summer weather for it. so we set the pedometer and then stretched away on an easy, regular stride, down through the cloven forest, drawing in the fragrant breath of the morning in deep refreshing draughts, and wishing we might never have anything to do forever but walk to oppenau and keep on doing it and then doing it over again. now, the true charm of pedestrianism does not lie in the walking, or in the scenery, but in the talking. the walking is good to time the movement of the tongue by, and to keep the blood and the brain stirred up and active; the scenery and the woodsy smells are good to bear in upon a man an unconscious and unobtrusive charm and solace to eye and soul and sense; but the supreme pleasure comes from the talk. it is no matter whether one talks wisdom or nonsense, the case is the same, the bulk of the enjoyment lies in the wagging of the gladsome jaw and the flapping of the sympathetic ear. and what motley variety of subjects a couple of people will casually rake over in the course of a day's tramp! there being no constraint, a change of subject is always in order, and so a body is not likely to keep pegging at a single topic until it grows tiresome. we discussed everything we knew, during the first fifteen or twenty minutes, that morning, and then branched out into the glad, free, boundless realm of the things we were not certain about. harris said that if the best writer in the world once got the slovenly habit of doubling up his "haves" he could never get rid of it while he lived. that is to say, if a man gets the habit of saying "i should have liked to have known more about it" instead of saying simply and sensibly, "i should have liked to know more about it," that man's disease is incurable. harris said that his sort of lapse is to be found in every copy of every newspaper that has ever been printed in english, and in almost all of our books. he said he had observed it in kirkham's grammar and in macaulay. harris believed that milk-teeth are commoner in men's mouths than those "doubled-up haves." i do not know that there have not been moments in the course of the present session when i should have been very glad to have accepted the proposal of my noble friend, and to have exchanged parts in some of our evenings of work.--[from a speech of the english chancellor of the exchequer, august, 1879.] that changed the subject to dentistry. i said i believed the average man dreaded tooth-pulling more than amputation, and that he would yell quicker under the former operation than he would under the latter. the philosopher harris said that the average man would not yell in either case if he had an audience. then he continued: "when our brigade first went into camp on the potomac, we used to be brought up standing, occasionally, by an ear-splitting howl of anguish. that meant that a soldier was getting a tooth pulled in a tent. but the surgeons soon changed that; they instituted open-air dentistry. there never was a howl afterward--that is, from the man who was having the tooth pulled. at the daily dental hour there would always be about five hundred soldiers gathered together in the neighborhood of that dental chair waiting to see the performance--and help; and the moment the surgeon took a grip on the candidate's tooth and began to lift, every one of those five hundred rascals would clap his hand to his jaw and begin to hop around on one leg and howl with all the lungs he had! it was enough to raise your hair to hear that variegated and enormous unanimous caterwaul burst out! with so big and so derisive an audience as that, a sufferer wouldn't emit a sound though you pulled his head off. the surgeons said that pretty often a patient was compelled to laugh, in the midst of his pangs, but that they had never caught one crying out, after the open-air exhibition was instituted." dental surgeons suggested doctors, doctors suggested death, death suggested skeletons--and so, by a logical process the conversation melted out of one of these subjects and into the next, until the topic of skeletons raised up nicodemus dodge out of the deep grave in my memory where he had lain buried and forgotten for twenty-five years. when i was a boy in a printing-office in missouri, a loose-jointed, long-legged, tow-headed, jeans-clad countrified cub of about sixteen lounged in one day, and without removing his hands from the depths of his trousers pockets or taking off his faded ruin of a slouch hat, whose broken rim hung limp and ragged about his eyes and ears like a bug-eaten cabbage leaf, stared indifferently around, then leaned his hip against the editor's table, crossed his mighty brogans, aimed at a distant fly from a crevice in his upper teeth, laid him low, and said with composure: "whar's the boss?" "i am the boss," said the editor, following this curious bit of architecture wonderingly along up to its clock-face with his eye. "don't want anybody fur to learn the business, 'tain't likely?" "well, i don't know. would you like to learn it?" "pap's so po' he cain't run me no mo', so i want to git a show somers if i kin, 'taint no diffunce what--i'm strong and hearty, and i don't turn my back on no kind of work, hard nur soft." "do you think you would like to learn the printing business?" "well, i don't re'ly k'yer a durn what i do learn, so's i git a chance fur to make my way. i'd jist as soon learn print'n's anything." "can you read?" "yes--middlin'." "write?" "well, i've seed people could lay over me thar." "cipher?" "not good enough to keep store, i don't reckon, but up as fur as twelve-times-twelve i ain't no slouch. 'tother side of that is what gits me." "where is your home?" "i'm f'm old shelby." "what's your father's religious denomination?" "him? oh, he's a blacksmith." "no, no--i don't mean his trade. what's his religious denomination?" "oh--i didn't understand you befo'. he's a freemason." "no, no, you don't get my meaning yet. what i mean is, does he belong to any church?" "now you're talkin'! couldn't make out what you was a-tryin' to git through yo' head no way. b'long to a church! why, boss, he's ben the pizenest kind of free-will babtis' for forty year. they ain't no pizener ones 'n what he is. mighty good man, pap is. everybody says that. if they said any diffrunt they wouldn't say it whar i wuz--not much they wouldn't." "what is your own religion?" "well, boss, you've kind o' got me, there--and yit you hain't got me so mighty much, nuther. i think 't if a feller he'ps another feller when he's in trouble, and don't cuss, and don't do no mean things, nur noth'n' he ain' no business to do, and don't spell the saviour's name with a little g, he ain't runnin' no resks--he's about as saift as he b'longed to a church." "but suppose he did spell it with a little g--what then?" "well, if he done it a-purpose, i reckon he wouldn't stand no chance--he oughtn't to have no chance, anyway, i'm most rotten certain 'bout that." "what is your name?" "nicodemus dodge." "i think maybe you'll do, nicodemus. we'll give you a trial, anyway." "all right." "when would you like to begin?" "now." so, within ten minutes after we had first glimpsed this nondescript he was one of us, and with his coat off and hard at it. beyond that end of our establishment which was furthest from the street, was a deserted garden, pathless, and thickly grown with the bloomy and villainous "jimpson" weed and its common friend the stately sunflower. in the midst of this mournful spot was a decayed and aged little "frame" house with but one room, one window, and no ceiling--it had been a smoke-house a generation before. nicodemus was given this lonely and ghostly den as a bedchamber. the village smarties recognized a treasure in nicodemus, right away--a butt to play jokes on. it was easy to see that he was inconceivably green and confiding. george jones had the glory of perpetrating the first joke on him; he gave him a cigar with a firecracker in it and winked to the crowd to come; the thing exploded presently and swept away the bulk of nicodemus's eyebrows and eyelashes. he simply said: "i consider them kind of seeg'yars dangersome,"--and seemed to suspect nothing. the next evening nicodemus waylaid george and poured a bucket of ice-water over him. one day, while nicodemus was in swimming, tom mcelroy "tied" his clothes. nicodemus made a bonfire of tom's by way of retaliation. a third joke was played upon nicodemus a day or two later--he walked up the middle aisle of the village church, sunday night, with a staring handbill pinned between his shoulders. the joker spent the remainder of the night, after church, in the cellar of a deserted house, and nicodemus sat on the cellar door till toward breakfast-time to make sure that the prisoner remembered that if any noise was made, some rough treatment would be the consequence. the cellar had two feet of stagnant water in it, and was bottomed with six inches of soft mud. but i wander from the point. it was the subject of skeletons that brought this boy back to my recollection. before a very long time had elapsed, the village smarties began to feel an uncomfortable consciousness of not having made a very shining success out of their attempts on the simpleton from "old shelby." experimenters grew scarce and chary. now the young doctor came to the rescue. there was delight and applause when he proposed to scare nicodemus to death, and explained how he was going to do it. he had a noble new skeleton--the skeleton of the late and only local celebrity, jimmy finn, the village drunkard--a grisly piece of property which he had bought of jimmy finn himself, at auction, for fifty dollars, under great competition, when jimmy lay very sick in the tan-yard a fortnight before his death. the fifty dollars had gone promptly for whiskey and had considerably hurried up the change of ownership in the skeleton. the doctor would put jimmy finn's skeleton in nicodemus's bed! this was done--about half past ten in the evening. about nicodemus's usual bedtime--midnight--the village jokers came creeping stealthily through the jimpson weeds and sunflowers toward the lonely frame den. they reached the window and peeped in. there sat the long-legged pauper, on his bed, in a very short shirt, and nothing more; he was dangling his legs contentedly back and forth, and wheezing the music of "camptown races" out of a paper-overlaid comb which he was pressing against his mouth; by him lay a new jewsharp, a new top, and solid india-rubber ball, a handful of painted marbles, five pounds of "store" candy, and a well-gnawed slab of gingerbread as big and as thick as a volume of sheet-music. he had sold the skeleton to a traveling quack for three dollars and was enjoying the result! just as we had finished talking about skeletons and were drifting into the subject of fossils, harris and i heard a shout, and glanced up the steep hillside. we saw men and women standing away up there looking frightened, and there was a bulky object tumbling and floundering down the steep slope toward us. we got out of the way, and when the object landed in the road it proved to be a boy. he had tripped and fallen, and there was nothing for him to do but trust to luck and take what might come. when one starts to roll down a place like that, there is no stopping till the bottom is reached. think of people farming on a slant which is so steep that the best you can say of it--if you want to be fastidiously accurate--is, that it is a little steeper than a ladder and not quite so steep as a mansard roof. but that is what they do. some of the little farms on the hillside opposite heidelberg were stood up "edgeways." the boy was wonderfully jolted up, and his head was bleeding, from cuts which it had got from small stones on the way. harris and i gathered him up and set him on a stone, and by that time the men and women had scampered down and brought his cap. men, women, and children flocked out from neighboring cottages and joined the crowd; the pale boy was petted, and stared at, and commiserated, and water was brought for him to drink and bathe his bruises in. and such another clatter of tongues! all who had seen the catastrophe were describing it at once, and each trying to talk louder than his neighbor; and one youth of a superior genius ran a little way up the hill, called attention, tripped, fell, rolled down among us, and thus triumphantly showed exactly how the thing had been done. harris and i were included in all the descriptions; how we were coming along; how hans gross shouted; how we looked up startled; how we saw peter coming like a cannon-shot; how judiciously we got out of the way, and let him come; and with what presence of mind we picked him up and brushed him off and set him on a rock when the performance was over. we were as much heroes as anybody else, except peter, and were so recognized; we were taken with peter and the populace to peter's mother's cottage, and there we ate bread and cheese, and drank milk and beer with everybody, and had a most sociable good time; and when we left we had a handshake all around, and were receiving and shouting back leb' wohl's until a turn in the road separated us from our cordial and kindly new friends forever. we accomplished our undertaking. at half past eight in the evening we stepped into oppenau, just eleven hours and a half out of allerheiligen--one hundred and forty-six miles. this is the distance by pedometer; the guide-book and the imperial ordinance maps make it only ten and a quarter--a surprising blunder, for these two authorities are usually singularly accurate in the matter of distances. chapter xxiv [i protect the empress of germany] that was a thoroughly satisfactory walk--and the only one we were ever to have which was all the way downhill. we took the train next morning and returned to baden-baden through fearful fogs of dust. every seat was crowded, too; for it was sunday, and consequently everybody was taking a "pleasure" excursion. hot! the sky was an oven--and a sound one, too, with no cracks in it to let in any air. an odd time for a pleasure excursion, certainly! sunday is the great day on the continent--the free day, the happy day. one can break the sabbath in a hundred ways without committing any sin. we do not work on sunday, because the commandment forbids it; the germans do not work on sunday, because the commandment forbids it. we rest on sunday, because the commandment requires it; the germans rest on sunday because the commandment requires it. but in the definition of the word "rest" lies all the difference. with us, its sunday meaning is, stay in the house and keep still; with the germans its sunday and week-day meanings seem to be the same--rest the tired part, and never mind the other parts of the frame; rest the tired part, and use the means best calculated to rest that particular part. thus: if one's duties have kept him in the house all the week, it will rest him to be out on sunday; if his duties have required him to read weighty and serious matter all the week, it will rest him to read light matter on sunday; if his occupation has busied him with death and funerals all the week, it will rest him to go to the theater sunday night and put in two or three hours laughing at a comedy; if he is tired with digging ditches or felling trees all the week, it will rest him to lie quiet in the house on sunday; if the hand, the arm, the brain, the tongue, or any other member, is fatigued with inanition, it is not to be rested by addeding a day's inanition; but if a member is fatigued with exertion, inanition is the right rest for it. such is the way in which the germans seem to define the word "rest"; that is to say, they rest a member by recreating, recuperating, restoring its forces. but our definition is less broad. we all rest alike on sunday--by secluding ourselves and keeping still, whether that is the surest way to rest the most of us or not. the germans make the actors, the preachers, etc., work on sunday. we encourage the preachers, the editors, the printers, etc., to work on sunday, and imagine that none of the sin of it falls upon us; but i do not know how we are going to get around the fact that if it is wrong for the printer to work at his trade on sunday it must be equally wrong for the preacher to work at his, since the commandment has made no exception in his favor. we buy monday morning's paper and read it, and thus encourage sunday printing. but i shall never do it again. the germans remember the sabbath-day to keep it holy, by abstaining from work, as commanded; we keep it holy by abstaining from work, as commanded, and by also abstaining from play, which is not commanded. perhaps we constructively break the command to rest, because the resting we do is in most cases only a name, and not a fact. these reasonings have sufficed, in a measure, to mend the rent in my conscience which i made by traveling to baden-baden that sunday. we arrived in time to furbish up and get to the english church before services began. we arrived in considerable style, too, for the landlord had ordered the first carriage that could be found, since there was no time to lose, and our coachman was so splendidly liveried that we were probably mistaken for a brace of stray dukes; why else were we honored with a pew all to ourselves, away up among the very elect at the left of the chancel? that was my first thought. in the pew directly in front of us sat an elderly lady, plainly and cheaply dressed; at her side sat a young lady with a very sweet face, and she also was quite simply dressed; but around us and about us were clothes and jewels which it would do anybody's heart good to worship in. i thought it was pretty manifest that the elderly lady was embarrassed at finding herself in such a conspicuous place arrayed in such cheap apparel; i began to feel sorry for her and troubled about her. she tried to seem very busy with her prayer-book and her responses, and unconscious that she was out of place, but i said to myself, "she is not succeeding--there is a distressed tremulousness in her voice which betrays increasing embarrassment." presently the savior's name was mentioned, and in her flurry she lost her head completely, and rose and courtesied, instead of making a slight nod as everybody else did. the sympathetic blood surged to my temples and i turned and gave those fine birds what i intended to be a beseeching look, but my feelings got the better of me and changed it into a look which said, "if any of you pets of fortune laugh at this poor soul, you will deserve to be flayed for it." things went from bad to worse, and i shortly found myself mentally taking the unfriended lady under my protection. my mind was wholly upon her. i forgot all about the sermon. her embarrassment took stronger and stronger hold upon her; she got to snapping the lid of her smelling-bottle--it made a loud, sharp sound, but in her trouble she snapped and snapped away, unconscious of what she was doing. the last extremity was reached when the collection-plate began its rounds; the moderate people threw in pennies, the nobles and the rich contributed silver, but she laid a twenty-mark gold piece upon the book-rest before her with a sounding slap! i said to myself, "she has parted with all her little hoard to buy the consideration of these unpitying people--it is a sorrowful spectacle." i did not venture to look around this time; but as the service closed, i said to myself, "let them laugh, it is their opportunity; but at the door of this church they shall see her step into our fine carriage with us, and our gaudy coachman shall drive her home." then she rose--and all the congregation stood while she walked down the aisle. she was the empress of germany! no--she had not been so much embarrassed as i had supposed. my imagination had got started on the wrong scent, and that is always hopeless; one is sure, then, to go straight on misinterpreting everything, clear through to the end. the young lady with her imperial majesty was a maid of honor--and i had been taking her for one of her boarders, all the time. this is the only time i have ever had an empress under my personal protection; and considering my inexperience, i wonder i got through with it so well. i should have been a little embarrassed myself if i had known earlier what sort of a contract i had on my hands. we found that the empress had been in baden-baden several days. it is said that she never attends any but the english form of church service. i lay abed and read and rested from my journey's fatigues the remainder of that sunday, but i sent my agent to represent me at the afternoon service, for i never allow anything to interfere with my habit of attending church twice every sunday. there was a vast crowd in the public grounds that night to hear the band play the "fremersberg." this piece tells one of the old legends of the region; how a great noble of the middle ages got lost in the mountains, and wandered about with his dogs in a violent storm, until at last the faint tones of a monastery bell, calling the monks to a midnight service, caught his ear, and he followed the direction the sounds came from and was saved. a beautiful air ran through the music, without ceasing, sometimes loud and strong, sometimes so soft that it could hardly be distinguished--but it was always there; it swung grandly along through the shrill whistling of the storm-wind, the rattling patter of the rain, and the boom and crash of the thunder; it wound soft and low through the lesser sounds, the distant ones, such as the throbbing of the convent bell, the melodious winding of the hunter's horn, the distressed bayings of his dogs, and the solemn chanting of the monks; it rose again, with a jubilant ring, and mingled itself with the country songs and dances of the peasants assembled in the convent hall to cheer up the rescued huntsman while he ate his supper. the instruments imitated all these sounds with a marvelous exactness. more than one man started to raise his umbrella when the storm burst forth and the sheets of mimic rain came driving by; it was hardly possible to keep from putting your hand to your hat when the fierce wind began to rage and shriek; and it was not possible to refrain from starting when those sudden and charmingly real thunder-crashes were let loose. i suppose the "fremersberg" is a very low-grade music; i know, indeed, that it must be low-grade music, because it delighted me, warmed me, moved me, stirred me, uplifted me, enraptured me, that i was full of cry all the time, and mad with enthusiasm. my soul had never had such a scouring out since i was born. the solemn and majestic chanting of the monks was not done by instruments, but by men's voices; and it rose and fell, and rose again in that rich confusion of warring sounds, and pulsing bells, and the stately swing of that ever-present enchanting air, and it seemed to me that nothing but the very lowest of low-grade music could be so divinely beautiful. the great crowd which the "fremersberg" had called out was another evidence that it was low-grade music; for only the few are educated up to a point where high-grade music gives pleasure. i have never heard enough classic music to be able to enjoy it. i dislike the opera because i want to love it and can't. i suppose there are two kinds of music--one kind which one feels, just as an oyster might, and another sort which requires a higher faculty, a faculty which must be assisted and developed by teaching. yet if base music gives certain of us wings, why should we want any other? but we do. we want it because the higher and better like it. we want it without giving it the necessary time and trouble; so we climb into that upper tier, that dress-circle, by a lie; we pretend we like it. i know several of that sort of people--and i propose to be one of them myself when i get home with my fine european education. and then there is painting. what a red rag is to a bull, turner's "slave ship" was to me, before i studied art. mr. ruskin is educated in art up to a point where that picture throws him into as mad an ecstasy of pleasure as it used to throw me into one of rage, last year, when i was ignorant. his cultivation enables him--and me, now--to see water in that glaring yellow mud, and natural effects in those lurid explosions of mixed smoke and flame, and crimson sunset glories; it reconciles him--and me, now--to the floating of iron cable-chains and other unfloatable things; it reconciles us to fishes swimming around on top of the mud--i mean the water. the most of the picture is a manifest impossibility--that is to say, a lie; and only rigid cultivation can enable a man to find truth in a lie. but it enabled mr. ruskin to do it, and it has enabled me to do it, and i am thankful for it. a boston newspaper reporter went and took a look at the slave ship floundering about in that fierce conflagration of reds and yellows, and said it reminded him of a tortoise-shell cat having a fit in a platter of tomatoes. in my then uneducated state, that went home to my non-cultivation, and i thought here is a man with an unobstructed eye. mr. ruskin would have said: this person is an ass. that is what i would say, now. months after this was written, i happened into the national gallery in london, and soon became so fascinated with the turner pictures that i could hardly get away from the place. i went there often, afterward, meaning to see the rest of the gallery, but the turner spell was too strong; it could not be shaken off. however, the turners which attracted me most did not remind me of the slave ship. however, our business in baden-baden this time, was to join our courier. i had thought it best to hire one, as we should be in italy, by and by, and we did not know the language. neither did he. we found him at the hotel, ready to take charge of us. i asked him if he was "all fixed." he said he was. that was very true. he had a trunk, two small satchels, and an umbrella. i was to pay him fifty-five dollars a month and railway fares. on the continent the railway fare on a trunk is about the same it is on a man. couriers do not have to pay any board and lodging. this seems a great saving to the tourist--at first. it does not occur to the tourist that somebody pays that man's board and lodging. it occurs to him by and by, however, in one of his lucid moments. chapter xxv [hunted by the little chamois] next morning we left in the train for switzerland, and reached lucerne about ten o'clock at night. the first discovery i made was that the beauty of the lake had not been exaggerated. within a day or two i made another discovery. this was, that the lauded chamois is not a wild goat; that it is not a horned animal; that it is not shy; that it does not avoid human society; and that there is no peril in hunting it. the chamois is a black or brown creature no bigger than a mustard seed; you do not have to go after it, it comes after you; it arrives in vast herds and skips and scampers all over your body, inside your clothes; thus it is not shy, but extremely sociable; it is not afraid of man, on the contrary, it will attack him; its bite is not dangerous, but neither is it pleasant; its activity has not been overstated --if you try to put your finger on it, it will skip a thousand times its own length at one jump, and no eye is sharp enough to see where it lights. a great deal of romantic nonsense has been written about the swiss chamois and the perils of hunting it, whereas the truth is that even women and children hunt it, and fearlessly; indeed, everybody hunts it; the hunting is going on all the time, day and night, in bed and out of it. it is poetic foolishness to hunt it with a gun; very few people do that; there is not one man in a million who can hit it with a gun. it is much easier to catch it than it is to shoot it, and only the experienced chamois-hunter can do either. another common piece of exaggeration is that about the "scarcity" of the chamois. it is the reverse of scarce. droves of one hundred million chamois are not unusual in the swiss hotels. indeed, they are so numerous as to be a great pest. the romancers always dress up the chamois-hunter in a fanciful and picturesque costume, whereas the best way to hunt this game is to do it without any costume at all. the article of commerce called chamois-skin is another fraud; nobody could skin a chamois, it is too small. the creature is a humbug in every way, and everything which has been written about it is sentimental exaggeration. it was no pleasure to me to find the chamois out, for he had been one of my pet illusions; all my life it had been my dream to see him in his native wilds some day, and engage in the adventurous sport of chasing him from cliff to cliff. it is no pleasure to me to expose him, now, and destroy the reader's delight in him and respect for him, but still it must be done, for when an honest writer discovers an imposition it is his simple duty to strip it bare and hurl it down from its place of honor, no matter who suffers by it; any other course would render him unworthy of the public confidence. lucerne is a charming place. it begins at the water's edge, with a fringe of hotels, and scrambles up and spreads itself over two or three sharp hills in a crowded, disorderly, but picturesque way, offering to the eye a heaped-up confusion of red roofs, quaint gables, dormer windows, toothpick steeples, with here and there a bit of ancient embattled wall bending itself over the ridges, worm-fashion, and here and there an old square tower of heavy masonry. and also here and there a town clock with only one hand--a hand which stretches across the dial and has no joint in it; such a clock helps out the picture, but you cannot tell the time of day by it. between the curving line of hotels and the lake is a broad avenue with lamps and a double rank of low shade trees. the lake-front is walled with masonry like a pier, and has a railing, to keep people from walking overboard. all day long the vehicles dash along the avenue, and nurses, children, and tourists sit in the shade of the trees, or lean on the railing and watch the schools of fishes darting about in the clear water, or gaze out over the lake at the stately border of snow-hooded mountain peaks. little pleasure steamers, black with people, are coming and going all the time; and everywhere one sees young girls and young men paddling about in fanciful rowboats, or skimming along by the help of sails when there is any wind. the front rooms of the hotels have little railed balconies, where one may take his private luncheon in calm, cool comfort and look down upon this busy and pretty scene and enjoy it without having to do any of the work connected with it. most of the people, both male and female, are in walking costume, and carry alpenstocks. evidently, it is not considered safe to go about in switzerland, even in town, without an alpenstock. if the tourist forgets and comes down to breakfast without his alpenstock he goes back and gets it, and stands it up in the corner. when his touring in switzerland is finished, he does not throw that broomstick away, but lugs it home with him, to the far corners of the earth, although this costs him more trouble and bother than a baby or a courier could. you see, the alpenstock is his trophy; his name is burned upon it; and if he has climbed a hill, or jumped a brook, or traversed a brickyard with it, he has the names of those places burned upon it, too. thus it is his regimental flag, so to speak, and bears the record of his achievements. it is worth three francs when he buys it, but a bonanza could not purchase it after his great deeds have been inscribed upon it. there are artisans all about switzerland whose trade it is to burn these things upon the alpenstock of the tourist. and observe, a man is respected in switzerland according to his alpenstock. i found i could get no attention there, while i carried an unbranded one. however, branding is not expected, so i soon remedied that. the effect upon the next detachment of tourists was very marked. i felt repaid for my trouble. half of the summer horde in switzerland is made up of english people; the other half is made up of many nationalities, the germans leading and the americans coming next. the americans were not as numerous as i had expected they would be. the seven-thirty table d'hôte at the great schweitzerhof furnished a mighty array and variety of nationalities, but it offered a better opportunity to observe costumes than people, for the multitude sat at immensely long tables, and therefore the faces were mainly seen in perspective; but the breakfasts were served at small round tables, and then if one had the fortune to get a table in the midst of the assemblage he could have as many faces to study as he could desire. we used to try to guess out the nationalities, and generally succeeded tolerably well. sometimes we tried to guess people's names; but that was a failure; that is a thing which probably requires a good deal of practice. we presently dropped it and gave our efforts to less difficult particulars. one morning i said: "there is an american party." harris said: "yes--but name the state." i named one state, harris named another. we agreed upon one thing, however--that the young girl with the party was very beautiful, and very tastefully dressed. but we disagreed as to her age. i said she was eighteen, harris said she was twenty. the dispute between us waxed warm, and i finally said, with a pretense of being in earnest: "well, there is one way to settle the matter--i will go and ask her." harris said, sarcastically, "certainly, that is the thing to do. all you need to do is to use the common formula over here: go and say, 'i'm an american!' of course she will be glad to see you." then he hinted that perhaps there was no great danger of my venturing to speak to her. i said, "i was only talking--i didn't intend to approach her, but i see that you do not know what an intrepid person i am. i am not afraid of any woman that walks. i will go and speak to this young girl." the thing i had in my mind was not difficult. i meant to address her in the most respectful way and ask her to pardon me if her strong resemblance to a former acquaintance of mine was deceiving me; and when she should reply that the name i mentioned was not the name she bore, i meant to beg pardon again, most respectfully, and retire. there would be no harm done. i walked to her table, bowed to the gentleman, then turned to her and was about to begin my little speech when she exclaimed: "i knew i wasn't mistaken--i told john it was you! john said it probably wasn't, but i knew i was right. i said you would recognize me presently and come over; and i'm glad you did, for i shouldn't have felt much flattered if you had gone out of this room without recognizing me. sit down, sit down--how odd it is--you are the last person i was ever expecting to see again." this was a stupefying surprise. it took my wits clear away, for an instant. however, we shook hands cordially all around, and i sat down. but truly this was the tightest place i ever was in. i seemed to vaguely remember the girl's face, now, but i had no idea where i had seen it before, or what name belonged with it. i immediately tried to get up a diversion about swiss scenery, to keep her from launching into topics that might betray that i did not know her, but it was of no use, she went right along upon matters which interested her more: "oh dear, what a night that was, when the sea washed the forward boats away--do you remember it?" "oh, don't i!" said i--but i didn't. i wished the sea had washed the rudder and the smoke-stack and the captain away--then i could have located this questioner. "and don't you remember how frightened poor mary was, and how she cried?" "indeed i do!" said i. "dear me, how it all comes back!" i fervently wished it would come back--but my memory was a blank. the wise way would have been to frankly own up; but i could not bring myself to do that, after the young girl had praised me so for recognizing her; so i went on, deeper and deeper into the mire, hoping for a chance clue but never getting one. the unrecognizable continued, with vivacity: "do you know, george married mary, after all?" "why, no! did he?" "indeed he did. he said he did not believe she was half as much to blame as her father was, and i thought he was right. didn't you?" "of course he was. it was a perfectly plain case. i always said so." "why, no you didn't!--at least that summer." "oh, no, not that summer. no, you are perfectly right about that. it was the following winter that i said it." "well, as it turned out, mary was not in the least to blame --it was all her father's fault--at least his and old darley's." it was necessary to say something--so i said: "i always regarded darley as a troublesome old thing." "so he was, but then they always had a great affection for him, although he had so many eccentricities. you remember that when the weather was the least cold, he would try to come into the house." i was rather afraid to proceed. evidently darley was not a man--he must be some other kind of animal--possibly a dog, maybe an elephant. however, tails are common to all animals, so i ventured to say: "and what a tail he had!" "one! he had a thousand!" this was bewildering. i did not quite know what to say, so i only said: "yes, he was rather well fixed in the matter of tails." "for a negro, and a crazy one at that, i should say he was," said she. it was getting pretty sultry for me. i said to myself, "is it possible she is going to stop there, and wait for me to speak? if she does, the conversation is blocked. a negro with a thousand tails is a topic which a person cannot talk upon fluently and instructively without more or less preparation. as to diving rashly into such a vast subject--" but here, to my gratitude, she interrupted my thoughts by saying: "yes, when it came to tales of his crazy woes, there was simply no end to them if anybody would listen. his own quarters were comfortable enough, but when the weather was cold, the family were sure to have his company--nothing could keep him out of the house. but they always bore it kindly because he had saved tom's life, years before. you remember tom? "oh, perfectly. fine fellow he was, too." "yes he was. and what a pretty little thing his child was!" "you may well say that. i never saw a prettier child." "i used to delight to pet it and dandle it and play with it." "so did i." "you named it. what was that name? i can't call it to mind." it appeared to me that the ice was getting pretty thin, here. i would have given something to know what the child's was. however, i had the good luck to think of a name that would fit either sex--so i brought it out: "i named it frances." "from a relative, i suppose? but you named the one that died, too--one that i never saw. what did you call that one?" i was out of neutral names, but as the child was dead and she had never seen it, i thought i might risk a name for it and trust to luck. therefore i said: "i called that one thomas henry." she said, musingly: "that is very singular ... very singular." i sat still and let the cold sweat run down. i was in a good deal of trouble, but i believed i could worry through if she wouldn't ask me to name any more children. i wondered where the lightning was going to strike next. she was still ruminating over that last child's title, but presently she said: "i have always been sorry you were away at the time--i would have had you name my child." "your child! are you married?" "i have been married thirteen years." "christened, you mean." `"no, married. the youth by your side is my son." "it seems incredible--even impossible. i do not mean any harm by it, but would you mind telling me if you are any over eighteen?--that is to say, will you tell me how old you are?" "i was just nineteen the day of the storm we were talking about. that was my birthday." that did not help matters, much, as i did not know the date of the storm. i tried to think of some non-committal thing to say, to keep up my end of the talk, and render my poverty in the matter of reminiscences as little noticeable as possible, but i seemed to be about out of non-committal things. i was about to say, "you haven't changed a bit since then"--but that was risky. i thought of saying, "you have improved ever so much since then"--but that wouldn't answer, of course. i was about to try a shy at the weather, for a saving change, when the girl slipped in ahead of me and said: "how i have enjoyed this talk over those happy old times--haven't you?" "i never have spent such a half-hour in all my life before!" said i, with emotion; and i could have added, with a near approach to truth, "and i would rather be scalped than spend another one like it." i was holily grateful to be through with the ordeal, and was about to make my good-bys and get out, when the girl said: "but there is one thing that is ever so puzzling to me." "why, what is that?" "that dead child's name. what did you say it was?" here was another balmy place to be in: i had forgotten the child's name; i hadn't imagined it would be needed again. however, i had to pretend to know, anyway, so i said: "joseph william." the youth at my side corrected me, and said: "no, thomas henry." i thanked him--in words--and said, with trepidation: "o yes--i was thinking of another child that i named--i have named a great many, and i get them confused--this one was named henry thompson--" "thomas henry," calmly interposed the boy. i thanked him again--strictly in words--and stammered out: "thomas henry--yes, thomas henry was the poor child's name. i named him for thomas--er--thomas carlyle, the great author, you know--and henry--er--er--henry the eighth. the parents were very grateful to have a child named thomas henry." "that makes it more singular than ever," murmured my beautiful friend. "does it? why?" "because when the parents speak of that child now, they always call it susan amelia." that spiked my gun. i could not say anything. i was entirely out of verbal obliquities; to go further would be to lie, and that i would not do; so i simply sat still and suffered--sat mutely and resignedly there, and sizzled--for i was being slowly fried to death in my own blushes. presently the enemy laughed a happy laugh and said: "i have enjoyed this talk over old times, but you have not. i saw very soon that you were only pretending to know me, and so as i had wasted a compliment on you in the beginning, i made up my mind to punish you. and i have succeeded pretty well. i was glad to see that you knew george and tom and darley, for i had never heard of them before and therefore could not be sure that you had; and i was glad to learn the names of those imaginary children, too. one can get quite a fund of information out of you if one goes at it cleverly. mary and the storm, and the sweeping away of the forward boats, were facts--all the rest was fiction. mary was my sister; her full name was mary ------. now do you remember me?" "yes," i said, "i do remember you now; and you are as hard-headed as you were thirteen years ago in that ship, else you wouldn't have punished me so. you haven't changed your nature nor your person, in any way at all; you look as young as you did then, you are just as beautiful as you were then, and you have transmitted a deal of your comeliness to this fine boy. there--if that speech moves you any, let's fly the flag of truce, with the understanding that i am conquered and confess it." all of which was agreed to and accomplished, on the spot. when i went back to harris, i said: "now you see what a person with talent and address can do." "excuse me, i see what a person of colossal ignorance and simplicity can do. the idea of your going and intruding on a party of strangers, that way, and talking for half an hour; why i never heard of a man in his right mind doing such a thing before. what did you say to them?" "i never said any harm. i merely asked the girl what her name was." "i don't doubt it. upon my word i don't. i think you were capable of it. it was stupid in me to let you go over there and make such an exhibition of yourself. but you know i couldn't really believe you would do such an inexcusable thing. what will those people think of us? but how did you say it?--i mean the manner of it. i hope you were not abrupt." "no, i was careful about that. i said, 'my friend and i would like to know what your name is, if you don't mind.'" "no, that was not abrupt. there is a polish about it that does you infinite credit. and i am glad you put me in; that was a delicate attention which i appreciate at its full value. what did she do?" "she didn't do anything in particular. she told me her name." "simply told you her name. do you mean to say she did not show any surprise?" "well, now i come to think, she did show something; maybe it was surprise; i hadn't thought of that--i took it for gratification." "oh, undoubtedly you were right; it must have been gratification; it could not be otherwise than gratifying to be assaulted by a stranger with such a question as that. then what did you do?" "i offered my hand and the party gave me a shake." "i saw it! i did not believe my own eyes, at the time. did the gentleman say anything about cutting your throat?" "no, they all seemed glad to see me, as far as i could judge." "and do you know, i believe they were. i think they said to themselves, 'doubtless this curiosity has got away from his keeper--let us amuse ourselves with him.' there is no other way of accounting for their facile docility. you sat down. did they ask you to sit down?" "no, they did not ask me, but i suppose they did not think of it." "you have an unerring instinct. what else did you do? what did you talk about?" "well, i asked the girl how old she was." "undoubtedly. your delicacy is beyond praise. go on, go on--don't mind my apparent misery--i always look so when i am steeped in a profound and reverent joy. go on--she told you her age?" "yes, she told me her age, and all about her mother, and her grandmother, and her other relations, and all about herself." "did she volunteer these statistics?" "no, not exactly that. i asked the questions and she answered them." "this is divine. go on--it is not possible that you forgot to inquire into her politics?" "no, i thought of that. she is a democrat, her husband is a republican, and both of them are baptists." "her husband? is that child married?" "she is not a child. she is married, and that is her husband who is there with her." "has she any children." "yes--seven and a half." "that is impossible." "no, she has them. she told me herself." "well, but seven and a half? how do you make out the half? where does the half come in?" "there is a child which she had by another husband--not this one but another one--so it is a stepchild, and they do not count in full measure." "another husband? has she another husband?" "yes, four. this one is number four." "i don't believe a word of it. it is impossible, upon its face. is that boy there her brother?" "no, that is her son. he is her youngest. he is not as old as he looked; he is only eleven and a half." "these things are all manifestly impossible. this is a wretched business. it is a plain case: they simply took your measure, and concluded to fill you up. they seem to have succeeded. i am glad i am not in the mess; they may at least be charitable enough to think there ain't a pair of us. are they going to stay here long?" "no, they leave before noon." "there is one man who is deeply grateful for that. how did you find out? you asked, i suppose?" "no, along at first i inquired into their plans, in a general way, and they said they were going to be here a week, and make trips round about; but toward the end of the interview, when i said you and i would tour around with them with pleasure, and offered to bring you over and introduce you, they hesitated a little, and asked if you were from the same establishment that i was. i said you were, and then they said they had changed their mind and considered it necessary to start at once and visit a sick relative in siberia." "ah, me, you struck the summit! you struck the loftiest altitude of stupidity that human effort has ever reached. you shall have a monument of jackasses' skulls as high as the strasburg spire if you die before i do. they wanted to know i was from the same 'establishment' that you hailed from, did they? what did they mean by 'establishment'?" "i don't know; it never occurred to me to ask." "well i know. they meant an asylum--an idiot asylum, do you understand? so they do think there's a pair of us, after all. now what do you think of yourself?" "well, i don't know. i didn't know i was doing any harm; i didn't mean to do any harm. they were very nice people, and they seemed to like me." harris made some rude remarks and left for his bedroom--to break some furniture, he said. he was a singularly irascible man; any little thing would disturb his temper. i had been well scorched by the young woman, but no matter, i took it out on harris. one should always "get even" in some way, else the sore place will go on hurting. chapter xxvi [the nest of the cuckoo-clock] the hofkirche is celebrated for its organ concerts. all summer long the tourists flock to that church about six o'clock in the evening, and pay their franc, and listen to the noise. they don't stay to hear all of it, but get up and tramp out over the sounding stone floor, meeting late comers who tramp in in a sounding and vigorous way. this tramping back and forth is kept up nearly all the time, and is accented by the continuous slamming of the door, and the coughing and barking and sneezing of the crowd. meantime, the big organ is booming and crashing and thundering away, doing its best to prove that it is the biggest and best organ in europe, and that a tight little box of a church is the most favorable place to average and appreciate its powers in. it is true, there were some soft and merciful passages occasionally, but the tramp-tramp of the tourists only allowed one to get fitful glimpses of them, so to speak. then right away the organist would let go another avalanche. the commerce of lucerne consists mainly in gimcrackery of the souvenir sort; the shops are packed with alpine crystals, photographs of scenery, and wooden and ivory carvings. i will not conceal the fact that miniature figures of the lion of lucerne are to be had in them. millions of them. but they are libels upon him, every one of them. there is a subtle something about the majestic pathos of the original which the copyist cannot get. even the sun fails to get it; both the photographer and the carver give you a dying lion, and that is all. the shape is right, the attitude is right, the proportions are right, but that indescribable something which makes the lion of lucerne the most mournful and moving piece of stone in the world, is wanting. the lion lies in his lair in the perpendicular face of a low cliff--for he is carved from the living rock of the cliff. his size is colossal, his attitude is noble. his head is bowed, the broken spear is sticking in his shoulder, his protecting paw rests upon the lilies of france. vines hang down the cliff and wave in the wind, and a clear stream trickles from above and empties into a pond at the base, and in the smooth surface of the pond the lion is mirrored, among the water-lilies. around about are green trees and grass. the place is a sheltered, reposeful woodland nook, remote from noise and stir and confusion--and all this is fitting, for lions do die in such places, and not on granite pedestals in public squares fenced with fancy iron railings. the lion of lucerne would be impressive anywhere, but nowhere so impressive as where he is. martyrdom is the luckiest fate that can befall some people. louis xvi did not die in his bed, consequently history is very gentle with him; she is charitable toward his failings, and she finds in him high virtues which are not usually considered to be virtues when they are lodged in kings. she makes him out to be a person with a meek and modest spirit, the heart of a female saint, and a wrong head. none of these qualities are kingly but the last. taken together they make a character which would have fared harshly at the hands of history if its owner had had the ill luck to miss martyrdom. with the best intentions to do the right thing, he always managed to do the wrong one. moreover, nothing could get the female saint out of him. he knew, well enough, that in national emergencies he must not consider how he ought to act, as a man, but how he ought to act as a king; so he honestly tried to sink the man and be the king--but it was a failure, he only succeeded in being the female saint. he was not instant in season, but out of season. he could not be persuaded to do a thing while it could do any good--he was iron, he was adamant in his stubbornness then--but as soon as the thing had reached a point where it would be positively harmful to do it, do it he would, and nothing could stop him. he did not do it because it would be harmful, but because he hoped it was not yet too late to achieve by it the good which it would have done if applied earlier. his comprehension was always a train or two behindhand. if a national toe required amputating, he could not see that it needed anything more than poulticing; when others saw that the mortification had reached the knee, he first perceived that the toe needed cutting off--so he cut it off; and he severed the leg at the knee when others saw that the disease had reached the thigh. he was good, and honest, and well meaning, in the matter of chasing national diseases, but he never could overtake one. as a private man, he would have been lovable; but viewed as a king, he was strictly contemptible. his was a most unroyal career, but the most pitiable spectacle in it was his sentimental treachery to his swiss guard on that memorable 10th of august, when he allowed those heroes to be massacred in his cause, and forbade them to shed the "sacred french blood" purporting to be flowing in the veins of the red-capped mob of miscreants that was raging around the palace. he meant to be kingly, but he was only the female saint once more. some of his biographers think that upon this occasion the spirit of saint louis had descended upon him. it must have found pretty cramped quarters. if napoleon the first had stood in the shoes of louis xvi that day, instead of being merely a casual and unknown looker-on, there would be no lion of lucerne, now, but there would be a well-stocked communist graveyard in paris which would answer just as well to remember the 10th of august by. martyrdom made a saint of mary queen of scots three hundred years ago, and she has hardly lost all of her saintship yet. martyrdom made a saint of the trivial and foolish marie antoinette, and her biographers still keep her fragrant with the odor of sanctity to this day, while unconsciously proving upon almost every page they write that the only calamitous instinct which her husband lacked, she supplied--the instinct to root out and get rid of an honest, able, and loyal official, wherever she found him. the hideous but beneficent french revolution would have been deferred, or would have fallen short of completeness, or even might not have happened at all, if marie antoinette had made the unwise mistake of not being born. the world owes a great deal to the french revolution, and consequently to its two chief promoters, louis the poor in spirit and his queen. we did not buy any wooden images of the lion, nor any ivory or ebony or marble or chalk or sugar or chocolate ones, or even any photographic slanders of him. the truth is, these copies were so common, so universal, in the shops and everywhere, that they presently became as intolerable to the wearied eye as the latest popular melody usually becomes to the harassed ear. in lucerne, too, the wood carvings of other sorts, which had been so pleasant to look upon when one saw them occasionally at home, soon began to fatigue us. we grew very tired of seeing wooden quails and chickens picking and strutting around clock-faces, and still more tired of seeing wooden images of the alleged chamois skipping about wooden rocks, or lying upon them in family groups, or peering alertly up from behind them. the first day, i would have bought a hundred and fifty of these clocks if i had the money--and i did buy three--but on the third day the disease had run its course, i had convalesced, and was in the market once more--trying to sell. however, i had no luck; which was just as well, for the things will be pretty enough, no doubt, when i get them home. for years my pet aversion had been the cuckoo clock; now here i was, at last, right in the creature's home; so wherever i went that distressing "hoo'hoo! hoo'hoo! hoo'hoo!" was always in my ears. for a nervous man, this was a fine state of things. some sounds are hatefuler than others, but no sound is quite so inane, and silly, and aggravating as the "hoo'hoo" of a cuckoo clock, i think. i bought one, and am carrying it home to a certain person; for i have always said that if the opportunity ever happened, i would do that man an ill turn. what i meant, was, that i would break one of his legs, or something of that sort; but in lucerne i instantly saw that i could impair his mind. that would be more lasting, and more satisfactory every way. so i bought the cuckoo clock; and if i ever get home with it, he is "my meat," as they say in the mines. i thought of another candidate--a book-reviewer whom i could name if i wanted to--but after thinking it over, i didn't buy him a clock. i couldn't injure his mind. we visited the two long, covered wooden bridges which span the green and brilliant reuss just below where it goes plunging and hurrahing out of the lake. these rambling, sway-backed tunnels are very attractive things, with their alcoved outlooks upon the lovely and inspiriting water. they contain two or three hundred queer old pictures, by old swiss masters--old boss sign-painters, who flourished before the decadence of art. the lake is alive with fishes, plainly visible to the eye, for the water is very clear. the parapets in front of the hotels were usually fringed with fishers of all ages. one day i thought i would stop and see a fish caught. the result brought back to my mind, very forcibly, a circumstance which i had not thought of before for twelve years. this one: the man who put up at gadsby's when my odd friend riley and i were newspaper correspondents in washington, in the winter of '67, we were coming down pennsylvania avenue one night, near midnight, in a driving storm of snow, when the flash of a street-lamp fell upon a man who was eagerly tearing along in the opposite direction. "this is lucky! you are mr. riley, ain't you?" riley was the most self-possessed and solemnly deliberate person in the republic. he stopped, looked his man over from head to foot, and finally said: "i am mr. riley. did you happen to be looking for me?" "that's just what i was doing," said the man, joyously, "and it's the biggest luck in the world that i've found you. my name is lykins. i'm one of the teachers of the high school--san francisco. as soon as i heard the san francisco postmastership was vacant, i made up my mind to get it--and here i am." "yes," said riley, slowly, "as you have remarked ... mr. lykins ... here you are. and have you got it?" "well, not exactly got it, but the next thing to it. i've brought a petition, signed by the superintendent of public instruction, and all the teachers, and by more than two hundred other people. now i want you, if you'll be so good, to go around with me to the pacific delegation, for i want to rush this thing through and get along home." "if the matter is so pressing, you will prefer that we visit the delegation tonight," said riley, in a voice which had nothing mocking in it--to an unaccustomed ear. "oh, tonight, by all means! i haven't got any time to fool around. i want their promise before i go to bed--i ain't the talking kind, i'm the doing kind!" "yes ... you've come to the right place for that. when did you arrive?" "just an hour ago." "when are you intending to leave?" "for new york tomorrow evening--for san francisco next morning." "just so.... what are you going to do tomorrow?" "do! why, i've got to go to the president with the petition and the delegation, and get the appointment, haven't i?" "yes ... very true ... that is correct. and then what?" "executive session of the senate at 2 p.m.--got to get the appointment confirmed--i reckon you'll grant that?" "yes ... yes," said riley, meditatively, "you are right again. then you take the train for new york in the evening, and the steamer for san francisco next morning?" "that's it--that's the way i map it out!" riley considered a while, and then said: "you couldn't stay ... a day ... well, say two days longer?" "bless your soul, no! it's not my style. i ain't a man to go fooling around--i'm a man that does things, i tell you." the storm was raging, the thick snow blowing in gusts. riley stood silent, apparently deep in a reverie, during a minute or more, then he looked up and said: "have you ever heard about that man who put up at gadsby's, once? ... but i see you haven't." he backed mr. lykins against an iron fence, buttonholed him, fastened him with his eye, like the ancient mariner, and proceeded to unfold his narrative as placidly and peacefully as if we were all stretched comfortably in a blossomy summer meadow instead of being persecuted by a wintry midnight tempest: "i will tell you about that man. it was in jackson's time. gadsby's was the principal hotel, then. well, this man arrived from tennessee about nine o'clock, one morning, with a black coachman and a splendid four-horse carriage and an elegant dog, which he was evidently fond of and proud of; he drove up before gadsby's, and the clerk and the landlord and everybody rushed out to take charge of him, but he said, 'never mind,' and jumped out and told the coachman to wait-said he hadn't time to take anything to eat, he only had a little claim against the government to collect, would run across the way, to the treasury, and fetch the money, and then get right along back to tennessee, for he was in considerable of a hurry. "well, about eleven o'clock that night he came back and ordered a bed and told them to put the horses up--said he would collect the claim in the morning. this was in january, you understand--january, 1834--the 3d of january--wednesday. "well, on the 5th of february, he sold the fine carriage, and bought a cheap second-hand one--said it would answer just as well to take the money home in, and he didn't care for style. "on the 11th of august he sold a pair of the fine horses--said he'd often thought a pair was better than four, to go over the rough mountain roads with where a body had to be careful about his driving--and there wasn't so much of his claim but he could lug the money home with a pair easy enough. "on the 13th of december he sold another horse--said two warn't necessary to drag that old light vehicle with--in fact, one could snatch it along faster than was absolutely necessary, now that it was good solid winter weather and the roads in splendid condition. "on the 17th of february, 1835, he sold the old carriage and bought a cheap second-hand buggy--said a buggy was just the trick to skim along mushy, slushy early spring roads with, and he had always wanted to try a buggy on those mountain roads, anyway. "on the 1st august he sold the buggy and bought the remains of an old sulky--said he just wanted to see those green tennesseans stare and gawk when they saw him come a-ripping along in a sulky--didn't believe they'd ever heard of a sulky in their lives. "well, on the 29th of august he sold his colored coachman--said he didn't need a coachman for a sulky--wouldn't be room enough for two in it anyway--and, besides, it wasn't every day that providence sent a man a fool who was willing to pay nine hundred dollars for such a third-rate negro as that--been wanting to get rid of the creature for years, but didn't like to throw him away. "eighteen months later--that is to say, on the 15th of february, 1837--he sold the sulky and bought a saddle--said horseback-riding was what the doctor had always recommended him to take, and dog'd if he wanted to risk his neck going over those mountain roads on wheels in the dead of winter, not if he knew himself. "on the 9th of april he sold the saddle--said he wasn't going to risk his life with any perishable saddle-girth that ever was made, over a rainy, miry april road, while he could ride bareback and know and feel he was safe--always had despised to ride on a saddle, anyway. "on the 24th of april he sold his horse--said 'i'm just fifty-seven today, hale and hearty--it would be a pretty howdy-do for me to be wasting such a trip as that and such weather as this, on a horse, when there ain't anything in the world so splendid as a tramp on foot through the fresh spring woods and over the cheery mountains, to a man that is a man--and i can make my dog carry my claim in a little bundle, anyway, when it's collected. so tomorrow i'll be up bright and early, make my little old collection, and mosey off to tennessee, on my own hind legs, with a rousing good-by to gadsby's.' "on the 22d of june he sold his dog--said 'dern a dog, anyway, where you're just starting off on a rattling bully pleasure tramp through the summer woods and hills--perfect nuisance--chases the squirrels, barks at everything, goes a-capering and splattering around in the fords--man can't get any chance to reflect and enjoy nature--and i'd a blamed sight ruther carry the claim myself, it's a mighty sight safer; a dog's mighty uncertain in a financial way--always noticed it--well, good-by, boys--last call--i'm off for tennessee with a good leg and a gay heart, early in the morning.'" there was a pause and a silence--except the noise of the wind and the pelting snow. mr. lykins said, impatiently: "well?" riley said: "well,--that was thirty years ago." "very well, very well--what of it?" "i'm great friends with that old patriarch. he comes every evening to tell me good-by. i saw him an hour ago--he's off for tennessee early tomorrow morning--as usual; said he calculated to get his claim through and be off before night-owls like me have turned out of bed. the tears were in his eyes, he was so glad he was going to see his old tennessee and his friends once more." another silent pause. the stranger broke it: "is that all?" "that is all." "well, for the time of night, and the kind of night, it seems to me the story was full long enough. but what's it all for?" "oh, nothing in particular." "well, where's the point of it?" "oh, there isn't any particular point to it. only, if you are not in too much of a hurry to rush off to san francisco with that post-office appointment, mr. lykins, i'd advise you to 'put up at gadsby's' for a spell, and take it easy. good-by. god bless you!" so saying, riley blandly turned on his heel and left the astonished school-teacher standing there, a musing and motionless snow image shining in the broad glow of the street-lamp. he never got that post-office. to go back to lucerne and its fishers, i concluded, after about nine hours' waiting, that the man who proposes to tarry till he sees something hook one of those well-fed and experienced fishes will find it wisdom to "put up at gadsby's" and take it easy. it is likely that a fish has not been caught on that lake pier for forty years; but no matter, the patient fisher watches his cork there all the day long, just the same, and seems to enjoy it. one may see the fisher-loafers just as thick and contented and happy and patient all along the seine at paris, but tradition says that the only thing ever caught there in modern times is a thing they don't fish for at all--the recent dog and the translated cat. chapter xxvii [i spare an awful bore] close by the lion of lucerne is what they call the "glacier garden"--and it is the only one in the world. it is on high ground. four or five years ago, some workmen who were digging foundations for a house came upon this interesting relic of a long-departed age. scientific men perceived in it a confirmation of their theories concerning the glacial period; so through their persuasions the little tract of ground was bought and permanently protected against being built upon. the soil was removed, and there lay the rasped and guttered track which the ancient glacier had made as it moved along upon its slow and tedious journey. this track was perforated by huge pot-shaped holes in the bed-rock, formed by the furious washing-around in them of boulders by the turbulent torrent which flows beneath all glaciers. these huge round boulders still remain in the holes; they and the walls of the holes are worn smooth by the long-continued chafing which they gave each other in those old days. it took a mighty force to churn these big lumps of stone around in that vigorous way. the neighboring country had a very different shape, at that time--the valleys have risen up and become hills, since, and the hills have become valleys. the boulders discovered in the pots had traveled a great distance, for there is no rock like them nearer than the distant rhone glacier. for some days we were content to enjoy looking at the blue lake lucerne and at the piled-up masses of snow-mountains that border it all around--an enticing spectacle, this last, for there is a strange and fascinating beauty and charm about a majestic snow-peak with the sun blazing upon it or the moonlight softly enriching it--but finally we concluded to try a bit of excursioning around on a steamboat, and a dash on foot at the rigi. very well, we had a delightful trip to fluelen, on a breezy, sunny day. everybody sat on the upper deck, on benches, under an awning; everybody talked, laughed, and exclaimed at the wonderful scenery; in truth, a trip on that lake is almost the perfection of pleasuring. the mountains were a never-ceasing marvel. sometimes they rose straight up out of the lake, and towered aloft and overshadowed our pygmy steamer with their prodigious bulk in the most impressive way. not snow-clad mountains, these, yet they climbed high enough toward the sky to meet the clouds and veil their foreheads in them. they were not barren and repulsive, but clothed in green, and restful and pleasant to the eye. and they were so almost straight-up-and-down, sometimes, that one could not imagine a man being able to keep his footing upon such a surface, yet there are paths, and the swiss people go up and down them every day. sometimes one of these monster precipices had the slight inclination of the huge ship-houses in dockyards--then high aloft, toward the sky, it took a little stronger inclination, like that of a mansard roof--and perched on this dizzy mansard one's eye detected little things like martin boxes, and presently perceived that these were the dwellings of peasants--an airy place for a home, truly. and suppose a peasant should walk in his sleep, or his child should fall out of the front yard?--the friends would have a tedious long journey down out of those cloud-heights before they found the remains. and yet those far-away homes looked ever so seductive, they were so remote from the troubled world, they dozed in such an atmosphere of peace and dreams--surely no one who has learned to live up there would ever want to live on a meaner level. we swept through the prettiest little curving arms of the lake, among these colossal green walls, enjoying new delights, always, as the stately panorama unfolded itself before us and rerolled and hid itself behind us; and now and then we had the thrilling surprise of bursting suddenly upon a tremendous white mass like the distant and dominating jungfrau, or some kindred giant, looming head and shoulders above a tumbled waste of lesser alps. once, while i was hungrily taking in one of these surprises, and doing my best to get all i possibly could of it while it should last, i was interrupted by a young and care-free voice: "you're an american, i think--so'm i." he was about eighteen, or possibly nineteen; slender and of medium height; open, frank, happy face; a restless but independent eye; a snub nose, which had the air of drawing back with a decent reserve from the silky new-born mustache below it until it should be introduced; a loosely hung jaw, calculated to work easily in the sockets. he wore a low-crowned, narrow-brimmed straw hat, with a broad blue ribbon around it which had a white anchor embroidered on it in front; nobby short-tailed coat, pantaloons, vest, all trim and neat and up with the fashion; red-striped stockings, very low-quarter patent-leather shoes, tied with black ribbon; blue ribbon around his neck, wide-open collar; tiny diamond studs; wrinkleless kids; projecting cuffs, fastened with large oxidized silver sleeve-buttons, bearing the device of a dog's face--english pug. he carried a slim cane, surmounted with an english pug's head with red glass eyes. under his arm he carried a german grammar--otto's. his hair was short, straight, and smooth, and presently when he turned his head a moment, i saw that it was nicely parted behind. he took a cigarette out of a dainty box, stuck it into a meerschaum holder which he carried in a morocco case, and reached for my cigar. while he was lighting, i said: "yes--i am an american." "i knew it--i can always tell them. what ship did you come over in?" "holsatia." "we came in the batavia--cunard, you know. what kind of passage did you have?" "tolerably rough." "so did we. captain said he'd hardly ever seen it rougher. where are you from?" "new england." "so'm i. i'm from new bloomfield. anybody with you?" "yes--a friend." "our whole family's along. it's awful slow, going around alone--don't you think so?" "rather slow." "ever been over here before?" "yes." "i haven't. my first trip. but we've been all around--paris and everywhere. i'm to enter harvard next year. studying german all the time, now. can't enter till i know german. i know considerable french--i get along pretty well in paris, or anywhere where they speak french. what hotel are you stopping at?" "schweitzerhof." "no! is that so? i never see you in the reception-room. i go to the reception-room a good deal of the time, because there's so many americans there. i make lots of acquaintances. i know an american as soon as i see him--and so i speak to him and make his acquaintance. i like to be always making acquaintances--don't you?" "lord, yes!" "you see it breaks up a trip like this, first rate. i never got bored on a trip like this, if i can make acquaintances and have somebody to talk to. but i think a trip like this would be an awful bore, if a body couldn't find anybody to get acquainted with and talk to on a trip like this. i'm fond of talking, ain't you? "passionately." "have you felt bored, on this trip?" "not all the time, part of it." "that's it!--you see you ought to go around and get acquainted, and talk. that's my way. that's the way i always do--i just go 'round, 'round, 'round and talk, talk, talk--i never get bored. you been up the rigi yet?" "no." "going?" "i think so." "what hotel you going to stop at?" "i don't know. is there more than one?" "three. you stop at the schreiber--you'll find it full of americans. what ship did you say you came over in?" "city of antwerp." "german, i guess. you going to geneva?" "yes." "what hotel you going to stop at?" "hôtel de l'écu de génève." "don't you do it! no americans there! you stop at one of those big hotels over the bridge--they're packed full of americans." "but i want to practice my arabic." "good gracious, do you speak arabic?" "yes--well enough to get along." "why, hang it, you won't get along in geneva--they don't speak arabic, they speak french. what hotel are you stopping at here?" "hotel pension-beaurivage." "sho, you ought to stop at the schweitzerhof. didn't you know the schweitzerhof was the best hotel in switzerland?-look at your baedeker." "yes, i know--but i had an idea there warn't any americans there." "no americans! why, bless your soul, it's just alive with them! i'm in the great reception-room most all the time. i make lots of acquaintances there. not as many as i did at first, because now only the new ones stop in there--the others go right along through. where are you from?" "arkansaw." "is that so? i'm from new england--new bloomfield's my town when i'm at home. i'm having a mighty good time today, ain't you?" "divine." "that's what i call it. i like this knocking around, loose and easy, and making acquaintances and talking. i know an american, soon as i see him; so i go and speak to him and make his acquaintance. i ain't ever bored, on a trip like this, if i can make new acquaintances and talk. i'm awful fond of talking when i can get hold of the right kind of a person, ain't you?" "i prefer it to any other dissipation." "that's my notion, too. now some people like to take a book and sit down and read, and read, and read, or moon around yawping at the lake or these mountains and things, but that ain't my way; no, sir, if they like it, let 'em do it, i don't object; but as for me, talking's what i like. you been up the rigi?" "yes." "what hotel did you stop at?" "schreiber." "that's the place!--i stopped there too. full of americans, wasn't it? it always is--always is. that's what they say. everybody says that. what ship did you come over in?" "ville de paris." "french, i reckon. what kind of a passage did ... excuse me a minute, there's some americans i haven't seen before." and away he went. he went uninjured, too--i had the murderous impulse to harpoon him in the back with my alpenstock, but as i raised the weapon the disposition left me; i found i hadn't the heart to kill him, he was such a joyous, innocent, good-natured numbskull. half an hour later i was sitting on a bench inspecting, with strong interest, a noble monolith which we were skimming by--a monolith not shaped by man, but by nature's free great hand--a massy pyramidal rock eighty feet high, devised by nature ten million years ago against the day when a man worthy of it should need it for his monument. the time came at last, and now this grand remembrancer bears schiller's name in huge letters upon its face. curiously enough, this rock was not degraded or defiled in any way. it is said that two years ago a stranger let himself down from the top of it with ropes and pulleys, and painted all over it, in blue letters bigger than those in schiller's name, these words: "try sozodont;" "buy sun stove polish;" "helmbold's buchu;" "try benzaline for the blood." he was captured and it turned out that he was an american. upon his trial the judge said to him: "you are from a land where any insolent that wants to is privileged to profane and insult nature, and, through her, nature's god, if by so doing he can put a sordid penny in his pocket. but here the case is different. because you are a foreigner and ignorant, i will make your sentence light; if you were a native i would deal strenuously with you. hear and obey: --you will immediately remove every trace of your offensive work from the schiller monument; you pay a fine of ten thousand francs; you will suffer two years' imprisonment at hard labor; you will then be horsewhipped, tarred and feathered, deprived of your ears, ridden on a rail to the confines of the canton, and banished forever. the severest penalties are omitted in your case--not as a grace to you, but to that great republic which had the misfortune to give you birth." the steamer's benches were ranged back to back across the deck. my back hair was mingling innocently with the back hair of a couple of ladies. presently they were addressed by some one and i overheard this conversation: "you are americans, i think? so'm i." "yes--we are americans." "i knew it--i can always tell them. what ship did you come over in?" "city of chester." "oh, yes--inman line. we came in the batavia--cunard you know. what kind of a passage did you have?" "pretty fair." "that was luck. we had it awful rough. captain said he'd hardly seen it rougher. where are you from?" "new jersey." "so'm i. no--i didn't mean that; i'm from new england. new bloomfield's my place. these your children?--belong to both of you?" "only to one of us; they are mine; my friend is not married." "single, i reckon? so'm i. are you two ladies traveling alone?" "no--my husband is with us." "our whole family's along. it's awful slow, going around alone--don't you think so?" "i suppose it must be." "hi, there's mount pilatus coming in sight again. named after pontius pilate, you know, that shot the apple off of william tell's head. guide-book tells all about it, they say. i didn't read it--an american told me. i don't read when i'm knocking around like this, having a good time. did you ever see the chapel where william tell used to preach?" "i did not know he ever preached there." "oh, yes, he did. that american told me so. he don't ever shut up his guide-book. he knows more about this lake than the fishes in it. besides, they call it 'tell's chapel'--you know that yourself. you ever been over here before?" "yes." "i haven't. it's my first trip. but we've been all around--paris and everywhere. i'm to enter harvard next year. studying german all the time now. can't enter till i know german. this book's otto's grammar. it's a mighty good book to get the ich habe gehabt haben's out of. but i don't really study when i'm knocking around this way. if the notion takes me, i just run over my little old ich habe gehabt, du hast gehabt, er hat gehabt, wir haben gehabt, ihr haben gehabt, sie haben gehabt--kind of 'now-i-lay-me-down-to-sleep' fashion, you know, and after that, maybe i don't buckle to it for three days. it's awful undermining to the intellect, german is; you want to take it in small doses, or first you know your brains all run together, and you feel them sloshing around in your head same as so much drawn butter. but french is different; french ain't anything. i ain't any more afraid of french than a tramp's afraid of pie; i can rattle off my little j'ai, tu as, il a, and the rest of it, just as easy as a-b-c. i get along pretty well in paris, or anywhere where they speak french. what hotel are you stopping at?" "the schweitzerhof." "no! is that so? i never see you in the big reception-room. i go in there a good deal of the time, because there's so many americans there. i make lots of acquaintances. you been up the rigi yet?" "no." "going?" "we think of it." "what hotel you going to stop at?" "i don't know." "well, then you stop at the schreiber--it's full of americans. what ship did you come over in?" "city of chester." "oh, yes, i remember i asked you that before. but i always ask everybody what ship they came over in, and so sometimes i forget and ask again. you going to geneva?" "yes." "what hotel you going to stop at?" "we expect to stop in a pension." "i don't hardly believe you'll like that; there's very few americans in the pensions. what hotel are you stopping at here?" "the schweitzerhof." "oh, yes. i asked you that before, too. but i always ask everybody what hotel they're stopping at, and so i've got my head all mixed up with hotels. but it makes talk, and i love to talk. it refreshes me up so--don't it you--on a trip like this?" "yes--sometimes." "well, it does me, too. as long as i'm talking i never feel bored--ain't that the way with you?" "yes--generally. but there are exception to the rule." "oh, of course. i don't care to talk to everybody, myself. if a person starts in to jabber-jabber-jabber about scenery, and history, and pictures, and all sorts of tiresome things, i get the fan-tods mighty soon. i say 'well, i must be going now--hope i'll see you again'--and then i take a walk. where you from?" "new jersey." "why, bother it all, i asked you that before, too. have you seen the lion of lucerne?" "not yet." "nor i, either. but the man who told me about mount pilatus says it's one of the things to see. it's twenty-eight feet long. it don't seem reasonable, but he said so, anyway. he saw it yesterday; said it was dying, then, so i reckon it's dead by this time. but that ain't any matter, of course they'll stuff it. did you say the children are yours--or hers?" "mine." "oh, so you did. are you going up the ... no, i asked you that. what ship ... no, i asked you that, too. what hotel are you ... no, you told me that. let me see ... um .... oh, what kind of voy ... no, we've been over that ground, too. um ... um ... well, i believe that is all. bonjour--i am very glad to have made your acquaintance, ladies. guten tag." chapter xxviii [the jodel and its native wilds] the rigi-kulm is an imposing alpine mass, six thousand feet high, which stands by itself, and commands a mighty prospect of blue lakes, green valleys, and snowy mountains--a compact and magnificent picture three hundred miles in circumference. the ascent is made by rail, or horseback, or on foot, as one may prefer. i and my agent panoplied ourselves in walking-costume, one bright morning, and started down the lake on the steamboat; we got ashore at the village of waeggis; three-quarters of an hour distant from lucerne. this village is at the foot of the mountain. we were soon tramping leisurely up the leafy mule-path, and then the talk began to flow, as usual. it was twelve o'clock noon, and a breezy, cloudless day; the ascent was gradual, and the glimpses, from under the curtaining boughs, of blue water, and tiny sailboats, and beetling cliffs, were as charming as glimpses of dreamland. all the circumstances were perfect--and the anticipations, too, for we should soon be enjoying, for the first time, that wonderful spectacle, an alpine sunrise--the object of our journey. there was (apparently) no real need for hurry, for the guide-book made the walking-distance from waeggis to the summit only three hours and a quarter. i say "apparently," because the guide-book had already fooled us once--about the distance from allerheiligen to oppenau--and for aught i knew it might be getting ready to fool us again. we were only certain as to the altitudes--we calculated to find out for ourselves how many hours it is from the bottom to the top. the summit is six thousand feet above the sea, but only forty-five hundred feet above the lake. when we had walked half an hour, we were fairly into the swing and humor of the undertaking, so we cleared for action; that is to say, we got a boy whom we met to carry our alpenstocks and satchels and overcoats and things for us; that left us free for business. i suppose we must have stopped oftener to stretch out on the grass in the shade and take a bit of a smoke than this boy was used to, for presently he asked if it had been our idea to hire him by the job, or by the year? we told him he could move along if he was in a hurry. he said he wasn't in such a very particular hurry, but he wanted to get to the top while he was young. we told him to clear out, then, and leave the things at the uppermost hotel and say we should be along presently. he said he would secure us a hotel if he could, but if they were all full he would ask them to build another one and hurry up and get the paint and plaster dry against we arrived. still gently chaffing us, he pushed ahead, up the trail, and soon disappeared. by six o'clock we were pretty high up in the air, and the view of lake and mountains had greatly grown in breadth and interest. we halted awhile at a little public house, where we had bread and cheese and a quart or two of fresh milk, out on the porch, with the big panorama all before us--and then moved on again. ten minutes afterward we met a hot, red-faced man plunging down the mountain, making mighty strides, swinging his alpenstock ahead of him, and taking a grip on the ground with its iron point to support these big strides. he stopped, fanned himself with his hat, swabbed the perspiration from his face and neck with a red handkerchief, panted a moment or two, and asked how far to waeggis. i said three hours. he looked surprised, and said: "why, it seems as if i could toss a biscuit into the lake from here, it's so close by. is that an inn, there?" i said it was. "well," said he, "i can't stand another three hours, i've had enough today; i'll take a bed there." i asked: "are we nearly to the top?" "nearly to the top? why, bless your soul, you haven't really started, yet." i said we would put up at the inn, too. so we turned back and ordered a hot supper, and had quite a jolly evening of it with this englishman. the german landlady gave us neat rooms and nice beds, and when i and my agent turned in, it was with the resolution to be up early and make the utmost of our first alpine sunrise. but of course we were dead tired, and slept like policemen; so when we awoke in the morning and ran to the window it was already too late, because it was half past eleven. it was a sharp disappointment. however, we ordered breakfast and told the landlady to call the englishman, but she said he was already up and off at daybreak--and swearing like mad about something or other. we could not find out what the matter was. he had asked the landlady the altitude of her place above the level of the lake, and she told him fourteen hundred and ninety-five feet. that was all that was said; then he lost his temper. he said that between ------fools and guide-books, a man could acquire ignorance enough in twenty-four hours in a country like this to last him a year. harris believed our boy had been loading him up with misinformation; and this was probably the case, for his epithet described that boy to a dot. we got under way about the turn of noon, and pulled out for the summit again, with a fresh and vigorous step. when we had gone about two hundred yards, and stopped to rest, i glanced to the left while i was lighting my pipe, and in the distance detected a long worm of black smoke crawling lazily up the steep mountain. of course that was the locomotive. we propped ourselves on our elbows at once, to gaze, for we had never seen a mountain railway yet. presently we could make out the train. it seemed incredible that that thing should creep straight up a sharp slant like the roof of a house--but there it was, and it was doing that very miracle. in the course of a couple hours we reached a fine breezy altitude where the little shepherd huts had big stones all over their roofs to hold them down to the earth when the great storms rage. the country was wild and rocky about here, but there were plenty of trees, plenty of moss, and grass. away off on the opposite shore of the lake we could see some villages, and now for the first time we could observe the real difference between their proportions and those of the giant mountains at whose feet they slept. when one is in one of those villages it seems spacious, and its houses seem high and not out of proportion to the mountain that overhangs them--but from our altitude, what a change! the mountains were bigger and grander than ever, as they stood there thinking their solemn thoughts with their heads in the drifting clouds, but the villages at their feet--when the painstaking eye could trace them up and find them--were so reduced, almost invisible, and lay so flat against the ground, that the exactest simile i can devise is to compare them to ant-deposits of granulated dirt overshadowed by the huge bulk of a cathedral. the steamboats skimming along under the stupendous precipices were diminished by distance to the daintiest little toys, the sailboats and rowboats to shallops proper for fairies that keep house in the cups of lilies and ride to court on the backs of bumblebees. presently we came upon half a dozen sheep nibbling grass in the spray of a stream of clear water that sprang from a rock wall a hundred feet high, and all at once our ears were startled with a melodious "lul ... l ... l l l llul-lul-lahee-o-o-o!" pealing joyously from a near but invisible source, and recognized that we were hearing for the first time the famous alpine jodel in its own native wilds. and we recognized, also, that it was that sort of quaint commingling of baritone and falsetto which at home we call "tyrolese warbling." the jodeling (pronounced yodling--emphasis on the o) continued, and was very pleasant and inspiriting to hear. now the jodeler appeared--a shepherd boy of sixteen--and in our gladness and gratitude we gave him a franc to jodel some more. so he jodeled and we listened. we moved on, presently, and he generously jodeled us out of sight. after about fifteen minutes we came across another shepherd boy who was jodeling, and gave him half a franc to keep it up. he also jodeled us out of sight. after that, we found a jodeler every ten minutes; we gave the first one eight cents, the second one six cents, the third one four, the fourth one a penny, contributed nothing to nos. 5, 6, and 7, and during the remainder of the day hired the rest of the jodelers, at a franc apiece, not to jodel any more. there is somewhat too much of the jodeling in the alps. about the middle of the afternoon we passed through a prodigious natural gateway called the felsenthor, formed by two enormous upright rocks, with a third lying across the top. there was a very attractive little hotel close by, but our energies were not conquered yet, so we went on. three hours afterward we came to the railway-track. it was planted straight up the mountain with the slant of a ladder that leans against a house, and it seemed to us that man would need good nerves who proposed to travel up it or down it either. during the latter part of the afternoon we cooled our roasting interiors with ice-cold water from clear streams, the only really satisfying water we had tasted since we left home, for at the hotels on the continent they merely give you a tumbler of ice to soak your water in, and that only modifies its hotness, doesn't make it cold. water can only be made cold enough for summer comfort by being prepared in a refrigerator or a closed ice-pitcher. europeans say ice-water impairs digestion. how do they know?--they never drink any. at ten minutes past six we reached the kaltbad station, where there is a spacious hotel with great verandas which command a majestic expanse of lake and mountain scenery. we were pretty well fagged out, now, but as we did not wish to miss the alpine sunrise, we got through our dinner as quickly as possible and hurried off to bed. it was unspeakably comfortable to stretch our weary limbs between the cool, damp sheets. and how we did sleep!--for there is no opiate like alpine pedestrianism. in the morning we both awoke and leaped out of bed at the same instant and ran and stripped aside the window-curtains; but we suffered a bitter disappointment again: it was already half past three in the afternoon. we dressed sullenly and in ill spirits, each accusing the other of oversleeping. harris said if we had brought the courier along, as we ought to have done, we should not have missed these sunrises. i said he knew very well that one of us would have to sit up and wake the courier; and i added that we were having trouble enough to take care of ourselves, on this climb, without having to take care of a courier besides. during breakfast our spirits came up a little, since we found by this guide-book that in the hotels on the summit the tourist is not left to trust to luck for his sunrise, but is roused betimes by a man who goes through the halls with a great alpine horn, blowing blasts that would raise the dead. and there was another consoling thing: the guide-book said that up there on the summit the guests did not wait to dress much, but seized a red bed blanket and sailed out arrayed like an indian. this was good; this would be romantic; two hundred and fifty people grouped on the windy summit, with their hair flying and their red blankets flapping, in the solemn presence of the coming sun, would be a striking and memorable spectacle. so it was good luck, not ill luck, that we had missed those other sunrises. we were informed by the guide-book that we were now 3,228 feet above the level of the lake--therefore full two-thirds of our journey had been accomplished. we got away at a quarter past four p.m.; a hundred yards above the hotel the railway divided; one track went straight up the steep hill, the other one turned square off to the right, with a very slight grade. we took the latter, and followed it more than a mile, turned a rocky corner, and came in sight of a handsome new hotel. if we had gone on, we should have arrived at the summit, but harris preferred to ask a lot of questions--as usual, of a man who didn't know anything--and he told us to go back and follow the other route. we did so. we could ill afford this loss of time. we climbed and climbed; and we kept on climbing; we reached about forty summits, but there was always another one just ahead. it came on to rain, and it rained in dead earnest. we were soaked through and it was bitter cold. next a smoky fog of clouds covered the whole region densely, and we took to the railway-ties to keep from getting lost. sometimes we slopped along in a narrow path on the left-hand side of the track, but by and by when the fog blew aside a little and we saw that we were treading the rampart of a precipice and that our left elbows were projecting over a perfectly boundless and bottomless vacancy, we gasped, and jumped for the ties again. the night shut down, dark and drizzly and cold. about eight in the evening the fog lifted and showed us a well-worn path which led up a very steep rise to the left. we took it, and as soon as we had got far enough from the railway to render the finding it again an impossibility, the fog shut down on us once more. we were in a bleak, unsheltered place, now, and had to trudge right along, in order to keep warm, though we rather expected to go over a precipice, sooner or later. about nine o'clock we made an important discovery--that we were not in any path. we groped around a while on our hands and knees, but we could not find it; so we sat down in the mud and the wet scant grass to wait. we were terrified into this by being suddenly confronted with a vast body which showed itself vaguely for an instant and in the next instant was smothered in the fog again. it was really the hotel we were after, monstrously magnified by the fog, but we took it for the face of a precipice, and decided not to try to claw up it. we sat there an hour, with chattering teeth and quivering bodies, and quarreled over all sorts of trifles, but gave most of our attention to abusing each other for the stupidity of deserting the railway-track. we sat with our backs to the precipice, because what little wind there was came from that quarter. at some time or other the fog thinned a little; we did not know when, for we were facing the empty universe and the thinness could not show; but at last harris happened to look around, and there stood a huge, dim, spectral hotel where the precipice had been. one could faintly discern the windows and chimneys, and a dull blur of lights. our first emotion was deep, unutterable gratitude, our next was a foolish rage, born of the suspicion that possibly the hotel had been visible three-quarters of an hour while we sat there in those cold puddles quarreling. yes, it was the rigi-kulm hotel--the one that occupies the extreme summit, and whose remote little sparkle of lights we had often seen glinting high aloft among the stars from our balcony away down yonder in lucerne. the crusty portier and the crusty clerks gave us the surly reception which their kind deal out in prosperous times, but by mollifying them with an extra display of obsequiousness and servility we finally got them to show us to the room which our boy had engaged for us. we got into some dry clothing, and while our supper was preparing we loafed forsakenly through a couple of vast cavernous drawing-rooms, one of which had a stove in it. this stove was in a corner, and densely walled around with people. we could not get near the fire, so we moved at large in the artic spaces, among a multitude of people who sat silent, smileless, forlorn, and shivering--thinking what fools they were to come, perhaps. there were some americans and some germans, but one could see that the great majority were english. we lounged into an apartment where there was a great crowd, to see what was going on. it was a memento-magazine. the tourists were eagerly buying all sorts and styles of paper-cutters, marked "souvenir of the rigi," with handles made of the little curved horn of the ostensible chamois; there were all manner of wooden goblets and such things, similarly marked. i was going to buy a paper-cutter, but i believed i could remember the cold comfort of the rigi-kulm without it, so i smothered the impulse. supper warmed us, and we went immediately to bed--but first, as mr. baedeker requests all tourists to call his attention to any errors which they may find in his guide-books, i dropped him a line to inform him he missed it by just about three days. i had previously informed him of his mistake about the distance from allerheiligen to oppenau, and had also informed the ordnance depart of the german government of the same error in the imperial maps. i will add, here, that i never got any answer to those letters, or any thanks from either of those sources; and, what is still more discourteous, these corrections have not been made, either in the maps or the guide-books. but i will write again when i get time, for my letters may have miscarried. we curled up in the clammy beds, and went to sleep without rocking. we were so sodden with fatigue that we never stirred nor turned over till the blooming blasts of the alpine horn aroused us. it may well be imagined that we did not lose any time. we snatched on a few odds and ends of clothing, cocooned ourselves in the proper red blankets, and plunged along the halls and out into the whistling wind bareheaded. we saw a tall wooden scaffolding on the very peak of the summit, a hundred yards away, and made for it. we rushed up the stairs to the top of this scaffolding, and stood there, above the vast outlying world, with hair flying and ruddy blankets waving and cracking in the fierce breeze. "fifteen minutes too late, at last!" said harris, in a vexed voice. "the sun is clear above the horizon." "no matter," i said, "it is a most magnificent spectacle, and we will see it do the rest of its rising anyway." in a moment we were deeply absorbed in the marvel before us, and dead to everything else. the great cloud-barred disk of the sun stood just above a limitless expanse of tossing white-caps--so to speak--a billowy chaos of massy mountain domes and peaks draped in imperishable snow, and flooded with an opaline glory of changing and dissolving splendors, while through rifts in a black cloud-bank above the sun, radiating lances of diamond dust shot to the zenith. the cloven valleys of the lower world swam in a tinted mist which veiled the ruggedness of their crags and ribs and ragged forests, and turned all the forbidding region into a soft and rich and sensuous paradise. we could not speak. we could hardly breathe. we could only gaze in drunken ecstasy and drink in it. presently harris exclaimed: "why--nation, it's going down!" perfectly true. we had missed the morning hornblow, and slept all day. this was stupefying. harris said: "look here, the sun isn't the spectacle--it's us--stacked up here on top of this gallows, in these idiotic blankets, and two hundred and fifty well-dressed men and women down here gawking up at us and not caring a straw whether the sun rises or sets, as long as they've got such a ridiculous spectacle as this to set down in their memorandum-books. they seem to be laughing their ribs loose, and there's one girl there that appears to be going all to pieces. i never saw such a man as you before. i think you are the very last possibility in the way of an ass." "what have i done?" i answered, with heat. "what have you done? you've got up at half past seven o'clock in the evening to see the sun rise, that's what you've done." "and have you done any better, i'd like to know? i've always used to get up with the lark, till i came under the petrifying influence of your turgid intellect." "you used to get up with the lark--oh, no doubt--you'll get up with the hangman one of these days. but you ought to be ashamed to be jawing here like this, in a red blanket, on a forty-foot scaffold on top of the alps. and no end of people down here to boot; this isn't any place for an exhibition of temper." and so the customary quarrel went on. when the sun was fairly down, we slipped back to the hotel in the charitable gloaming, and went to bed again. we had encountered the horn-blower on the way, and he had tried to collect compensation, not only for announcing the sunset, which we did see, but for the sunrise, which we had totally missed; but we said no, we only took our solar rations on the "european plan"--pay for what you get. he promised to make us hear his horn in the morning, if we were alive. october vagabonds by richard le gallienne 1911 i the epitaph of summer ii at evening i came to the wood iii "trespassers will be ..." iv salad and moonshine v the green friend vi in the wake of summer vii maps and farewells viii the american bluebird and its song ix dutch hollow x where they sing from morning till night xi apple-land xii orchards and a line from virgil xiii fellow wayfarers xiv the old lady of the walnuts and others xv the man at dansville xvi in which we catch up with summer xvii containing valuable statistics xviii a dithyrambus of buttermilk xix a growl about american country hotels xx onions, pigs and hickory-nuts xxi october roses and a young girl's face xxii concerning the popular taste in scenery and some happy people xxiii the susquehanna xxiv and unexpectedly the last envoi chapter i the epitaph of summer as i started out from the farm with a basket of potatoes, for our supper in the shack half a mile up the hillside, where we had made our summer camp, my eye fell on a notice affixed to a gate-post, and, as i read it, my heart sank--sank as the sun was sinking yonder with wistful glory behind the purple ridge. i tore the paper from the gate-post and put it in my pocket with a sigh. "it is true, then," i said to myself. "we have got to admit it. i must show this to colin." then i continued my way across the empty, close-gleaned corn-field, across the railway track, and, plunging into the orchard on the other side, where here and there among the trees the torrents of apples were being already caught in boxes by the thrifty husbandman, began to breast the hill intersected with thickly wooded watercourses. high up somewhere amid the cloud of beeches and buttonwood trees, our log cabin lay hid, in a gully made by the little stream that filled our pails with a silver trickle over a staircase of shelving rock, and up there colin was already busy with his skilled french cookery, preparing our evening meal. the woods still made a pompous show of leaves, but i knew it to be a hollow sham, a mask of foliage soon to be stripped off by equinoctial fury, a precarious stage-setting, ready to be blown down at the first gusts from the north. a forlorn bird here and there made a thin piping, as it flitted homelessly amid the bleached long grasses, and the frail silk of the milkweed pods came floating along ghostlike on the evening breeze. yes! it was true. summer was beginning to pack up, the great stage-carpenter was about to change the scene, and the great theatre was full of echoes and sighs and sounds of farewell. of course, we had known it for some time, but had not had the heart to admit it to each other, could not find courage to say that one more golden summer was at an end. but the paper i had torn from the roadside left us no further shred of illusion. there was an authoritative announcement there was no blinking, a notice to quit there was no gain-saying. as i came to the crest of the hill, and in sight of the shack, shining with early lamp-light deep down among the trees of the gully, i could see colin innocently at work on a salad, and hear him humming to himself his eternal "_vive le capitaine_." it was too pathetic. i believe the tears came to my eyes. "colin," i said, as i at length arrived and set down my basket of potatoes, "read this." he took the paper from my hand and read: "_sun-up baseball club. september_ 19, 1908. _last match of the season_" he knew what i meant. "yes!" he said. "it is the epitaph of summer." chapter ii at evening i came to the wood my solitude had been kindly lent to me for the summer by a friend, the prophet-proprietor of a certain famous well of truth some four miles away, whither souls flocked from all parts of america to drink of the living waters. i had been feeling town-worn and world-weary, and my friend had written me saying: "at elim are twelve wells and seventy palm-trees," and so to elim i had betaken myself. after a brief sojourn there, drinking of the waters, and building up on the strong diet of the sage's living words, he had given me the key to some green woods and streams of his, and bade me take them for my hermitage. i had a great making-up to arrange with nature, and i half wondered how she would receive me after all this long time. but when did that mother ever turn her face from her child, however truant from her care? it had been with a beating heart that i had passed up the hillside on an evening in early june, and approached the hushed green temple, wherein i was to take summer sanctuary from a wicked world. but if, as i hope, the reader has no objection to an occasional interlude of verse in all this prose, i will copy for him here the poem i wrote next morning--it being always easier to tell the strict truth in poetry rather than in prose: _at evening i came to the wood, and threw myself on the breast of the great green mother, weeping, and the arms of a thousand trees waved and rustled in welcome, and murmured: "rest--rest--rest! the leaves, thy brothers, shall heal thee; thy sisters, the flowers, bring peace." at length i stayed from my weeping, and lifted my face from the grass; the moon was walking the wood with feet of mysterious pearl, and the great trees held their breath, trance-like, watching her pass, and a bird called out from the shadows, with voice as sweet as a girl. and then, in the holy silence, to the great green mother i prayed: "take me again to thy bosom, thy son who so close to thee, aforetime, filial clung, then into the city strayed- the painted face of the town, the wine and the harlotry. "bathe me in lustral dawns, and the morning star and the dew. make pure my heart as a bird and innocent as a flower, make sweet my thoughts as the meadow-mint --o make me all anew, and in the strength of beech and oak gird up my will with power. "i have wandered far, o my mother, but here i return at the last, never again to stray in pilgrimage wanton and wild; a broken heart and a contrite here at thy feet i cast, o take me back to thy bosom ..." and the mother answered, "child!"_ it was a wonderful reconciliation, a wonderful home-coming, and how i luxuriated in the great green forgiveness! yes! the giant maples had forgiven me, and the multitudinous beeches had taken me to their arms. the flowers and i were friends again, the grass was my brother, and the shy nymph-like stream, dropping silver vowels into the silence, was my sweetheart. chapter iii "trespassers will be..." for those who value it, there is no form of property that inspires a sense of ownership so jealous as solitude. rob my orchard if you will, but beware how you despoil me of my silence. the average noisy person can have no conception what a brutal form of trespass his coarsely cheerful voice may be in the exquisite spiritual hush of the woods, or what shattering discomfort his irrelevant presence in the landscape. one day, to my horror, a picnic ruthlessly invaded my sanctuary. with a roar of boeotian hilarity, it tore up the hillside as if it were a storming party, and half a day the sacred woods were vocal with silly catcalls and snatches of profane song. i locked up my hermitage, and, taking my stick, sought refuge in flight, like the other woodland creatures; only coming back at evening with cautious step and peering glance, half afraid lest it should still be there. no! it was gone, but its voices seemed to have left gaping wounds across the violated air, and the trees to wear a look of desecration. but presently the moon arose and washed the solitude clean again, and the wounds of silence were healed in the still night. next morning i amused myself by writing the following notice, which i nailed up on a great elm-tree standing guard at the beginning of the woods: silence! _speaking above a whisper in these woods is forbidden by law_. this notice seems to have had its effect, for from this time on no more hands of marauders invaded my peace. but i had one other case of trespass, of which it is now time to speak. some short distance from the shack was a clearing in the woods, a thriving wilderness of bramble-bushes, poke-berries, myrtle-berries, mandrakes, milkweed, mullein, daisies and what not--a paradise of every sauntering vine and splendid, saucy weed. in the centre stood a sycamore-tree, beneath which it was my custom to smoke a morning pipe and revolve my profound after-breakfast thoughts. judge, then, of my indignant shock, one morning, at finding a stranger calmly occupying my place. i stood for a moment rooted to the spot, in the shadow of the encircling woods, and he had not yet seen me. as i stood, pondering on the best way of dealing with the intruder, a sudden revulsion of kindness stole over me. for here indeed was a very different figure from what, in my first shock of surprise, i had expected to see. no common intruder this. in fact, who could have dreamed of coming upon so incongruous an apparition as this in an american woodland? how on earth did this picturesque waif from the quartier latin come to stray so far away from the boul' miche! for the little boyish figure of a man that sat sketching in my place was the frenchiest-looking frenchman you ever saw--with his dark, smoke-dried skin, his long, straight, blue-black hair, his fine, rather ferocious brown eyes, his long, delicate french nose, his bristling black moustache and short, sting-shaped imperial. he wore on his head a soft white felt hat, somewhat of the shape affected by circus clowns, and too small for him. his coat was of green velveteen corduroy and he wore knickerbockers of an eloquent plaid. he was intently absorbed in sketching a prosperous group of weeds, a crazy quilt of wildly jostling colour, that had grown up around the decay of a fallen tree, and made a fine blazon of contrast against the massed foliage in the background. there was no mistake how the stranger loved this patch of coloured weeds. here was a man whose whole soul was evidently--colour. there was a look in his face as if he could just eat those oranges and purples, and soft greens; and there was a sort of passionate assurance in the way in which he handled his brushes, and delicately plunged them here and there in his colour-box, that spoke a master. so intent was he upon his work that, when i came up behind him, he seemed unaware of my presence; though his oblivion was actually the conscious indifference of a landscape painter, accustomed to the ambling cow and the awe-struck peasant looking over his shoulder as he worked. "great bunch of weeds," he said presently, without looking up, and still painting, drawing the while at a quaint pipe about an inch long. "o, you are not the boul' miche, after all," i exclaimed in disappointment. "aren't i, though?" he said at last, looking up in interested surprise. "ever at--?" mentioning the name of a well-known cafe, one of the many rally-points of the quartier. "i should say," i answered. "well!" and thereupon we both plunged into delighted reminiscence of that city which, as none other, makes immediate friends of all her lovers. for a while the woods faded away, and in that tangled clearing rose the towers of notre dame, and the seine glittered on under its great bridges, and again the world smelled of absinthe, and picturesque madmen gesticulated in clouds of tobacco smoke, and propounded fantastic philosophies amid the rattle of dominoes--and afar off in the street a voice was crying "_haricots verts_!" my new friend's talk had the pathos of spiritual exile, for, as french in blood as a man could be, born in bordeaux of provençal parentage, he had lived most of his life in america. the decoration of a rich man's house in the neighbourhood had brought him thus into my solitude, and, that work completed, he would return to his home in new york. meanwhile the morning was going by as we talked, and, putting up his sketch-box, he accepted my invitation to join me at lunch. such was the manner of my meeting, in the guise of a trespasser, with the dear friend to whom i had brought the decisive news of the death of summer, as he was innocently making a salad, _in antiquam silvam_, on that sad september evening. chapter iv salad and moonshine "do you remember that first salad you made us, colin?" i said, as we sat over our coffee, and colin was filling his little pipe. "a daring work of art, a fantastic _tour de force_, of apples, and lettuce, and wild strawberries, and i don't know what else." "i believe i mixed in some may-apples, too. it was a great stunt ... well, no more may-apples and strawberries this year," he finished, with a sigh, and we both sat silently smoking, thinking over the good summer that was gone. after our first meeting, colin had dropped in to see me again from time to time, and when his work at the great house was finished, i had asked him to come and share my solitude. a veritable child of nature himself, he fitted into my quiet days as silently as a squirrel. so much of his life had been passed out-of-doors with trees and skies, long dream-like days all alone sketching in solitary places, that he seemed as much a part of the woods as though he were a faun, and the lore of the elements, and all natural things--bugs and birds, all wildwood creatures--had passed into him with unconscious absorption. a sort of boyish unconsciousness, indeed, was the keynote and charm of his nature. a less sophisticated creature never followed the mystic calling of art. fortunately for me, he was not one of those painters who understand and expound their own work. on the contrary, he was a perfect child about it, and painted for no more mysterious reason than that his eye delighted in beautiful natural effects, and that he loved to play with paint and brushes. though he was undoubtedly sensitive somewhere to the mystic side of nature, her wordsworthian "intimations," you would hardly have guessed it from his talk. "a bully bit of colour," would be his craftsmanlike way of describing a twilight full of sibylline suggestiveness to the literary mind. but, strangely enough, when he brought you his sketch, all your "sibylline suggestiveness" was there, which of course means, after all, that painting was his way of seeing and saying it. the moon rose as we smoked on, and began to lattice with silver the darkness of the glen, and flood the hillside with misty radiance. colin made for his sketch-box. "i must make good use of this moon," he said, "before we go." "and so must i," said i, laughing as we both went out into the night, he one way and i another, to make our different uses of the moon. an hour later colin turned in with a panel that seemed made of moonlight. "how on earth did you do it?" i said. "it is as though you had drawn up the moon in a silver bucket from the bottom of a fairy well." "no, no," he protested; "i know better. but where is your _clair de lune_?" "nothing doing," i answered. "well, then, say those lines you wrote a week or two ago instead." "'berries already,' do you mean?" "yes." here are the lines he meant: _berries already, september soon,-the shortening day and ike early moon; the year is busy with next year's flowers the seeds are ready for next year' showers; through a thousand tossing trees there swells the sigh of the summer's sad farewells. too soon those leaves in the sunset sky low down on the wintry ground will lie, and grim november and december leave naught of summer to remember-saving some flower in a book put by, secure from the soft effacing snow, though all the rest of the summer go._ chapter v the green friend though we had received such unmistakable notice to quit, we still lingered on in our solitude, after the manner of defiant tenants whom nothing short of corporal ejection can dislodge. the north wind began to roar in the tree-tops and shake the doors and windows of the shack, like an angry landlord, but we paid no heed to him. yet, all the time, both of us, in our several ways, were saying our farewells, and packing up our memories for departure. there was an old elm-tree which colin had taken for his summer god, and which he was never tired of painting. he must make the one perfect study of that before we pulled up stakes. so, each day, after our morning adoration of the sun, we would separate about our different ways and business. the woods were already beginning to wear a wistful, dejected look. there was a feeling of departure everywhere, a sense that the year's excitements were over. the procession had gone by, and there was an empty, purposeless air of waiting-about upon things, a sort of despairing longing for something else to happen--and a sure sense that nothing more could happen till next year. every event in the floral calendar had taken place with immemorial punctuality and tragic rapidity. all the full-blooded flowers of summer had long since come and gone, with their magic faces and their souls of perfume. gone were the banners of blossom from the great trees. the locust and the chestnut, those spendthrifts of the woods, that went the pace so gorgeously in june, are now sober-coated enough, and growing even threadbare. all the hum and the honey and breathless bosom-beat of things is over. the birds sing no more, but only chatter about time-tables. the bee keeps to his hive, and the bewildered butterfly, in tattered ball-dress, wonders what has become of his flowery partners. the great cricket factory has shut down. not a wheel is heard whirring. the squirrel has lost his playful air, and has an anxious manner, as though there were no time to waste before stocking his granary. everywhere berries have taken the place of buds, and bearded grasses the place of flowers. even the goldenrod has fallen to rust, and the stars of the aster are already tarnished. only along the edges of the wood the dry little paper immortelles spread long shrouds and wreaths in the shade. suddenly you feel lonely in the woods, which had seemed so companionable all summer. what is it--_who_ is it--that has gone? though quite alone, there was some one with you all summer, an invisible being filling the woods with his presence, and always at your side, or somewhere near by. but to-day, through all the green halls and chambers of the wood, you seek him in vain. you call, but there is no answer. you wait, but he does not come. he has gone. the wood is an empty palace. the prince went away secretly in the night. the wood is a deserted temple. the god has betaken himself to some secret abode. everywhere you come upon chill, abandoned altars, littered debris of summer sacrifices. maybe he is dead, and perchance, deeper in the wood, you may come upon his marble form in a winding-sheet of drifting leaves. not a god, maybe, you have pictured him, not a prince, but surely as a friend--the mysterious green friend of the green silence and the golden hush of summer noons. the mysterious green friend of the woods! so strangely by our side all summer, so strangely gone away. it is in vain to await him under our morning sycamore, nor under the great maples shall we find him walking, nor amid the alder thickets discover him, nor yet in the little ravine beneath the pines. no! he has surely gone away, and his great house seems empty without him, desolate, filled with lamentation, all its doors and windows open to the winter snows. but the green friend had left me a message. i found it at the roots of some violets. "_i shall be back again next year_" he said. chapter vi in the wake of summer yes, it was time to be going, and the thought was much on both our minds. we had as yet, however, made no plans, had not indeed discussed any; but one afternoon, late in september, driven indoors by a sudden squall of rain, i came to colin with an idea. the night before we had had the first real storm of the season. "ah! this will do their business," colin had said, referring to the trees, as we heard the wind and rain tearing and splashing through the pitch-dark woods. "it will be a different world in the morning." and indeed it was. cruel was the work of dismantling that had gone on during the night. the roof of the wood had fallen in in a score of places, letting in the sky through unfamiliar windows; and the distant prospect showed through the torn tapestry of the trees with a startling sense of disclosure. the dishevelled world wore the distressed look of a nymph caught _déshabillée._ the expression, "the naked woods," occurred to one with almost a sense of impropriety. at least there was a cynical indecorum in this violent disrobing of the landscape. "colin," i said, coming to him with my idea. "we've got to go, of course, but i've been thinking--don't you hate the idea of being hurled along in a train, and suddenly shot into the city again, like a package through a tube?" "hate it? don't ask me," said colin. "if only it could be more gradual," i went on. "suppose, for instance, instead of taking the train, we should walk it!" "walk to new york?" said colin, with a surprised whistle. "yes! why not?" "something of a walk, old man." "all the better. we shall be all the longer getting there. but, listen. to go by train would be almost too sudden a shock. i don't believe we could stand it. to be here to-day, breathing this god's fresh air, living the lives of natural men in a natural world, and to-morrow--broadway, the horrible crowds, the hustle, the dirt, the smells, the uproar." for answer colin watched the clean rain fleeting through the trees, and groaned aloud. "but now if we walked, we would, so to say, let ourselves down lightly, inure ourselves by gradual approach to the thought of life once more with our fellows. besides, we should be walking in the wake of the summer. she has only moved a little east as yet. we might catch her up on her way to new york, and thus move with the moving season, keeping in step with the zodiac. then, at last, ... how much more fitting our entry into new york, not by way of some sordid and clangorous depot, but through the spacious corridors of the highlands and the lordly gates of the hudson!" when i had thus attained my crescendo, colin rose impressively, and embraced me with true french effusion. "old man," he said, "that's just great. it's an inspiration from on high. it makes me feel better already. gee! but that's bully." french as was his blood, it will be observed that colin's expletives were thoroughly american. of course, he should have said _sacré mille cochons_ or _nom de dieu de nom de dieu_; but, though in appearance, so to say, an embodied "_sacré"_ he seemed to find the american vernacular sufficiently expressive. "is it a go, then?" said i. "it's a go," said colin, once more in american. and we shook on it. chapter vii maps and farewells it was wonderful what a change our new plan wrought in our spirits. our melancholy was immediately dispersed, and its place taken by active anticipations of our journey. the north wind in the trees, instead of blustering dismissal, sounded to our ears like the fluttering of the blue-peter at the masthead of our voyage. strange heart of man! a day back we were in tears at the thought of going. now we are all smiles to think of it, all impatience to be gone. we quote whitman a dozen times in the hour, and it is all "afoot and light-hearted" with us, and "the open road." but there were some farewells to make to people as well as to trees. there were friends at elim to bid adieu, and also there were maps to be consulted, and knapsacks to be packed--exhilarating preparations. our friends looked at us, when we had unfolded our project, with a mixture of surprise and pity. "amiable lunatics" was the first comment of their countenances, and--"there never was any telling what the artistic temperament would do next!" had we announced an air-ship voyage to the moon, they would have regarded us as comparatively reasonable, but to walk--_to walk_--some four or five hundred miles in america, of all countries, a country of palace cars and, lightning limited expresses, not to mention homicidal touring automobiles, seemed like--what shall i say?--well, as though one should start out for new zealand in a row-boat, or make the trip to st. petersburg in a sedan-chair. but there were others--especially the women--who understood, felt as we did, and longed to go with us. i have never met a woman yet whose face did not light up at the thought of a walking tour, and in her heart long to don rosalind clothes and set forth in search of adventures. we thus had the advantage, in planning our route, of several prettily coiffed heads bending over our maps and guide-books with us. "four hundred and thirty miles," said one of these rosalinds, whose pretty head was full of pictures of romantic european travel. "think what one could do with four hundred and thirty miles in europe. let us try, for the fun of it." and turning to a map of europe, and measuring out four hundred and thirty miles by scale on a slip of paper, she tried it up and down the map from point to point. "look at funny little england!" she said. "why, you will practically be walking from one end of england to the other. see," and she fitted her scale to the map, "it would bring you easily from portsmouth to aberdeen. "and now let us try france. why, see again--you will be walking from calais to marseilles--think of it! walking through france, all vineyards and beautiful names. now italy--see! you will be walking from florence to mount etna--florence, rome, naples, palermo." and so in imagination our fair friend sketched out fanciful pilgrimages for us. "you could walk from gibraltar to the pyrenees," she went on. "you could walk from venice to berlin; from brussels to copenhagen; you could walk from munich to budapest; you could walk right across turkey, from constantinople to the adriatic sea. and greece--see! you could walk from sparta to the danube. to think of the romantic use you could make of your four-hundred-odd-miles, and how different it sounds--buffalo to new york!" and again she repeated, luxuriating in the romantic sound of the words: "constantinople to the adriatic! sparta to the danube!--buffalo to new york!" there was not wanting to the party the whole-souled, my-country-'tis-of-thee american, who somewhat resented these european comparisons, and declared that america was good enough for her, clearly intimating that a certain lack of patriotism, even a certain immorality, attached to the admiration of foreign countries. she also told us somewhat severely that the same stars, if not better, shone over america as over any other country, and that american scenery was the finest in the world--not to speak of the american climate. to all of which we bowed our heads in silence--but the frivolous, european-minded rosalind who had got us into this trouble retorted with a grave face: "wouldn't you just love, dear miss----, to walk from hackensack to omaha?" another voice was kind enough to explain for our encouragement that the traveller found in a place exactly what he brought there, and that romance was a personal gift, all in the personal point of view. "a sort of cosmetic you apply to the face of nature," footnoted our irrepressible friend. still another reminded us that "to travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive," and still another strongly advised us to carry revolvers. so, taking with us our maps and much good advice, we bade farewell to our friends, and walked back to our camp under the stars--the same stars that were shining over constantinople. the next day, when all our preparations were complete, the shack swept and garnished, and our knapsacks bulging in readiness for the road, colin took his brushes, and in a few minutes had decorated one of the walls with an autumn sunset--a sort of memorial tablet to our summer, he explained. "can't you think up a verse to put underneath?" he asked. then underneath he lettered: _two lovers of the sun and of the moon, lovers of tree and grass and bug and bird, spent here the summer days, then all too soon upon the homeward track reluctant fared. sun-up, october 1, 1908._ some apples remained over from our larder. we carefully laid them outside for the squirrels; then, slinging our knapsacks, we took a last look round the little place, and locked the door. our way lay up the hill, across the pasture and through the beeches, toward the sky-line. we stood still a moment, gazing at the well-loved landscape. then we turned and breasted the hill. "_allons_!" cried colin. "_allons_!" i answered. "_allons_! to new york!" chapter viii the american bluebird and its song i wish i could convey the singular feeling of freedom and adventure that possessed us as colin and i grasped our sticks and struck up the green hill--for new york. it was a feeling of exhilaration and romantic expectancy, blent with an absurd sense of our being entirely on our own resources, vagrants shifting for ourselves, independent of civilization; which, of course, the actual circumstances in no way warranted. a delightful boyish illusion of entering on untrodden paths and facing unknown dangers thrilled through us. "well, we're off!" we said simultaneously, smiling interrogatively at each other. "yes! we're in for it." so men start out manfully for the north pole. our little enterprise gave us an imaginative realization of the solidarity, the interdependence, of the world; and we saw, as in a vision, its four corners knit together by a vast network of paths connecting one with the other; footpaths, byways, cart-tracks, bride-paths, lovers' lanes, highroads, all sensitively linked in one vast nervous system of human communication. this field whose green sod we were treading connected with another field, that with another, and that again with another--all the way to new york--all the way to cape horn! no break anywhere. all we had to do was to go on putting one foot before the other, and we could arrive anywhere. so the worn old phrase, "all roads lead to rome," lit up with a new meaning, the meaning that had originally made it. yes! the loneliest of lovers' lanes, all silence and wild flowers, was on the way to the metropolitan opera house; or, vice versa, the flat iron building was on the way to the depths of the forest. "suppose we stop here, colin," i said, pointing to a solitary, forgotten-looking little farmhouse, surrounded by giant wind-worn poplars that looked older than america, "and ask the way to versailles?" "and i shouldn't be surprised," answered colin, "if we struck some bright little american schoolgirl who could tell us." although we as yet knew every foot of the ground we were treading, it already began to wear an unfamiliar houseless and homeless look, an air of foreign travel, and though the shack was but a few yards behind us, it seemed already miles away, wrapped in lonely distance, wistfully forsaken. everything we looked at seemed to have gained a new importance and significance; every tree and bush seemed to say, "so many miles to new york," and we unconsciously looked at and remarked on the most trifling objects with the eye of explorers, and took as minute an interest in the usual bird and wayside weed as though we were engaged in some "flora and fauna" survey of untrodden regions. "that's a bluebird," said colin, as a faint pee-weeing came with a thin melancholy note from a telegraph wire. and we both listened attentively, with a learned air, as though making a mental note for some ornithological society in new york. "bluebird seen in erie county, october 1, 1908!" so might sir john mandeville have noted the occurrence of birds of paradise in the domains of prester john. "that's a silo," said colin, pointing to a cylindrical tower at the end of a group of barns, from which came the sound of an engine surrounded by a group of men, occupied in feeding it with trusses of corn from a high-piled wagon. "they are laying in fodder for the winter." interesting agricultural observation! in the surrounding fields the pumpkins, globes of golden orange, lay scattered among the wintry-looking corn-stalks. "bully subject for a picture!" said colin. before we had gone very far, we did stop at a cottage standing at a puzzling corner of cross-roads, and asked the way, not to versailles, indeed, but to--dutch hollow. we were answered by a good-humoured german voice belonging to an old dame, who seemed glad to have the lonely afternoon silence broken by human speech; and we were then, as often afterward, reminded that we were not so far away from europe, after all; but that, indeed, in no small degree the american continent was the map of europe bodily transported across the sea. for the present our way lay through germany. dutch hollow! the name told its own story, and it had appealed to our imaginations as we had come upon it on the map. we had thought we should like to see how it looked written in trees and rocks and human habitations on the page of the landscape. and i may say that it was such fanciful considerations as this, rather than any more business-like manner of travel, that frequently determined the route of our essentially sentimental journey. if our way admitted of a choice of direction, we usually decided by the sound of the name of village or town. thus the sound of "wales center" had taken us, we were told, a mile or two out of our way; but what of that? we were not walking for a record, nor were we road-surveying, or following the automobile route to new york. in fact, we had deliberately avoided the gasoline route, choosing to be led by more rustic odours; and thus our wayward wayfaring cannot be offered in any sense as a guide for pedestrians who may come after us. any one following our guidance would be as liable to arrive at the moon as at new york. in fact, we not infrequently inquired our way of a bird, or some friendly little dog that would come out to bark a companionable good day to us from a wayside porch. as a matter of fact, i had inquired the way of the bluebird mentioned a little while back, and it may be of interest--to ornithological societies--to transcribe his answer: _the way of dreams--the bluebird sang- is never hard to find so soon as you have really left the grown-up world behind; so soon as you have come to see that what the others call realities, for such as you, are never real at all; so soon as you have ceased to care what others say or do, and understand that they are they, and you--thank god--are you. then is your foot upon the path, your journey well begun, and safe the road for you to tread, moonlight or morning sun. pence of this world you shall not take, yea! no provision heed; a wild-rose gathered in the wood will buy you all you need. hungry, the birds shall bring you food, the bees their honey bring; and, thirsty, you the crystal drink of an immortal spring. for sleep, behold how deep and soft with moss the earth is spread, and all the trees of all the world shall curtain round your bed. enchanted journey! that begins nowhere, and nowhere ends, seeking an ever-changing goal, nowhither winds and wends. for destination yonder flower, for business yonder bird; aught better worth the travelling to i never saw or heard. o long dream-travel of the soul! first the green earth to tread-and still yon other starry track to travel when you're dead_. chapter ix dutch hollow the day had opened with a restless picturesque morning of gusty sunshine and rolling clouds. there was something rich and stormy and ominous in the air, and a soft rainy sense of solemn impending change, at once brilliant and mournful; a curious sense of intermingled death and birth, as of withered leaves and dreaming seeds being blown about together on their errands of decay and resurrection by the same breath of the unseen creative spirit. incidentally it meant a rain-storm by evening, and its mysterious presage had prompted colin to the furnishing of our knapsacks with water-proof cloaks, which, as the afternoon wore on, seemed more and more a wise provision. but the rain still held off, contenting itself with threatening phantasmagoria of cloud, moulding and massing like visible thunder in our wake. it seemed leisurely certain, however, of catching us before nightfall; and, sure enough, as the light began to thicken, and we stood admiring its mountainous magnificence--vast billows of plum-coloured gloom, hanging like doomsday over a stretch of haunted orchard--the great drops began to patter down. surely the sky is the greatest of all melodramatists. nothing short of the cataclysmal end of the world could have provided drama to match the stupendous stage-setting of that stormy sky. all doom and destiny and wrath of avenging deities and days of judgment seemed concentrated in that frown of gigantic darkness. beneath it the landscape seemed to grow livid as a corpse, and terror to fill with trembling the very trees and grasses. oedipus and orestes and king lear rolled into one could hardly have accounted for that angry sky. such a sky it must have been that carried doom to the cities of the plain. and, after all, it was only colin and i innocently making haste to dutch hollow! that teutonic spot seemed hopelessly far away as the rain began to drive down and the horizon to open here and there in lurid slashings of stormy sunset; and when the road, which for some time had been one long descent, suddenly confronted us with a rough, perpendicular lane, overgrown with bushes, that seemed more like a cart-track to the stars than a sensible thoroughfare, we realized, with a certain indignant self-pity, that we were walking in real earnest, out in the night and the storm, far from human habitation. "nature cannot be so absurd," said i, "as to expect us to climb such a road on such an evening! she must surely have placed a comfortable inn in such a place as this, with ruddy windows of welcome, and a roaring fire and a hissing roast." but, alas! our eyes scanned the streaming copses in vain--nothing in sight but trees, rain and a solitary saw-mill, where an old man on a ladder assured us in a broken singsong, like the scandinavian of the middle west, that indeed nature did mean us to climb that hill, and that by that road only could we reach the promised land of supper and bed. and the rain fell and the wind blew, and colin and i trudged on through the murk and the mire, i silently recalling and commenting on certain passages in certain modern writers in praise of walking in the rain. at last the hill came to an end--we learned afterward that it was a good mile high--and we stumbled out on to some upland wilderness, unlit by star or window. then we found ourselves descending again, and at last dim shapes of clustered houses began to appear, and the white phantom of a church. we could rather feel than see the houses, for the night was so dark, and, though here was evidently a village, there was no sign of a light anywhere, not so much as a bright keyhole; nothing but hushed, shuttered shapes of deeper black in the general darkness. so english villages must have looked, muffled up in darkness, at the sound of the conqueror's curfew. "surely, they can't all be in bed by seven o'clock?" i said. "there doesn't seem much to stay up for," laughed colin. at length we suspected, rather than saw, a gleam of light at the rear of one of the shrouded shapes we took for houses, and, stumbling toward it, we heard cheerful voices, german voices; and, knocking at a back door, received a friendly summons to enter. then, out of the night that covered us, suddenly sprang a kitchen full of light and a family at supper, kind german folk, the old people, the younger married couple, and the grandchildren, and a big dog vociferously taking care of them. a lighted glimpse, a few hearty words of direction, and we were out in the night again; for though, indeed, this was dutch hollow, its simple microcosm did not include an hotel. for that we must walk on another half-mile or so. o those country half-miles! so on we went again, and soon a lighted stoop flashed on our right. at last! i mounted the steps of a veranda, and, before knocking, looked in at the window. then i didn't knock, but softly called colin, who was waiting in the road, and together we looked in. at a table in the centre of a barely furnished, brightly-lit room, an old woman and a young man were kneeling in prayer. colin and i stood a moment looking at them, and then softly took the road again. but the inn, or rather the "hotel," did come at last. alas! however, for dreams of ruddy welcome--rubicund host, and capon turning on the spit. in spite of german accents, we were walking in america, after all. a shabbily-lit glass door admitted us into a dreary saloon bar, where a hard-featured, gruff-mannered young countryman, after serving beer to two farm-labourers, admitted with apparent reluctance that beds were to be had by such as had "the price," but that, as to supper, well! supper was "over"--supper-time was six-thirty; it was now seven-thirty. the young man seemed no little surprised, even indignant, that any one should be ignorant of the fact that supper-time at sheldon center was half-past six; and this, by the way, was a surprise we encountered more than once on our journey. supper-time in the american road-house is an hour severely observed, and you disregard it at the peril of your empty stomach, for no larders seem so hermetically sealed as the larders of american country hotels after the appointed hour, and no favour so impossible to grant as even a ham sandwich, if you should be so much a stranger to local ordinances as to expect it after the striking of the hour. indeed, you are looked on with suspicion for asking, as something of a tramp or dangerous character. not to know that supper-time at sheldon center was half-past six seemed to argue a sinister disregard of the usages of civilization. as we ruefully contemplated a supperless couch, a comely young woman, who had been looking us over from a room in the rear of the bar, came smilingly forward and volunteered to do the best she could for us. she was evidently the rough fellow's wife, goddess of the kitchen, and final court of appeal. what a difference a good-natured, good-looking woman makes in a place! 'tis a glimpse into the obvious, but there are occasions on which such commonplaces shine with a blessed radiance, and the moment when our attractive hostess flowered out upon us from her forbidding background was one of them. with her on our side, we forgot our fears, and, with an assured air, asked her husband to show us to our rooms. lamp in hand, he led us up staircases and along corridors--for the hotel was quite a barracks--thawing out into conversation on the way. the place, he explained, was a little out of order, owing to "the ball"--an event he referred to as a matter of national knowledge, and being, we understood, the annual ball of harvesting. the fact of the lamps not burning properly, and there being no water or towels in our rooms, was due, he explained, to this disorganizing festival; as also the circumstance of our doors having no knobs to them. "the young fellows at the ball did carry on so," he said, chuckling with reminiscence of that orgiastic occasion. the sheldon center gallants were evidently the very devil; and those vanished door-knobs provoked pictures in our minds of lupercalian revels, which, alas! we had come too late to share. we should have found anything good that our hostess cared to set before us--so potent a charm is amiability--and i am sure no man need wish for a better supper than the fried eggs and fried potatoes which copiously awaited us down-stairs. as colin washed his down with coffee, like a true franco-american, and i washed down mine with english breakfast tea, we pulled out our pipes and smiled contentment at each other. "shall we have a chapter of the wisdom of paragot before bed?" i said, and, going to our small, carefully selected knapsack library, i found the gay-hearted fantastical book we had promised to read together on our wayfaring; and so the day drew to a good end. over the head of my bed hung a highly-coloured reproduction of leonardo's "last supper," and stuck in its frame was a leaf of blessed palm--by which tokens i realized that my slumbers were to be under the wing of the ancient mother. as i closed my eyes, the musical chime of a great bell, high up somewhere in the outer night, fell in benediction upon the darkness. so i fell asleep in europe, after all. chapter x where they sing from morning till night i awoke to the same silvery salutation, and the sound of country boots echoing across farm-yard cobble-stones. a lantern flashing in and out among barns lit up my ceiling for a moment, a rough country voice hailed another rough country voice somewhere outside, and the day slowly coughed and sneezed itself awake in the six-o'clock grayness. i heard colin moving in the next room, and presently we were down-stairs, alertly hungry. our hostess, with morning smile, asked if we would mind waiting breakfast for "the boarders." meanwhile, we stepped out into the unfolding day, and the village that had been a mystery to us in the darkness was revealed; a handful of farmhouses on the brow of a solitary-looking upland, and, looming over all, a great cathedral-like church that seemed to have been transported bodily from france. stepping out to say good-morning to some young pigs that were sociably grunting in a neighbouring sty, we beheld the vast landscape of our preceding day stretched out beneath us, mistily emerging into the widening sunrise. with pride our eyes traced the steep white road we had so arduously travelled, and, for remembrance, colin made a swift sketch of dutch hollow huddled down there in the valley, with its white church steeple catching the morning sun. and, by this, "the boarders" had assembled, and we found ourselves at breakfast in a cheery company of three workmen, who were as bright and full of fun as boys out for a holiday. they were presently joined by a fourth, a hearty, middle-aged man, who, as he sat down, greeted us with: "i feel just like singing this morning." "good for you!" said one of us. "that's the way to begin the day." his good nature was magnetic. "yes," he laughed, "we sing in sheldon from morning till night." "sheldon's evidently a good place to know," i said. "i will make a note of that for new yorkers." so, reader, sometimes when the world seems all wrong, and life a very doubtful speculation, you may care to know of a place where the days go so blithely that men actually sing from morning till night! sheldon center is that place. you can find it on any map, and i can testify that the news is true. and the men that thus sang from morning till night--what was the trade they worked and sang at? we gathered from a few dropped words that they were engaged on some work over at the church--masonry, no doubt--and, as they left the breakfast-table, in a laughing knot, to begin the day's work, they suggested our giving a look in at them on our way. this we promised to do, for a merrier, better-hearted lot of fellows it would be hard to find. to meet them was to feel a warm glow of human comradeship. healthy, normal, happy fellows, enjoying their work as men should, and taking life as it came with sane, unconscious gusto; it was a tonic encounter to be in their company. they were grave-diggers, engaged in renovating the village churchyard! yes! and, said our hostess, they were making it like a garden! it had been long neglected and become disgracefully overgrown with weeds and bushes, but now they were trimming it up in fine style. they were cemetery experts from batavia way, and the job was to cost sixteen hundred dollars. but it was worth it, for indeed they were making it look like a garden! presently we stepped over to the churchyard. we should not have been human if we had not advanced with a hamlet-horatio air: "has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings at grave-making?" we found our four friends in a space of the churchyard from which the tombstones had been temporarily removed, engaged, not with mattock and death's head, but with spirit-level and measuring-cord. they were levelling a stretch of newly-turned and smoothed ground, and they pointed with pride to the portion of the work already accomplished, serried rows of spick-and-span headstones, all "plumb," as they explained, and freshly scraped--not a sign of caressing moss or a tendril of vine to be seen. a neat job, if there ever was one. we should have seen the yard before they had taken it in hand! there wasn't a stone that was straight, and the weeds and the brambles--well, look at it now. we looked. could anything be more refined or in more perfect taste? the churchyard was as smooth and correct as a newly-barbered head, not a hair out of place. we looked and kept our thoughts to ourselves, but we wondered if the dead were really as grateful as they should be for this drastic house-cleaning? did they appreciate this mathematical uniformity, this spruce and spotless residential air of their numbered rectangular rest; or was not the old way nearer to their desire, with soft mosses tucking them in from the garish sun, and spring winds spreading coverlets of wild flowers above their sleep? but--who knows?--perhaps the dead prefer to be up-to-date, and to follow the fashion in funeral furnishings; and surely such expert necropolitans as our four friends ought to know. no doubt the sheldon center dead would have the same tastes as the sheldon center living; for, after all, we forget, in our idealization of them, that the dead, like the living, are a vast _bourgeoisie_. yes! it is a depressing thought--the _bourgeoisie_ of the dead! as we stood talking, the young priest of the parish joined our group. he was a german, from düsseldorf, and his worn face lit up when he found that colin had been at düsseldorf and could talk with him about it. as he stood with us there on that bleak upland, he seemed a pathetic, symbolic figure, lonely standard-bearer of the spirit in one of the dreary colonies of that indomitable church that carries her mystic sacraments even into the waste places and borders of the world. the romance of rome was far away beyond that horizon on which he turned his wistful look; here was its hard work, its daily prose. but he turned proudly to the great pile that loomed over us. we had commented on its size in so remote a parish. "yes, i am proud of our people," he said. "it is greatly to their credit." one could not help silently wondering that the spiritual needs of this handful of lonely houses should demand so ambitious a structure. but the symbols of the soul can never be too impressive. then we said good-bye to our friends, and struck out into the morning sunshine, leaving the village of song behind. yes! in sheldon center they sing from morning till night--at grave-making! chapter xi apple-land it was a spacious morning of windswept sunshine, with a wintry bite in the keen air. meadow-larks and song-sparrows kept up a faint warbling about us, but the crickets, which yesterday had here and there made a thin music, as of straggling bands of survivors of the summer, were numbed into silence again. once or twice we caught sight of the dainty snipe in the meadows, and high over the woods a bird-hawk floated, as by some invisible anchorage, in the sky. it was an austere landscape, grave with elm and ash and pine. for a space, a field of buckwheat standing in ricks struck a smudged negroid note, but there was warmth in the apple orchards which clustered about the scattered houses, with piles of golden pumpkins and red apples under the trees. and is there any form of piled-up wealth, bins of specie at the bank, or mountains of precious stones, rubies and sapphires and carbuncles, as we picture them in the subterranean treasuries of kings, that thrills the imagination with so dream-like a sense of uncounted riches, untold gold, as such natural bullion of the earth; pyramids of apples lighting up dark orchards, great plums lying in heaps of careless purple, corridors hung with fabulous bunches of grapes, or billowy mounds of yellow grain--the treasuries of pomona and vertumnus? such treasuries, in the markets of this world, are worth only a modest so-much-a-bushel, yet i think i should actually feel myself richer with a barrel of apples than with a barrel of money. from a corn-growing country, we were evidently passing into a country whose beautiful business was apples. orchards began more or less to line the road, and wagons with those same apple-barrels became a feature of the highway. another of its features was the number of old ruined farmhouses we came on, standing side by side with the new, more ambitious homesteads. we seldom came on a prosperous-looking house but a few yards away was to be seen its aged and abandoned parent, smothered up with bushes, roof fallen in, timbers ready to collapse, the deserted hearth choked with débris and overgrown with weeds--the very picture of a haunted house. here had been the original home, always small, seldom more than four rooms, and when things had begun to prosper, a more spacious, and often, to our eyes, a less attractive, structure had been built, and the old home left to the bats and owls, with a complete abandonment that seemed to us--sentimental travellers as we were--as cynical as it was curiously wasteful. putting sentiment out of the question, we had to leave unexplained why the american farmer should thus allow so much good building material to go to waste. besides, as we also noted much farm machinery rusting unhoused in the grass, we wondered why he did not make use of these old buildings for storage purposes. but the american farmer has puzzled wiser heads than ours, so we gave it up and turned our attention once more to our own fanciful business, one highly useful branch of which was the observation of the names on the tin letter-boxes thrusting themselves out at intervals along the road. the history of american settlement could, i suppose, be read in those wayside letter-boxes, in such names, for instance, as "theo. leveque" and "paul fugle," which, like wind-blown exotics from other lands, we found within a few yards of each other. one name, that of "silvernail," we decided could only lawfully belong to a princess in a fairy tale. such childishness as this, i may say, is of the essence of a walking trip, in which, from moment to moment, you take quite infantile interest in all manner of idle observation and quite useless lore. that is a part of the game you are playing, and the main thing is that you are out in the open air, on the open road, with a simple heart and a romantic appetite. here is a little picture of a wayfaring day which i made while colin was sketching one of those ruined farms: _apples along the highway strewn, and morning opening all her doors; the cawing rook, the distant train, the valley with its misty floors; the hillside hung with woods and dreams, soft gleams of gossamer and dew; from cockcrow to the rising moon the rainbowed road for me and you. along the highroad all the day the wagons filled with apples go, and golden pumpkins and ripe corn, and all the ruddy overflow from autumn's apron, as she goes about her orchards and her fields, and gathers into stack and barn the treasure that the summer yield. a singing heart, a laughing road, with salutations all the way,-the gossip dog, the hidden bird, the pig that grunts a gruff good-day; the apple-ladder in the trees, a friendly voice amid the boughs, the farmer driving home his team, the ducks, the geese, the uddered cows; the silver babble of the creek, the willow-whisper--the day's end, with murmur of the village street, a called good-night, an unseen friend_. chapter xii orchards and a line from virgil orchards! we were walking to new york--through orchards. and we might have gone by train! a country of orchards and gold-dust sunshine falling through the quaint tapestry trees, falling dreamily on heaped-up gold, and the grave backs of little pigs joyously at large in the apple twilight. a drowsy, murmuring spell was on the land, the spell of fabled orchards, and of old enchanted gardens-_in the afternoon they came unto a land in which it seemed always afternoon_-the country of king alcinous. at intervals, as we walked on through the cider-dreamy afternoon, thinking apples, smelling apples, munching apples, there came a mellow sound like soft thunder through the trees. it was the thunder of apples being poured into barrels, and, as in a sleep, the fragrant wagons passed and repassed along the road--"the slow-moving wagons of our lady of eleusis." that line of virgil came to me, as lines will sometimes come in fortunate moments, with the satisfaction of perfect fitness to the hour and the mood, gathering into one sacred, tear-filled phrase the deep sense that had been possessing me, as we passed the husbandmen busy with the various harvest, of the long antiquity of these haunted industries of the earth. so long, so long, has man pursued these ancient tasks; so long ago was he urging the plowshare through the furrow, so long ago the sower went forth to sow; so long ago have there been barns and byres, granaries and threshing-floors, mills and vineyards; so long has there been milking of cows, and herding of sheep and swine. can one see a field of wheat gathered into sheaves without thinking of the dream of joseph, or be around a farm at lambing time without smiling to recall the cunning of jacob? already were all these things weary and old and romantic when virgil wrote and admonished the husbandman of times and seasons, of plows and harrows, of mattocks and hurdles, and the mystical winnowing fan of iacchus. to the meditative, romantic mind, the farmer and plowman, standing thus in the foreground of the infinite perspective of time, take on a sacred significance, as of traditional ministers of the ancient mysteries of the earth. perhaps it is one's involuntary sense of this haunted antiquity that gives its peculiar expressiveness to the solemn, almost religious quiet of barns and stables, the, so to say, prehistoric hush of brooding, sun-steeped rickyards; and gives, too, a homely, sacerdotal look to the implements and vessels of the farm. a churn or a cheese-press gives one the same deep, uncanny thrill of the terrible vista of time as stonehenge itself; and from such implements, too, there seems to breathe a sigh--a sigh of the long travail and unbearable pathos of the race of men. you will thus see the satisfaction, in moods of such meditation, of carrying in one's knapsack a line from virgil--"the slow-moving wagons of our lady of eleusis"--and i congratulated myself on my forethought in having included in our itinerant library a copy of mr. mackail's beautiful translation of "the georgics." walt whitman, talking to one of his friends about his habit of carrying a book with him on his nature rambles, said that nine times out of ten he would never open the book, but that the tenth time he would need it very badly. so i needed "the georgics" very badly that afternoon, and the hour would have lost much of its perfection had i not been able to take the book from my knapsack, and corroborate my mood, while colin was sketching an old barn, by reading aloud from its consecrated pages: "_i can repeat to thee many a counsel of them of old, if thou shrink not back nor weary to learn of lowly cares. above all must the threshing-floor be levelled with the ponderous roller, and wrought by hand and cemented with clinging potter's clay, that it may not gather weeds nor crack in the reign of dust, and be playground withal for manifold destroyers. often the tiny mouse builds his house and makes his granaries underground, or the eyeless mole scoops his cell; and in chinks is found the toad, and all the swarming vermin that are bred in earth; and the weevil, and the ant that fears a destitute old age, plunder the great pile of spelt_." perhaps some reader had been disposed hastily to say: "what did you want with hooks out of doors? was not nature enough?" no one who loves both books and nature would ask that question, or need to have explained why a knapsack library is a necessary adjunct of a walking-tour. for nature and books react so intimately on each other, and, far more than one realizes without thought, our enjoyment of nature is a creation of literature. for example, can any one sensitive to such considerations deny that the meadows of the world are greener for the twenty-third psalm, or the starry sky the gainer in our imagination by the solemn cadences of the book of job? all our experiences, new and personal as they may seem to us, owe incalculably their depth and thrill to the ancestral sentiment in our blood, and joy and sorrow are for us what they are, no little because so many old, far-away generations of men and women have joyed and sorrowed in the same way before us. literature but represents that concentrated sentiment, and satisfies through expression our human need for some sympathetic participation with us in our human experience. that a long-dead poet walking in the spring was moved as i am by the unfolding leaf and the returning bird imparts an added significance to my own feelings; and that some wise and beautiful old book knew and said it all long ago, makes my life seem all the more mysteriously romantic for me to-day. besides, books are not only such good companions for what they say, but for what they are. as with any other friend, you may go a whole day with them, and not have a word to say to each other, yet be happily conscious of a perfect companionship. the book we know and love--and, of course, one would never risk taking a book we didn't know for a companion--has long since become a symbol for us, a symbol of certain moods and ways of feeling, a key to certain kingdoms of the spirit, of which it is often sufficient just to hold the key in our hands. so, a single flower in the hand is a key to summer, a floating perfume the key to the hidden gardens of remembrance. the wrong book in the hand, whether opened or not, is as distracting a presence as an irrelevant person; and therefore it was with great care that i chose my knapsack library. it consisted of these nine books: mackail's "georgics." hans andersen's fairy tales. shakespeare's sonnets. locke's "beloved vagabond." selections from r.l.s. pater's "marius the epicurean." alfred de musset's "premières poésies." baedeker's "united states." road map of new york state. and, though my knapsack already weighed eighteen pounds, i could not resist the call of a cheap edition of wordsworth in a drug-store at warsaw, a charming little town embosomed among hills and orchards, where we arrived, dreamy with country air, at the end of the day. chapter xiii fellow wayfarers with the morn our way still lay among apples and honey, hives and orchards; a land of prosperous farms, sumptuous rolling downs, rich woodland, sheep, more pigs, more apple-barrels and velvety sunshine. the old ruined houses had ceased, and the country had taken on a more generous, broad-shouldered, deep-bosomed aspect. nature was preparing for one of her big promised land effects. we were coming to the valley of the genesee river. we made a comparison of two kinds of prosperity in the look of a landscape. some villages and farms suggest smugness in their prosperity. they have a model-farm, business-like, well-regulated, up-to-date, company-financed air, suggesting such modern agricultural terms as "ensilage," "irrigation" and "fertilizer." other villages and farms, while just as well-kept and well-to-do, have, so to say, a something romantic about their prosperity, a bounteous, ruddy, golden-age look about them, as though nature herself had been the farmer and they had ruddied and ripened out of her own unconscious abundance--the difference between a row of modern box beehives and the old thatched-cottage kind. the countryside of the genesee valley has the romantic prosperous look. its farms and villages look like farms and villages in picture-books, and the country folk we met seemed happy and gay and kind, such as those one reads of in william morris's romances of the golden age. as from time to time we exchanged greetings with them, we were struck with their comely health and blithe ways--particularly with their fine teeth, as they laughed us the time of day, or stopped their wagons to gossip a moment with the two outlandish packmen--the very teeth one would expect in an apple-country. perhaps they came of so much sweet commerce with apples! the possessor of a particularly fine display hailed us as he drove by in an empty wagon, at the tail of which trailed a long orchard ladder, and asked us if we would care for a lift. now it happened that his suggestion came like a voice from heaven for poor colin, one of whose shoes had been casting a gloom over our spirits for several miles. so we accepted with alacrity, and, really, riding felt quite good for a change! our benefactor was a bronzed, handsome young fellow, just through cornell, he told us, and proud of his brave college, as all cornell men are. he had chosen apple-farming for his career, and, naturally, seemed quite happy about it; lived on his farm near by with his mother and sister, and was at the moment out on the quest of four apple-packers for his harvesting, these experts being at a premium at this season. we rattled along gaily in the broad afternoon sunshine, exchanging various human information, from apple-packing to new york theatres, after the manner of the companionable soul of man, and i hope he liked us as well as we liked him. one piece of information was of particular interest to colin, the whereabouts of one "billy the cobbler," a character of the neighbourhood, who would fix colin's shoe for him, and, incidentally, if he was in the mood, give us a musical and dramatic entertainment into the bargain. at length our ways parted, and, with cheery good-byes and good wishes, our young friend went rattling along, leaving in our hearts a warm feeling of the brotherhood of man--sometimes. he had let us down close by the "high banks," the rumour of which had been in our ears for some miles, and presently the great effect nature had been preparing burst on our gaze with a startling surprise. the peaceful pastoral country was suddenly cloven in twain by a gigantic chasm, the genesee river, dizzy depths below, picturesquely flowing between grand cañon rock effects, shaggy woods clothing the precipitous limestone, and small forests growing far down in the broad bed of the river, with here and there checkerboard spaces of cultivated land, gleaming, smooth and green, amid all the spectacular savageness--soft, cozy spots of verdure nestling dreamily in the hollow of the giant rocky hand. the road ran close to the edge of the chasm, and the sublimity was with us, laying its hush upon us, for the rest of the afternoon. appropriate to her jove-like mood, nature had planted stern thickets of oak-trees along the rocky edge, and "the acorns of our lord of chaonia" crunched beneath our feet as we walked on. after a while, sure enough we came upon "billy the cobbler," seated at his bench in a little shop at the beginning of a straggle of houses, alone, save for his cat, at the sleepy end of afternoon. we had understood that he had been crippled in some cruel accident of machinery, and was hampered in the use of his legs. but, unless in a certain philosophic sweetness on his big, happy face, there was no sign of the cripple about his burly, broad-shouldered personality. he was evidently meant to be a giant, and was what one might call the bo'sun type, bluff, big-voiced and merry, with a boyish laugh, large, twinkling eyes, a trifle wistful, and the fine teeth of the district. "well, boys," said he, looking up from his work with a smile, "and what can i do for you? walking, eh?--to new york!" and he whistled, as every one did when they learned our mysterious business. then, taking colin's shoe in his hand, he commenced to pound upon that instrument of torture, talking gaily the while. presently he asked, "do you care about music?" and on our eagerly agreeing that we did, "all right," he said, "we'll close the shop for a few minutes and have some." then, moving around on his seat, like some heroic half-figure bust on its pedestal, he rummaged among the litter of leather and tools at his side, and produced a guitar from its baize bag, also a mouth organ, which by some ingenious wire arrangement he fastened around his neck, so that he might press his lips upon it, leaving his hands free for the guitar. then, "ready?" said he, and, applying himself simultaneously to the guitar and the harmonica, off he started with a quite electrical gusto into a spirited fandango that made the little shop dance and rattle with merriment. you would have said that a whole orchestra was there, such a volume and variety of musical sound did billy contrive to evoke from his two instruments. "there!" he said, with a humorous chuckle, pushing the harmonica aside from his mouth, "what do you think of that for an overture?" he had completely hypnotized us with his infectious high spirits, and we were able to applaud him sincerely, for this lonely cobbler of shoes was evidently a natural well of music, and was, besides, no little of an executant. "now i'll give you an imitation of grand opera," he said; and then he launched into the drollest burlesque of a fashionable tenor and a prima-donna, as clever as could be. he was evidently a born mime as well as a musician, and presently delighted us with some farmyard imitations, and one particularly quaint impersonation, "an old lady singing with false teeth," sent us into fits of laughter. "you ought to go into vaudeville," we both said spontaneously, with that vicious modern instinct to put private gifts to professional uses, and then billy, with shy pride, admitted that he did do a little now and again in a professional way at harvest balls (we thought of sheldon center) and the like. "perhaps you might like one of my professional letter-heads," he said, handing us one apiece. i think probably the reader would like one, too. you must imagine it in the original, with fancy displayed professional type, regular "artiste" style, and a portrait of billy, with his two instruments, in one corner. and "see thou mock him not," gentle reader! _king of them all billy williams the king of all imitators producing in rapid succession a grand repertoire of imitations and impersonations consisting of_: minstrel bands, circus bands, killing pigs, cat greeting her kitten, barn-yard of hens and roosters, opera singers with guitar, whistling with guitar, old lady singing with false teeth, cow and calf, harmonica with the guitar, arab song, trombone solo with the guitar. yes! "see thou mock him not," gentle reader, for billy is no subject for any man's condescension. we were in his company scarcely an hour, but we went away with a great feeling of respect and tenderness for him, and we hope some day to drop in on him again, and hear his music and his quaint, manly wisdom. "all alone in the world, billy?" a shade of sadness passed over his face, and was gone again, as he smilingly answered, stroking the cat that purred and rubbed herself against his shoulder. "just puss and me and the guitar," he said. "the happiest of families. ah! music's a great thing of a lonely evening." and a sense of the brave loneliness of billy's days swept over me as we shook his strong hand, and he gave us a cheery godspeed on our way. i am convinced that billy could earn quite a salary on the vaudeville stage; but--no! he is better where he is, sitting there at his bench, with his black cat and his guitar and his singing, manly soul. the twilight was rapidly thickening as we left billy, once more bent over his work, and, the fear of "supper-time" in our hearts, we pushed on at extra speed toward our night's lodging at mount morris. the oak-trees gloomed denser on our right as we plowed along a villainously sandy road. labourers homing from the day's work greeted us now and again in the dimness, and presently one of these, plodding up behind us, broke forth into conversation: "ben-a carry pack-a lik-a dat-a--forty-two months--army--ol-a country," said the voice out of the darkness. it was an italian labourer on his way to supper, interested in our knapsacks. "you're an italian?" "me come from pal-aer-mo." the little chap was evidently in a talkative mood, and i nudged colin to do the honours of the conversation. "pal-aer-mo? indeed!" said colin. "fine city, i guess." "been-a pal-aer-mo?" asked the italian eagerly. colin couldn't say that he had. "great city, pal-aer-mo," continued our friend, "great theatre--cost sixteen million dollars." there is nothing like a walking-trip for gathering information of this kind. the italian went on to explain that this country was a poor substitute for the "ol-a country." "this country--rough country. in this country me do rough-a work," he explained apologetically; "in pal-aer-mo do polit-a work." and he accentuated his statement by a vicious side spit upon the american soil. it transpired that the "polit-a work" on which he had been engaged in pal-aer-mo had been waiting in a restaurant. and so the poor soul chattered on, touching, not unintelligently, in his absurd english, on american politics, capital and labour, the rich and the poor. the hard lot of the poor man in america, and--"pal-aer-mo," made the recurring burden of his talk, through which, a pathetic undertone, came to us a sense of the native poetry of his race. did he ever expect to return to palermo? we asked him as we parted. "ah! many a night me dream of pal-aer-mo," he called back, as, striking into a by-path, he disappeared in the darkness. and then we came to a great iron bridge, sternly silhouetted in the sunset. on either side rose cliffs of darkness, and beneath, like sheets of cold moonlight, flowed the genesee, a dantesque effect of jet and silver, stygian in its intensity and indescribably mournful. the banks of acheron can not be more wildly _funèbre_, and it was companionable to hear colin's voice mimicking out of the darkness: "in this country me do rough-a work. in pal-aer-mo do polit-a work!" "poor chap!" i said, after a pause, thinking of our friend from pal-aer-mo. "do you know hafiz, colin?" i continued. "there is an ode of his that came back to me as our poor italian was talking. i think i will say it to you. it is just the time and place for it." "do," said colin. and then i repeated: _"at sunset, when the eyes of exiles fill, and distance makes a desert of the heart, and all the lonely world grows lonelier still, i with the other exiles go apart, and offer up the stranger's evening prayer. my body shakes with weeping as i pray, thinking on all i love that are not there, so desolately absent far away-my love and friend, and my own land and home. o aching emptiness of evening skies! o foolish heart, what tempted thee to roam so far away from the beloved's eyes! to the beloved's country i belong- i am a stranger in this foreign place; strange are its streets, and strange to me its tongue; strange to the stranger each familiar face. 'tis not my city! take me by the hand, divine protector of the lonely ones, and lead me back to the beloved's land- back to my friends and my companions o wind that blows from shiraz, bring to me a little dust from my beloved's street; send hafiz something, love, that comes from thee, touched by thy hand, or trodden by thy feet."_ "my! but that makes one feel lonesome," was colin's comment. "i wonder if there will be any mail from the folk at mount morris." chapter xiv the old lady of the walnuts and others what manner of men we were and what our business was, thus wandering along the highroads with packs on our backs and stout sticks in our hands, was matter for no little speculation, and even suspicion, to the rural mind. we did not seem to fit in with any familiar classification of vagabond. we might be peddlers, or we might be "hoboes," but there was a disquieting uncertainty about us, and we felt it necessary occasionally to make reassuring explanations. once or twice we found no opportunity to do this, as, for instance, one sinister, darksome evening, we stood in hesitation at a puzzling cross-road--near dansville, i think--and awaited the coming of an approaching buggy from which to ask the way. it was driven by two ladies, who, on our making a signal of distress to them, immediately whipped up with evident alarm, and disappeared in a flash. dear things! they evidently anticipated a hold-up, and no doubt arrived home with a breathless tale of two suspicious-looking characters hanging about the neighbourhood. on another occasion, we had been seated awhile under a walnut tree growing near a farm, and scattering its fruitage half across the highroad. colin had been anointing his suffering foot, and, as i told him, looked strongly reminiscent of a certain famous corn-cure advertisement. meanwhile, i had been once more quoting virgil: "the walnut in the woodland attires herself in wealth of blossom and bends with scented boughs," when there approached with slow step an old, white-haired lady, at once gentle and severe in appearance, accompanied by a younger lady. when they had arrived in front of us, the old lady in measured tones of sorrow rather than anger, said: "we rather needed those walnuts--" dear soul! she evidently thought that we had been filling our knapsacks with her nuts, and it took some little astonished expostulation on our part to convince her that we hadn't. this affront seemed to sink no little into colin's sensitive latin soul--and they were public enough walnuts, anyway, scattered, as they were, across the public road! but colin couldn't get over it for some time, and i suspected that he was the more sensitive from his recently--owing, doubtless, to his distinguished gallic appearance--having been profanely greeted by some irreverent boys with the word "spaghetti!" however, there was balm for our wounded feelings a little farther along the road, when a companionable old farmer greeted us with: "well, boys! out for a walk? it's easy seeing you're no tramps." colin's expression was a study in gratitude. the farmer was a fine, soldierly old fellow, who told me that he was half english, too, on his father's side. "but my mother," he added, "was a good blue-bellied yankee." we lured him on to using that delightfully quaint expression again before we left him; and we also learned from him valuable information as to the possibilities of lunch farther along the road, for we were in a lonely district with no inns, and it was sunday. in regard to lunch, i suppose that in prosaically paying our way for bed and board as we fared along we fell short of the arcadian theory of walking-tours in which the wayfarer, like a mendicant friar, takes toll of lunch and dinner from the hospitable farmer of sentimental legend, and sleeps for choice in barns, hayricks or hedgesides. now, sleeping out of doors in october, if you have ever tried it, is a very different thing from sleeping out of doors in june, and as for rural hospitality--well, if you are of a sensitive constitution you shrink from obtruding yourself, an alien apparition, upon the embarrassed and embarrassing rural domesticities. besides, to be quite honest, rural table-talk, except in mr. hardy's novels or pastoral poetry, is, to say the least, lacking in variety. indeed, if the truth must be told, the conversation of country people, generally speaking, and an occasional, very occasional, character or oddity apart, is undeniably dull, and i hope it will not be imputed to me for hardness of heart that, after some long-winded colloquy or endless reminiscence, sententious and trivial, i have thought that gray's famous line should really have been written--"the long and tedious annals of the poor." but my heart smites me with ingratitude toward some kindly memories as i write that--memories of homely welcome, simple and touching and dignified. surely i am not writing so of the genial farmer on whom we came one lunch hour as he was stripping corn in his yard. "missus," he called to the house a few yards away, "can you find any lunch for two good-looking fellows here?" the housewife came to the door, scanned us for a second, and replied in the affirmative. as we sat down to table, our host bowed his head and said a simple grace for the bacon and cabbage, pumpkin-pie, cheese and tea we were about to receive; and the unexpected old-fashioned rite, too seldom encountered nowadays, came on me with a fresh beauty and impressiveness, which made me feel that its discontinuance is a real loss of gracious ritual in our lives, and perhaps even more. thus this simple farmer's board seemed sensitively linked with the far-away beginnings of time. of all our religious symbolism, the country gods and the gods of the hearth and the household seem actual, approachable presences, and the saying of grace before meat was a beautiful, fitting reminder of that mysterious, invisible care and sustenance of our lives, which no longer find any recognition in our daily routine: _above all, worship thou the gods, and bring great ceres her yearly offerings_. another such wayside meal and another old couple live touchingly in our memories. we were still in the broad, sun-swept valley of the genesee, our road lying along the edge of the wide, reed-grown flats and water-meadows, bounded on the north by rolling hills. on our left hand, parallel with the road, ran a sort of willowed moat banked by a grass-grown causeway, a continuous narrow mound, somewhat higher than the surrounding country, and cut through here and there with grass-grown gullies, the whole suggesting primeval earthworks and excavations. so the old roman roads run, grassy and haunted and choked with underbrush, in the lonelier country districts of england. we were curious as to the meaning of this causeway, and learned at length that here was all that remained of the old genesee canal. thirty years ago, this moat had brimmed with water, and barges had plied their sleepy traffic between dansville and rochester. but the old order had changed, and a day had come when the dike had been cut through, the lazy water let out into the surrounding flats, and the old waterway left to the willows and the wild-flowers, the mink and the musk-rat. only thirty years ago--yet to-day nature has so completely taken it all back to herself that the hush of a long-vanished antiquity is upon it, and the turfy burial mound of some hengist and horsa could not be more silent. this old fosse seemed to strike the somewhat forgotten, out-of-the-world note of the surrounding country. picturesque to the eye, with bounteous green prospects and smooth, smiling hills, it was not, we were told, as prosperous as it looked. for some vague reason, the tides of agricultural prosperity had ebbed from that spacious sunlit vale. a handsome old trapper, who sat at his house door smoking his pipe and looking across the green flats, set down the cause to the passing of the canal. ah, yes! it was possible for him, thirty years ago, to make the trip to rochester and back by the canal, and bring home a good ten dollars; but now--well, every one in the valley was poor, except the man whose beehives we had seen on the hillside half-a-mile back. he had made no less than a thousand dollars out of his honey this last season. he was an old bachelor, too, like himself. there were no less than five bachelors in the valley--five old men without a woman to look after them. "--or bother them," the old chap added humorously, relighting his pipe. mrs. mulligan, half a mile farther up the valley, was the only woman thereabouts; and she, by the way, would give us some lunch. we could say that he had sent us. so we left the old trapper to his pipe and his memories, and went in search of mrs. mulligan. presently a poor little house high up on the hillside caught our eye, and we made toward it. as we were nearing the door, a dog, evidently not liking our packs, sprang out at us, and from down below in the marshy flats floated the voice of a man calling to us. "get out o' that!" hailed the voice. "there's nothing there for you." poor colin! we were evidently taken for tramps once more. however, undaunted by this reception, we reached the cottage door, and at our knock appeared a very old, but evidently vigorous, woman. "is this mrs. mulligan's house?" her name on the lips of two strangers brought a surprised smile to her face--a pleasant feeling of importance, even notoriety, no doubt--and she speedily made us welcome, and, with many apologies, set before us the cold remains of lunch which had been over an hour or two ago--cold squash, pumpkin pie, cheese and milk. it was too bad we were late, for they had had a chicken for dinner, and had sent the remains of it to a friend down the road,--our trapper, no doubt,--and if the fire hadn't gone out she would have made us some tea. now, cold squash is not exactly an inflammatory diet, but we liked the old lady so much, she had such a pleasant, motherly way with her, and such an entertaining, wise and even witty tongue, that we decided that cold squash, with her as hostess, was better than a stalled ox and hatred therewith. presently the door opened and the good man entered, he who had called to us from the marsh--a tall, emaciated old man, piteously thin, and old, and work-weary to look on, but with a keen, bright eye in his head, and something of a proud air about his ancient figure. it seemed cruel to think of his old bones having still to go on working, but our two old people, who seemed pathetically fond of each other, were evidently very poor, like the rest of the valley. the old man excused himself for his salutation of us--but there were so many dangerous characters about, and the old folk shook their heads and told of the daring operations of mysterious robbers in the neighbourhood. in their estimation, the times were generally unsafe, and lawless characters rife in the land. we looked around at the pathetic poverty of the place--and wondered why they should disquiet themselves. poor souls! there was little left to rob them of, save the fluttering remnants of their mortal breath. but, poor as they were, they had their telephone,--a fact that struck us paradoxically in many a poor cabin as we went along. yes! had they a mind, they could call up the white house, that instant, or the waldorf-astoria. we spoke of our old trapper, and the old lady smiled. "those are his socks i've been darning for him," she said. so the cynical old bachelor was taken care of by the good angel, woman, after all! trapping was about all there was to do now in the valley, she said. a mink brought seven dollars, a musk-rat thirty cents. our old bachelor had made as much as eighteen dollars in two days--one day several years ago. the old man had told us this himself. it was evidently quite a piece of history in the valley, quite a local legend. chapter xv the man at dansville at dansville we fell in with a man after our own hearts. fortunately for himself and his friends, he is unaware of the simple fact that he is a poet. we didn't tell him, either--though we longed to. he was standing outside his prosperous-looking planing-mill, at about half-past eight of a dreaming october morning. inside, the saws were making that droning, sweet-smelling, sawdust noise that made colin think of "adam bede." the willows and button-wood trees at the back of the workshops were still smoking with sunlit mist, and the quiet, massive, pretty water looked like a sleepy mirror, as it softly flooded along to its work on the big, dripping wheels. to our left a great hill, all huge and damp, glittering with gossamers, and smelling of restless yellow leaves, shouldered the morning sky. then, turning away from talk with three or four workmen, standing at his office door, he saluted the two apparitional figures, so oddly passing along the muddy morning road. "out for a walk, boys?" he called. he was a handsome man of about forty-three, with a romantic scar slashed down his left cheek, a startling scar that must have meant hideous agony to him, and yet, here in the end, had made his face beautiful, by the presence in it of a spiritual conquest. "how far are you walking?--you are not going so far as my little river here, i'll bet--" and then we understood that we were in the presence of romantic conversation, and we listened with a great gladness. "yes! who would think that this little, quiet, mill-race is on her way to the gulf of mexico!" we looked at the little reeded river, so demure in her morning mists, so discreet and hushed among her willows, and in our friend's eyes, and by the magic of his fanciful tongue, we saw her tripping along to dangerous conjunctions with resounding rock-bedded streams, adventurously taking hands with swirling, impulsive floods, fragrant with water-flowers and laden with old forests, and at length, through the strange, starlit hills, sweeping out into some moonlit estuary of the all-enfolding sea. "aren't you glad we walked, colin?" i said, a mile or two after. "you are, of course, a great artist; but i don't remember you ever having a thought quite so fine and romantic as that, do you?" "how strange it must be," said colin, after a while, "to have beauty--beautiful thoughts, beautiful pictures--merely as a recreation; not as one's business, i mean. and the world is full of people who have no need to sell their beautiful thoughts!" chapter xvi in which we catch up with summer some eminent wayfarers--one peculiarly beloved--have discoursed on the romantic charm of maps. but they have dwelt chiefly on the suggestiveness of them before the journey: these unknown names of unknown places, in types of mysteriously graduated importance--what do they stand for? these mazy lines, some faint and wayward as a hair, and some straight and decided as a steel track--whence and whither do they lead? i love the map best when the journey is done--when i can pore on its lines as into the lined face of some dear friend with whom i have travelled the years, and say--here this happened, here that befell! this almost invisible dot is made of magic rocks and is filled with the song of rapids; this infinitesimal fraction of "scale five miles to the inch" is a haunted valley of purple pine-woods, and the moon rising, and the lonely cry of a sheep that has lost her little one somewhere in the folds of the hills. here, where is no name, stands an old white church with a gilded cross, among little white houses huddled together under a bluff. in yonder garden the priest's cassock and trousers are hanging sacrilegiously on a clothes-line, and you can just see a tiny graveyard away up on the hillside almost hidden in the trees. even sacred vestments must be laundered by earthly laundresses, yet somehow it gives one a shock to see sacred vestments out of the sanctuary, profanely displayed on a clothes-line. it is as though one should turn the sacred chalice into a tea-pot. a priest's trousers on a clothes-line might well be the beginning of atheism. but i hope there were no such fanciful deductive minds in that peaceful hamlet, and that the faithful there can withstand even so profound a trial of faith. if it had been my own creed that those vestments represented, i should have been shaken, i confess; and, as it was, i felt a vague pain of disillusionment, of an indignity done to the unseen; as, whatever the creed, living or dead, may be, i always feel in those rooms often affected by artistic people, furnished with the bric-a-brac of religions, indeed not their own, but, none the less, once or even now, the living religions of other people--rooms in which forgotten, or merely foreign, deities are despitefully used for decoration, and a crucifix and a buddha and an african idol alike parts of the artistic furniture. but, no doubt, it is to consider too curiously to consider so, and the good priest whose cassock and trousers have occasioned these reflections would smilingly prick my fancies, after the dialectic manner of his calling, and say that his trousers on the clothes-line were but a humble reminder to the faithful how near to the daily life of her children, how human at once as well as divine, is mother church. a cross, naturally, marks the spot where we saw those priest's trousers on the line; but there are no crosses for a hundred places of memorable moments of our journey; they must go without memorial even in this humble record, and colin and i must be content to keep wayside shrines for them in our hearts. how insignificant, on the map, looks the little stretch of some seventeen miles from dansville to cohocton, yet i feel that one would need to erect a cathedral to represent the perfect day of golden october wayfaring it stands for, as on the weather-beaten map spread out before me on my writing-table, as colin and i so often spread it out under a tree by some lonely roadside, i con the place-names that to us "bring a perfume in the mention." it was a district of quaint, romantic-sounding names, and it fully justified that fantastic method of choosing our route by the sound of the names of places, which i confessed to the reader on an earlier page: wayland--patchin's mills--blood's depôt--cohocton. and to north and south of our route were names such as ossian, stony brook glen, loon lake, rough & ready, doly's corners, and neil creek. i confess that there was a perkinsville to go through--a beautiful spot, too, for which one felt that sort of aesthetic pity one feels for a beautiful girl married to a man, say, of the name of podgers. perkinsville! it was as though you said--the beautiful mrs. podgers. but there was consolation in the sound of wayland, with its far call to wayland's smithy and walter scott. and--cohocton! the name to me had a fine cromwellian ring; and blood's depôt--what a truculent sound to that!--if you haven't forgotten the plumed dare-devil cavalier who once made a dash to steal the king's regalia from the tower. again--loon lake. can you imagine two more lonesome wailing words to make a picture with? but--cohocton. how oddly right my absurd instinct had been about that--and, shall we ever forget the unearthly beauty of the evening which brought us at dark to the quaint little operatic-looking village, deep and snug among the solemn, sleeping hills? the day had been one of those days that come perhaps only in october--days of rich, languorous sunshine full of a mysterious contentment, days when the heart says, "my cup runneth over," and happy tears suddenly well to the eyes, as though from a deep overflowing sense of the goodness of god. it was really summer, with the fragrant mists of autumn in her hair. it had happened as we had hoped on starting out. we had caught up with summer on her way to new york, summer all her golden self, though garlanded with wreaths of autumn, and about her the swinging censers of burning weeds. it was a wonderful valley we had caught her in, all rolling purple hills softly folding and unfolding in one continuous causeway; a narrow valley, and the hills were high and close and gentle, suggesting protection and abundance and never-ending peace. here and there the vivid green of winter wheat struck a note of spring amid all the mauves and ochres of dying things. it was a day on which you had no wish to talk,--you were too happy,--wanted only to wander on and on as in a dream through the mellow vale--one of those days in which the world seems too good to be true, a day of which we feel, "this day can never come again." it was like walking through the twenty-third psalm. and, as it closed about us, as we came to our village at nightfall, and the sunshine, like a sinking lake of gold, grew softer and softer behind the uplands, the solid world of rock and tree, and stubble-field and clustered barns, seemed to be growing pure thought--nothing seemed left of it but spirit; and the hills had become as the luminous veil of some ineffable temple of the mysterious dream of the world. "puvis de chavannes!" said colin to me in a whisper. and later i tried to say better what i meant in this song: _strange, at this still enchanted hour, how things in daylight hard and rough, iron and stone and cruel power, turn to such airy, starlit stuff! yon mountain, vast as behemoth, seems but a veil of silver breath; and soundless as a flittering moth, and gentle as the face of death, stands this stern world of rock and tree lost in some hushed sidereal dream-the only living thing a bird, the only moving thing a stream. and, strange to think, yon silent star, so soft and safe amid the spheres-could we but see and hear so far- is made of thunder, too, and tears._ chapter xvii containing valuable statistics and the morning was like unto the evening. summer was still to be our companion, and, as the evening of our coming to cohocton had been the most dreamlike of all the ends of our walking days--had, so to say, been most evening-spiritual, so the morning of our cohocton seemed most morning-spiritual of all our mornings, most filled with strange hope and thrill and glitter. we were afoot earlier than usual. the sun had hardly risen, and the shining mists still wreathed the great hill which overhangs the village. we were for calling it a mountain, but we were told that it lacked fifty feet of being a mountain. you are not a mountain till you grow to a thousand feet. our mountain was only some nine hundred and fifty feet. therefore, it was only entitled to be called a hill. i love information--don't you, dear reader?--though, to us humble walking delegates of the ideal, it was all one. but i know for certain that it was a lane of young maples which made our avenue of light-hearted departure out of the village, though i cannot be sure of the names of all the trees of the thick woods which clothed the hillside beneath which our road lay, a huge endless hillside all dripping and sparkling, and alive with little rills, facing a broad plain, a sea of feathery grass almost unbearably beautiful with soft glittering dew and opal mists, out of which rose spectral elms, like the shadows of gigantic shanghai roosters. all about was the sound of brooks musically rippling from the hills, and there was a chaste chill in the air, as befitted the time of day, for _maiden still the morn is, and strange she is, and secret, her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells_. it was all so beautiful that an old thought came back to me that i often had as a child, when i used to be taken among mysterious mountains, for summer holidays: do people really live in such beautiful places all the year round? do they live there just like ordinary people in towns, go about ordinary businesses, live ordinary lives? it seemed to me then, as it seems to me still, that such places should be kept sacred, like fairyland, or should, at least, be the background of high and romantic action, like the scenery in operas. to think of a valley so beautiful as that through which we were walking being put to any other use than that of beauty seems preposterous; but do you know what that beautiful valley was doing, while colin and i were thus poetizing it, adoring its outlines and revelling in its tints? it was just quietly growing potatoes. yes! we had mostly passed through the apple country. this garden of eden, this vale of enna, was a great potato country. and we learned, too, that its inhabitants were by no means so pleased with beautiful cohoctori valley as we were. here, we gathered, was another beautiful ne'er-do-well of nature, too occupied with her good looks to be fit for much else than prinking herself out with wild-flowers, and falling into graceful attitudes before her mirror--and there were mirrors in plenty, many streams and willows, in cohocton valley; everywhere, for us, the mysterious charm of running water. once this idle daughter of ceres used to grow wheat, wheat "in great plenty," but now she could be persuaded to grow nothing but potatoes. all this and much more we learned from a friend who drew up beside us in a buggy, as i was drinking from a gleaming thread of water gliding down a mossed conduit of hollowed tree-trunks into an old cauldron sunk into the hillside, and long since turned in ferns and lichen. colin was seated near by making a sketch, as i drank. "i wouldn't drink too much of that water, lads," said the friendly voice of the dapper little intelligent-faced man in the buggy. what! not drink this fairy water? "why, you country folk are as afraid of fresh water as you are of fresh air," i answered, laughing. "all right, it's up to you--but it's been a dry summer, you know." and then the little man's attention was taken by colin. "sketching?" he asked, and then he said, half shyly, "would you mind my taking a look how you do it?" and, climbing down from his buggy, he came and looked over colin's shoulder. "i used to try my hand at it a bit when i was a boy, but those blamed trees always beat me ... don't bother you much, seemingly though," he added, as he watched colin's pencil with the curiosity of a child. "i've a little girl at home who does pretty well," he continued after a moment, "but you've certainly got her skinned. i wish she could see you doing it." his delight in a form of skill which has always been as magical to me as it seemed to him, was charmingly boyish, and colin turned over his sketch-book, and showed him the notes he had made as we went along. one of a stump fence particularly delighted him--those stump fences made out of the roots of pine trees set side by side, which had been a feature of the country some miles back, and which make such a weird impression on the landscape, like rows of gigantic black antlers, or many-armed hindoo idols, or a horde of zulus in fantastic war-gear drawn up in battle-array, or the blackened stumps of giants' teeth--colin and i tried all those images and many more to express the curious weird effect of coming upon them in the midst of a green and smiling landscape. "well, lads," he said, after we had talked awhile, "i shall have to be going. but you've given me a great deal of pleasure. can't i give you a lift in exchange? i guess there is room for the three of us." now colin and i, on the occasion of our ride with the apple-farmer, awhile back, had held subtle casuistical debate on the legitimacy of men ostensibly, not to say ostentatiously, on foot to new york picking up chance rides in this way. the argument had gone into pursuit of very fine distinctions, and almost rivalled in its casuistry the famous old duns scotus--or was it thomas aquinas?--debate as to how many angels can dance on the point of a needle. once we had come to a deadlock as to the kind of vehicle from which it was proper to accept such hospitality. perhaps it was a puritan scrupulousness in my blood that had made me take the stand that four-wheeled vehicles, such as wagons, hay-carts and the like, being slow-moving, were permissible, but that buggies, or any form of rapid two-wheeled vehicle, were not. to this colin had retorted that, on that basis, a tally-ho would be all right, or even an automobile. so the argument had wrestled from side to side, and finally we had compromised. we agreed that an occasional buggy would be within the vagabond law and that any vehicle, other, of course, than an automobile, which was not plying for hire--such as a trolley or a local train--might on occasion be gratefully climbed into. thus it was that we hesitated a moment at the offer of our friend, a hesitancy we amused him by explaining as, presently, conscience-clear, we rattled with him through the hills. he was an interesting talker, a human-hearted, keen-minded man, and he had many more topics as well as potatoes. besides, he was not in the potato business, but, as with our former friend, his beautiful business was apples. still, he talked very entertainingly about potatoes; telling us, among other things, that, so friendly was the soil toward that particular vegetable that it yielded as much as a hundred to a hundred and fifty bushels to the acre, and that a fair-sized potato farm thereabouts, properly handled, would pay for itself in a year. i transcribe this information, not merely because i think that, among so many words, the reader is fairly entitled to expect some little information, but chiefly for the benefit of a friend of mine, the like of whom, no doubt, the reader counts among his acquaintances. the friend i mean has a mind so quaintly voracious of facts that, often when we have been dining together at one of the great hotels, he would speculate, say, looking round the room filled with eager diners, on how many clams are nightly consumed in new york city, or how many millions of fresh eggs new york requires each morning for breakfast. so when next i dine with him i will say, as he asks me about my trip: "do you know that in the cohocton valley they raise as much as one hundred to one hundred and fifty bushels of potatoes to the acre?" and he will say: "you don't really mean to say so?" i have in my private note-book much more such tabulated information which i picked up and hoarded for his entertainment, just as whenever a letter comes to me from abroad, i tear off the stamp and save it for a little girl i love. but, as i said, our friend in the buggy was by no means limited to potatoes for his conversation. he was learned in the geography of the valley and told us how once the cohocton river, now merely a decorative stream among willows, was once a serviceable waterway, how it was once busy with mills, and how men used to raft down it as far as elmira. but "the springs were drying up." i liked the mysterious sound of that, and still more his mysterious story of an undercurrent from the great lakes that runs beneath the valley. i seemed to hear the sound of its strange subterranean flow as he talked. such is the fun of knowing so little about the world. the simplest fact out of a child's geography thus comes to one new and marvellous. well, we had to say good-bye at last to our friend at a cross-road, and we left him learnedly discussing the current prices of apples with a business acquaintance who had just driven up--kings, rambos, baldwins, greenings, and spigs. and, by the way, in packing apples into barrels, you must always pack them--stems down. be careful to remember that. chapter xviii a dithyrambus of butteemilk one discovery of some importance you make in walking the roads is the comparative rarity and exceeding preciousness of buttermilk. we had, as i said, caught up with summer. summer, need one say, is a thirsty companion, and the state seemed suddenly to have gone dry. we looked in vain for magic mirrors by the roadside, overhung with fairy grasses, littered with autumn leaves, and skated over by nimble water-bugs. as our friend had said, the springs seemed to have dried up. now and again we would hail with a great cry a friendly pump; once we came upon a cider-mill, but it was not working, and time and again we knocked and asked in vain for buttermilk. sometimes, but not often, we found it. once we met a genial old man just leaving his farm door, and told him that we were literally dying for a drink of buttermilk. our expression seemed to tickle him. "well!" he said, laughing, "it shall never be said that two poor creatures passed my door, and died for lack of a glass of buttermilk," and he brought out a huge jug, for which he would accept nothing but our blessings. he seemed to take buttermilk lightly; but, one evening, we came upon another old farmer to whom buttermilk seemed a species of the water of life to be hoarded jealously and doled out in careful quantities at strictly market rates. in town one imagines that country people give their buttermilk to the pigs. at any rate, they didn't give it to us. we paid that old man twenty cents, for we drank two glasses apiece. and first we had knocked at the farm door, and told our need to a pretty young woman, who answered, with some hesitancy, that she would call "father." she seemed to live in some awe of "father," as we well understood when a tall, raw-boned, stern, old man, of the caricature "brother jonathan" type, appeared grimly, making an iron sound with a great bunch of keys. on hearing our request, he said nothing, but, motioning to us to follow, stalked across the farmyard to a small building under a great elm-tree. there were two steps down to the door, and it had a mysterious appearance. it might have been a family vault, a dynamite magazine, or the well at the world's end. it was the strong-room of the milk; and, when the grim old guardian of the dairy unlocked the door, with a sound of rusty locks and falling bolts, there, cool and cloistral, were the fragrant pans and bowls, the most sacred vessels of the farm. "_she bathed her body many a time in fountains filled with milk_." i hummed to colin; but i took care that the old man didn't hear me. and we agreed, as we went on again along the road, that he did right to guard well and charge well for so noble and so innocent a drink. indeed, the old fellow's buttermilk was so good that i think it must have gone to my head. in no other way can i account for the following dithyrambic song: _let whoso will sing bacchus' vine, we know a drink that's more divine; 'tis white and innocent as doves, fragrant and bosom-white as love's white bosom on a summer day, and fragrant as the hawthorn spray. let dionysus and his crew, garlanded, drain their fevered brew, and in the orgiastic bowl drug and besot the sacred soul; this simple country cup we drain knows not the ghosts of sin and pain, no fates or furies follow him who sips from its cream-mantled rim. yea! all his thoughts are country-sweet, and safe the walking of his feet, however hard and long the way-with country sleep to end the day. to drain this cup no man shall rue-the innocent madness of the dew who shall repent, or frenzy fine of morning star, or the divine inebriation of the hours when may roofs in the world with flowers! about this cup the swallows skim, and the low milking-star hangs dim across the meadows, and the moon is near in heaven_--_the young moon; and murmurs sweet of field and hill loiter awhile, and all is still. as in some chapel dear to pan, the fair milk glimmers in the can, and, in the silence cool and white, the cream mounts through the listening night; and, all around the sleeping house, you hear the breathing of the cows, and drowsy rattle of the chain, till lo! the blue-eyed morn again_. chapter xix a growl about american country hotels though colin and i had been walking but a very few days, after the first day or two it seemed as though we had been out on the road for weeks; as though, indeed, we had spent our lives in the open air; and it needed no more than our brief experience for us to realize what one so often reads of those who do actually live their lives out-of-doors, gypsies, sailors, cowboys and the like--how intolerable to them is a roof, and how literally they gasp for air and space in the confined walls of cities. bed in the bush with stars to see, bread i dip in the river-there's the life for a man like me, there's the life forever. the only time of the day when our spirits began to fail was toward its close, when the shadows of supper and bed in some inclement inn began to fall over us, and we confessed to each other a positive sense of fear in our evening approach to the abodes of men. after a long, safe, care-free day, in the company of liberating prospects and sweet-breathed winds, there seemed a curious lurking menace in the most harmless village, as well as an unspeakable irksomeness in its inharmonious interruption of our mood. to emerge, saturated, body and soul, with the sweet scents and sounds and sights of a day's tramp, out of the meditative leafiness and spiritual temper of natural things, into the garishly lit street of some little provincial town, animated with the clumsy mirth of silly young country folks, aping so drearily the ribaldry, say, of elmira, is a painful anticlimax to the spirit. had it only been real summer, instead of indian summer, we should, of course, have been real gypsies, and made our beds under the stars, but, as it was, we had no choice. or, had we been walking in europe ... yes, i am afraid the truth must out, and that our real dread at evening was--the american country hotel. with the best wish in the world, it is impossible to be enthusiastic over the american country hotel. how ironically the kindly old words used to come floating to me out of shakespeare each evening as the shadows fell, and the lights came out in the windows--"to take mine ease at mine inn;" and assuredly it was on another planet that shenstone wrote: _whoe'er hath travelled life's dull round, whate'er his fortunes may have been, must sigh to think he still has found his warmest welcome at an inn_. had shenstone been writing in an american country hotel, his tune would probably have been more after this fashion: "a wonderful day has come to a dreary end in the most sepulchral of hotels, a mouldy, barn-like place, ill-lit, mildewed and unspeakably dismal. a comfortless room with two beds and two low-power electric lights, two stiff chairs, an uncompanionable sofa, and some ghastly pictures of simpering naked women. we have bought some candles, and made a candlestick out of a soap-dish. colin is making the best of it with 'the beloved vagabond,' and i have drawn up one of the chairs to a table with a mottled marble top, and am writing this amid a gloom which you could cut with a knife, and which is so perfect of its kind as to be almost laughable. but for the mail, which we found with unutterable thankfulness at the post-office, i hardly dare think what would have happened to us, to what desperate extremities we might not have been driven, though even the possibilities of despair seem limited in this second-hand tomb of a town...." here colin looks up with a wry smile and ironically quotes from the wisdom of paragot: "what does it matter where the body finds itself, so long as the soul has its serene habitations?" this wail is too typical of most of our hotel experiences. as a rule we found the humble, cheaper hotels best, and, whenever we had a choice of two, chose the less pretentious. sometimes as, on entering a town or village, we asked some passer-by about the hotels, we would be looked over and somewhat doubtfully asked: "do you want a two-dollar house?" and we soon learned to pocket our pride, and ask if there was not a cheaper house. strange that people whose business is hospitality should be so inhospitable, and strange that the american travelling salesman, a companionable creature, not averse from comfort, should not have created a better condition of things. for the inn should be the natural harmonious close to the day, as much a part of the day's music as the setting sun. it should be the gratefully sought shelter from the homeless night, the sympathetic friend of hungry stomachs and dusty feet, the cozy jingle of social pipes and dreamy after-dinner talk, the abode of snowy beds for luxuriously aching limbs, lavendered sheets and pleasant dreams. but, as people without any humour usually say, "a sense of humour helps under all circumstances"; and we managed to extract a great deal of fun out of the rigours of the american country hotel. in one particularly inhospitable home of hospitality, for example, we found no little consolation from the directions printed over the very simple and familiar device for calling up the hotel desk. the device was nothing more remarkable than the button of an ordinary electric bell, which you were, in the usual way, to push once for bell-boy, twice for ice-water, three times for chambermaid, and so on. however, the hotel evidently regarded it as one of the marvels of advanced science and referred to it, in solemnly printed "rules" for its use, as no less than "the emergency drop annunciator!" angels of the annunciation! what a heavenly phrase! but this is an ill-tempered chapter--let us begin another. chapter xx onions, pigs and hickory-nuts one feature of the countryside in which from time to time we found innocent amusement was the blackboards placed outside farmhouses, on which are written, that is, "annunciated," the various products the farmer has for sale, such as apples, potatoes, honey, and so forth. on one occasion we read: "get your horses' teeth floated here." there was no one to ask about what this mysterious proclamation meant. no doubt it was clear as daylight to the neighbours, but to us it still remains a mystery. perhaps the reader knows what it meant. then on another occasion we read: "onions and pigs for sale." why this curious collocation of onions and pigs? colin suggested that, of course, the onions were to stuff the pigs with. "and here's an idea," he continued. "suppose we go in and buy a little suckling-pig and a string of onions. then we will buy a yard of two of blue ribbon and tie it round the pig's neck, and you shall lead it along the road, weeping. i will walk behind it, with the onions, grinning from ear to ear. and when any one meets us, and asks the meaning of the strange procession, you will say: 'i am weeping because our little pig has to die!' and if any one says to me, 'why are you grinning from ear to ear?' i shall answer, 'because i am going to eat him. we are going to stuff him with onions at the next inn, and eat roast pig at the rising of the moon.'" but we lacked courage to put our little joke into practice, fearing an insufficient appreciation of the fantastic in that particular region. we were now making for watkins, and had spent the night at bradford, a particularly charming village almost lost amid the wooded hills of another lovely and spacious valley, through which we had lyrically walked the day before. bradford is a real country village, and was already all in a darkness smelling of cows and apples, when we groped for it among the woods the evening before. at starting out next morning, we inquired the way to watkins of a storekeeper standing at his shop-door. he was in conversation with an acquaintance, and our questions occasioned a lively argument as to which was the better of two roads. the acquaintance was for the road through "pine creek," and he added, with a grim smile, "i guess i should know; i've travelled it often enough with a heavy load behind"; and the recollection of the rough hills he had gone bumping over, all evidently fresh in his mind, seemed to give him a curious amusement. it transpired that he was an undertaker! so we took the road to pine creek, but at the threshold of the village our fancy was taken by the particularly quaint white wooden meeting-house, surrounded on three sides with tie-up sheds for vehicles, each stall having a name affixed to it, like a pew: "p. yawger," "a.w. gillum," "pastor," and so on. here the pious of the district tied up their buggies while they went within to pray, and these sacred stalls made a quaint picture for the imagination of outlying farmers driving to meeting over the hills on sabbath mornings. it was a beautiful morning of veiled sunshine, so warm that some hardy crickets chirped faintly as we went along. once a blue jay came and looked at us, and the squirrels whirred among the chestnuts and hickories, and the roadsides were so thickly strewn with fallen nuts that we made but slow progress, stopping all the time to fill our pockets. for a full hour we sat down with a couple of stones for nut-crackers, and forgot each other and everything else in the hypnotizing occupation of cracking hickory-nuts. and we told each other that thus do grown sad men become boys again, by a woodside, of an october morning, cracking hickory-nuts, the world well lost. chapter xxi october roses and a young girl's face the undertaker was certainly right about the road. i think he must have had a flash of poetic insight into our taste in roads. this was not, as a rule, understood by the friendly country folk. their ideas and ours as to what constituted a good road differed beyond the possibility of harmonizing. when they said that a road was good they meant that it was straight, level, and businesslike. when they said that a road was bad they meant that it was rugged, rambling and picturesque. so, to their bewilderment, whenever we had a choice of good or bad roads, we always chose the bad. and, to get at what we really wanted, we learned to inquire which was the worst road to such and such a place. that we knew would be the road for us. from their point of view, the road we were on was as bad as could be; but, as i said, the undertaker evidently understood us, and had sent us into a region of whimsically sudden hills and rock and wooded wilderness, a swart country of lonely, rugged uplands, with but a solitary house here and there for miles. it was resting at the top of one of these hard-won acclivities that we came upon--and remember that it was the middle of october--two wild roses blooming by the roadside. this seems a fact worthy the attention of botanical societies, and i still have the roses pressed for the inspection of the learned between the pages of my travelling copy of hans andersen's "fairy tales." a fact additionally curious was that the bush on which the flowers grew seemed to be the only rose-bush in the region. we looked about us in vain to find another. how had that single rose-bush come to be, an uncompanioned exotic, in the rough society of pines and oaks and hickories, on a rocky hill-top swept by the north wind, and how had those frail, scented petals found strength and courage thus to bloom alone in the doorway of winter? and, why, out of all the roses of the world, had these two been chosen, still, so late in the year, to hold up the tattered standard of summer? _why, in the empty autumn woods, and all the loss and end of things, does one leaf linger on the tree; why is it only one bird sings? and why, across the aching field, does one lone cricket chirrup on; why one surviving butterfly, with all its bright companions gone? and why, when faces all about whiten and wither hour by hour, does one old face bloom on so sweet, as young as when it was a flower_? the same mystery was again presented to us a little farther along the road, as we stopped at a lone schoolhouse among the hills, the only house to be seen, and asked our way of the young schoolmarm. the door had been left half open, and, knocking, we had stepped into the almost empty schoolroom, with its portrait of lincoln and a map of the united states. three scholars sat there with their kindly-faced teacher, studying geography amid the silence of the hills, which the little room seemed to concentrate in a murmuring hush, like a shell. a little boy sat by himself a desk or two behind two young girls, and as we entered, and the studious faces looked up in surprise, we saw only the pure brows and the great spiritual eyes of the older girl, almost a woman, and we thought of the lonely roses we had found up on the hillside. here was another rose blooming in the wilderness, a face lovely and beautiful as a spring reflecting the sky in the middle of a wood. how had she come there, that beautiful child-woman in the solitude? by what caprice of the strange law of the distribution of fair faces had she come to flower in this particular waste place of the earth?--for her face had surely come a long way, been blown blossom-wise on some far wandering wind, from realms of old beauty and romance, and it had the exiled look of all beautiful things. could she be a plain farmer's daughter, indigenous to that stubborn soil? no, surely she was not that, and yet--how had she come to be there? but these were questions we could not put to the schoolmarm. we could only ask our road, and the prosaic possibilities of lunch in the neighbourhood, and go on our way. nor could i press that rose among the pages of my book--but, as i write, i wonder if it is still making sweet that desolate spot, and still studying irrelevant geography in the silence of the hills. however, we did learn something about our young human rose at a farmhouse a mile or so farther on. while a motherly housewife prepared us some lunch, all a-bustle with expectancy of an imminent inroad of harvesters due to thresh the corn, and liable to eat all before them, a sprightly young daughter, who attended the same school, and whom we had told about our call at the schoolhouse, entertained us with girlish gossip of the neighbourhood. so we learned that our fancies had not been so far wrong, but that our beautiful young face had indeed come from as far as france, the orphaned child of a french sailor and an english mother, come over the seas for a home with a farmer uncle near by. strange are the destinies of beautiful faces. all the way from france to pine creek! poor little world-wandered rose! and while we ate our lunch, the mother had a sad, beautiful story of a dead son and a mother's tears to tell us, too sacred to tell again. how many beautiful faces there are hidden about the world, and how many beautiful sad stories hidden in the broken hearts of mothers! chapter xxii concerning the popular taste in scenery and some happy people we had somewhat scorned the idea of watkins, as being one of nature's show-places. in fact, watkins glen is, so to say, so nationally beautiful as latterly to have received a pension from the government of the united states, which now undertakes the conservation of its fantastic chasms and waterfalls. some one--i am inclined to think it was myself--once said that he never wished to go to switzerland, because he feared that the alps would be greasy with being climbed. i think it is clear what he meant. to one who loves nature for himself, has his own discovering eyes for her multiform and many-mooded beauty, it is distasteful to have some excursionist effect of spectacular scenery labelled and thrust upon him with a showman's raptures; and, in revulsion from the hypocritical admiration of the vulgar, he turns to the less obvious and less melodramatic beauty of the natural world. the common eye can see nature's beauty only in such melodramatic and sentimental forms--dizzy chasms, foaming waterfalls, snow-capped mountains and flagrant sunsets, just as it can realize nature's wildness of heart only in a menagerie. that a squirrel or a meadow-lark, or even a guinea-pig, is just as wild as the wild beasts in a travelling circus is outside the comprehension of the vulgar, who really hunger after mere marvels, whatever they may be, and actually have no eyes for beauty at all. thus really sublime and grandiose effects of nature are apt to lose their edge for us by over-popularization, as many of her scenes and moods have come to seem platitude from being over-painted. niagara has suffered far more from the sentimental tourist and the landscape artist than from all the power-houses, and one has to make a strenuous effort of detachment from its excursionist associations to appreciate its sublimity. thus colin and i discussed, in a somewhat bored way, whether we should trouble to visit the famous watkins glen, as we sat over supper in a watkins hotel, one of the few really comfortable and cordial hotels we met in our wanderings, and we smiled to think what the natives would have made of our conversation. two professional lovers of beauty calmly discussing whether it was worth while walking half a mile to see one of the natural, and national, wonders of america! why, last season more than half a million visitors kodaked it, and wrote their names on the face of the rocks! however, a great natural effect holds its own against no little vulgarization, and watkins glen soon made us forget the trippers and the concrete footpaths and iron railings of the united states government, in the fantasies of its weirdly channelled gorge and mysterious busy water. watkins itself, despite its name, is sufficiently favoured by nature to make an easy annual living, situated as it is at the south end of the beautiful seneca lake, and at the head of a nobly picturesque valley some twenty miles long, with a pretty river spreading out into flashing reed-grown flats, sheer cliffs and minor waterfalls, here and there a vineyard on the hillside, or the vivid green of celery trenches in the dark loam of the hollows, all the way to--elmira! the river and the trolley run side by side the whole charming way, and, as you near elmira, you come upon latticed barns that waft you the fragrance of drying tobacco-leaves, suspended longitudinally for the wind to play through. on the morning of our leaving watkins, we had been roused a little earlier than usual by mirthful sounds in the street beneath our hotel windows. light-hearted voices joking each other floated up to us, and some one out of the gladness of his heart was executing a spirited shake-down on the sidewalk--at six o'clock of a misty october morning. looking out, we caught an endearing glimpse of the life of the most lovable of all professions. it was a theatrical company that had played a one-night stand at the local opera-house the evening before, and was now once more upon its wandering way. they had certainly been up till past midnight, but here they were, at six o'clock of the morning, merry as larks, gay as children, waiting for the elmira trolley. presently the car came clanging up, and alongside drew up a big float, containing baggage and rolls of scenery--all of which, to our astonishment, by some miracle of loading known only to baggagemen, was in a few moments stowed away into the waiting car. when the last property was shipped, the conductor rang his bell, by way of warning, and the whole group, like a flight of happy birds, climbed chattering into the car. "all aboard," called the conductor, once more ringing his bell, and off they went, leaving a trail of laughter in the morning air. "'beloved vagabonds!'" said colin, as we turned away, lonely, from our windows, with, i hardly know why, a suspicion of tears in our eyes. chapter xxiii the susquehanna here for a while a shadow seemed to fall over our trip. no doubt it was the shadow of the great town we were approaching. not that we have anything against elmira, though possibly its embattled reformatory, frowning from the hillside, contributed its gloomy associations to our spirits. it was against towns in general that our gorge rose. did our vagabond ethics necessitate our conscientiously tramping every foot of these "gritty paving-stones," we asked each other, as we entered upon a region of depressing suburbs, and we called a halt on the spot to discuss the point. the discussion was not long, and it was brought to a cheerful, demoralized end by the approach of the trolley, into which, regardless of right or wrong, we climbed with alacrity, not to alight till not only elmira was left behind, but more weary suburbs, too, on the other side. that night, as old travellers phrase it, we lay at waverly, on the frontier of pennsylvania, a sad, dirty little town, grotesquely belying its romantic name, and only surpassed in squalor by the classically named athens--beware, reader, of american towns named out of classical dictionaries! here, however, our wanderings in the brick-and-mortar wilderness were to end, for by a long, romantic, old, covered bridge we crossed the chemung river, and there once more, on the other side, was nature, lovelier than ever, awaiting us. not dante, when he emerged from hades and again beheld the stars, drew deeper breaths of escape than we, thus escaping from--athens! and soon we were to meet the susquehanna--beautiful, broad-bosomed name, that has always haunted my imagination like the name of some beautiful savage princess--_la belle sauvage_. susquehanna! what a southern opulence in the soft, seductive syllables! yes, soon we were to meet the susquehanna. nor had we long to wait, and little did we suspect what our meeting with that beautiful river was to mean. the chemung, on whose east bank we were now walking, seemed a noble enough river, very broad and all the more picturesque for being shallow with the summer drought; and its shining reaches and wooded banks lifted up our hearts. she, like ourselves, was on her way to join the susquehanna, a mile or two below, and we said to ourselves, that, beautiful as the land had been through which we had already passed, we were now entering on a nature of more heroic mould, mightier contours, and larger aspects. we were henceforth to walk in the company of great rivers: the susquehanna, like some epic goddess, was to lead us to the lehigh; the blue mountains were to bring us to the delaware; and the uplands of sullivan county were to bring us to--the lordly gates of the hudson. our chests expanded as imagination luxuriated in the pictures it made. our walk was only just beginning. chapter xxiv and unexpectedly the last we had seen the two great rivers sweep into each other's arms in a broad glory of sunlit water, meeting at the bosky end of a wooded promontory, and yes! there was the susquehanna glittering far beneath--the beautiful name i had so often seen and wondered about, painted on the sides of giant freight-cars! yes, there was actually the great legendary river. it was a very warm, almost sultry noonday, more like midsummer than mid-october, and the river was almost blinding in its flashing beauty. loosening our knapsacks, we called a halt and, leaning over the railing guarding the precipitous bank, luxuriated in the visionary scene. so high was the bank, and so broad the river, that we seemed lifted up into space, and the river, dreamily flowing beneath a gauze veil of heat-mist, seemed miles below us and drowsily unreal. its course inshore was dotted with boulders, in the shadows of which we could see long ghostly fishes lazily gliding, and a mud-turtle, with a trail of little ones, slowly moving from rock to rock. suddenly colin put his hand to his head, and swayed toward me, as though he were about to faint. "i don't know what's the matter, old man," he said, "but i think i had better sit down a minute." and he sank by the roadside. unlike himself, he had been complaining of fatigue, and had seemed out of sorts for a day or two, but we had thought nothing of it; and, after resting a few minutes, he announced himself ready for the road again, but he looked very pale and walked with evident weariness. as a roadside cottage came in sight, "i wonder if they could give us a cup of tea," he said; "that would fix me up, i'm sure." so we knocked, and the door was opened by a pathetic shadow of an old woman, very poor and thin and weary-looking, who, although, as we presently learned, she was at the moment suffering from the recent loss of one eye, made us welcome and busied herself about tea, with an unselfish kindness that touched our hearts, and made us reflect on the angelic goodness of human nature--sometimes. she looked anxiously, mother-like, at colin, and persuaded him to lie down and rest awhile in her little parlour, and, while he rested, she and i talked and she told me how she had come by her blind eye--an odd, harmless-sounding cause. she had been looking up into one of her apple-trees, one day, a few weeks ago, and an apple had fallen and struck her in the eye. such innocent means does nature sometimes use for her cruel accidents of disease and death! just an apple falling from a tree,--and you are blind! a fly stings you, on a summer day, and you die. colin, rested and refreshed, we once more started on our way, but, bravely as he strode on, there was no disguising it--my blithe, happy-hearted companion was ill. of course we both assured the other that it could be nothing, but privately our hearts sank with a vague fear we did not speak. at length, after a weary four miles, we reached towanda. "i'm afraid," said poor colin, "i can walk no more to-day. perhaps a good night's rest will make me all right." we found an inn, and while colin threw himself, wearied, on his bed, i went out, not telling him, and sought a doctor. "and you've been walking with this temperature?" said the learned man, when he had seated himself at colin's bedside and felt his wrist. "have you been drinking much water as you went along? ... h'm--it's been a very dry summer, you know." and the words of our friend in the buggy came back to us with sickening emphasis. o those innocent-looking fairy wells and magic mirrors by the road-side! and i thought, too, of the poor old blinded woman and the falling apple. was nature really like that? and then the wise man's verdict fell on our ears like a doom. "take my advice, and don't walk any more, but catch the night train for new york." poor colin! but there was no appeal. the end of our trip had come, suddenly, unreasonably, stupidly, like this. "so we've got to be shot into new york like a package through a tube, after all!" said colin. "no lordly gates of the hudson for us! what a fool i feel, to be the one to spoil our trip like this!" and the tears glistened in our eyes, as we pressed each other's hand in that dreary inn bedroom, with the shadow of we knew not what for colin over us--for our comradeship had been very good, day by day, together on the open road. our train did not go till midnight, so we had a long melancholy evening before us; but the doctor had given colin some mysterious potion containing rest, and presently, as i sat by his side in the gray twilight, he fell into a deep sleep--a sleep, alas! of fire and wandering talk. it was pitiful to hear him, poor fellow--living over again in dreams the road we had travelled, or making pictures of the road he still dreamed ahead of us. never before had i realized how entirely his soul was the soul of a painter--all pictures and colour. "o my god!" he would suddenly exclaim, "did you ever see such blue in your life!" and then again, evidently referring to some particularly attractive effect in the phantasmagoria of his fever, "it's no use--you must let me stop and have a shot to get that, before it goes." one place that seemed particularly to haunt him was--mauch chunk. he had been there before, and, as we had walked along, had often talked enthusiastically of it. "wait till we get to mauch chunk," he said; "then the real fun will begin." and now, over and over again, he kept making pictures of mauch chunk, till i could have cried. "dramatic black rocks," he would murmur, "water rushing from the hills in every direction--clean-cut, vivid scenery--like theatres--the road runs by the side of a steel-blue river at the bottom of a chasm, and there is hardly room for it--the houses cling to the hillside like swallows' nests--here and there patches of fresh green grass gleam among the rocks, and, high up in the air on some dizzy ledge, there is a wild apple-tree in blossom--it is all black rocks and springs and moss and tumbling water--" then again his soul was evidently walking in the blue mountains, and several times he repeated a phrase of mine that had taken his fancy: "and now for the spacious corridors of the highlands, and the lordly gates of the hudson." then he would suddenly half awaken and turn to me, realizing the truth, and say: "o our beautiful journey--to end like this!" and fall asleep again. and once more i fell to thinking of fairy springs by the roadside, and apples falling innocently from the bough, and how the beautiful journey we call life might some day suddenly end like this, with half the beautiful road untravelled--the rest sleep and perchance dreams. * * * * * but colin did not die. he is once more painting out in the sun, and next year we plan to stand again on that very spot by the susquehanna, and watch the shadows of great fishes gliding through the dreamy water, and the mud-turtle with her trail of little ones moving from rock to rock--and then we shall strike out on the road again, just where we left off that october afternoon; but the reader need not be afraid--we shall not write a book about it. _envoi_ _and now the merry way we took is nothing but a printed book; we would you had been really there, out with us in the open air-for, after all, the best of words are but a poor exchange for birds. yet if, perchance, this book of ours should sometimes make you think of flowers, orchards and barns and harvest wain, "it was not written all in vain--" so authors used to make their bow, as, gentle reader, we do now_. adventures while preaching the gospel of beauty * * * _by nicholas vachel lindsay_ general william booth enters into heaven adventures while preaching the gospel of beauty * * * adventures while preaching the gospel of beauty nicholas vachel lindsay [illustration] new york--mitchell kennerley 1914 copyright 1914 by mitchell kennerley _printed in america_ dedicated to miss sara teasdale contents chapter page i. i start on my walk 9 ii. walking through missouri 36 iii. walking into kansas 62 iv. in kansas: the first harvest 101 v. in kansas: the second and third harvest 127 vi. the end of the road; moonshine; and some proclamations 154 thanks are due the crowell publishing company for permission to reprint the proclamations from _farm and fireside_ with which the book ends. adventures while preaching the gospel of beauty i _i start on my walk_ as some of the readers of this account are aware, i took a walk last summer from my home town, springfield, illinois, across illinois, missouri, and kansas, up and down colorado and into new mexico. one of the most vivid little episodes of the trip, that came after two months of walking, i would like to tell at this point. it was in southern colorado. it was early morning. around the cliff, with a boom, a rattle and a bang, appeared a gypsy wagon. on the front seat was a romany, himself dressed inconspicuously, but with his woman more bedecked than carmen. she wore the bangles and spangles of her hindu progenitors. the woman began to shout at me, i could not distinguish just what. the two seemed to think this was the gayest morning the sun ever shone upon. they came faster and faster, then, suddenly, at the woman's suggestion, pulled up short. and she asked me with a fraternal, confidential air, "what you sellin', what you sellin', boy?" if we had met on the first of june, when i had just started, she would have pretended to know all about me, she would have asked to tell my fortune. on the first of june i wore about the same costume i wear on the streets of springfield. i was white as paper from two years of writing poetry indoors. now, on the first of august i was sunburned a quarter of an inch deep. my costume, once so respectable, i had gradually transformed till it looked like that of a show-man. i wore very yellow corduroys, a fancy sombrero and an oriflamme tie. so mrs. gypsy hailed me as a brother. she eyed my little worn-out oil-cloth pack. it was a delightful professional mystery to her. i handed up a sample of what it contained--my _gospel of beauty_ (a little one-page formula for making america lovelier), and my little booklet, _rhymes to be traded for bread_. the impatient horses went charging on. in an instant came more noises. four more happy gypsy wagons passed. each time the interview was repeated in identical language, and with the same stage business. the men were so silent and masterful-looking, the girls such brilliant, inquisitive cats! i never before saw anything so like high-class comic opera off the stage, and in fancy i still see it all:--those brown, braceleted arms still waving, and those provocative siren cries:--"what you sellin', boy? what you sellin'?" i hope my gospel did them good. its essential principle is that one should not be a gypsy forever. he should return home. having returned, he should plant the seeds of art and of beauty. he should tend them till they grow. there is something essentially humorous about a man walking rapidly away from his home town to tell all men they should go back to their birthplaces. it is still more humorous that, when i finally did return home, it was sooner than i intended, all through a temporary loss of nerve. but once home i have taken my own advice to heart. i have addressed four mothers' clubs, one literary club, two missionary societies and one high school debating society upon the gospel of beauty. and the end is not yet. no, not by any means. as john paul jones once said, "i have not yet begun to fight." i had set certain rules of travel, evolved and proved practicable in previous expeditions in the east and south. these rules had been published in various periodicals before my start. the home town newspapers, my puzzled but faithful friends in good times and in bad, went the magazines one better and added a rule or so. to promote the gala character of the occasion, a certain paper announced that i was to walk in a roman toga with bare feet encased in sandals. another added that i had travelled through most of the countries of europe in this manner. it made delightful reading. scores of mere acquaintances crossed the street to shake hands with me on the strength of it. the actual rules were to have nothing to do with cities, railroads, money, baggage or fellow tramps. i was to begin to ask for dinner about a quarter of eleven and for supper, lodging and breakfast about a quarter of five. i was to be neat, truthful, civil and on the square. i was to preach the gospel of beauty. how did these rules work out? the cities were easy to let alone. i passed quickly through hannibal and jefferson city. then, straight west, it was nothing but villages and farms till the three main cities of colorado. then nothing but desert to central new mexico. i did not take the train till i reached central new mexico, nor did i write to springfield for money till i quit the whole game at that point. such wages as i made i sent home, starting out broke again, first spending just enough for one day's recuperation out of each pile, and, in the first case, rehabilitating my costume considerably. i always walked penniless. my baggage was practically nil. it was mainly printed matter, renewed by mail. sometimes i carried reproductions of drawings of mine, _the village improvement parade_, a series of picture-cartoons with many morals. i pinned this on the farmers' walls, explaining the mottoes on the banners, and exhorting them to study it at their leisure. my little pack had a supply of the aforesaid _rhymes to be traded for bread_. and it contained the following gospel of beauty: _the gospel of beauty_ _being the new "creed of a beggar" by that vain and foolish mendicant nicholas vachel lindsay, printed for his personal friends in his home village--springfield, illinois. it is his intention to carry this gospel across the country beginning june, 1912, returning in due time._ _i_ _i come to you penniless and afoot, to bring a message. i am starting a new religious idea. the idea does not say "no" to any creed that you have heard.... after this, let the denomination to which you now belong be called in your heart "the church of beauty" or "the church of the open sky." ... the church of beauty has two sides: the love of beauty and the love of god._ _ii_ _the new localism_ _the things most worth while are one's own hearth and neighborhood. we should make our own home and neighborhood the most democratic, the most beautiful and the holiest in the world. the children now growing up should become devout gardeners or architects or park architects or teachers of dancing in the greek spirit or musicians or novelists or poets or story-writers or craftsmen or wood-carvers or dramatists or actors or singers. they should find their talent and nurse it industriously. they should believe in every possible application to art-theory of the thoughts of the declaration of independence and lincoln's gettysburg address. they should, if led by the spirit, wander over the whole nation in search of the secret of democratic beauty with their hearts at the same time filled to overflowing with the righteousness of god. then they should come back to their own hearth and neighborhood and gather a little circle of their own sort of workers about them and strive to make the neighborhood and home more beautiful and democratic and holy with their special art.... they should labor in their little circle expecting neither reward nor honors.... in their darkest hours they should be made strong by the vision of a completely beautiful neighborhood and the passion for a completely democratic art. their reason for living should be that joy in beauty which no wounds can take away, and that joy in the love of god which no crucifixion can end._ the kindly reader at this point clutches his brow and asks, "but why carry this paper around? why, in heaven's name, do it as a beggar? why do it at all?" let me make haste to say that there has been as yet no accredited, accepted way for establishing beauty in the heart of the average american. _until such a way has been determined upon by a competent committee_, i must be pardoned for taking my own course and trying any experiment i please. but i hope to justify the space occupied by this narrative, not by the essential seriousness of my intentions, nor the essential solemnity of my motley cloak, nor by the final failure or success of the trip, but by the things i unexpectedly ran into, as curious to me as to the gentle and sheltered reader. of all that i saw the state of kansas impressed me most, and the letters home i have chosen cover, for the most part, adventures there. kansas, the ideal american community! kansas, nearer than any other to the kind of a land our fathers took for granted! kansas, practically free from cities and industrialism, the real last refuge of the constitution, since it maintains the type of agricultural civilization the constitution had in mind! kansas, state of tremendous crops and hardy, devout, natural men! kansas of the historic santa fé trail and the classic village of emporia and the immortal editor of emporia! kansas, laid out in roads a mile apart, criss-crossing to make a great checker-board, roads that go on and on past endless rich farms and big farm-houses, though there is not a village or railroad for miles! kansas, the land of the real country gentlemen, americans who work the soil and own the soil they work; state where the shabby tenant-dwelling scarce appears as yet! kansas of the chautauqua and the college student and the devout school-teacher! the dry state, the automobile state, the insurgent state! kansas, that is ruled by the cross-roads church, and the church type of civilization! the newest new england! state of more promise of permanent spiritual glory than massachusetts in her brilliant youth! travellers who go through in cars with roofs know little of this state. kansas is not kansas till we march day after day, away from the sunrise, under the blistering noon sky, on, on over a straight west-going road toward the sunset. then we begin to have our spirits stirred by the sight of the tremendous clouds looming over the most interminable plain that ever expanded and made glorious the heart of man. i have walked in eastern kansas where the hedged fields and the orchards and gardens reminded one of the picturesque sections of indiana, of antique and settled ohio. later i have mounted a little hill on what was otherwise a level and seemingly uninhabited universe, and traced, away to the left, the creeping arkansas, its course marked by the cottonwoods, that became like tufts of grass on its far borders. all the rest of the world was treeless and riverless, yet green from the rain of yesterday, and patterned like a carpet with the shadows of the clouds. i have walked on and on across this unbroken prairie-sod where half-wild cattle grazed. later i have marched between alfalfa fields where hovered the lavender haze of the fragrant blossom, and have heard the busy music of the gorging bumblebees. later i have marched for days and days with wheat waving round me, yellow as the sun. many's the night i have slept in the barn-lofts of kansas with the wide loft-door rolled open and the inconsequential golden moon for my friend. these selections from letters home tell how i came into kansas and how i adventured there. the letters were written avowedly as a sort of diary of the trip, but their contents turned out to be something less than that, something more than that, and something rather different. thursday, may 30, 1912. in the blue grass by the side of the road. somewhere west of jacksonville, illinois. hot sun. cool wind. rabbits in the distance. bumblebees near. at five last evening i sighted my lodging for the night. it was the other side of a high worm fence. it was down in the hollow of a grove. it was the box of an old box-car, brought there somehow, without its wheels. it was far from a railroad. i said in my heart "here is the appointed shelter." i was not mistaken. as was subsequently revealed, it belonged to the old gentleman i spied through the window stemming gooseberries and singing: "john brown's body." he puts the car top on wagon wheels and hauls it from grove to grove between jacksonville and the east bank of the mississippi. he carries a saw mill equipment along. he is clearing this wood for the owner, of all but its walnut trees. he lives in the box with his son and two assistants. he is cook, washerwoman and saw-mill boss. his wife died many years ago. the old gentleman let me in with alacrity. he allowed me to stem gooseberries while he made a great supper for the boys. they soon came in. i was meanwhile assured that my name was going into the pot. my host looked like his old general, mcclellan. he was eloquent on the sins of preachers, dry voters and pension reformers. he was full of reminiscences of the string band at sherman's headquarters, in which he learned to perfect himself on his wonderful fiddle. he said, "i can't play slow music. i've got to play dance tunes or die." he did not die. his son took a banjo from an old trunk and the two of them gave us every worth while tune on earth: _money musk_, _hell's broke loose in georgia_, _the year of jubilee_, _sailor's hornpipe_, _baby on the block_, _lady on the lake_, and _the irish washerwoman_, while i stemmed gooseberries, which they protested i did not need to do. then i read my own unworthy verses to the romantic and violin-stirred company. and there was room for all of us to sleep in that one repentant and converted box-car. friday, may 31, 1912. half an hour after a dinner of crackers, cheese and raisins, provided at my solicitation by the grocer in the general store and post-office, valley city, illinois. i have thought of a new way of stating my economic position. i belong to one of the leisure classes, that of the rhymers. in order to belong to any leisure class, one must be a thief or a beggar. on the whole i prefer to be a beggar, and, before each meal, receive from toiling man new permission to extend my holiday. the great business of that world that looms above the workshop and the furrow is to take things from people by some sort of taxation or tariff or special privilege. but i want to exercise my covetousness only in a retail way, open and above board, and when i take bread from a man's table i want to ask him for that particular piece of bread, as politely as i can. but this does not absolutely fit my life. for yesterday i ate several things without permission, for instance, in mid-morning i devoured all the cherries a man can hold. they were hanging from heavy, breaking branches that came way over the stone wall into the road. another adventure. early in the afternoon i found a brick farm-house. it had a noble porch. there were marks of old-fashioned distinction in the trimmed hedges and flower-beds, and in the summer-houses. the side-yard and barn-lot were the cluckingest, buzzingest kind of places. there was not a human being in sight. i knocked and knocked on the doors. i wandered through all the sheds. i could look in through the unlocked screens and see every sign of present occupation. if i had chosen to enter i could have stolen the wash bowl or the baby-buggy or the baby's doll. the creamery was more tempting, with milk and butter and eggs, and freshly pulled taffy cut in squares. i took a little taffy. that is all i took, though the chickens were very social and i could have eloped with several of them. the roses and peonies and geraniums were entrancing, and there was not a watch dog anywhere. everything seemed to say "_enter in and possess_!" i saw inside the last door where i knocked a crisp, sweet, simple dress on a chair. ah, a sleeping beauty somewhere about! i went away from that place. sunday, june 1, 1912. by the side of the road, somewhere in illinois. last night i was dead tired. i hailed a man by the shed of a stationary engine. i asked him if i could sleep in the engine-shed all night, beginning right now. he said "yes." but from five to six, he put me out of doors, on a pile of gunny sacks on the grass. there i slept while the ducks quacked in my ears, and the autos whizzed over the bridge three feet away. my host was a one-legged man. in about an hour he came poking me with that crutch and that peg of his. he said "come, and let me tell your fortune! i have been studying your physiognifry while you were asleep!" so we sat on a log by the edge of the pond. he said: "i am the seventh son of a seventh son. they call me the duck-pond diviner. i forecast the weather for these parts. every sunday i have my corner for the week's weather in the paper here." then he indulged in a good deal of the kind of talk one finds in the front of the almanac. he was a little round man with a pair of round, dull eyes, and a dull, round face, with a two weeks' beard upon it. he squinted up his eyes now. he was deliberate. switch engines were going by. he paused to hail the engineers. here is a part of what he finally said: "you are a child of destiny." he hesitated, for he wanted to be sure of the next point. "you were born in the month of s-e-p-t-e-m-b-e-r. your preference is for a business like clerking in a store. you are of a slow, _pigmatic_ temperament, but i can see you are fastidious about your eating. you do not use tobacco. you are fond of sweets. you have been married twice. your first wife died, and your second was divorced. you look like you would make a good spiritualist medium. if you don't let any black cats cross your track you will have good luck for the next three years." he hit it right twice. i _am_ a child of destiny and i _am_ fond of sweets. when a prophet hits it right on essentials like that, who would be critical? an old woman with a pipe in her mouth came down the railroad embankment looking for greens. he bawled at her "git out of that." but on she came. when she was closer he said: "them weeds is full of poison oak." she grunted, and kept working her way toward us, and with a belligerent swagger marched past us on into the engine-room, carrying a great mess of greens in her muddy hands. there was scarcely space in that little shed for the engine, and it was sticking out in several places. yet it dawned on me that this was the wife of my host, that they kept house with that engine for the principal article of furniture. without a word of introduction or explanation she stood behind me and mumbled, "you need your supper, son. come in." there was actually a side-room in that little box, a side room with a cot and a cupboard as well. on the floor was what was once a rug. but it had had a long kitchen history. she dipped a little unwashed bowl into a larger unwashed bowl, with an unwashed thumb doing its whole duty. she handed me a fuzzy, unwashed spoon and said with a note of real kindness, "eat your supper, young man." she patted me on the shoulder with a sticky hand. then she stood, looking at me fixedly. the woman had only half her wits. i suppose they kept that stew till it was used up, and then made another. i was a child of destiny, all right, and destiny decreed i should eat. i sat there trying to think of things to say to make agreeable conversation, and postpone the inevitable. finally i told her i wanted to be a little boy once more, and take my bowl and eat on the log by the pond in the presence of nature. she maintained that genial silence which indicates a motherly sympathy. i left her smoking and smiling there. and like a little child that knows not the folly of waste, i slyly fed my supper to the ducks. at bedtime the old gentleman slept in his clothes on the cot in the kitchenette. he had the dog for a foot-warmer. there was a jar of yeast under the table. every so often the old gentleman would call for the old lady to come and drive the ducks out, or they would get the board off the jar. ever and anon the ducks had a taste before the avenger arrived. on one side of the engine the old lady had piled gunny-sacks for my bed. that softened the cement-floor foundation. then she insisted on adding that elegant rug from the kitchen, to protect me from the fuzz on the sacks. she herself slept on a pile of excelsior with a bit of canvas atop. she kept a cat just by her cheek to keep her warm, and i have no doubt the pretty brute whispered things in her ear. tabby was the one aristocratic, magical touch:--one of these golden coon-cats. the old lady's bed was on the floor, just around the corner from me, on the other side of the engine. that engine stretched its vast bulk between us. it was as the sword between the duke and the queen in the fairy story. but every so often, in response to the old gentleman's alarm, the queen would come climbing over my feet in order to get to the kitchen and drive out the ducks. from where i lay i could see through two doors to the night outside. i could watch the stealthy approach of the white and waddling marauders. do not tell me a duck has no sense of humor. it was a great game of tag to them. it occurred as regularly as the half hours were reached. i could time the whole process by the ticking in my soul, while presumably asleep. and while waiting for them to come up i could see the pond and a star reflected in the pond, the star of my destiny, no doubt. at last it began to rain. despite considerations of fresh air, the door was shut, and soon everybody was asleep. the bed was not verminiferous. i dislike all jokes on such a theme, but in this case the issue must be met. it is the one thing the tramp wants to know about his bunk. that peril avoided, there is nothing to quarrel about. despite all the grotesquerie of that night, i am grateful for a roof, and two gentle friends. poor things! just like all the citizens of the twentieth century, petting and grooming machinery three times as smart as they are themselves. such people should have engines to take care of them, instead of taking care of engines. there stood the sleek brute in its stall, absorbing all, giving nothing, pumping supplies only for its own caste;--water to be fed to other engines. but seldom are keepers of engine-stables as unfortunate as these. the best they can get from the world is cruel laughter. yet this woman, crippled in brain, her soul only half alive, this dull man, crippled in body, had god's gift of the liberal heart. if they are supremely absurd, so are all of us. we must include ourselves in the farce. these two, tottering through the dimness and vexation of our queer world, were willing the stranger should lean upon them. i say they had the good gift of the liberal heart. one thing was theirs to divide. that was a roof. they gave me my third and they helped me to hide from the rain. in the name of st. francis i laid me down. may that saint of all saints be with them, and with all the gentle and innocent and weary and broken! upon returning to the country road _even the shrewd and bitter, gnarled by the old world's greed, cherished the stranger softly seeing his utter need. shelter and patient hearing, these were their gifts to him, to the minstrel chanting, begging, as the sunset-fire grew dim. the rich said "you are welcome."_ _yea, even the rich were good. how strange that in their feasting his songs were understood! the doors of the poor were open, the poor who had wandered too, who had slept with ne'er a roof-tree under the wind and dew. the minds of the poor were open, there dark mistrust was dead. they loved his wizard stories, they bought his rhymes with bread._ _those were his days of glory, of faith in his fellow-men. therefore, to-day the singer turns beggar once again._ ii _walking through missouri_ tuesday morning, june 4, 1912. in a hotel bedroom in laddonia, missouri. i occupy this room without charge. through the mercy of the gateman i crossed the hannibal toll-bridge without paying fare, and the more enjoyed the pearly mississippi in the evening twilight. walking south of hannibal next morning, sunday, i was irresistibly reminded of kentucky. it was the first real "pike" of my journey,--solid gravel, and everyone was exercising his racing pony in his racing cart, and giving me a ride down lovely avenues of trees. here, as in dozens of other interesting "lifts" in illinois, i had the driver's complete attention, recited _the gospel of beauty_ through a series of my more didactic rhymes till i was tired, and presented the _village improvement parade_ and the _rhymes to be traded for bread_ and exhorted the comradely driver to forget me never. one colored horseman hitched forward on the plank of his breaking-cart and gave me his seat. then came quite a ride into new london. he asked, "so you goin' to walk west to the mountains and all around?" "yes, if this colt don't break my neck, or i don't lose my nerve or get bitten by a dog or anything." "will you walk back?" "maybe so, maybe not." he pondered a while, then said, with the bert williams manner, "_you'll ride back. mark my words, you'll ride back!_" he asked a little later, "goin' to harves' in kansas?" i assured him i was not going to harvest in kansas. he rolled his big white eyes at me: "what in the name of uncle hillbilly _air_ you up to then?" in this case i could not present my tracts, for i was holding on to him for dear life. just then he turned off my road. getting out of the cart i nearly hung myself; and the colt was away again before i could say "thank you." yesterday i passed through what was mostly a flat prairie country, abounding in the missouri mule. i met one man on horseback driving before him an enormous specimen tied head to head with a draught-horse. the mule was continually dragging his good-natured comrade into the ditch and being jerked out again. the mule is a perpetual inquisitor and experimenter. he followed me along the fence with the alertest curiosity, when he was inside the field, yet meeting me in the road, he often showed deadly terror. if he was a mule colt, following his mare mamma along the pike, i had to stand in the side lane or hide behind a tree till he went by, or else he would turn and run as if the very devil were after him. then the farmer on the mare would have to pursue him a considerable distance, and drive him back with cuss words. 'tis sweet to stir up so much emotion, even in the breast of an animal. what do you suppose happened in new london? i approached what i thought a tiny baptist chapel of whitewashed stone. noting it was about sermon-time, and feeling like repenting, i walked in. behold, the most harmoniously-colored catholic shrine in the world! the sermon was being preached by the most gorgeously robed priest one could well conceive. the father went on to show how a vision of the christ-child had appeared on the altar of a lax congregation in spain. from that time those people, stricken with reverence and godly fear, put that church into repair, and the community became a true servant of the lord. infidels were converted, heretics were confounded. after the sermon came the climax of the mass, and from the choir loft above my head came the most passionate religious singing i ever heard in my life. the excellence of the whole worship, even to the preaching of visions, was a beautiful surprise. people do not open their eyes enough, neither their spiritual nor their physical eyes. they are not sensitive enough to loveliness either visible or by the pathway of visions. i wish every church in the world could see the christ-child on the altar, every methodist and baptist as well as every catholic congregation. with these thoughts i sat and listened while that woman soloist sang not only through the mass, but the benediction of the blessed sacrament as well. the whole surprise stands out like a blazing star in my memory. i say we do not see enough visions. i wish that, going out of the church door at noon, every worshipper in america could spiritually discern the good st. francis come down to our earth and singing of the sun. i wish that saint would return. i wish he would preach voluntary poverty to all the middle-class and wealthy folk of this land, with the power that once shook europe. friday, june 7, 1912. in the mid-afternoon in the woods, many miles west of jefferson city. i am sitting by a wild rose bush. i am looking down a long sunlit vista of trees. wednesday evening, three miles from fulton, missouri, i encountered a terrific storm. i tried one farm-house just before the rain came down, but they would not let me in, not even into the barn. they said it was "not convenient." they said there was another place a little piece ahead, anyway. pretty soon i was considerably rained upon. but the "other place" did not appear. later the thunder and lightning were frightful. it seemed to me everything was being struck all around me: because of the sheer downpour it became pitch dark. it seemed as though the very weight of the rain would beat me into the ground. yet i felt that i needed the washing. the night before i enjoyed the kind of hospitality that makes one yearn for a bath. at last i saw a light ahead. i walked through more cataracts and reached it. then i knocked at the door. i entered what revealed itself to be a negro cabin. mine host was uncle remus himself, only a person of more delicacy and dignity. he appeared to be well preserved, though he was eighteen years old when the war broke out. he owns forty acres and more than one mule. his house was sweet and clean, all metal surfaces polished, all wood-work scrubbed white, all linen fresh laundered. he urged me to dry at his oven. it was a long process, taking much fuel. he allowed me to eat supper and breakfast with him and his family, which honor i scarcely deserved. the old man said grace standing up. then we sat down and he said another. the first was just family prayers. the second was thanksgiving for the meal. the table was so richly and delicately provided that within my heart i paraphrased the twenty-third psalm, though i did not quote it out aloud: "thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies"--(namely, the thunder and lightning, and the inhospitable white man!). i hope to be rained on again if it brings me communion bread like that i ate with my black host. the conversation was about many things, but began religiously; how "_ol' master in the sky gave us everything here to take keer of, and said we mussent waste any of it_." the wife was a mixture of charming diffidence and eagerness in offering her opinion on these points of political economy and theology. after supper the old gentleman told me a sweet-singing field-bird i described was called the "rachel-jane." he had five children grown and away from home and one sleek first voter still under his roof. the old gentleman asked the inevitable question: "goin' west harvestin'?" i said "no" again. then i spread out and explained _the village improvement parade_. this did not interest the family much, but they would never have done with asking me questions about lincoln. and the fact that i came from lincoln's home town was plainly my chief distinction in their eyes. the best bed was provided for me, and warm water in which to bathe, and i slept the sleep of the clean and regenerated in snowy linen. next morning the sun shone, and i walked the muddy roads as cheerfully as though they were the paths of heaven. sunday morning, june 9, 1912. i am writing in the railroad station at tipton, missouri. a little while back a few people began to ask me to work for my meals. i believe this is because the "genteel" appearance with which i started has become something else. my derby hat has been used for so many things,--to keep off a noah's flood of rain, to catch cherries in, to fight bumblebees, to cover my face while asleep, and keep away the vague terrors of the night,--that it is still a hat, but not quite in the mode. my face is baked by the sun and my hands are fried and stewed. my trousers are creased not in one place, but all over. these things made me look more like a person who, in the words of the conventional world, "_ought to work_." having been requested to work once or twice, i immediately made it my custom to offer labor-power as a preliminary to the meal. i generally ask about five people before i find the one who happens to be in a meal-giving mood. this kindly person, about two-thirds of the time, refuses to let me work. i insist and insist, but he says, "aw, come in and eat anyway." the man who accepts my offer of work may let me cut weeds, or hoe corn or potatoes, but he generally shows me the woodpile and the axe. even then every thud of that inevitably dull instrument seems to go through him. after five minutes he thinks i have worked an hour, and he comes to the porch and shouts: "come in and get your dinner." assuming a meal is worth thirty-five cents, i have never yet worked out the worth of one, at day-laborer's wages. very often i am called into the house three times before i come. whether i work or not, the meals are big and good. perhaps there is a little closer attention to _the gospel of beauty_, after three unheeded calls to dinner. after the kindling is split and the meal eaten and they lean back in their chairs, a-weary of their mirth, by one means or another i show them how i am knocking at the door of the world with a dream in my hand. because of the multitudes of tramps pouring west on the freight trains,--tramps i never see because i let freight cars alone,--night accommodations are not so easy to get as they were in my other walks in pennsylvania and georgia. i have not yet been forced to sleep under the stars, but each evening has been a scramble. there must be some better solution to this problem of a sleeping-place. the country hotel, if there is one around, is sometimes willing to take in the man who flatly says he is broke. for instance, the inn-keeper's wife at clarksburg was tenderly pitiful, yea, she was kind to me after the fashion of the holiest of the angels. there was a protracted meeting going on in the town. that was, perhaps, the reason for her exalted heart. but, whatever the reason, in this one case i was welcomed with such kindness and awe that i dared not lift up my haughty head or distribute my poems, or give tongue to my views, or let her suspect for a moment i was a special idea on legs. it was much lovelier to have her think i was utterly forlorn. this morning when i said good-bye i fumbled my hat, mumbled my words and shuffled my feet, and may the good st. francis reward her. when i asked the way to tipton the farmer wanted me to walk the railroad. people cannot see "why the sam hill" anyone wants to walk the highway when the rails make a bee-line for the destination. this fellow was so anxious for the preservation of my feet he insisted it looked like rain. i finally agreed that, for the sake of avoiding a wetting, i had best hurry to tipton by the ties. the six miles of railroad between clarksburg and tipton should be visited by every botanist in the united states. skip the rest of this letter unless you are interested in a catalogue of flowers. first comes the reed with the deep blue blossoms at the top that has bloomed by my path all the way from springfield, illinois. then come enormous wild roses, showing every hue that friend of man ever displayed. behold an army of white poppies join our march, then healthy legions of waving mustard. our next recruits are tiny golden-hearted ragged kinsmen of the sunflower. no comrades depart from this triumphal march to tipton. once having joined us, they continue in our company. the mass of color grows deeper and more subtle each moment. behold, regiments of pale lavender larkspur. 'tis an excellent garden, the finer that it needs no tending. though the rain has failed to come, i begin to be glad i am hobbling along over the vexatious ties. i forget my resolve to run for president. once i determined to be a candidate. i knew i would get the tramp-vote and the actor-vote. my platform was to be that railroad ties should be just close enough for men to walk on them in natural steps, neither mincing the stride nor widely stretching the legs. not yet have we reached tipton. behold a white flower, worthy of a better name, that the farmers call "sheep's tea." behold purple larkspur joining the lavender larkspur. behold that disreputable camp-follower the button-weed, wearing its shabby finery. now a red delicate grass joins in, and a big purple and pink sort of an aster. behold a pink and white sheep's tea. and look, there is a dwarf morning glory, the sweetest in the world. here is a group of black-eyed susans, marching like suffragettes to get the vote at tipton. here is a war-dance of indian paint. and here are bluebells. "goin' west harvestin'?" "i have harvested already, ten thousand flowers an hour." june 10, 1912. 3 p.m. three miles west of sedalia, missouri. in the woods. near the automobile road to kansas city. now that i have passed sedalia i am pretty well on toward the kansas line. only three more days' journey, and then i shall be in kansas, state of romance, state of expectation. goodness knows missouri has plenty of incident, plenty of merit. but it is a cross between illinois and northern kentucky, and to beg here is like begging in my own back-yard. but the heart of kansas is the heart of the west.... inclosed find a feather from the wing of a young chicken-hawk. he happened across the road day before yesterday. the farmer stopped the team and killed him with his pitchfork. that farmer seemed to think he had done the lord a service in ridding the world of a parasite. yet i had a certain fellow-feeling for the hawk, as i have for anybody who likes chicken. this walk is full of suggestions for poems. sometimes, in a confidential moment, i tell my hosts i am going to write a chronicle of the whole trip in verse. but i cannot write it now. the traveller at my stage is in a kind of farm-hand condition of mind and blood. he feels himself so much a part of the soil and the sun and the ploughed acres, he eats so hard and sleeps so hard, he has little more patience in trying to write than the husbandman himself. if that poem is ever written i shall say,--to my fellow-citizens of springfield, for instance:--"i have gone as your delegate to greet the fields, to claim them for you against a better day. i lay hold on these furrows on behalf of all those cooped up in cities." i feel that in a certain mystical sense i have made myself part of the hundreds and hundreds of farms that lie between me and machine-made america. i have scarcely seen anything but crops since i left home. the whole human race is grubbing in the soil, and the soil is responding with tremendous vigor. by walking i get as tired as any and imagine i work too. sometimes the glory goes. then i feel my own idleness above all other facts on earth. i want to get to work immediately. but i suppose i am a minstrel or nothing. (there goes a squirrel through the treetops.) every time i say "no" to the question "goin' west harvestin'?" i am a little less brisk about reciting that triad of poems that i find is the best brief exposition of my gospel: (1) _the proud farmer_, (2) _the illinois village_ and (3) _the building of springfield_. if i do harvest it is likely to be just as it was at the springfield water-works a year ago, when i broke my back in a week trying to wheel bricks. june 12, 1912. on the banks of a stream west of the town of warrensburg, missouri. perhaps the problem of a night's lodging has been solved. i seem to have found a substitute for the spare bedrooms and white sheets of georgia and pennsylvania. it appears that no livery stable will refuse a man a place to sleep. what happened at otterville and warrensburg i can make happen from here on, or so i am assured by a farm-hand. he told me that every tiniest village from here to western kansas has at least two livery stables and there a man may sleep for the asking. he should try to get permission to mount to the hay-mow, for, unless the cot in the office is a mere stretch of canvas, it is likely to be (excuse me) verminiferous. the stable man asks if the mendicant has matches or tobacco. if he has he must give them up. also he is told not to poke his head far out of the loft window, for, if the insurance man caught him, it would be all up with the insurance. these preliminaries quickly settled, the transient requests a buggy-robe to sleep in, lest he be overwhelmed with the loan of a horse-blanket. the objection to a horse-blanket is that it is a horse-blanket. and so, if i am to believe my friend with the red neck, my good times at warrensburg and otterville are likely to continue. strange as it may seem, sleeping in a hayloft is romance itself. the alfalfa is soft and fragrant and clean, the wind blows through the big loft door, the stars shine through the cottonwoods. if i wake in the night i hear the stable-boys bringing in the teams of men who have driven a long way and back again to get something;--to get drunk, or steal the kisses of somebody's wife or put over a political deal or get a chance to preach a sermon;--and i get scraps of detail from the stable-boys after the main actors of the drama have gone. it sounds as though all the remarks were being made in the loft instead of on the ground floor. the horses stamp and stamp and the grinding sound of their teeth is so close to me i cannot believe at first that the mangers and feed-boxes are way down below. it is morning before i know it and the gorged birds are singing "shivaree, shivaree, rachel jane, rachel jane" in the mulberry trees, just outside the loft window. after a short walk i negotiate for breakfast, then walk on through paradise and at the proper time negotiate for dinner, walk on through paradise again and at six negotiate for the paradisical haymow, without looking for supper, and again more sleepy than hungry. the difference between this system and the old one is that about half past four i used to begin to worry about supper and night accommodations, and generally worried till seven. now life is one long sweet stroll, and i watch the sunset from my bed in the alfalfa with the delights of the whole day renewed in my heart. passing through the village of sedalia i inquired the way out of town to the main road west. my informant was a man named mcsweeny, drunk enough to be awfully friendly. he asked all sorts of questions. he induced me to step two blocks out of my main course down a side-street to his "restaurant." he said he was not going to let me leave town without a square meal. it was a strange eating-place, full of ditch-diggers, teamsters, red-necked politicians and slender intellectual politicians. in the background was a scattering of the furtive daughters of pleasure, some white, some black. the whole institution was but an annex to the bar-room in front. mr. mcsweeny looked over my book while i ate. after the meal he gathered a group of the politicians and commanded me to recite. i gave them my rhyme in memory of altgeld and my rhyme in denunciation of lorimer, and my rhyme denouncing all who coöperated in the white slave trade, including sellers of drink. mr. mcsweeny said i was the goods, and offered to pass the hat, but i would not permit. a handsome black jezebel sat as near us as she dared and listened quite seriously. i am sure she would have put something in that hat if it had gone round. "i suppose," said mr. mcsweeny, as he stood at his door to bow adieu, "you will harvest when you get a little further west?" that afternoon i walked miles and miles through rough country, and put up with a friendly farmer named john humphrey. he had children like little golden doves, and a most hard-working wife. the man had harvested and travelled eight years in the west before he had settled down. he told me all about it. until late that night he told me endless fascinating stories upon the theme of that free man's land ahead of me. if he had not had those rosy babies to anchor him, he would have picked up and gone along, and argued down my rule to travel alone. because he had been a man of the road there was a peculiar feeling of understanding in the air. they were people of much natural refinement. i was the more grateful for their bread when i considered that when i came upon them at sunset they were working together in the field. there was not a hand to help. how could they be so happy and seem so blest? their day was nearer sixteen than eight hours long. i felt deathly ashamed to eat their bread. i told them so, with emphasis. but the mother said, "we always takes in them that asks, and nobody never done us no harm yet." that night was a turning point with me. in reply to a certain question i said: "_yes. i am going west harvesting._" i asked the veteran traveller to tell me the best place to harvest. he was sitting on the floor pulling the children's toes, and having a grand time. he drew himself up into a sort of oracular knot, with his chin on his knees, and gesticulated with his pipe. "go straight west," he said, "to great bend, barton county, kansas, the banner wheat county of the united states. arrive about july fifth. walk to the public square. walk two miles north. look around. you will see nothing but wheat fields, and farmers standing on the edge of the road crying into big red handkerchiefs. ask the first man for work. he will stop crying and give it to you. wages will be two dollars and a half a day, and keep. you will have all you want to eat and a clean blanket in the hay." i have resolved to harvest at great bend. heart of god a prayer in the jungles of heaven _o great heart of god, once vague and lost to me, why do i throb with your throb to-night, in this land, eternity? o little heart of god, sweet intruding stranger, you are laughing in my human breast, a christ-child in a manger. heart, dear heart of god, beside you now i kneel, strong heart of faith. o heart not mine, where god has set his seal. wild thundering heart of god out of my doubt i come, and my foolish feet with prophets' feet, march with the prophets' drum._ iii _walking into kansas_ it has been raining quite a little. the roads are so muddy i have to walk the ties. keeping company with the railroad is almost a habit. while this shower passes i write in the station at stillwell, kansas. june 14, 1912. i have crossed the mystic border. i have left earth. i have entered wonderland. though i am still east of the geographical centre of the united states, in every spiritual sense i am in the west. this morning i passed the stone mile-post that marks the beginning of kansas. i went over the border and encountered--what do you think? wild strawberries! lo, where the farmer had cut the weeds between the road and the fence, the gentle fruits revealed themselves, growing in the shadow down between the still-standing weeds. they shine out in a red line that stretches on and on, and a man has to resolve to stop eating several times. just as he thinks he has conquered desire the line gets dazzlingly red again. the berries grow at the end of a slender stalk, clustered six in a bunch. one gathers them by the stems, in bouquets, as it were, and eats off the fruit like taffy off a stick. i was gathering buckets of cherries for a farmer's wife yesterday. this morning after the strawberries had mitigated i encountered a bush of raspberries, and then hedges on hedges of mulberries both white and red. the white mulberries are the sweetest. if this is the wild west, give me more. there are many varieties of trees, and they are thick as in the east. the people seem to grow more cordial. i was eating mulberries outside the yard of a villager. he asked me in where the eating was better. and then he told me the town scandal, while i had my dessert. a day or so ago i hoed corn all morning for my dinner. this i did cheerfully, considering i had been given a good breakfast at that farm for nothing. i feel that two good meals are worth about a morning's work anyway. and then i had company. the elderly owner of the place hoed along with me. he saved the country, by preaching to me the old fashioned high tariff gospel, and i saved it by preaching to him the new fashioned gospel of beauty. meanwhile the corn was hoed. then we went in and ate the grandest of dinners. that house was notable for having on its walls really artistic pictures, not merely respectable pictures, nor yet seed-catalogue advertisements. that night, in passing through a village, i glimpsed a man washing his dishes in the rear of a blacksmith shop. i said to myself: "ah ha! somebody keeping bach." i knew i was welcome. there is no fear of the stranger in such a place, for there are no ladies to reassure or propitiate. permission to sleep on the floor was granted as soon as asked. i spread out _the kansas city star_, which is a clean sheet, put my verses under my head for a pillow and was content. next morning the sun was in my eyes. there was the odor of good fried bacon in the air. "git up and eat a snack, pardner," said my friend the blacksmith. and while i ate he told me the story of his life. i had an amusing experience at the town of belton. i had given an entertainment at the hotel on the promise of a night's lodging. i slept late. over my transom came the breakfast-table talk. "that was a hot entertainment that young bum gave us last night," said one man. "he ought to get to work, the dirty lazy loafer," said another. the schoolmaster spoke up in an effort not to condescend to his audience: "he is evidently a fraud. i talked to him a long time after the entertainment. the pieces he recited were certainly not his own. i have read some of them somewhere. it is too easy a way to get along, especially when the man is as able to work as this one. of course in the old days literary men used to be obliged to do such things. but it isn't at all necessary in the twentieth century. real poets are highly paid." another spoke up: "i don't mind a fake, but he is a rotten reciter, anyhow. if he had said one more i would have just walked right out. you noticed ol' mis' smith went home after that piece about the worms." then came the landlord's voice: "after the show was over i came pretty near not letting him have his room. all i've got to say is he don't get any breakfast." i dressed, opened the doorway serenely, and strolled past the table, smiling with all the ease of a minister at his own church-social. in my most ornate manner i thanked the landlord and landlady for their extreme kindness. i assumed that not one of the gentle-folk had intended to have me hear their analysis. 'twas a grand exit. yet, in plain language, these people "got my goat." i have struggled with myself all morning, almost on the point of ordering a marked copy of a magazine sent to that smart schoolmaster. "_evidently a fraud!_" indeed! "goin' wes' harvesin'?" "yes, yes. i think i will harvest when i get to great bend." june 18, 1912. approaching emporia. i am sitting in the hot sun by the santa fé tracks, after two days of walking those tracks in the rain. i am near a queer little mexican house built of old railroad ties. i had had two sticks of candy begged from a grocer for breakfast. i was keeping warm by walking fast. because of the muddy roads and the sheets of rain coming down it was impossible to leave the tracks. it was almost impossible to make speed since the ballast underfoot was almost all of it big rattling broken stone. i had walked that santa fé railroad a day and a half in the drizzle and downpour. it was a little past noon, and my scanty inner fuel was almost used up. i dared not stop a minute now, lest i catch cold. there was no station in sight ahead. when the mists lifted i saw that the tracks went on and on, straight west to the crack of doom, not even a water-tank in sight. the mists came down, then lifted once more, and, as though i were childe roland, i suddenly saw a shack to the right, in dimensions about seven feet each way. it was mostly stove-pipe, and that pipe was pouring out enough smoke to make three of aladdin's jinns. i presume some one heard me whistling. the little door opened. two period heads popped out, "come in, you slab-sided hobo," they yelled affectionately. "come in and get dry." and so my heart was made suddenly light after a day and a half of hard whistling. at the inside end of that busy smoke-stack was a roaring redhot stove about as big as a hat. it had just room enough on top for three steaming coffee cans at a time. there were four white men with their chins on their knees completely occupying the floor of one side of the mansion, and four mexicans filled the other. every man was hunched up to take as little room as possible. it appeared that my only chance was to move the tins and sit on the stove. but one mexican sort of sat on another mexican and the new white man was accommodated. these fellows were a double-section gang, for the track is double all along here. i dried out pretty quick. the men began to pass up the coffee off the stove. it strangled and blistered me, it was so hot. the men were almost to the bottom of the food sections of their buckets and were beginning to throw perfectly good sandwiches and extra pieces of pie through the door. i said that if any man had anything to throw away would he just wait till i stepped outside so i could catch it. they handed me all i could ever imagine a man eating. it rained and rained and rained, and i ate till i could eat no more. one man gave me for dessert the last half of his cup of stewed raisins along with his own spoon. good raisins they were, too. a mexican urged upon me some brown paper and cigarette tobacco. i was sorry i did not smoke. the men passed up more and more hot coffee. that coffee made me into a sort of thermos bottle. on the strength of it i walked all afternoon through sheets and cataracts. when dark came i slept in wet clothes in a damp blanket in the hay of a windy livery stable without catching cold. now it is morning. the sky is reasonably clear, the weather is reasonably warm, but i am no longer a thermos bottle, no, no. i am sitting on the hottest rock i can find, letting the sun go through my bones. the coffee in me has turned at last to ice and snow. emporia, the athens of america, is just ahead. oh, for a hot bath and a clean shirt! a mad dog tried to bite me yesterday morning, when i made a feeble attempt to leave the track. when i was once back on the ties, he seemed afraid and would not come closer. his bark was the ghastliest thing i ever heard. as for his bite, he did not get quite through my shoe-heel. emporia, kansas, june 19, 1912. on inquiring at the emporia general delivery for mail, i found your letter telling me to call upon your friend professor kerr. he took my sudden appearance most kindly, and pardoned my battered attire and the mud to the knees. after a day in his house i am ready to go on, dry and feasted and warm and clean. the professor's help seemed to come in just in time. i was a most weary creature. thinking it over this morning, the bathtub appears to be the first outstanding advantage the cultured man has over the half-civilized. quite often the folk with swept houses and decent cooking who have given my poems discriminating attention, who have given me good things to eat, forget, even when they entertain him overnight, that the stranger would like to soak himself thoroughly. many of the working people seem to keep fairly clean with the washpan as their principal ally. but the tub is indispensable to the mendicant in the end, unless he is walking through a land of crystal waterfalls, like north georgia. i am an artificial creature at last, dependent, after all, upon modern plumbing. 'tis, perhaps, not a dignified theme, but i retired to the professor's bathroom and washed off the entire state of missouri and the eastern counties of kansas, and did a deal of laundry work on the sly. this last was not openly confessed to the professor, but he might have guessed, i was so cold on the front porch that night. i shall not soon lose the memory of this the first day of emergence from the strait paths of st. francis, this first meeting, since i left springfield, with a person on whom i had a conventional social claim. i had forgotten what the delicacy of a cultured welcome would be like. the professor's table was a marvel to me. i was astonished to discover there were such fine distinctions in food and linen. and for all my troubadour profession, i had almost forgotten there were such distinctions in books. i have hardly seen one magazine since i left you. the world where i have been moving reads nothing but newspapers. it is confusing to bob from one world to the other, to zig-zag across the social dead-line. i sat in the professor's library a very mixed-up person, feeling i could hardly stay a minute, yet too heavy-footed to stir an inch, and immensely grateful and relaxed. sooner or later i am going to step up into the rarefied civilized air once too often and stay there in spite of myself. i shall get a little too fond of the china and old silver, and forget the fields. books and teacups and high-brow conversations are awfully insinuating things, if you give them time to be. one gets along somehow, and pleasure alternates with pain, and the sum is the joy of life, while one is below. but to quit is like coming up to earth after deep-sea diving in a heavy suit. one scarcely realizes he has been under heavier-than-air pressure, and has been fighting off great forces, till he has taken off his diving helmet, as it were. and yet there is a baffling sense of futility in the restful upper air. i remember it once, long ago, in emerging in warren, ohio, and once in emerging in macon, georgia:--the feeling that the upper world is all tissue paper, that the only choice a real man can make is to stay below with the great forces of life forever, even though he be a tramp--the feeling that, to be a little civilized, we sacrifice enormous powers and joys. for all i was so tired and so very grateful to the professor, i felt like a bull in a china shop. i should have been out in the fields, eating grass. the kallyope yell [_loudly and rapidly with a leader, college yell fashion_] i proud men eternally go about, slander me, call me the "calliope." sizz..... fizz..... ii i am the gutter dream, tune-maker, born of steam, tooting joy, tooting hope. i am the kallyope, car called the kallyope. willy willy willy wah hoo! see the flags: snow-white tent, see the bear and elephant, see the monkey jump the rope, listen to the kallyope, kallyope, kallyope! soul of the rhinoceros and the hippopotamus (listen to the lion roar!) jaguar, cockatoot, loons, owls, hoot, hoot. listen to the lion roar, listen to the lion roar, listen to the lion r-o-a-r! hear the leopard cry for gore, willy willy willy wah hoo! hail the bloody indian band, hail, all hail the popcorn stand, hail to barnum's picture there, people's idol everywhere, whoop, whoop, whoop, whoop! music of the mob am i, circus day's tremendous cry:- i am the kallyope, kallyope, kallyope! hoot toot, hoot toot, hoot toot, hoot toot, willy willy willy wah hoo! sizz, fizz..... iii born of mobs, born of steam, listen to my golden dream, listen to my golden dream, listen to my g-o-l-d-e-n d-r-e-a-m! whoop whoop whoop whoop whoop! i will blow the proud folk low, humanize the dour and slow, i will shake the proud folk down, (listen to the lion roar!) popcorn crowds shall rule the town- willy willy willy wah hoo! steam shall work melodiously, brotherhood increase. you'll see the world and all it holds for fifty cents apiece. willy willy willy wah hoo! every day a circus day. _what?_ well, _almost_ every day. nevermore the sweater's den, nevermore the prison pen. gone the war on land and sea that aforetime troubled men. nations all in amity, happy in their plumes arrayed in the long bright street parade. bands a-playing every day. _what?_ well, _almost_ every day. i am the kallyope, kallyope, kallyope! willy willy willy wah hoo! hoot, toot, hoot, toot, whoop whoop whoop whoop, willy willy willy wah hoo! sizz, fizz..... iv every soul resident in the earth's one circus tent! every man a trapeze king then a pleased spectator there. on the benches! in the ring! while the neighbors gawk and stare and the cheering rolls along. almost every day a race when the merry starting gong rings, each chariot on the line, every driver fit and fine with the steel-spring roman grace. almost every day a dream, almost every day a dream. every girl, maid or wife, wild with music, eyes a-gleam with that marvel called desire: actress, princess, fit for life, armed with honor like a knife, jumping thro' the hoops of fire. (listen to the lion roar!) making all the children shout clowns shall tumble all about, painted high and full of song while the cheering rolls along, tho' they scream, tho' they rage, every beast in his cage, every beast in his den that aforetime troubled men. v i am the kallyope, kallyope, kallyope, tooting hope, tooting hope, tooting hope, tooting hope; shaking window-pane and door with a crashing cosmic tune, with the war-cry of the spheres, rhythm of the roar of noon, rhythm of niagara's roar, voicing planet, star and moon, shrieking of the better years. prophet-singers will arise, prophets coming after me, sing my song in softer guise with more delicate surprise; i am but the pioneer voice of the democracy; i am the gutter dream, i am the golden dream, singing science, singing steam. i will blow the proud folk down, (listen to the lion roar!) i am the kallyope, kallyope, kallyope, tooting hope, tooting hope, tooting hope, tooting hope, willy willy willy wah hoo! hoot, toot, hoot toot, hoot toot, hoot toot, whoop whoop, whoop whoop, whoop whoop, whoop whoop, willy willy willy wah hoo! sizz..... fizz..... sunday morning, june 23, 1912. i am writing on the top of a pile of creosote-soaked ties between the santa fé tracks and the trail that runs parallel to the tracks. florence, kansas, is somewhere ahead. in the east the railroads and machinery choke the land to death and it was there i made my rule against them. but the farther west i go the more the very life of the country seems to depend upon them. i suppose, though, that some day, even out west here, the rule against the railroad will be a good rule. meanwhile let me say that my ruskinian prejudices are temporarily overcome by the picturesqueness and efficiency of the santa fé. it is double-tracked, and every four miles is kept in order by a hand-car crew that is spinning back and forth all the time. the air seems to be full of hand-cars. walking in a hurry to make a certain place by nightfall i have become acquainted with these section hands, and, most delightful to relate, have ridden in their iron conveyances, putting my own back into the work. half or three-fourths of the employees are mexicans who are as ornamental in the actual landscape as they are in a remington drawing. these mexicans are tractable serfs of the santa fé. if there were enough miles of railroad in mexico to keep all the inhabitants busy on section, perhaps the internal difficulties could be ended. these peons live peacefully next to the tracks in houses built by the company from old ties. the ties are placed on end, side by side, with plaster in the cracks, on a tiny oblong two-room plan. there is a little roofed court between the rooms. a farmer told me that the company tried greek serfs for a while, but they made trouble for outsiders and murdered each other. the road is busy as busy can be. almost any time one can see enormous freight-trains rolling by or mile-a-minute passenger trains. gates are provided for each farmer's right of way. i was told by an exceptional mexican with powers of speech that the efficient dragging of the wagon-roads, especially the "new santa fé trail" that follows the railroad, is owing to the missionary work of king, the split-log drag man, who was employed to go up and down this land agitating his hobby. when the weather is good, touring automobiles whiz past. they have pennants showing they are from kansas city, emporia, new york or chicago. they have camping canvas and bedding on the back seats of the car, or strapped in the rear. they are on camping tours to colorado springs and the like pleasure places. some few avow they are going to the coast. about five o'clock in the evening some man making a local trip is apt to come along alone. he it is that wants the other side of the machine weighed down. he it is that will offer me a ride and spin me along from five to twenty-five miles before supper. this delightful use that may be made of an automobile in rounding out a day's walk has had something to do with mending my prejudice against it, despite the grand airs of the tourists that whirl by at midday. i still maintain that the auto is a carnal institution, to be shunned by the truly spiritual, but there are times when i, for one, get tired of being spiritual. much of the country east of emporia is hilly and well-wooded and hedged like missouri. but now i am getting into the range region. yesterday, after several miles of treeless land that had never known the plough, i said to myself: "now i am really west." and my impression was reinforced when i reached a grand baronial establishment called "clover hill ranch." it was flanked by the houses of the retainers. in the foreground and a little to the side was the great stone barn for the mules and horses. back on the little hill, properly introduced by ceremonious trees, was the ranch house itself. and before it was my lord on his ranching charger. the aforesaid lord created quite an atmosphere of lordliness as he refused work in the alfalfa harvest to a battered stranger who bowed too low and begged too hard, perhaps. on the porch was my lady, feeding bread and honey to the beautiful young prince of the place. i have not yet reached the wheat belt. since the alfalfa harvest is on here, i shall try for that a bit. sunday afternoon, june 30, 1912. in the spare room of a mennonite farmer, who lives just inside the wheat belt. this is going to be a long sunday afternoon; so make up your minds for a long letter. i did not get work in the alfalfa. yet there is news. i have been staying a week with this mennonite family shocking wheat for them, though i am not anywhere near great bend. before i tell you of the harvest, i must tell you of these mennonites. they are a dear people. i have heard from their reverent lips the name of their founder, menno simonis, who was born about the time of columbus and luther and other such worthies. they are as opposed to carnal literature as i am to tailor-made clothes, and i hold they are perfectly correct in allowing no fashion magazines in the house. such modern books as they read deal with practical local philanthropies and great international mission movements, and their interdenominational feelings for all christendom are strong. yet they hold to their ancient verities, and antiquity broods over their meditations. for instance i found in their bookcase an endless dialogue epic called _the wandering soul_, in which this soul, seeking mainly for information, engages in stilted conversation with adam, noah, and simon cleophas. thereby the wandering soul is informed as to the orthodox history and chronology of the world from the creation to the destruction of jerusalem. the wood-cuts are devotional. they are worth walking to kansas to see. the book had its third translation into pennsylvania english in 1840, but several american editions had existed in german before that, and several german editions in germany. it was originally written in the dutch language and was popular among the mennonites there. but it looks as if it was printed by adam to last forever and scare bad boys. let us go to meeting. all the women are on their own side of the aisle. all of them have a fairly uniform quakerish sort of dress of no prescribed color. in front are the most pious, who wear a black scoop-bonnet. some have taken this off, and show the inevitable "prayer-covering" underneath. it is the plainest kind of a lace-cap, awfully coquettish on a pretty head. it is intended to mortify the flesh, and i suppose it _is_ unbecoming to _some_ women. all the scoop-bonnets are not black. toward the middle of the church, behold a cream-satin, a soft gray, a dull moon-gold. one young woman, moved, i fear, by the devil, turns and looks across the aisle at us. an exceedingly demure bow is tied all too sweetly under the chin, in a decorous butterfly style. fie! fie! is this mortifying the flesh? and i note with pain that the black bonnets grow fewer and fewer toward the rear of the meeting house. here come the children, with bobbing headgear of every color of the rainbow, yet the same scoop-pattern still. they have been taking little walks and runs between sunday-school and church, and are all flushed and panting. but i would no more criticise the color of their headgear than the color in their faces. some of them squeeze in among the black rows in front and make piety reasonable. but we noted by the door as they entered something that both the church and the world must abhor. seated as near to the men's side as they can get, with a mixture of shame and defiance in their faces, are certain daughters of the mennonites who insist on dressing after the fashions that come from paris and kansas city and emporia. by the time the rumors of what is proper in millinery have reached this place they are a disconcerting mixture of cherries, feathers and ferns. and somehow there are too many mussy ribbons on the dresses. we can only guess how these rebels must suffer under the concentrated silent prayers of the godly. poor honest souls! they take to this world's vain baggage and overdo it. why do they not make up their minds to serve the devil sideways, like that sly puss with the butterfly bow? on the men's side of the house the division on dress is more acute. the holiness movement, the doctrine of the second blessing that has stirred many rural methodist groups, has attacked the mennonites also. those who dispute for this new ism of sanctification leave off their neckties as a sign. those that retain their neckties, satisfied with what menno simonis taught, have a hard time remaining in a state of complete calm. the temptation to argue the matter is almost more than flesh can bear. but, so far as i could discover, there was no silent prayer over the worst lapse of these people. what remains of my franciscan soul was hurt to discover that the buggy-shed of the meeting-house was full of automobiles. and to meet a mennonite on the road without a necktie, his wife in the blackest of bonnets, honking along in one of those glittering brazen machines, almost shakes my confidence in the old jerusalem gospel. yet let me not indulge in disrespect. every spiritual warfare must abound in its little ironies. they are keeping their rule against finery as well as i am keeping mine against the railroad. and they have their own way of not being corrupted by money. their ministry is unsalaried. their preachers are sometimes helpers on the farms, sometimes taken care of outright, the same as i am. as will later appear, despite some inconsistencies, the mennonites have a piety as literal as any to be found on the earth. since they are german there is no lack of thought in their system. i attended one of their quarterly conferences and i have never heard better discourses on the distinctions between the four gospels. the men who spoke were scholars. the mennonites make it a principle to ignore politics, and are non-resistants in war. i have read in the life of one of their heroes what a terrible time his people had in the shenandoah valley in the days of sheridan.... three solemn tracts are here on my dresser. the first is against church organs, embodying a plea for simplicity and the spending of such money on local benevolences and world-wide missions. the tract aptly compares the church-organ to the thibetan prayer-wheel, and later to praying by phonograph. a song is a prayer to them, and they sing hymns and nothing but hymns all week long. the next tract is on non-conformity to this world, and insists our appearance should indicate our profession, and that fashions drive the poor away from the church. it condemns jewels and plaiting of the hair, etc., and says that such things stir up a wicked and worldly lust in the eyes of youth. this tract goes so far as to put worldly pictures under the ban. then comes another, headed bible teaching on dress. it goes on to show that every true christian, especially that vain bird, the female, should wear something like the mennonite uniform to indicate the line of separation from "the world." i have a good deal of sympathy for all this, for indeed is it not briefly comprehended in my own rule: "carry no baggage"? these people celebrate communion every half year, and at the same time they practise the ritual of washing the feet. since isadora duncan has rediscovered the human foot æsthetically, who dares object to it in ritual? it is all a question of what we are trained to expect. certainly these people are respecters of the human foot and not ashamed to show it. next to the way their women have of making a dash to find their gauzy prayer-covering, which they put on for grace at table and bible-lesson before breakfast, their most striking habit is the way both men and women go about in very clean bare feet after supper. next to this let me note their resolve to have no profane hour whatsoever. when not actually at work they sit and sing hymns, each christian on his own hook as he has leisure. my first evening among these dear strangers i was sitting alone by the front door, looking out on the wheat. i was thrilled to see the fairest member of the household enter, not without grace and dignity. her prayer covering was on her head, her white feet were shining like those of nicolette and her white hymn-book was in her hand. she ignored me entirely. she was rapt in trance. she sat by the window and sang through the book, looking straight at a rose in the wall-paper. i lingered there, reading _the wandering soul_ just as oblivious of her presence as she was of mine. oh, no; there was no art in the selection of her songs! i remember one which was to this effect: "don't let it be said: 'too late, too late to enter that golden gate.' be ready, for soon the time will come to enter that golden gate." on the whole she had as much right to plunk down and sing hymns out of season as i have to burst in and quote poetry to peaceful and unprotected households. i would like to insert a discourse here on the pleasure and the naturalness and the humanness of testifying to one's gospel whatever that gospel may be, barefooted or golden-slippered or iron-shod. the best we may win in return may be but a kindly smile. we may never make one convert. still the duty of testifying remains, and is enjoined by the invisible powers and makes for the health of the soul. this mennonite was a priestess of her view of the truth and comes of endless generations of such snow-footed apostles. i presume the sect ceased to enlarge when the quakers ceased to thrive, but i make my guess that it does not crumble as fast as the quakers, having more german stolidity. let me again go forward, testifying to my particular lonely gospel in the face of such pleasant smiles and incredulous questions as may come. i wish i could start a sturdy sect like old menno simonis did. they should dress as these have done, and be as stubborn and rigid in their discipline. they should farm as these have done, but on reaching the point where the mennonite buys the automobile, that money and energy should go into the making of cross-roads palaces for the people, golden as the harvest field, and disciplined well-parked villages, good as a psalm, and cities fair as a mennonite lady in her prayer-covering, delicate and noble as athens the unforgotten, the divine. the mennonite doctrine of non-participation in war or politics leads them to confine their periodic literature to religious journals exclusively, plus _the drover's journal_ to keep them up to date on the prices of farm-products. there is only one mennonite political event, the coming of christ to judge the earth. of that no man knoweth the day or the hour. we had best be prepared and not play politics or baseball or anything. just keep unspotted and harvest the wheat. "goin' wes' harvesin'?" i have harvested, thank you. four days and a half i have shocked wheat in these prayer-consecrated fields that i see even now from my window. and i have good hard dollars in my pocket, which same dollars are against my rules. i will tell you of the harvest in the next letter. on the road to nowhere _on the road to nowhere what wild oats did you sow when you left your father's house with your cheeks aglow? eyes so strained and eager to see what you might see? were you thief or were you fool or most nobly free? were the tramp-days knightly, true sowing of wild seed? did you dare to make the songs vanquished workmen need? did you waste much money to deck a leper's feast? love the truth, defy the crowd, scandalize the priest? on the road to nowhere what wild oats did you sow? stupids find the nowhere-road dusty, grim and slow. ere their sowing's ended they turn them on their track: look at the caitiff craven wights repentant, hurrying back!_ _grown ashamed of nowhere, of rags endured for years, lust for velvet in their hearts, pierced with mammon's spears. all but a few fanatics give up their darling goal, seek to be as others are, stultify the soul. reapings now confront them, glut them, or destroy, curious seeds, grain or weeds, sown with awful joy. hurried is their harvest, they make soft peace with men. pilgrims pass. they care not, will not tramp again. o nowhere, golden nowhere! sages and fools go on to your chaotic ocean, to your tremendous dawn. far in your fair dream-haven, is nothing or is all ... they press on, singing, sowing wild deeds without recall!_ iv _in kansas: the first harvest_ monday afternoon, july 1, 1912. a little west of newton, kansas. in the public library of a village whose name i forget. here is the story of how i came to harvest. i was by chance taking a short respite from the sunshine, last monday noon, on the porch of the mennonite farmer. i had had dinner further back. but the good folk asked me to come in and have dessert anyway. it transpired that one of the two harvest hands was taking his farewell meal. he was obliged to fill a contract to work further west, a contract made last year. i timidly suggested i might take his place. to my astonishment i was engaged at once. this fellow was working for two dollars a day, but i agreed to $1.75, seeing my predecessor was a skilled man and twice as big as i was. my wages, as i discovered, included three rich meals, and a pretty spare room to sleep in, and a good big bucket to bathe in nightly. i anticipate history at this point by telling how at the end of the week my wages looked as strange to me as a bunch of unexpected ducklets to a hen. they were as curious to contemplate as a group of mischievous nieces who have come to spend the day with their embarrassed, fluttering maiden aunt. i took my wages to newton, and spent all on the vanities of this life. first the grandest kind of a sombrero, so i shall not be sunstruck in the next harvest-field, which i narrowly escaped in this. next, the most indestructible of corduroys. then i had my shoes re-soled and bought a necktie that was like the oriflamme of navarre, and attended to several other points of vanity. i started out again, dead broke and happy. if i work hereafter i can send most all my wages home, for i am now in real travelling costume. but why linger over the question of wages till i show i earned those wages? let me tell you of a typical wheat-harvesting day. the field is two miles from the house. we make preparations for a twelve-hour siege. halters and a barrel of water and a heap of alfalfa for the mules, binder-twine and oil for the reaper and water-jugs for us are loaded into the spring wagon. two mules are hitched in front, two are led behind. the new reaper was left in the field yesterday. we make haste. we must be at work by the time the dew dries. the four mules are soon hitched to the reaper and proudly driven into the wheat by the son of the old mennonite. this young fellow carries himself with proper dignity as heir of the farm. he is a credit to the father. he will not curse the mules, though those animals forget their religion sometimes, and act after the manner of their kind. the worst he will do will be to call one of them an old cow. i suppose when he is vexed with a cow he calls it an old mule. my other companion is a boy of nineteen from a mennonite community in pennsylvania. he sets me a pace. together we build the sheaves into shocks, of eight or ten sheaves each, put so they will not be shaken by an ordinary kansas wind. the wind has been blowing nearly all the time at a rate which in illinois would mean a thunderstorm in five minutes, and sometimes the clouds loom in the thunderstorm way, yet there is not a drop of rain, and the clouds are soon gone. in the course of the week the boy and i have wrestled with heavy ripe sheaves, heavier green sheaves, sheaves full of russian thistles and sheaves with the string off. the boy, as he sings _the day-star hath risen_, twists a curious rope of straw and reties the loose bundles with one turn of the hand. i try, but cannot make the knot. once all sheaves were so bound. much of the wheat must be cut heavy and green because there is a liability to sudden storms or hail that will bury it in mud, or soften the ground and make it impossible to drag the reaper, or hot winds that suddenly ripen the loose grain and shake it into the earth. so it is an important matter to get the wheat out when it is anywhere near ready. i found that two of the girls were expecting to take the place of the departing hand, if i had not arrived. the mennonite boy picked up two sheaves to my one at the beginning of the week. to-day i learn to handle two at a time and he immediately handles three at a time. he builds the heart of the sheaf. then we add the outside together. he is always marching ahead and causing me to feel ashamed. the kansas grasshopper makes himself friendly. he bites pieces out of the back of my shirt the shape and size of the ace of spades. then he walks into the door he has made and loses himself. then he has to be helped out, in one way or another. the old farmer, too stiff for work, comes out on his dancing pony and rides behind the new reaper. this reaper was bought only two days ago and he beams with pride upon it. it seems that he and his son almost swore, trying to tinker the old one. the farmer looks with even more pride upon the field, still a little green, but mostly golden. he dismounts and tests the grain, threshing it out in his hand, figuring the average amount in several typical heads. he stands off, and is guilty of an æsthetic thrill. he says of the sea of gold: "i wish i could have a photograph of that." (o eloquent word, for a mennonite!) then he plays at building half a dozen shocks, then goes home till late in the afternoon. we three are again masters of the field. we are in a level part of kansas, not a rolling range as i found it further east. the field is a floor. hedges gradually faded from the landscape in counties several days' journey back, leaving nothing but unbroken billows to the horizon. but the hedges have been resumed in this region. each time round the enormous field we stop at a break in the line of those untrimmed old thorn-trees. here we rest a moment and drink from the water-jug. to keep from getting sunstruck i profanely waste the water, pouring it on my head, and down my neck to my feet. i came to this farm wearing a derby, and have had to borrow a slouch with a not-much-wider rim from the farmer. it was all the extra headgear available in this thrifty region. because of that not-much-wider rim my face is sunburned all over every day. i have not yet received my wages to purchase my sombrero. as we go round the field, the mennonite boy talks religion, or is silent. i have caught the spirit of the farm, and sing all the hymn-tunes i can remember. sometimes the wind turns hot. perspiration cannot keep up with evaporation. our skins are dry as the dryest stubble. then we stand and wait for a little streak of cool wind. it is pretty sure to come in a minute. "that's a nice air," says the boy, and gets to work. once it was so hot all three of us stopped five minutes by the hedge. then it was i told them the story of the hens i met just west of emporia. i had met ten hens walking single-file into the town of emporia. i was astonished to meet educated hens. each one was swearing. i would not venture, i added, to repeat what they said. _not a word from the mennonites._ i continued in my artless way, showing how i stopped the next to the last hen, though she was impatient to go on. i inquired "where are you all travelling?" she said "to emporia." and so i asked, "why are you swearing so?" she answered, "don't you know about the sunday-school picnic?" i paused in my story. _no word from the mennonites. one of them rose rather impatiently._ i poured some water on my head and continued: "i stopped the last hen. i asked: "why are you swearing, sister? and what about the picnic?" she replied: "these emporia people are going to give a sunday-school picnic day after to-morrow. meantime all us hens have to lay devilled eggs." "we do not laugh at jokes about swearing," said the mennonite driver, and climbed back on to his reaper. my partner strode solemnly out into the sun and began to pile sheaves. each round we study our shadows on the stubble more closely, thrilled with the feeling that noon creeps on. and now, up the road we see a bit of dust and a rig. no, it is not the woman we are looking for, but a woman with supplies for other harvesters. we work on and on, while four disappointing rigs go by. at last appears a sunbonnet we know. our especial mennonite maid is sitting quite straight on the edge of the seat and holding the lines almost on a level with her chin. she drives through the field toward us. we motion her to the gap in the hedge. we unhitch, and lead the mules to the gap, where she joins us. with much high-minded expostulation the men try to show the mules they should eat alfalfa and not hedge-thorns. the mules are at last tied out in the sun to a wheel of the wagon, away from temptation, with nothing but alfalfa near them. the meal is spread with delicacy, yet there is a heap of it. with a prayer of thanksgiving, sometimes said by tilly, sometimes by one of the men, we begin to eat. to a man in a harvest-field a square meal is more thrilling than a finely-acted play. the thrill goes not only to the toes and the finger-tips, but to the utmost ramifications of the spirit. men indoors in offices, whose bodies actually require little, cannot think of eating enormously without thinking of sodden overeating, with condiments to rouse, and heavy meats and sweets to lull the flabby body till the last faint remnants of appetite have departed and the man is a monument of sleepy gluttony. eating in a harvest field is never so. every nerve in the famished body calls frantically for reinforcements. and the nerves and soul of a man are strangely alert together. all we ate for breakfast turned to hot ashes in our hearts at eleven o'clock. i sing of the body and of the eternal soul, revived again! to feel life actually throbbing back into one's veins, life immense in passion, pulse and power, is not over-eating. tilly has brought us knives, and no forks. it would have been more appropriate if we had eaten from the ends of swords. we are finally recuperated from the fevers of the morning and almost strong enough for the long, long afternoon fight with the sun. fresh water is poured from a big glittering can into the jugs we have sucked dry. tilly reloads the buggy and is gone. after another sizzling douse of water without and within, our long afternoon pull commences. the sun has become like a roaring lion, and we wrestle with the sheaves as though we had him by the beard. the only thing that keeps up my nerve in the dizziness is the remembrance of the old mennonite's proverb at breakfast that as long as a man can eat and sweat he is safe. my hands inside my prickling gloves seem burning off. the wheat beards there are like red-hot needles. but i am still sweating a little in the chest, and the mennonite boy is cheerfully singing: "when i behold the wondrous cross on which the prince of glory died, my richest gain i count but loss and pour contempt on all my pride." two-thirds round the field, methinks the jig is up. then the sun is hidden by a friend of ours in the sky, just the tiniest sort of a cloud and we march on down the rows. the merciful little whiff of dream follows the sun for half an hour. the most terrible heat is at half-past two. somehow we pull through till four o'clock. then we say to ourselves: "we can stand this four-o'clock heat, because we have stood it hotter." 'tis a grim matter of comparison. we speed up a little and trot a little as the sun reaches the top of the western hedge. a bit later the religious hired man walks home to do the chores. i sing down the rows by myself. it is glorious to work now. the endless reiterations of the day have developed a certain dancing rhythm in one's nerves, one is intoxicated with his own weariness and the conceit that comes with seizing the sun by the mane, like sampson. it is now that the sun gracefully acknowledges his defeat. he shows through the hedge as a great blur, that is all. then he becomes a mist-wrapped golden mountain that some fairy traveller might climb in enchanted shoes. this sun of ours is no longer an enemy, but a fantasy, a vision and a dream. now the elderly proprietor is back on his dancing pony. he is following the hurrying reaper in a sort of ceremonial fashion, delighted to see the wheat go down so fast. at last this particular field is done. we finish with a comic-tragedy. some little rabbits scoot, panic-stricken, from the last few yards of still-standing grain. the old gentleman on horseback and his son afoot soon out-manoeuvre the lively creatures. we have rabbit for supper at the sacrifice of considerable mennonite calm. it was with open rejoicing on the part of all that we finished the field nearest the house, the last one, by saturday noon. the boy and i had our own special thrill in catching up with the reaper, which had passed by us so often in our rounds. as the square in mid-field grows smaller the reaper has to turn oftener, and turning uses up much more time than at first appears. the places where the armies of wheat-sheaves are marshalled are magic places, despite their sweat and dust. there is nothing small in the panorama. all the lines of the scene are epic. the binder-twine is invisible, and has not altered the eternal classic form of the sheaf. there is a noble dignity and ease in the motion of a new reaper on a level field. a sturdy mennonite devotee marching with a great bundle of wheat under each arm and reaching for a third makes a picture indeed, an essay on sunshine beyond the brush of any impressionist. each returning day while riding to the field, when one has a bit of time to dream, one feels these things. one feels also the essentially patriarchal character of the harvest. one thinks of the book of ruth, and the jewish feasts of ingathering. all the new testament parables ring in one's ears, parables of sowing and reaping, of tares and good grain, of bread and of leaven and the story of the disciples plucking corn. as one looks on the half-gathered treasure he thinks on the solemn words: "for the bread of god is that which cometh down out of heaven and giveth life unto the world," and the rest of that sermon on the bread of life, which has so many meanings. this sunday before breakfast, i could fully enter into the daily prayers, that at times had appeared merely quaint to me, and in my heart i said "amen" to the special thanksgiving the patriarch lifted up for the gift of the fruit of the land. i was happy indeed that i had had the strength to bear my little part in the harvest of a noble and devout household, as well as a hand in the feeding of the wide world. what i, a stranger, have done in this place, thirty thousand strangers are doing just a little to the west. we poor tramps are helping to garner that which reestablishes the nations. if only for a little while, we have bent our backs over the splendid furrows, to save a shining gift that would otherwise rot, or vanish away. thursday afternoon, july fourth, 1912. in the shadow of a lonely windmill between raymond and ellinwood, kansas. i arrived hot and ravenous at raymond about eleven a.m. on this glorious independence day, having walked twelve miles facing a strange wind. at first it seemed fairly cool, because it travelled at the rate of an express train. but it was really hot and alkaline, and almost burnt me up. i had had for breakfast a cooky, some raisins and a piece of cheese, purchased with my booklet of rhymes at a grocery. by the time i reached raymond i was fried and frantic. the streets were deserted. i gathered from the station-master that almost everyone had gone to the dutch picnic in the grove near ellinwood. the returns for the johnson-flynn fight were to be received there beneath the trees, and a potent variety of dry-state beverage was to flow free. the unveracious station-master declared this beverage was made of equal parts iron-rust, patent medicine and rough-on-rats, added to a barrel of brown rain-water. he appeared to be prejudiced against it. i walked down the street. just as i had somehow anticipated, i spied out a certain type of man. he was alone in his restaurant and i crouched my soul to spring. the only man left in town is apt to be a soft-hearted party. "here, as sure as my name is tramp, i will wrestle with a defenceless fellow-being." like many a restaurant in kansas, it was a sort of farm-hand's saturday night paradise. if a man cannot loaf in a saloon he will loaf in a restaurant. then certain problems of demand and supply arise according to circumstances and circumlocutions. i obtained leave for the ice-water without wrestling. i almost emptied the tank. then, with due art, i offered to recite twenty poems to the solitary man, a square meal to be furnished at the end, if the rhymes were sufficiently fascinating. assuming a judicial attitude on the lunch-counter stool he put me in the arm-chair by the ice-chest and told me to unwind myself. as usual, i began with _the proud farmer_, _the illinois village_ and _the building of springfield_, which three in series contain my whole gospel, directly or by implication. then i wandered on through all sorts of rhyme. he nodded his head like a mandarin, at the end of each recital. then he began to get dinner. he said he liked my poetry, and he was glad i came in, for he would feel more like getting something to eat himself. i sat on and on by the ice-chest while he prepared a meal more heating than the morning wind or the smell of fire-crackers in the street. first, for each man, a slice of fried ham large enough for a whole family. then french fried potatoes by the platterful. then three fried eggs apiece. there was milk with cream on top to be poured from a big granite bucket as we desired it. there was a can of beans with tomato sauce. there was sweet apple-butter. there were canned apples. there was a pot of coffee. i moved over from the ice-chest and we talked and ate till half-past one. i began to feel that i was solid as an iron man and big as a colossus of rhodes. i would like to report our talk, but this letter must end somewhere. i agreed with my host's opinions on everything but the temperance question. he did not believe in _total_ abstinence. on that i remained noncommittal. eating as i had, how could i take a stand against my benefactor even though the issue were the immortal one of man's sinful weakness for drink? the ham and ice water were going to my head as it was. and i could have eaten more. i could have eaten a fat shetland pony. my host explained that he also travelled at times, but did not carry poetry. he gave me much box-car learning. then, curious to relate, he dug out maps and papers, and showed me how to take up a claim in oregon, a thing i did not in the least desire to do. god bless him in basket and in store, afoot or at home. this afternoon the ham kept on frying within me, not uncomfortably. i stopped and drank at every windmill. now it is about four o'clock in the afternoon and i am in the shadow of one more. i have found a bottle which just fits my hip pocket which i have washed and will use as a canteen henceforth. when one knows he has his drink with him, he does not get so thirsty. but i have put down little to show you the strange intoxication that has pervaded this whole day. the inebriating character of the air and the water and the intoxication that comes with the very sight of the wind-mills spinning alone, and the elation that comes with the companionship of the sun, and the gentleness of the occasional good samaritans, are not easily conveyed in words. when one's spirit is just right for this sort of thing it all makes as good an independence day as folks are having anywhere in this united states, even at ellinwood. thursday, july 5, 1912. in the office of the ellinwood livery stable in the morning. everyone came home drunk from the dutch picnic last night. ellinwood roared and ellinwood snorted. i reached the place from the east just as the noisy revellers arrived from the south. ellinwood is an old german town full of bar-rooms, forced by the sentiment of the dry voters in surrounding territory to turn into restaurants, but only of late. the bar-fixtures are defiantly retained. ever and anon ellinwood takes to the woods with malicious intent. many of the citizens were in a mad-dog fury because flynn had not licked johnson. this town seems to be of the opinion that that battle was important. the proprietor of the most fashionable hotel monopolized the 'phone on his return from the woods. he called up everybody in town. his conversation was always the same. "what'd ya think of the fight?" and without waiting for answer: "i'll bet one hundred thousand dollars that flynn can lick johnson in a fair fight. it's a disgrace to this nation that black rascal kin lay hands on a white man. i'll bet a hundred thousand dollars.... a hundred thousand dollars ..." etc. i sat a long time waiting for him to get through. at last i put in my petition at another hostelrie. this host was intoxicated, but gentle. in exchange for what i call the squarest kind of a meal i recited the most cooling verses i knew to a somewhat distracted, rather alcoholic company of harvest hands. first i recited a poem in praise of lincoln and then one in praise of the uplifting influence of the village church. then, amid qualified applause, i distributed my tracts, and retreated to this stable for the night. kansas _o, i have walked in kansas through many a harvest field and piled the sheaves of glory there and down the wild rows reeled:_ _each sheaf a little yellow sun, a heap of hot-rayed gold; each binder like creation's hand to mould suns, as of old._ _straight overhead the orb of noon beat down with brimstone breath: the desert wind from south and west was blistering flame and death._ _yet it was gay in kansas, a-fighting that strong sun; and i and many a fellow-tramp defied that wind and won._ _and we felt free in kansas from any sort of fear, for thirty thousand tramps like us there harvest every year._ _she stretches arms for them to come, she roars for helpers then, and so it is in kansas that tramps, one month, are men._ _we sang in burning kansas the songs of sabbath-school, the "day star" flashing in the east, the "vale of eden" cool._ _we sang in splendid kansas "the flag that set us free"- that march of fifty thousand men with sherman to the sea._ _we feasted high in kansas and had much milk and meat. the tables groaned to give us power wherewith to save the wheat._ _our beds were sweet alfalfa hay within the barn-loft wide. the loft doors opened out upon the endless wheat-field tide._ _i loved to watch the wind-mills spin and watch that big moon rise. i dreamed and dreamed with lids half-shut, the moonlight in my eyes._ _for all men dream in kansas by noonday and by night, by sunrise yellow, red and wild and moonrise wild and white._ _the wind would drive the glittering clouds, the cottonwoods would croon, and past the sheaves and through the leaves came whispers from the moon._ v _in kansas: the second and third harvest_ two miles north of great bend. in the heart of the greatest wheat country in america, and in the midst of the harvest-time, sunday, july 7, 1912. i am meditating on the ways of destiny. it seems to me i am here, not altogether by chance. but just why i am here, time must reveal. last friday i had walked the ten miles from ellinwood to great bend by 9 a.m. i went straight to the general delivery, where a package of tracts and two or three weeks' mail awaited me. i read about half through the letter-pile as i sat on a rickety bench in the public square. some very loud-mouthed negroes were playing horse-shoe obstreperously. i began to wish flynn had whipped johnson. i was thinking of getting away from there, when two white men, evidently harvesters, sat down near me and diluted the color scheme. one man said: "harvest-wages this week are from two dollars and fifty cents up to four dollars. we are experienced men and worth three dollars and fifty cents." then a german farmer came and negotiated with them in vain. he wanted to hold them down to three dollars apiece. he had his automobile to take his crew away that morning. then a fellow in citified clothes came to me and asked: "can you follow a reaper and shock?" i said: "_show me the wheat._" so far as i remember, it is the first time in my life anyone ever hunted me out and _asked_ me to work for him. he put me into his buggy and drove me about two miles north to this place, just the region john humphrey told me to find, though he did not specify this farm. i was offered $2.50 and keep, as the prophet foretold. the man who drove me out has put his place this year into the hands of a tenant who is my direct boss. i may not be able to last out, but all is well so far. i have made an acceptable hand, keeping up with the reaper by myself, and i feel something especial awaits me. but the reaper breaks down so often i do not know whether i can keep up with it without help when it begins going full-speed. these people do not attend church like the mennonites. the tenant wanted me to break the sabbath and help him in the alfalfa to-day. he suggested that neither he nor i was so narrow-minded or superstitious as to be a "sunday man." besides he couldn't work the alfalfa at all without one more hand. i did not tell him so, but i felt i needed all sunday to catch up on my tiredness. i suspect that my refusal to violate the sabbath vexed him. there has been a terrible row of some kind going on behind the barn all afternoon. maybe he is working off his vexation. at last the tenant's wife has gone out to "see about that racket." now she comes in. she tells me they have been trying to break a horse. the same farm, two miles north of great bend, july 8, 1912. how many times in the counties further back i have asked with fear and misgiving for permission to work in the alfalfa, and have been repulsed when i confessed to the lack of experience! and now this morning i have pitched alfalfa hay with the best of them. we had to go to work early while the dew softened the leaves. it is a kind of clover. once perfectly dry, the leaves crumble off when the hay is shaken. then we must quit. the leaves are the nourishing part. the owner of the place, the citified party who drove me out here the other day and who is generally back in town, was on top of that stack this morning, his collar off, his town shirt and pants somewhat the worse for the exertion. he puffed like a porpoise, for he was putting in place all the hay we men handed up to him. we lifted the alfalfa in a long bundle, using our three forks at one time. we worked like drilled soldiers, then went in to early dinner. this is a short note written while the binder takes the necessary three turns round the new wheatfield that the tenant's brother and i are starting to conquer this afternoon. three swaths of four bundles each must be cut, then i will start on my rounds, piling them into shocks of twelve bundles each. i am right by the r. f. d. box that goes with this farm. i will put up the little tin flag that signals the postman. one of the four beasts hitched to the reaper is a broncho colt who came dancing to the field this afternoon, refusing to keep his head in line with the rest of the steeds, and, as a consequence, pulling the whole reaper. it transpires that the row in the horselot sunday was caused by this colt. he jumped up and left his hoof-print on the chest of the man now driving him. so the two men tied him up and beat him all afternoon with a double-tree, cursing him between whacks, lashing themselves with kansas whisky to keep up steam. yet he comes dancing to the field. on the farm two miles north of great bend, wednesday evening, july 10, 1912. i must write you a short note to-night while the rest are getting ready for supper. i will try to mail it to-morrow morning on the way to the wheat. let me assure you that your letter will be heeded. i know pretty well, by this time, what i can stand, but if i feel the least bit unfit i will not go into the sun. that is my understanding with the tenant who runs the farm. i can eat and sweat like a mennonite. i sleep like a top and wake up fresh as a little daisy. so far i have gone dancing to the field as the broncho did. but the broncho is a poor illustration. he is dead. the broncho was the property of a little boy, the son of the man who owns the farm. the little boy had started with a lamb and raised it, then sold it for chickens, increasing his capital by trading and feeding till it was all concentrated to buy this colt. then he and his people moved to town and left the colt, just at the breaking age, to be trained for a boy's pet by these men. since he became obstreperous, they thought hitching him to the reaper would cure him, leaving a draught-horse in the barn to make place for the unruly one. the tenant's brother, who drove the reaper, sent word to the little boy he had not the least idea what ailed dick. he hinted to me later that whatever killed him must have come from some disease in his head. yes, it came from his head. that double-tree and that pitchfork handle probably missed his ribs once or twice and hit him somewhere around his eyes, in the course of the sabbath afternoon services. two whisky-lashed colt-breakers can do wonders without trying. i have been assured that this is the only way to subdue the beasts, that law and order must assert themselves or the whole barnyard will lead an industrial rebellion. it is past supper now. i have been writing till the lamp is dim. i must go to my quilts in the hay. to-day was the only time the reaper did not break down every half hour for repairs. so it was one continuous dance for me and my friend the broncho till about three o'clock in the afternoon, when the sun really did its best. then the broncho went crazy. he shoved his head over the backs of two mules twice his size, and almost pushed them into the teeth of the sickle. he was bleeding at the mouth and his eyes almost popped out of his head. he had hardly an inch of hide that was whole, and his raw places were completely covered with kansas flies. and the hot winds have made the flies so ravenous they draw blood from the back of the harvester's hand the moment they alight. the broncho began to kick in all four directions at once. he did one good thing. he pulled the callouses off the hands of the tenant's brother, the driver, who still gripped the lines but surrendered his pride and yelled for me to help. i am as afraid of bronchos and mules as i am of buzz saws. yet we separated the beasts somehow, the mules safely hitched to the fence, the broncho between us, held by two halter-ropes. there was no reasoning with dick. he was dying, and dying game. one of the small boys appeared just then and carried the alarm. soon a more savage and indomitable man with a more eloquent tongue, the tenant himself, had my end of the rope. but not the most formidable cursing could stop dick from bleeding at the mouth. later the draught horse whose place he had taken was brought over from his pleasant rest in the barn and the two were tied head to head. the lordly tenant started to lead them toward home. but dick fell down and died as soon as he reached a patch of unploughed prairie grass, which, i think, was the proper end for him. the peaceful draught horse was put in his place. the reaper went back to work. the reaper cut splendidly the rest of this afternoon. as for me i never shocked wheat with such machine-like precision. i went at a dog-trot part of the time, and almost caught up with the machine. the broncho should not have been called dick. he should have been called daniel boone, or davy crockett or custer or richard, yes, richard the lion-hearted. he came dancing to the field this morning, between the enormous overshadowing mules, and dancing feebly this noon. he pulled the whole reaper till three o'clock. i remember i asked the driver at noon what made the broncho dance. he answered: "the flies on his ribs, i suppose." i fancy dick danced because he was made to die dancing, just as the spartans rejoiced and combed their long hair preparing to face certain death at thermopylæ. i think i want on my coat of arms a broncho, rampant. thursday, july 11, 1912. great bend, kansas. yesterday i could lift three moderate-sized sheaves on the run. this morning i could hardly lift one, walking. this noon the foreman of the ranch, the man who, with his brother, disciplined the broncho, was furiously angry with me, because, as i plainly explained, i was getting too much sun and wanted a bit of a rest. he inquired, "why didn't you tell me two days ago you were going to be overcome by the heat, so i could have had a man ready to take your place?" also, "it's no wonder dirty homeless men are walking around the country looking for jobs." also, a little later: "i have my opinion of any man on earth who is a quitter." but i kept my serenity and told him that under certain circumstances i was apt to be a quitter, though, of course, i did not like to overdo the quitting business. i remained unruffled, as i say, and handed him and his brother copies of _the gospel of beauty_ and _rhymes to be traded for bread_ and bade them good-bye. then i went to town and told the local editor on them for their horse-killing, which, i suppose, was two-faced of me. the tenant's attitude was perfectly absurd. hands are terribly scarce. a half day's delay in shocking that wheat would not have hurt it, or stopped the reaper, or altered any of the rest of the farm routine. he fired me without real hope of a substitute. i was working for rock-bottom wages and willing to have them docked all he pleased if he would only give me six hours to catch up in my tiredness. anyway, here i am in the saddlerock hotel, to which i have paid in advance a bit of my wages, in exchange for one night's rest. i enclose the rest to you. i will start out on the road to-morrow, bathed, clean, dead broke and fancy free. i have made an effort to graduate from beggary into the respectable laboring class, which you have so often exhorted me to do. i shall try for employment again, as soon as i rest up a bit. i enjoyed the wheat and the second-hand reaper, and the quaintness of my employers and all till the death of richard the lion-hearted. i am wondering whether i ought to be as bitter as i am against the horse-killers. we cannot have green fields just for bronchos to gambol in, or roads where they can trot unharnessed and nibble by the way. we must have law and order and discipline. but, thanks to the good st. francis who marks out my path for me, i start to-morrow morning to trot unharnessed once again. sunday, july 14, 1912. in front of the general store at wright, kansas, which same is as small as a town can get. i have been wondering why destiny sent me to that farm where the horse-killers flourished. i suppose it was that dick might have at least one mourner. all the world's heroes are heroes because they had the qualities of constancy and dancing gameness that brought him to his death. some day i shall hunt up the right kind of a hindu and pay him filthy gold and have him send the ghost of dick to those wretched men. they will be unable to move, lying with eyes a-staring all night long. dreadful things will happen in that room, dreadful things the hindu shall devise after i have told him what the broncho endured. they shall wake in the morning, thinking it all a dream till they behold the horse-shoe prints all over the counterpane. then they will try to sit up and find that their ribs are broken--well, i will leave it to the hindu. i have been waiting many hours at this town of wright. to-day and yesterday i made seventy-six miles. thirty-five of these miles i made yesterday in the automobile of the genial and scholarly father a. p. heimann of kinsley, who took me as far as that point. i have been loafing here at wright since about four in the afternoon. it is nearly dark now. dozens of harvesters, already engaged for the week, have been hanging about and the two stores have kept open to accommodate them. there is a man to meet me here at eight o'clock. i may harvest for him four days. i told him i would not promise for longer. he has taken the train to a station further east to try to get some men for all week. if he does not return with a full quota he will take me on. while i am perfectly willing to work for two dollars and a half, many hold out for three. the man i am waiting for overtook me two miles east of this place. he was hurrying to catch his train. he took me into his rig and made the bargain. he turned his horse over to me and raced for the last car as we neared the station. so here i am a few yards from the depot, in front of the general store, watching the horse of an utter stranger. of course the horse isn't worth stealing, and his harness is half twine and wire. but the whole episode is so careless and free and kansas-like. most of the crowd have gone, and i am awfully hungry. i might steal off the harness in the dark, and eat it. somehow i have not quite the nerve to beg where i expect to harvest. i am afraid to try again in this fight with the sun, yet when a man overtakes me in the road and trusts me with his best steed and urges me to work for him, i hardly know how to refuse. sunday afternoon, july 21, 1912. loafing and dozing on my bed in the granary on the farm near wright, kansas, where i have been harvesting a full week. the man i waited for last sunday afternoon returned with his full quota of hands on the "plug" train about nine o'clock. where was i to sleep? i began to think about a lumber pile i had seen, when i discovered that five other farmers had climbed off that train. they were poking around in all the dark corners for men just like me. i engaged with a german named louis lix for the whole week, all the time shaking with misgivings from the memory of my last break-down. here it is, sunday, before i know it. lix wants me back again next year, and is sorry i will not work longer. i have totalled about sixteen days of harvesting in kansas, and though i sagged in the middle i think i have ended in fair style. enclosed find all my wages except enough for one day's stay at dodge city and three real hotel meals there--sherbet and cheese and crackers, and finger bowls at the end, and all such folly. harvest eating is grand in its way but somehow lacks frills. ah, if eating were as much in my letters as in my thoughts, this would be nothing but a series of menus! i have helped lix harvest barley, oats and wheat, mainly wheat. this is the world of wheat. in this genial region one can stand on a soap-box and see nothing else to the horizon. walking the santa fé trail beside the railroad means walking till the enormous wheat-elevator behind one disappears because of the curvature of the earth, like the ships in the geography picture, and walking on and on till finally in the west the top of another elevator appears, being gradually revealed because this earth is not flat like a table, but, as the geography says, curved like an apple or an orange. in these fields, instead of working a reaper with a sickle eight feet long, they work a header with a twelve-foot sickle. instead of four horses to this machine, there are six. instead of one man or two following behind to the left of the driver to pile sheaves into shocks, a barge, a most copious slatted receptacle, drives right beside the header, catching the unbound wheat which is thrown up loosely by the machine. one pitchfork man in the barge spreads this cataract of headed wheat so a full load can be taken in. his partner guides the team, keeping precisely with the header. but these two bargemen do not complete the outfit. two others with their barge or "header-box" come up behind as soon as the first box starts over to the stack to be unloaded. here the sixth man, the stacker, receives it, and piles it into a small mountain nicely calculated to resist cyclones. the green men are broken in as bargemen. the stacker is generally an old hand. unloading the wheat is the hardest part of the bargeman's work. his fork must be full and he must be fast. otherwise his partner, who takes turns driving and filling, and who helps to pitch the wheat out, will have more than half the pitching to do. and all the time will be used up. neither man will have a rest-period while waiting for the other barge to come up. this rest-period is the thing toward which we all wrestle. if we save it out we drink from the water-jugs in the corner of the wagon. we examine where the grasshoppers have actually bitten little nicks out of our pitchfork handles, nicks that are apt to make blisters. we tell our adventures and, when the header breaks down, and must be tinkered endlessly, and we have a grand rest, the stacker sings a list of the most amazing cowboy songs. he is a young man, yet rode the range here for seven years before it became wheat-country. one day when the songs had become hopelessly, prosaically pornographic i yearned for a change. i quoted the first stanza of atalanta's chorus: "when the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, the mother of months, in meadow or plain, fills the shadows and windy places with lisp of leaves and ripple of rain----" the stacker asked for more. i finished the chorus. then i repeated it several times, while the header was being mended. we had to get to work. the next morning when my friend climbed into our barge to ride to the field he began: "'when the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, the mother of months, in meadow or plain, fills the shadows----' "dammit, what's the rest of it? i've been trying to recite that piece all night." now he has the first four stanzas. and last evening he left for dodge city to stay overnight and sunday. he was resolved to purchase _atalanta in calydon_ and find in the public library _the lady of shallot_ and _the blessed damozel_, besides paying the usual visit to his wife and children. working in a header-barge is fun, more fun than shocking wheat, even when one is working for a mennonite boss. the crew is larger. there is occasional leisure to be social. there is more cool wind, for one is higher in the air. there is variety in the work. one drives about a third of the time, guides the wheat into the header a third of the time and empties the barge a third of the time. the emptying was the back-breaking work. and i was all the while fearful, lest, from plain awkwardness, or shaking from weariness, i should stick some man in the eye with my pitchfork. but i did not. i came nearer to being a real harvester every day. the last two days my hands were so hard i could work without gloves, this despite the way the grasshoppers had chewed the fork-handle. believe everything you have ever heard of the kansas grasshoppers. the heights of the header-barge are dramatically commanding. kansas appears much larger than when we are merely standing in the field. we are just as high as upon a mountain-peak, for here, as there, we can see to the very edges of the eternities. now let me tell you of a new kind of weather. clouds thicken overhead. the wind turns suddenly cold. we shiver while we work. we are liable in five minutes to a hailstorm, a terrific cloudburst or a cyclone. the horses are unhitched. the barges are tied end to end. and _still_ the barges may be blown away. they must be anchored even more safely. the long poles to lock the wheels are thrust under the bed through the spokes. it has actually been my duty to put this pole in the wheels every evening to keep the barges from being blown out of the barn-lot at night. such is the accustomed weather excitement in kansas. just now we have excitement that is unusual. but as the storm is upon us it splits and passes to the north and south. there is not a drop of rain. we are at work again in ten minutes. in two hours the sky is clear and the air is hot and alkaline. and ten thousand grasshoppers are glad to see that good old hot wind again, you may believe. they are preening themselves, each man in his place on the slats of the barge. they are enjoying their chewing tobacco the same as ever. wheat, wheat, wheat, wheat! states and continents and oceans and solar-systems of wheat! we poor ne'er-do-weels take our little part up there in the header half way between the sky and the earth, and in the evening going home, carrying mister stacker-man in our barge, we sing _sweet rosy o'grady_ and the _battle hymn of the republic_. and the most emphatic and unadulterated tramp among us harvesters, a giant swiss fifty years old, gives the yodel he learned when a boy. this is a german catholic family for which i have been working. we have had grace before and after every meal, and we crossed ourselves before and after every meal, except the swiss, who left the table early to escape being blest too much. my employers are good folk, good as the mennonites. my boss was absolutely on the square all the week, as kind as a hard-working man has time to be. it gave me great satisfaction to go to mass with him this morning. though some folks talk against religion, though it sometimes appears to be a nuisance, after weighing all the evidence of late presented, i prefer a religious farmer. here's to the spirit of fire _here's to the spirit of fire, wherever the flame is unfurled, in the sun, it may be, as a torch, to lead on and enlighten the world; that melted the glacial streams, in the day that no memories reach, that shimmered in amber and shell and weed on the earliest beach; the genius of love and of life, the power that will ever abound, that waits in the bones of the dead, who sleep till the judgment shall sound. here's to the spirit of fire, when clothed in swift music it comes, the glow of the harvesting songs, the voice of the national drums; the whimsical, various fire, in the rhymes and ideas of men, buried in books for an age, exploding and writhing again, and blown a red wind round the world, consuming the lies in its mirth, then locked in dark volumes for long, and buried like coal in the earth. here's to the comforting fire in the joys of the blind and the meek, in the customs of letterless lands, in the thoughts of the stupid and weak. in the weariest legends they tell, in their cruellest, coldest belief, in the proverbs of counter or till, in the arts of the priest or the thief. here's to the spirit of fire, that never the ocean can drown, that glows in the phosphorent wave, and gleams in the sea-rose's crown; that sleeps in the sunbeam and mist, that creeps as the wise can but know, a wonder, an incense, a whim, a perfume, a fear and a glow, ensnaring the stars with a spell, and holding the earth in a net, yea, filling the nations with prayer, wherever man's pathway is set._ vi _the end of the road; moonshine; and some proclamations_ august 1, 1912. standing up at the postoffice desk, pueblo, colorado. several times since going over the colorado border i have had such a cordial reception for the gospel of beauty that my faith in this method of propaganda is reawakened. i confess to feeling a new zeal. but there are other things i want to tell in this letter. i have begged my way from dodge city on, dead broke, and keeping all the rules of the road. i have been asked dozens of times by frantic farmers to help them at various tasks in western kansas and eastern colorado. i have regretfully refused all but half-day jobs, having firmly resolved not to harvest again till i have well started upon a certain spiritual enterprise, namely, the writing of certain new poems that have taken possession of me in this high altitude, despite the physical stupidity that comes with strenuous walking. thereby hangs a tale that i have not room for here. resolutely setting aside all recent wonders, i have still a few impressions of the wheatfield to record. harvesting time in kansas is such a distinctive institution! whole villages that are dead any other season blossom with new rooming signs, fifty cents a room, or when two beds are in a room, twenty-five cents a bed. the eating counters are generally separate from these. the meals are almost uniformly twenty-five cents each. the fact that kansas has no bar-rooms makes these shabby food-sodden places into near-taverns, the main assembly halls for men wanting to be hired, or those spending their coin. famous villages where an enormous amount of money changes hands in wages and the sale of wheat-crops are thus nothing but marvellous lines of dirty restaurants. in front of the dingy hotels are endless ancient chairs. summer after summer fidgety, sun-fevered, sticky harvesters have gossiped from chair to chair or walked toward the dirty band-stand in the public square, sure, as of old, to be encountered by the anxious farmer, making up his crew. a few harvesters are seen, carrying their own bedding; grasshopper bitten quilts with all their colors flaunting and their cotton gushing out, held together by a shawl-strap or a rope. almost every harvester has a shabby suit-case of the paste-board variety banging round his ankles. when wages are rising the harvester, as i have said before, holds out for the top price. the poor farmer walks round and round the village half a day before he consents to the three dollars. stacker's wages may be three to five simoleons and the obdurate farmer may have to consent to the five lest his wheat go to seed on the ground. it is a hard situation for a class that is constitutionally tightwad, often wisely so. the roundhouses, water tanks, and all other places where men stealing freight rides are apt to pass, have enticing cards tacked on or near them by the agents of the mayors of the various towns, giving average wages, number of men wanted, and urging all harvesters good and true to come to some particular town between certain dates. the multitude of these little cards keeps the harvester on the alert, and, as the saying is: "independent as a hog on ice." to add to the farmer's distractions, still fresher news comes by word of mouth that three hundred men are wanted in a region two counties to the west, at fifty cents more a day. it sweeps through the harvesters' hotels, and there is a great banging of suit-cases, and the whole town is rushing for the train. then there is indeed a nabbing of men at the station, and sudden surrender on the part of the farmers, before it is too late. harvesting season is inevitably placarded and dated too soon in one part of the state, and not soon enough in another. kansas weather does not produce its results on schedule. this makes not one, but many hurry-calls. it makes the real epic of the muscle-market. stand with me at the station. behold the trains rushing by, hour after hour, freight-cars and palace cars of dishevelled men! the more elegant the equipage the more do they put their feet on the seats. behold a saturnalia of chewing tobacco and sunburn and hairy chests, disturbing the primness and crispness of the santa fé, jostling the tourist and his lovely daughter. they are a happy-go-lucky set. they have the reverse of the tightwad's vices. the harvester, alas, is harvested. gamblers lie in wait for him. the scarlet woman has her pit digged and ready. it is fun for the police to lock him up and fine him. no doubt he often deserves it. i sat half an afternoon in one of these towns and heard the local undertaker tell horrible stories of friendless field hands with no kinsfolk anywhere discoverable, sunstruck and buried in a day or so by the county. one man's story he told in great detail. the fellow had complained of a headache, and left the field. he fell dead by the roadside on the way to the house. he was face downward in an ant hill. he was eaten into an unrecognizable mass before they found him at sunset. the undertaker expatiated on how hard it was to embalm such folks. it was a discourse marshalled with all the wealth of detail one reads in _the facts in the case of m. valdemar_. the harvester is indeed harvested. he gambles with sunstroke, disease and damnation. in one way or another the money trickles from his loose fingers, and he drifts from the wheat in oklahoma north to the wheat in nebraska. he goes to canada to shock wheat there as the season recedes, and then, perhaps, turns on his tracks and makes for duluth, minnesota, we will say. he takes up lumbering. or he may make a circuit of the late fruit crops of colorado and california. he is, pretty largely, so much crude, loose, ungoverned human strength, more useful than wise. looked at closely, he may be the boy from the machine-shop, impatient for ready money, the farmer failure turned farm-hand, the bank-clerk or machine-shop mechanic tired of slow pay, or the college student on a lark, in more or less incognito. he may be the intermittent criminal, the gay-cat or the travelling religious crank, or the futile tract-distributer. and i was three times fraternally accosted by harvesters who thought my oil-cloth package of poems was a kit of burglar's tools. it _is_ a system of breaking in, i will admit. a story left out of the letters this ends the section of my letters home that in themselves make a consecutive story. but to finish with a bit of a nosegay, and show one of the unexpected rewards of troubadouring, let me tell the tale of the five little children eating mush. one should not be so vain as to recount a personal triumph. still this is a personal triumph. and i shall tell it with all pride and vanity. let those who dislike a conceited man drop the book right here. i had walked all day straight west from rocky ford. it was pitch dark, threatening rain--the rain that never comes. it was nearly ten o'clock. at six i had entered a village, but had later resolved to press on to visit a man to whom i had a letter of introduction from my loyal friend dr. barbour of rocky ford. there had been a wash-out. i had to walk around it, and was misdirected by the good villagers and was walking merrily on toward nowhere. around nine o'clock i had been refused lodging at three different shanties. but from long experience i knew that something would turn up in a minute. and it did. i walked right into the fat sides of a big country hotel on that interminable plain. it was not surrounded by a village. it was simply a clean hostelrie for the transient hands who worked at irrigating in that region. i asked the looming figure i met in the dark: "where is the boss of this place?" "i am the boss." he had a scandinavian twist to his tongue. "i want a night's lodging. i will give in exchange an entertainment this evening, or half a day's work to-morrow." "come in." i followed him up the outside stairway to the dining-room in the second story. there was his wife, a woman who greeted me cheerfully in the scandinavian accent. she was laughing at her five little children who were laughing at her and eating their mush and milk. presumably the boarders had been delayed by their work, and had dined late. the children were at it still later. they were real americans, those little birds. and they had memories like parrots, as will appear. "wife," said the landlord, "here is a man that will entertain us to-night for his keep, or work for us to-morrow. i think we will take the entertainment to-night. go ahead, mister. here are the kids. now listen, kids." to come out of the fathomless, friendless dark and, almost in an instant, to look into such expectant fairy faces! they were laughing, laughing, laughing, not in mockery, but companionship. i recited every child-piece i had ever written--(not many). they kept quite still till the end of each one. then they pounded the table for more, with their tin spoons and their little red fists. so, with misgivings, i began to recite some of my fairy-tales for grown-ups. i spoke slowly, to make the externals of each story plain. the audience squealed for more.... i decided to recite six jingles about the moon, that i had written long ago: how the hyæna said the moon was a golden skull, and how the shepherd dog contradicted him and said it was a candle in the sky--and all that and all that. the success of the move was remarkable because i had never pleased either grown folks or children to any extent with those verses. but these children, through the accumulated excitements of a day that i knew nothing about, were in an ecstatic imaginative condition of soul that transmuted everything. the last of the series recounted what grandpa mouse said to the little mice on the moon question. i arranged the ketchup bottle on the edge of the table for grandpa mouse. i used the salts and peppers for the little mice in circle round. i used a black hat or so for the swooping, mouse-eating owls that came down from the moon. having acted out the story first, i recited it, slowly, mind you. here it is: what grandpa mouse said "the moon's a holy owl-queen: she keeps them in a jar under her arm till evening, then sallies forth to war. she pours the owls upon us: they hoot with horrid noise and eat the naughty mousie-girls and wicked mousie-boys. so climb the moon-vine every night and to the owl-queen pray: leave good green cheese by moonlit trees for her to take away. and never squeak, my children, nor gnaw the smoke-house door. the owl-queen then will then love us and send her birds no more." at the end i asked for my room and retired. i slept maybe an hour. i was awakened by those tireless little rascals racing along the dark hall and saying in horrible solemn tones, pretending to scare one another: "the moon's a holy owl-queen: she keeps them in a jar under her arm till night, then 'allies out to war! she sicks the owls upon us, they 'oot with 'orrid noise and eat ... the naughty boys, and the moon's a holy owl-queen! she keeps them in a jar!" and so it went on, over and over. thereupon i made a mighty and a rash resolve. i renewed that same resolve in the morning when i woke. i said within myself "_i shall write one hundred poems on the moon!_" of course i did not keep my resolve to write one hundred pieces about the moon. but here are a few of those i did write immediately after: the flute of the lonely [to the tune of gaily the troubadour.] faintly the ne'er-do-well breathed through his flute: all the tired neighbor-folk, hearing, were mute. in their neat doorways sat, labors all done, helpless, relaxed, o'er-wrought, evening begun. none of them there beguiled work-thoughts away, like to this reckless, wild loafer by day. (weeds in his flowers upgrown! fences awry! rubbish and bottles heaped! yard like a sty!) there in his lonely door, leering and lean, staggering, liquor-stained, outlawed, obscene--- played he his moonlight thought, mastered his flute. all the tired neighbor-folk, hearing, were mute. none but he, in that block, knew such a tune. all loved the strain, and all _looked at the moon!_ the shield of faith the full moon is the shield of faith, and when it hangs on high another shield seems on my arm the hard world to defy. yea, when the moon has knighted me, then every poisoned dart of daytime memory turns away from my dream-armored heart. the full moon is the shield of faith: as long as it shall rise, i know that mystery comes again, that wonder never dies. i know that shadow has its place, that noon is not our goal, that heaven has non-official hours to soothe and mend the soul; that witchcraft can be angel-craft and wizard deeds sublime; that utmost darkness bears a flower, though long the budding-time. the rose of midnight [what the gardener's daughter said] the moon is now an opening flower, the sky a cliff of blue. the moon is now a silver rose; her pollen is the dew. her pollen is the mist that swings across her face of dreams: her pollen is the faint cold light that through the garden streams. all earth is but a passion-flower with blood upon his crown. and what shall fill his failing veins and lift his head, bowed down? this cup of peace, this silver rose bending with fairy breath shall lift that passion-flower, the earth, a million times from death! the path in the sky i sailed a little shallop upon a pretty sea in blue and hazy mountains, scarce mountains unto me; their summits lost in wonder, they wrapped the lake around, and when my shallop landed i trod on a vague ground, and climbed and climbed toward heaven, though scarce before my feet i found one step unveiled there the blue-haze vast, complete, until i came to zion the gravel paths of god: my endless trail pierced the thick veil to flaming flowers and sod. i rested, looked behind me and saw where i had been. _my little lake. it was the moon._ sky-mountains closed it in. * * * * * proclamations _immediately upon my return from my journey the following proclamations were printed in farm and fireside, through the great kindness of the editors, as another phase of the same crusade._ a proclamation of balm in gilead go to the fields, o city laborers, till your wounds are healed. forget the street-cars, the skyscrapers, the slums, the marseillaise song. we proclaim to the broken-hearted, still able to labor, the glories of the ploughed land. the harvests are wonderful. and there is a spiritual harvest appearing. a great agricultural flowering of art and song is destined soon to appear. where corn and wheat are growing, men are singing the psalms of david, not the marseillaise. you to whom the universe has become a blast-furnace, a coke-oven, a cinder-strewn freight-yard, to whom the history of all ages is a tragedy with the climax now, to whom our democracy and our flag are but playthings of the hypocrite,--turn to the soil, turn to the earth, your mother, and she will comfort you. rest, be it ever so little, from your black broodings. think with the farmer once more, as your fathers did. revere with the farmer our centuries-old civilization, however little it meets the city's trouble. revere the rural customs that have their roots in the immemorial benefits of nature. with the farmer look again upon the constitution as something brought by providence, prepared for by the ages. go to church, the cross-roads church, and say the lord's prayer again. help them with their temperance crusade. it is a deeper matter than you think. listen to the laughter of the farmer's children. know that not all the earth is a-weeping. know that so long as there is black soil deep on the prairie, so long as grass will grow on it, we have a vast green haven. the roots of some of our trees are still in the earth. our mountains need not to be moved from their places. wherever there is tillable land, there is a budding and blooming of old-fashioned americanism, which the farmer is making splendid for us against the better day. there is perpetual balm in gilead, and many city workmen shall turn to it and be healed. this by faith, and a study of the signs, we proclaim! proclamation _of the new time for farmers and the new new england_ let it be proclaimed and shouted over all the ploughlands of the united states that the same ripening that brought our first culture in new england one hundred years ago is taking place in america to-day. every state is to have its emerson, its whittier, its longfellow, its hawthorne and the rest. our puritan farmer fathers in our worthiest handful of states waited long for their first group of burnished, burning lamps. from the landing of the pilgrims in 1620 to the delivery of emerson's address on the american scholar was a weary period of gestation well rewarded. therefore, let us be thankful that we have come so soon to the edge of this occasion, that the western farms, though scarcely settled, have the chautauqua, which is new england's old rural lecture course; the temperance crusade, which is new england's abolitionism come again; the magazine militant, which is the old atlantic monthly combined with the free-soil newspaper under a new dress; and educational reform, which is the yankee school-house made glorious. all these, and more, electrify the farm-lands. things are in that ferment where many-sided life and thought are born. because our west and south are richer and broader and deeper than new england, so much more worth while will our work be. we will come nearer to repeating the spirit of the best splendors of the old italian villages than to multiplying the prunes and prisms of boston. the mystery-seeking, beauty-serving followers of poe in their very revolt from democracy will serve it well. the pan-worshipping disciples of whitman will in the end be, perhaps, more useful brothers of the white christ than all our coming saints. and men will not be infatuated by the written and spoken word only, as in new england. every art shall have the finest devotion. already in this more tropical california, this airier colorado, this black-soiled illinois, in georgia, with her fire-hearted tradition of chivalry and her new and most romantic prosperity, men have learned to pray to the god of the blossoming world, men have learned to pray to the god of beauty. they meditate upon his ways. they have begun to sing. as of old, their thoughts and songs begin with the land, and go directly back to the land. their tap-roots are deep as those of the alfalfa. a new new england is coming, a new england of ninety million souls! an artistic renaissance is coming. an america is coming such as was long ago prophesied in emerson's address on the american scholar. this by faith, and a study of the signs, we proclaim! proclamation _of the new village, and the new country community, as distinct from the village_ this is a year of bumper crops, of harvesting festivals. through the mists of the happy waning year, a new village rises, and the new country community, in visions revealed to the rejoicing heart of faith. and yet it needs no vision to see them. walking across this land i have found them, little ganglions of life, promise of thousands more. the next generation will be that of the eminent village. the son of the farmer will be no longer dazzled and destroyed by the fires of the metropolis. he will travel, but only for what he can bring back. just as his father sends half-way across the continent for good corn, or melon-seed, so he will make his village famous by transplanting and growing this idea or that. he will make it known for its pottery or its processions, its philosophy or its peacocks, its music or its swans, its golden roofs or its great union cathedral of all faiths. there are a thousand miscellaneous achievements within the scope of the great-hearted village. our agricultural land to-day holds the ploughboys who will bring these benefits. i have talked to these boys. i know them. i have seen their gleaming eyes. and the lonely country neighborhood, as distinct from the village, shall make itself famous. there are river valleys that will be known all over the land for their tall men and their milk-white maidens, as now for their well-bred horses. there are mountain lands that shall cultivate the tree of knowledge, as well as the apple-tree. there are sandy tracts that shall constantly ripen red and golden citrus fruit, but as well, philosophers comforting as the moon, and strength-giving as the sun. these communities shall have their proud circles. they shall have families joined hand in hand, to the end that new blood and new thoughts be constantly brought in, and no good force or leaven be lost. the country community shall awaken illustrious. this by faith, and a study of the signs, we proclaim! proclamation _welcoming the talented children of the soil_ because of their closeness to the earth, the men on the farms increase in stature and strength. and for this very reason a certain proportion of their children are being born with a finer strength. they are being born with all this power concentrated in their nerves. they have the magnificent thoughts that might stir the stars in their courses, were they given voice. yea, in almost every ranch-house is born one flower-like girl or boy, a stranger among the brothers and sisters. welcome, and a thousand welcomes, to these fairy changelings! they will make our land lovely. let all of us who love god give our hearts to these his servants. they are born with eyes that weep themselves blind, unless there is beauty to look upon. they are endowed with souls that are self-devouring, unless they be permitted to make rare music; with a desire for truth that will make them mad as the old prophets, unless they be permitted to preach and pray and praise god in their own fashion, each establishing his own dream visibly in the world. the land is being jewelled with talented children, from maine to california: souls dewy as the grass, eyes wondering and passionate, lips that tremble. though they be born in hovels, they have slender hands, seemingly lost amid the heavy hands. they have hands that give way too soon amid the bitter days of labor, but are everlastingly patient with the violin, or chisel, or brush, or pen. all these children as a sacred charge are appearing, coming down upon the earth like manna. yet many will be neglected as the too-abundant mulberry, that is left upon the trees. many will perish like the wild strawberries of kansas, cut down by the roadside with the weeds. many will be looked upon like an over-abundant crop of apples, too cheap to be hauled to market, often used as food for the beasts. there will be a great slaughter of the innocents, more bloody than that of herod of old. but there will be a desperate hardy remnant, adepts in all the conquering necromancy of agricultural song and democratic craftsmanship. they will bring us our new time in its completeness. this by faith, and a study of the signs, we proclaim! proclamation _of the coming of religion, equality and beauty_ in our new day, so soon upon us, for the first time in the history of democracy, art and the church shall be hand in hand and equally at our service. neither craftsmanship nor prayer shall be purely aristocratic any more, nor at war with each other, nor at war with the state. the priest, the statesman and the singer shall discern one another's work more perfectly and give thanks to god. even now our best churches are blossoming in beauty. our best political life, whatever the howlers may say, is tending toward equality, beauty and holiness. political speech will cease to turn only upon the price of grain, but begin considering the price of cross-roads fountains and people's palaces. our religious life will no longer trouble itself with the squabbles of orthodoxy. it will give us the outdoor choral procession, the ceremony of dedicating the wheat-field or the new-built private house to god. that politician who would benefit the people will not consider all the world wrapped up in the defence or destruction of a tariff schedule. he will serve the public as did pericles, with the world's greatest dramas. he will rebuild the local acropolis. he will make his particular athens rule by wisdom and philosophy, not trade alone. our crowds shall be audiences, not hurrying mobs; dancers, not brawlers; observers, not restless curiosity-seekers. our mobs shall becomes assemblies and our assemblies religious; devout in a subtle sense, equal in privilege and courtesy, delicate of spirit, a perfectly rounded democracy. all this shall come through the services of three kinds of men in wise coöperation: the priests, the statesmen and the artists. our priests shall be religious men like st. francis, or john wesley, or general booth, or cardinal newman. they shall be many types, but supreme of their type. our statesmen shall find their exemplars and their inspiration in washington, jefferson and lincoln, as all good americans devoutly desire. but even these cannot ripen the land without the work of men as versatile as william morris or leonardo. our artists shall fuse the work of these other workers, and give expression to the whole cry and the whole weeping and rejoicing of the land. we shall have shelleys with a heart for religion, ruskins with a comprehension of equality. _religion_, _equality_ and _beauty_! by these america shall come into a glory that shall justify the yearning of the sages for her perfection, and the prophecies of the poets, when she was born in the throes of valley forge. _this, by faith, and a study of the signs, we proclaim!_ * * * * * _epilogue_ [_written to all young lovers about to set up homes of their own--but especially to those of some far-distant day, and those of my home-village_] _lovers, o lovers, listen to my call. give me kind thoughts. i woo you on my knees. lovers, pale lovers, when the wheat grows tall, when willow trees are eden's incense trees:--_ _i would be welcome as the rose in flower or busy bird in your most secret fane. i would be read in your transcendent hour when book and rhyme seem for the most part vain._ _i would be read, the while you kiss and pray. i would be read, ere the betrothal ring circles the slender finger and you say words out of heaven, while your pulses sing._ _o lovers, be my partisans and build each home with a great fire-place as is meet. when there you stand, with royal wonder filled, in bridal peace, and comradeship complete,_ _while each dear heart beats like a fairy drum- then burn a new-ripe wheat-sheaf in my name. out of the fire my spirit-bread shall come and my soul's gospel swirl from that red flame._ * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious typographical errors were repaired. hyphenation variants were changed to most frequently used. where equal, variants were retained. a tramp abroad, part 7. by mark twain (samuel l. clemens) first published in 1880 illustrations taken from an 1880 first edition * * * * * * illustrations: 1.    portrait of the author 2.    titian's moses 285.  street in chamonix 286.  the proud german 287.  the indignant tourist 288.  music of switzerland 289.  only a mistake 290.  a broad view 291.  preparing to start 292.  ascent of mont blanc 293.  "we all raised a tremendous shout" 294.  the grande mulets 295.  cabin on the grande mulets 296.  keeping warm 297.  tail piece 298.  take it easy 299.  the mer de glace (mont blanc) 300.  taking toll 301.  a descending tourist 302.  leaving by diligence 303.  the satisfied englishman 301.  high pressure 305.  no apology 307.  a lively street 308.  having her full rights 309.  how she fooled us 310.  "you'll take that or none" 311.  robbing a beggar 312.  dishonest italy 313.  stock in trade 314.  style 315.  specimens from old masters 316.  an old master 317.  the lion of st mark 318.  oh to be at rrst! 319.  the world's masterpiece 320.  tail piece 321.  aesthetic tastes 322.  a private family breakfast 323.  european carving 323.  a twenty-four hour fight 325.  great heidelberg tun 326.  bismarck in prison 327.  tail piece 600 328.  a complete word contents: chapter xliii chamonix--contrasts--magnificent spectacle--the guild of guides--the guide--in--chief--the returned tourist--getting diploma--rigid rules--unsuccessful efforts to procure a diploma--the record-book--the conqueror of mont blanc--professional jealousy --triumph of truth--mountain music--its effect--a hunt for a nuisance chapter xliv looking at mont blanc--telescopic effect--a proposed trip--determination and courage--the cost all counted----ascent of mont blanc by telescope--safe and rapid return--diplomas asked for and refused--disaster of 1866--the brave brothers--wonderful endurance and pluck--love making on mont blanc--first ascent of a woman--sensible attire chapter xlv a catastrophe which cost eleven lives--accident of 1870--a party of eleven--a fearful storm--note-books of the victims--within five minutes of safety--facing death resignedly chapter xlvi the hotel des pyramids--the glacier des bossons--one of the shows--premeditated crime--saved again--tourists warned--advice to tourists--the two empresses--the glacier toll collector--pure ice water--death rate of the world--of various cities--a pleasure excursionist--a diligence ride--a satisfied englishman chapter xlvii geneva--shops of geneva--elasticity of prices--persistency of shop-women--the high pressure system--how a dandy was brought to grief--american manners--gallantry--col baker of london--arkansaw justice--safety of women in america--town of chambery--a lively place--at turin--a railroad companion--an insulted woman--city of turin--italian honesty--a small mistake --robbing a beggar woman chapter xlviii in milan--the arcade--incidents we met with--the pedlar--children--the honest conductor--heavy stocks of clothing--the quarrelsome italians--great smoke and little fire--the cathedral--style in church--the old masters--tintoretto's great picture--emotional tourists--basson's famed picture--the hair trunk chapter xlix in venice--st mark's cathedral--discovery of an antique--the riches of st mark's--a church robber--trusting secrets to a friend --the robber hanged--a private dinner--european food chapter l why some things are--art in rome and florence--the fig leaf mania--titian's venus--difference between seeing and describing a real work of art--titian's moses--home appendix a--the portier analyzed b--hiedelberg castle described c--the college prison and inmates d--the awful german language e--legends of the castle f--the journals of germany chapter xliii [my poor sick friend disappointed] everybody was out-of-doors; everybody was in the principal street of the village--not on the sidewalks, but all over the street; everybody was lounging, loafing, chatting, waiting, alert, expectant, interested--for it was train-time. that is to say, it was diligence-time--the half-dozen big diligences would soon be arriving from geneva, and the village was interested, in many ways, in knowing how many people were coming and what sort of folk they might be. it was altogether the livest-looking street we had seen in any village on the continent. the hotel was by the side of a booming torrent, whose music was loud and strong; we could not see this torrent, for it was dark, now, but one could locate it without a light. there was a large enclosed yard in front of the hotel, and this was filled with groups of villagers waiting to see the diligences arrive, or to hire themselves to excursionists for the morrow. a telescope stood in the yard, with its huge barrel canted up toward the lustrous evening star. the long porch of the hotel was populous with tourists, who sat in shawls and wraps under the vast overshadowing bulk of mont blanc, and gossiped or meditated. never did a mountain seem so close; its big sides seemed at one's very elbow, and its majestic dome, and the lofty cluster of slender minarets that were its neighbors, seemed to be almost over one's head. it was night in the streets, and the lamps were sparkling everywhere; the broad bases and shoulders of the mountains were in a deep gloom, but their summits swam in a strange rich glow which was really daylight, and yet had a mellow something about it which was very different from the hard white glare of the kind of daylight i was used to. its radiance was strong and clear, but at the same time it was singularly soft, and spiritual, and benignant. no, it was not our harsh, aggressive, realistic daylight; it seemed properer to an enchanted land--or to heaven. i had seen moonlight and daylight together before, but i had not seen daylight and black night elbow to elbow before. at least i had not seen the daylight resting upon an object sufficiently close at hand, before, to make the contrast startling and at war with nature. the daylight passed away. presently the moon rose up behind some of those sky-piercing fingers or pinnacles of bare rock of which i have spoken--they were a little to the left of the crest of mont blanc, and right over our heads--but she couldn't manage to climb high enough toward heaven to get entirely above them. she would show the glittering arch of her upper third, occasionally, and scrape it along behind the comblike row; sometimes a pinnacle stood straight up, like a statuette of ebony, against that glittering white shield, then seemed to glide out of it by its own volition and power, and become a dim specter, while the next pinnacle glided into its place and blotted the spotless disk with the black exclamation-point of its presence. the top of one pinnacle took the shapely, clean-cut form of a rabbit's head, in the inkiest silhouette, while it rested against the moon. the unillumined peaks and minarets, hovering vague and phantom-like above us while the others were painfully white and strong with snow and moonlight, made a peculiar effect. but when the moon, having passed the line of pinnacles, was hidden behind the stupendous white swell of mont blanc, the masterpiece of the evening was flung on the canvas. a rich greenish radiance sprang into the sky from behind the mountain, and in this some airy shreds and ribbons of vapor floated about, and being flushed with that strange tint, went waving to and fro like pale green flames. after a while, radiating bars--vast broadening fan-shaped shadows--grew up and stretched away to the zenith from behind the mountain. it was a spectacle to take one's breath, for the wonder of it, and the sublimity. indeed, those mighty bars of alternate light and shadow streaming up from behind that dark and prodigious form and occupying the half of the dull and opaque heavens, was the most imposing and impressive marvel i had ever looked upon. there is no simile for it, for nothing is like it. if a child had asked me what it was, i should have said, "humble yourself, in this presence, it is the glory flowing from the hidden head of the creator." one falls shorter of the truth than that, sometimes, in trying to explain mysteries to the little people. i could have found out the cause of this awe-compelling miracle by inquiring, for it is not infrequent at mont blanc,--but i did not wish to know. we have not the reverent feeling for the rainbow that a savage has, because we know how it is made. we have lost as much as we gained by prying into the matter. we took a walk down street, a block or two, and a place where four streets met and the principal shops were clustered, found the groups of men in the roadway thicker than ever--for this was the exchange of chamonix. these men were in the costumes of guides and porters, and were there to be hired. the office of that great personage, the guide-in-chief of the chamonix guild of guides, was near by. this guild is a close corporation, and is governed by strict laws. there are many excursion routes, some dangerous and some not, some that can be made safely without a guide, and some that cannot. the bureau determines these things. where it decides that a guide is necessary, you are forbidden to go without one. neither are you allowed to be a victim of extortion: the law states what you are to pay. the guides serve in rotation; you cannot select the man who is to take your life into his hands, you must take the worst in the lot, if it is his turn. a guide's fee ranges all the way up from a half-dollar (for some trifling excursion of a few rods) to twenty dollars, according to the distance traversed and the nature of the ground. a guide's fee for taking a person to the summit of mont blanc and back, is twenty dollars--and he earns it. the time employed is usually three days, and there is enough early rising in it to make a man far more "healthy and wealthy and wise" than any one man has any right to be. the porter's fee for the same trip is ten dollars. several fools--no, i mean several tourists--usually go together, and divide up the expense, and thus make it light; for if only one f--tourist, i mean--went, he would have to have several guides and porters, and that would make the matter costly. we went into the chief's office. there were maps of mountains on the walls; also one or two lithographs of celebrated guides, and a portrait of the scientist de saussure. in glass cases were some labeled fragments of boots and batons, and other suggestive relics and remembrances of casualties on mount blanc. in a book was a record of all the ascents which have ever been made, beginning with nos. 1 and 2--being those of jacques balmat and de saussure, in 1787, and ending with no. 685, which wasn't cold yet. in fact no. 685 was standing by the official table waiting to receive the precious official diploma which should prove to his german household and to his descendants that he had once been indiscreet enough to climb to the top of mont blanc. he looked very happy when he got his document; in fact, he spoke up and said he was happy. i tried to buy a diploma for an invalid friend at home who had never traveled, and whose desire all his life has been to ascend mont blanc, but the guide-in-chief rather insolently refused to sell me one. i was very much offended. i said i did not propose to be discriminated against on the account of my nationality; that he had just sold a diploma to this german gentleman, and my money was a good as his; i would see to it that he couldn't keep his shop for germans and deny his produce to americans; i would have his license taken away from him at the dropping of a handkerchief; if france refused to break him, i would make an international matter of it and bring on a war; the soil should be drenched with blood; and not only that, but i would set up an opposition show and sell diplomas at half price. for two cents i would have done these things, too; but nobody offered me two cents. i tried to move that german's feelings, but it could not be done; he would not give me his diploma, neither would he sell it to me. i told him my friend was sick and could not come himself, but he said he did not care a verdammtes pfennig, he wanted his diploma for himself--did i suppose he was going to risk his neck for that thing and then give it to a sick stranger? indeed he wouldn't, so he wouldn't. i resolved, then, that i would do all i could to injure mont blanc. in the record-book was a list of all the fatal accidents which happened on the mountain. it began with the one in 1820 when the russian dr. hamel's three guides were lost in a crevice of the glacier, and it recorded the delivery of the remains in the valley by the slow-moving glacier forty-one years later. the latest catastrophe bore the date 1877. we stepped out and roved about the village awhile. in front of the little church was a monument to the memory of the bold guide jacques balmat, the first man who ever stood upon the summit of mont blanc. he made that wild trip solitary and alone. he accomplished the ascent a number of times afterward. a stretch of nearly half a century lay between his first ascent and his last one. at the ripe old age of seventy-two he was climbing around a corner of a lofty precipice of the pic du midi--nobody with him--when he slipped and fell. so he died in the harness. he had grown very avaricious in his old age, and used to go off stealthily to hunt for non-existent and impossible gold among those perilous peaks and precipices. he was on a quest of that kind when he lost his life. there was a statue to him, and another to de saussure, in the hall of our hotel, and a metal plate on the door of a room upstairs bore an inscription to the effect that that room had been occupied by albert smith. balmat and de saussure discovered mont blanc--so to speak--but it was smith who made it a paying property. his articles in blackwood and his lectures on mont blanc in london advertised it and made people as anxious to see it as if it owed them money. as we strolled along the road we looked up and saw a red signal-light glowing in the darkness of the mountainside. it seemed but a trifling way up--perhaps a hundred yards, a climb of ten minutes. it was a lucky piece of sagacity in us that we concluded to stop a man whom we met and get a light for our pipes from him instead of continuing the climb to that lantern to get a light, as had been our purpose. the man said that that lantern was on the grands mulets, some sixty-five hundred feet above the valley! i know by our riffelberg experience, that it would have taken us a good part of a week to go up there. i would sooner not smoke at all, than take all that trouble for a light. even in the daytime the foreshadowing effect of this mountain's close proximity creates curious deceptions. for instance, one sees with the naked eye a cabin up there beside the glacier, and a little above and beyond he sees the spot where that red light was located; he thinks he could throw a stone from the one place to the other. but he couldn't, for the difference between the two altitudes is more than three thousand feet. it looks impossible, from below, that this can be true, but it is true, nevertheless. while strolling around, we kept the run of the moon all the time, and we still kept an eye on her after we got back to the hotel portico. i had a theory that the gravitation of refraction, being subsidiary to atmospheric compensation, the refrangibility of the earth's surface would emphasize this effect in regions where great mountain ranges occur, and possibly so even-handed impact the odic and idyllic forces together, the one upon the other, as to prevent the moon from rising higher than 12,200 feet above sea-level. this daring theory had been received with frantic scorn by some of my fellow-scientists, and with an eager silence by others. among the former i may mention prof. h----y; and among the latter prof. t----l. such is professional jealousy; a scientist will never show any kindness for a theory which he did not start himself. there is no feeling of brotherhood among these people. indeed, they always resent it when i call them brother. to show how far their ungenerosity can carry them, i will state that i offered to let prof. h----y publish my great theory as his own discovery; i even begged him to do it; i even proposed to print it myself as his theory. instead of thanking me, he said that if i tried to fasten that theory on him he would sue me for slander. i was going to offer it to mr. darwin, whom i understood to be a man without prejudices, but it occurred to me that perhaps he would not be interested in it since it did not concern heraldry. but i am glad now, that i was forced to father my intrepid theory myself, for, on the night of which i am writing, it was triumphantly justified and established. mont blanc is nearly sixteen thousand feet high; he hid the moon utterly; near him is a peak which is 12,216 feet high; the moon slid along behind the pinnacles, and when she approached that one i watched her with intense interest, for my reputation as a scientist must stand or fall by its decision. i cannot describe the emotions which surged like tidal waves through my breast when i saw the moon glide behind that lofty needle and pass it by without exposing more than two feet four inches of her upper rim above it; i was secure, then. i knew she could rise no higher, and i was right. she sailed behind all the peaks and never succeeded in hoisting her disk above a single one of them. while the moon was behind one of those sharp fingers, its shadow was flung athwart the vacant heavens--a long, slanting, clean-cut, dark ray--with a streaming and energetic suggestion of force about it, such as the ascending jet of water from a powerful fire-engine affords. it was curious to see a good strong shadow of an earthly object cast upon so intangible a field as the atmosphere. we went to bed, at last, and went quickly to sleep, but i woke up, after about three hours, with throbbing temples, and a head which was physically sore, outside and in. i was dazed, dreamy, wretched, seedy, unrefreshed. i recognized the occasion of all this: it was that torrent. in the mountain villages of switzerland, and along the roads, one has always the roar of the torrent in his ears. he imagines it is music, and he thinks poetic things about it; he lies in his comfortable bed and is lulled to sleep by it. but by and by he begins to notice that his head is very sore--he cannot account for it; in solitudes where the profoundest silence reigns, he notices a sullen, distant, continuous roar in his ears, which is like what he would experience if he had sea-shells pressed against them--he cannot account for it; he is drowsy and absent-minded; there is no tenacity to his mind, he cannot keep hold of a thought and follow it out; if he sits down to write, his vocabulary is empty, no suitable words will come, he forgets what he started to do, and remains there, pen in hand, head tilted up, eyes closed, listening painfully to the muffled roar of a distant train in his ears; in his soundest sleep the strain continues, he goes on listening, always listening intently, anxiously, and wakes at last, harassed, irritable, unrefreshed. he cannot manage to account for these things. day after day he feels as if he had spent his nights in a sleeping-car. it actually takes him weeks to find out that it is those persecuting torrents that have been making all the mischief. it is time for him to get out of switzerland, then, for as soon as he has discovered the cause, the misery is magnified several fold. the roar of the torrent is maddening, then, for his imagination is assisting; the physical pain it inflicts is exquisite. when he finds he is approaching one of those streams, his dread is so lively that he is disposed to fly the track and avoid the implacable foe. eight or nine months after the distress of the torrents had departed from me, the roar and thunder of the streets of paris brought it all back again. i moved to the sixth story of the hotel to hunt for peace. about midnight the noises dulled away, and i was sinking to sleep, when i heard a new and curious sound; i listened: evidently some joyous lunatic was softly dancing a "double shuffle" in the room over my head. i had to wait for him to get through, of course. five long, long minutes he smoothly shuffled away--a pause followed, then something fell with a thump on the floor. i said to myself "there--he is pulling off his boots--thank heavens he is done." another slight pause--he went to shuffling again! i said to myself, "is he trying to see what he can do with only one boot on?" presently came another pause and another thump on the floor. i said "good, he has pulled off his other boot--now he is done." but he wasn't. the next moment he was shuffling again. i said, "confound him, he is at it in his slippers!" after a little came that same old pause, and right after it that thump on the floor once more. i said, "hang him, he had on two pair of boots!" for an hour that magician went on shuffling and pulling off boots till he had shed as many as twenty-five pair, and i was hovering on the verge of lunacy. i got my gun and stole up there. the fellow was in the midst of an acre of sprawling boots, and he had a boot in his hand, shuffling it--no, i mean polishing it. the mystery was explained. he hadn't been dancing. he was the "boots" of the hotel, and was attending to business. chapter xlix [i scale mont blanc--by telescope] after breakfast, that next morning in chamonix, we went out in the yard and watched the gangs of excursioning tourists arriving and departing with their mules and guides and porters; then we took a look through the telescope at the snowy hump of mont blanc. it was brilliant with sunshine, and the vast smooth bulge seemed hardly five hundred yards away. with the naked eye we could dimly make out the house at the pierre pointue, which is located by the side of the great glacier, and is more than three thousand feet above the level of the valley; but with the telescope we could see all its details. while i looked, a woman rode by the house on a mule, and i saw her with sharp distinctness; i could have described her dress. i saw her nod to the people of the house, and rein up her mule, and put her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun. i was not used to telescopes; in fact, i had never looked through a good one before; it seemed incredible to me that this woman could be so far away. i was satisfied that i could see all these details with my naked eye; but when i tried it, that mule and those vivid people had wholly vanished, and the house itself was become small and vague. i tried the telescope again, and again everything was vivid. the strong black shadows of the mule and the woman were flung against the side of the house, and i saw the mule's silhouette wave its ears. the telescopulist--or the telescopulariat--i do not know which is right--said a party were making a grand ascent, and would come in sight on the remote upper heights, presently; so we waited to observe this performance. presently i had a superb idea. i wanted to stand with a party on the summit of mont blanc, merely to be able to say i had done it, and i believed the telescope could set me within seven feet of the uppermost man. the telescoper assured me that it could. i then asked him how much i owed him for as far as i had got? he said, one franc. i asked him how much it would cost to make the entire ascent? three francs. i at once determined to make the entire ascent. but first i inquired if there was any danger? he said no--not by telescope; said he had taken a great many parties to the summit, and never lost a man. i asked what he would charge to let my agent go with me, together with such guides and porters as might be necessary. he said he would let harris go for two francs; and that unless we were unusually timid, he should consider guides and porters unnecessary; it was not customary to take them, when going by telescope, for they were rather an encumbrance than a help. he said that the party now on the mountain were approaching the most difficult part, and if we hurried we should overtake them within ten minutes, and could then join them and have the benefit of their guides and porters without their knowledge, and without expense to us. i then said we would start immediately. i believe i said it calmly, though i was conscious of a shudder and of a paling cheek, in view of the nature of the exploit i was so unreflectingly engaged in. but the old daredevil spirit was upon me, and i said that as i had committed myself i would not back down; i would ascend mont blanc if it cost me my life. i told the man to slant his machine in the proper direction and let us be off. harris was afraid and did not want to go, but i heartened him up and said i would hold his hand all the way; so he gave his consent, though he trembled a little at first. i took a last pathetic look upon the pleasant summer scene about me, then boldly put my eye to the glass and prepared to mount among the grim glaciers and the everlasting snows. we took our way carefully and cautiously across the great glacier des bossons, over yawning and terrific crevices and among imposing crags and buttresses of ice which were fringed with icicles of gigantic proportions. the desert of ice that stretched far and wide about us was wild and desolate beyond description, and the perils which beset us were so great that at times i was minded to turn back. but i pulled my pluck together and pushed on. we passed the glacier safely and began to mount the steeps beyond, with great alacrity. when we were seven minutes out from the starting-point, we reached an altitude where the scene took a new aspect; an apparently limitless continent of gleaming snow was tilted heavenward before our faces. as my eye followed that awful acclivity far away up into the remote skies, it seemed to me that all i had ever seen before of sublimity and magnitude was small and insignificant compared to this. we rested a moment, and then began to mount with speed. within three minutes we caught sight of the party ahead of us, and stopped to observe them. they were toiling up a long, slanting ridge of snow--twelve persons, roped together some fifteen feet apart, marching in single file, and strongly marked against the clear blue sky. one was a woman. we could see them lift their feet and put them down; we saw them swing their alpenstocks forward in unison, like so many pendulums, and then bear their weight upon them; we saw the lady wave her handkerchief. they dragged themselves upward in a worn and weary way, for they had been climbing steadily from the grand mulets, on the glacier des bossons, since three in the morning, and it was eleven, now. we saw them sink down in the snow and rest, and drink something from a bottle. after a while they moved on, and as they approached the final short dash of the home-stretch we closed up on them and joined them. presently we all stood together on the summit! what a view was spread out below! away off under the northwestern horizon rolled the silent billows of the farnese oberland, their snowy crests glinting softly in the subdued lights of distance; in the north rose the giant form of the wobblehorn, draped from peak to shoulder in sable thunder-clouds; beyond him, to the right, stretched the grand processional summits of the cisalpine cordillera, drowned in a sensuous haze; to the east loomed the colossal masses of the yodelhorn, the fuddelhorn, and the dinnerhorn, their cloudless summits flashing white and cold in the sun; beyond them shimmered the faint far line of the ghauts of jubbelpore and the aiguilles des alleghenies; in the south towered the smoking peak of popocatapetl and the unapproachable altitudes of the peerless scrabblehorn; in the west-south the stately range of the himalayas lay dreaming in a purple gloom; and thence all around the curving horizon the eye roved over a troubled sea of sun-kissed alps, and noted, here and there, the noble proportions and the soaring domes of the bottlehorn, and the saddlehorn, and the shovelhorn, and the powderhorn, all bathed in the glory of noon and mottled with softly gliding blots, the shadows flung from drifting clouds. overcome by the scene, we all raised a triumphant, tremendous shout, in unison. a startled man at my elbow said: "confound you, what do you yell like that for, right here in the street?" that brought me down to chamonix, like a flirt. i gave that man some spiritual advice and disposed of him, and then paid the telescope man his full fee, and said that we were charmed with the trip and would remain down, and not reascend and require him to fetch us down by telescope. this pleased him very much, for of course we could have stepped back to the summit and put him to the trouble of bringing us home if we wanted to. i judged we could get diplomas, now, anyhow; so we went after them, but the chief guide put us off, with one pretext or another, during all the time we stayed in chamonix, and we ended by never getting them at all. so much for his prejudice against people's nationality. however, we worried him enough to make him remember us and our ascent for some time. he even said, once, that he wished there was a lunatic asylum in chamonix. this shows that he really had fears that we were going to drive him mad. it was what we intended to do, but lack of time defeated it. i cannot venture to advise the reader one way or the other, as to ascending mont blanc. i say only this: if he is at all timid, the enjoyments of the trip will hardly make up for the hardships and sufferings he will have to endure. but, if he has good nerve, youth, health, and a bold, firm will, and could leave his family comfortably provided for in case the worst happened, he would find the ascent a wonderful experience, and the view from the top a vision to dream about, and tell about, and recall with exultation all the days of his life. while i do not advise such a person to attempt the ascent, i do not advise him against it. but if he elects to attempt it, let him be warily careful of two things: chose a calm, clear day; and do not pay the telescope man in advance. there are dark stories of his getting advance payers on the summit and then leaving them there to rot. a frightful tragedy was once witnessed through the chamonix telescopes. think of questions and answers like these, on an inquest: coroner. you saw deceased lose his life? witness. i did. c. where was he, at the time? w. close to the summit of mont blanc. c. where were you? w. in the main street of chamonix. c. what was the distance between you? w. a little over five miles, as the bird flies. this accident occurred in 1866, a year and a month after the disaster on the matterhorn. three adventurous english gentlemen, [1] of great experience in mountain-climbing, made up their minds to ascend mont blanc without guides or porters. all endeavors to dissuade them from their project failed. powerful telescopes are numerous in chamonix. these huge brass tubes, mounted on their scaffoldings and pointed skyward from every choice vantage-ground, have the formidable look of artillery, and give the town the general aspect of getting ready to repel a charge of angels. the reader may easily believe that the telescopes had plenty of custom on that august morning in 1866, for everybody knew of the dangerous undertaking which was on foot, and all had fears that misfortune would result. all the morning the tubes remained directed toward the mountain heights, each with its anxious group around it; but the white deserts were vacant. 1. sir george young and his brothers james and albert. at last, toward eleven o'clock, the people who were looking through the telescopes cried out "there they are!"--and sure enough, far up, on the loftiest terraces of the grand plateau, the three pygmies appeared, climbing with remarkable vigor and spirit. they disappeared in the "corridor," and were lost to sight during an hour. then they reappeared, and were presently seen standing together upon the extreme summit of mont blanc. so, all was well. they remained a few minutes on that highest point of land in europe, a target for all the telescopes, and were then seen to begin descent. suddenly all three vanished. an instant after, they appeared again, two thousand feet below! evidently, they had tripped and been shot down an almost perpendicular slope of ice to a point where it joined the border of the upper glacier. naturally, the distant witness supposed they were now looking upon three corpses; so they could hardly believe their eyes when they presently saw two of the men rise to their feet and bend over the third. during two hours and a half they watched the two busying themselves over the extended form of their brother, who seemed entirely inert. chamonix's affairs stood still; everybody was in the street, all interest was centered upon what was going on upon that lofty and isolated stage five miles away. finally the two--one of them walking with great difficulty--were seen to begin descent, abandoning the third, who was no doubt lifeless. their movements were followed, step by step, until they reached the "corridor" and disappeared behind its ridge. before they had had time to traverse the "corridor" and reappear, twilight was come, and the power of the telescope was at an end. the survivors had a most perilous journey before them in the gathering darkness, for they must get down to the grands mulets before they would find a safe stopping-place--a long and tedious descent, and perilous enough even in good daylight. the oldest guides expressed the opinion that they could not succeed; that all the chances were that they would lose their lives. yet those brave men did succeed. they reached the grands mulets in safety. even the fearful shock which their nerves had sustained was not sufficient to overcome their coolness and courage. it would appear from the official account that they were threading their way down through those dangers from the closing in of twilight until two o'clock in the morning, or later, because the rescuing party from chamonix reached the grand mulets about three in the morning and moved thence toward the scene of the disaster under the leadership of sir george young, "who had only just arrived." after having been on his feet twenty-four hours, in the exhausting work of mountain-climbing, sir george began the reascent at the head of the relief party of six guides, to recover the corpse of his brother. this was considered a new imprudence, as the number was too few for the service required. another relief party presently arrived at the cabin on the grands mulets and quartered themselves there to await events. ten hours after sir george's departure toward the summit, this new relief were still scanning the snowy altitudes above them from their own high perch among the ice deserts ten thousand feet above the level of the sea, but the whole forenoon had passed without a glimpse of any living thing appearing up there. this was alarming. half a dozen of their number set out, then early in the afternoon, to seek and succor sir george and his guides. the persons remaining at the cabin saw these disappear, and then ensued another distressing wait. four hours passed, without tidings. then at five o'clock another relief, consisting of three guides, set forward from the cabin. they carried food and cordials for the refreshment of their predecessors; they took lanterns with them, too; night was coming on, and to make matters worse, a fine, cold rain had begun to fall. at the same hour that these three began their dangerous ascent, the official guide-in-chief of the mont blanc region undertook the dangerous descent to chamonix, all alone, to get reinforcements. however, a couple of hours later, at 7 p.m., the anxious solicitude came to an end, and happily. a bugle note was heard, and a cluster of black specks was distinguishable against the snows of the upper heights. the watchers counted these specks eagerly--fourteen--nobody was missing. an hour and a half later they were all safe under the roof of the cabin. they had brought the corpse with them. sir george young tarried there but a few minutes, and then began the long and troublesome descent from the cabin to chamonix. he probably reached there about two or three o'clock in the morning, after having been afoot among the rocks and glaciers during two days and two nights. his endurance was equal to his daring. the cause of the unaccountable delay of sir george and the relief parties among the heights where the disaster had happened was a thick fog--or, partly that and partly the slow and difficult work of conveying the dead body down the perilous steeps. the corpse, upon being viewed at the inquest, showed no bruises, and it was some time before the surgeons discovered that the neck was broken. one of the surviving brothers had sustained some unimportant injuries, but the other had suffered no hurt at all. how these men could fall two thousand feet, almost perpendicularly, and live afterward, is a most strange and unaccountable thing. a great many women have made the ascent of mont blanc. an english girl, miss stratton, conceived the daring idea, two or three years ago, of attempting the ascent in the middle of winter. she tried it--and she succeeded. moreover, she froze two of her fingers on the way up, she fell in love with her guide on the summit, and she married him when she got to the bottom again. there is nothing in romance, in the way of a striking "situation," which can beat this love scene in midheaven on an isolated ice-crest with the thermometer at zero and an artic gale blowing. the first woman who ascended mont blanc was a girl aged twenty-two--mlle. maria paradis--1809. nobody was with her but her sweetheart, and he was not a guide. the sex then took a rest for about thirty years, when a mlle. d'angeville made the ascent --1838. in chamonix i picked up a rude old lithograph of that day which pictured her "in the act." however, i value it less as a work of art than as a fashion-plate. miss d'angeville put on a pair of men's pantaloons to climb it, which was wise; but she cramped their utility by adding her petticoat, which was idiotic. one of the mournfulest calamities which men's disposition to climb dangerous mountains has resulted in, happened on mont blanc in september 1870. m. d'arve tells the story briefly in his histoire du mont blanc. in the next chapter i will copy its chief features. chapter xlv a catastrophe which cost eleven lives on the 5th of september, 1870, a caravan of eleven persons departed from chamonix to make the ascent of mont blanc. three of the party were tourists; messrs. randall and bean, americans, and mr. george corkindale, a scotch gentleman; there were three guides and five porters. the cabin on the grands mulets was reached that day; the ascent was resumed early the next morning, september 6th. the day was fine and clear, and the movements of the party were observed through the telescopes of chamonix; at two o'clock in the afternoon they were seen to reach the summit. a few minutes later they were seen making the first steps of the descent; then a cloud closed around them and hid them from view. eight hours passed, the cloud still remained, night came, no one had returned to the grands mulets. sylvain couttet, keeper of the cabin there, suspected a misfortune, and sent down to the valley for help. a detachment of guides went up, but by the time they had made the tedious trip and reached the cabin, a raging storm had set in. they had to wait; nothing could be attempted in such a tempest. the wild storm lasted more than a week, without ceasing; but on the 17th, couttet, with several guides, left the cabin and succeeded in making the ascent. in the snowy wastes near the summit they came upon five bodies, lying upon their sides in a reposeful attitude which suggested that possibly they had fallen asleep there, while exhausted with fatigue and hunger and benumbed with cold, and never knew when death stole upon them. couttet moved a few steps further and discovered five more bodies. the eleventh corpse--that of a porter--was not found, although diligent search was made for it. in the pocket of mr. bean, one of the americans, was found a note-book in which had been penciled some sentences which admit us, in flesh and spirit, as it were, to the presence of these men during their last hours of life, and to the grisly horrors which their fading vision looked upon and their failing consciousness took cognizance of: tuesday, sept. 6. i have made the ascent of mont blanc, with ten persons--eight guides, and mr. corkindale and mr. randall. we reached the summit at half past 2. immediately after quitting it, we were enveloped in clouds of snow. we passed the night in a grotto hollowed in the snow, which afforded us but poor shelter, and i was ill all night. sept. 7--morning. the cold is excessive. the snow falls heavily and without interruption. the guides take no rest. evening. my dear hessie, we have been two days on mont blanc, in the midst of a terrible hurricane of snow, we have lost our way, and are in a hole scooped in the snow, at an altitude of 15,000 feet. i have no longer any hope of descending. they had wandered around, and around, in the blinding snow-storm, hopelessly lost, in a space only a hundred yards square; and when cold and fatigue vanquished them at last, they scooped their cave and lay down there to die by inches, unaware that five steps more would have brought them into the truth path. they were so near to life and safety as that, and did not suspect it. the thought of this gives the sharpest pang that the tragic story conveys. the author of the histoire du mont blanc introduced the closing sentences of mr. bean's pathetic record thus: "here the characters are large and unsteady; the hand which traces them is become chilled and torpid; but the spirit survives, and the faith and resignation of the dying man are expressed with a sublime simplicity." perhaps this note-book will be found and sent to you. we have nothing to eat, my feet are already frozen, and i am exhausted; i have strength to write only a few words more. i have left means for c's education; i know you will employ them wisely. i die with faith in god, and with loving thoughts of you. farewell to all. we shall meet again, in heaven. ... i think of you always. it is the way of the alps to deliver death to their victims with a merciful swiftness, but here the rule failed. these men suffered the bitterest death that has been recorded in the history of those mountains, freighted as that history is with grisly tragedies. chapter xlvi [meeting a hog on a precipice] mr. harris and i took some guides and porters and ascended to the hotel des pyramides, which is perched on the high moraine which borders the glacier des bossons. the road led sharply uphill, all the way, through grass and flowers and woods, and was a pleasant walk, barring the fatigue of the climb. from the hotel we could view the huge glacier at very close range. after a rest we followed down a path which had been made in the steep inner frontage of the moraine, and stepped upon the glacier itself. one of the shows of the place was a tunnel-like cavern, which had been hewn in the glacier. the proprietor of this tunnel took candles and conducted us into it. it was three or four feet wide and about six feet high. its walls of pure and solid ice emitted a soft and rich blue light that produced a lovely effect, and suggested enchanted caves, and that sort of thing. when we had proceeded some yards and were entering darkness, we turned about and had a dainty sunlit picture of distant woods and heights framed in the strong arch of the tunnel and seen through the tender blue radiance of the tunnel's atmosphere. the cavern was nearly a hundred yards long, and when we reached its inner limit the proprietor stepped into a branch tunnel with his candles and left us buried in the bowels of the glacier, and in pitch-darkness. we judged his purpose was murder and robbery; so we got out our matches and prepared to sell our lives as dearly as possible by setting the glacier on fire if the worst came to the worst--but we soon perceived that this man had changed his mind; he began to sing, in a deep, melodious voice, and woke some curious and pleasing echoes. by and by he came back and pretended that that was what he had gone behind there for. we believed as much of that as we wanted to. thus our lives had been once more in imminent peril, but by the exercise of the swift sagacity and cool courage which had saved us so often, we had added another escape to the long list. the tourist should visit that ice-cavern, by all means, for it is well worth the trouble; but i would advise him to go only with a strong and well-armed force. i do not consider artillery necessary, yet it would not be unadvisable to take it along, if convenient. the journey, going and coming, is about three miles and a half, three of which are on level ground. we made it in less than a day, but i would counsel the unpracticed--if not pressed for time--to allow themselves two. nothing is gained in the alps by over-exertion; nothing is gained by crowding two days' work into one for the poor sake of being able to boast of the exploit afterward. it will be found much better, in the long run, to do the thing in two days, and then subtract one of them from the narrative. this saves fatigue, and does not injure the narrative. all the more thoughtful among the alpine tourists do this. we now called upon the guide-in-chief, and asked for a squadron of guides and porters for the ascent of the montanvert. this idiot glared at us, and said: "you don't need guides and porters to go to the montanvert." "what do we need, then?" "such as you?--an ambulance!" i was so stung by this brutal remark that i took my custom elsewhere. betimes, next morning, we had reached an altitude of five thousand feet above the level of the sea. here we camped and breakfasted. there was a cabin there--the spot is called the caillet--and a spring of ice-cold water. on the door of the cabin was a sign, in french, to the effect that "one may here see a living chamois for fifty centimes." we did not invest; what we wanted was to see a dead one. a little after noon we ended the ascent and arrived at the new hotel on the montanvert, and had a view of six miles, right up the great glacier, the famous mer de glace. at this point it is like a sea whose deep swales and long, rolling swells have been caught in mid-movement and frozen solid; but further up it is broken up into wildly tossing billows of ice. we descended a ticklish path in the steep side of the moraine, and invaded the glacier. there were tourists of both sexes scattered far and wide over it, everywhere, and it had the festive look of a skating-rink. the empress josephine came this far, once. she ascended the montanvert in 1810--but not alone; a small army of men preceded her to clear the path--and carpet it, perhaps--and she followed, under the protection of sixty-eight guides. her successor visited chamonix later, but in far different style. it was seven weeks after the first fall of the empire, and poor marie louise, ex-empress was a fugitive. she came at night, and in a storm, with only two attendants, and stood before a peasant's hut, tired, bedraggled, soaked with rain, "the red print of her lost crown still girdling her brow," and implored admittance--and was refused! a few days before, the adulations and applauses of a nation were sounding in her ears, and now she was come to this! we crossed the mer de glace in safety, but we had misgivings. the crevices in the ice yawned deep and blue and mysterious, and it made one nervous to traverse them. the huge round waves of ice were slippery and difficult to climb, and the chances of tripping and sliding down them and darting into a crevice were too many to be comfortable. in the bottom of a deep swale between two of the biggest of the ice-waves, we found a fraud who pretended to be cutting steps to insure the safety of tourists. he was "soldiering" when we came upon him, but he hopped up and chipped out a couple of steps about big enough for a cat, and charged us a franc or two for it. then he sat down again, to doze till the next party should come along. he had collected blackmail from two or three hundred people already, that day, but had not chipped out ice enough to impair the glacier perceptibly. i have heard of a good many soft sinecures, but it seems to me that keeping toll-bridge on a glacier is the softest one i have encountered yet. that was a blazing hot day, and it brought a persistent and persecuting thirst with it. what an unspeakable luxury it was to slake that thirst with the pure and limpid ice-water of the glacier! down the sides of every great rib of pure ice poured limpid rills in gutters carved by their own attrition; better still, wherever a rock had lain, there was now a bowl-shaped hole, with smooth white sides and bottom of ice, and this bowl was brimming with water of such absolute clearness that the careless observer would not see it at all, but would think the bowl was empty. these fountains had such an alluring look that i often stretched myself out when i was not thirsty and dipped my face in and drank till my teeth ached. everywhere among the swiss mountains we had at hand the blessing--not to be found in europe except in the mountains--of water capable of quenching thirst. everywhere in the swiss highlands brilliant little rills of exquisitely cold water went dancing along by the roadsides, and my comrade and i were always drinking and always delivering our deep gratitude. but in europe everywhere except in the mountains, the water is flat and insipid beyond the power of words to describe. it is served lukewarm; but no matter, ice could not help it; it is incurably flat, incurably insipid. it is only good to wash with; i wonder it doesn't occur to the average inhabitant to try it for that. in europe the people say contemptuously, "nobody drinks water here." indeed, they have a sound and sufficient reason. in many places they even have what may be called prohibitory reasons. in paris and munich, for instance, they say, "don't drink the water, it is simply poison." either america is healthier than europe, notwithstanding her "deadly" indulgence in ice-water, or she does not keep the run of her death-rate as sharply as europe does. i think we do keep up the death statistics accurately; and if we do, our cities are healthier than the cities of europe. every month the german government tabulates the death-rate of the world and publishes it. i scrap-booked these reports during several months, and it was curious to see how regular and persistently each city repeated its same death-rate month after month. the tables might as well have been stereotyped, they varied so little. these tables were based upon weekly reports showing the average of deaths in each 1,000 population for a year. munich was always present with her 33 deaths in each 1,000 of her population (yearly average), chicago was as constant with her 15 or 17, dublin with her 48--and so on. only a few american cities appear in these tables, but they are scattered so widely over the country that they furnish a good general average of city health in the united states; and i think it will be granted that our towns and villages are healthier than our cities. here is the average of the only american cities reported in the german tables: chicago, deaths in 1,000 population annually, 16; philadelphia, 18; st. louis, 18; san francisco, 19; new york (the dublin of america), 23. see how the figures jump up, as soon as one arrives at the transatlantic list: paris, 27; glasgow, 27; london, 28; vienna, 28; augsburg, 28; braunschweig, 28; königsberg, 29; cologne, 29; dresden, 29; hamburg, 29; berlin, 30; bombay, 30; warsaw, 31; breslau, 31; odessa, 32; munich, 33; strasburg, 33, pesth, 35; cassel, 35; lisbon, 36; liverpool, 36; prague, 37; madras, 37; bucharest, 39; st. petersburg, 40; trieste, 40; alexandria (egypt), 43; dublin, 48; calcutta, 55. edinburgh is as healthy as new york--23; but there is no city in the entire list which is healthier, except frankfort-on-the-main--20. but frankfort is not as healthy as chicago, san francisco, st. louis, or philadelphia. perhaps a strict average of the world might develop the fact that where one in 1,000 of america's population dies, two in 1,000 of the other populations of the earth succumb. i do not like to make insinuations, but i do think the above statistics darkly suggest that these people over here drink this detestable water "on the sly." we climbed the moraine on the opposite side of the glacier, and then crept along its sharp ridge a hundred yards or so, in pretty constant danger of a tumble to the glacier below. the fall would have been only one hundred feet, but it would have closed me out as effectually as one thousand, therefore i respected the distance accordingly, and was glad when the trip was done. a moraine is an ugly thing to assault head-first. at a distance it looks like an endless grave of fine sand, accurately shaped and nicely smoothed; but close by, it is found to be made mainly of rough boulders of all sizes, from that of a man's head to that of a cottage. by and by we came to the mauvais pas, or the villainous road, to translate it feelingly. it was a breakneck path around the face of a precipice forty or fifty feet high, and nothing to hang on to but some iron railings. i got along, slowly, safely, and uncomfortably, and finally reached the middle. my hopes began to rise a little, but they were quickly blighted; for there i met a hog--a long-nosed, bristly fellow, that held up his snout and worked his nostrils at me inquiringly. a hog on a pleasure excursion in switzerland--think of it! it is striking and unusual; a body might write a poem about it. he could not retreat, if he had been disposed to do it. it would have been foolish to stand upon our dignity in a place where there was hardly room to stand upon our feet, so we did nothing of the sort. there were twenty or thirty ladies and gentlemen behind us; we all turned about and went back, and the hog followed behind. the creature did not seem set up by what he had done; he had probably done it before. we reached the restaurant on the height called the chapeau at four in the afternoon. it was a memento-factory, and the stock was large, cheap, and varied. i bought the usual paper-cutter to remember the place by, and had mont blanc, the mauvais pas, and the rest of the region branded on my alpenstock; then we descended to the valley and walked home without being tied together. this was not dangerous, for the valley was five miles wide, and quite level. we reached the hotel before nine o'clock. next morning we left for geneva on top of the diligence, under shelter of a gay awning. if i remember rightly, there were more than twenty people up there. it was so high that the ascent was made by ladder. the huge vehicle was full everywhere, inside and out. five other diligences left at the same time, all full. we had engaged our seats two days beforehand, to make sure, and paid the regulation price, five dollars each; but the rest of the company were wiser; they had trusted baedeker, and waited; consequently some of them got their seats for one or two dollars. baedeker knows all about hotels, railway and diligence companies, and speaks his mind freely. he is a trustworthy friend of the traveler. we never saw mont blanc at his best until we were many miles away; then he lifted his majestic proportions high into the heavens, all white and cold and solemn, and made the rest of the world seem little and plebeian, and cheap and trivial. as he passed out of sight at last, an old englishman settled himself in his seat and said: "well, i am satisfied, i have seen the principal features of swiss scenery--mont blanc and the goiter--now for home!" chapter xlvii [queer european manners] we spent a few pleasant restful days at geneva, that delightful city where accurate time-pieces are made for all the rest of the world, but whose own clocks never give the correct time of day by any accident. geneva is filled with pretty shops, and the shops are filled with the most enticing gimcrackery, but if one enters one of these places he is at once pounced upon, and followed up, and so persecuted to buy this, that, and the other thing, that he is very grateful to get out again, and is not at all apt to repeat his experiment. the shopkeepers of the smaller sort, in geneva, are as troublesome and persistent as are the salesmen of that monster hive in paris, the grands magasins du louvre--an establishment where ill-mannered pestering, pursuing, and insistence have been reduced to a science. in geneva, prices in the smaller shops are very elastic--that is another bad feature. i was looking in at a window at a very pretty string of beads, suitable for a child. i was only admiring them; i had no use for them; i hardly ever wear beads. the shopwoman came out and offered them to me for thirty-five francs. i said it was cheap, but i did not need them. "ah, but monsieur, they are so beautiful!" i confessed it, but said they were not suitable for one of my age and simplicity of character. she darted in and brought them out and tried to force them into my hands, saying: "ah, but only see how lovely they are! surely monsieur will take them; monsieur shall have them for thirty francs. there, i have said it--it is a loss, but one must live." i dropped my hands, and tried to move her to respect my unprotected situation. but no, she dangled the beads in the sun before my face, exclaiming, "ah, monsieur cannot resist them!" she hung them on my coat button, folded her hand resignedly, and said: "gone,--and for thirty francs, the lovely things--it is incredible!--but the good god will sanctify the sacrifice to me." i removed them gently, returned them, and walked away, shaking my head and smiling a smile of silly embarrassment while the passers-by halted to observe. the woman leaned out of her door, shook the beads, and screamed after me: "monsieur shall have them for twenty-eight!" i shook my head. "twenty-seven! it is a cruel loss, it is ruin--but take them, only take them." i still retreated, still wagging my head. "mon dieu, they shall even go for twenty-six! there, i have said it. come!" i wagged another negative. a nurse and a little english girl had been near me, and were following me, now. the shopwoman ran to the nurse, thrust the beads into her hands, and said: "monsieur shall have them for twenty-five! take them to the hotel--he shall send me the money tomorrow--next day--when he likes." then to the child: "when thy father sends me the money, come thou also, my angel, and thou shall have something oh so pretty!" i was thus providentially saved. the nurse refused the beads squarely and firmly, and that ended the matter. the "sights" of geneva are not numerous. i made one attempt to hunt up the houses once inhabited by those two disagreeable people, rousseau and calvin, but i had no success. then i concluded to go home. i found it was easier to propose to do that than to do it; for that town is a bewildering place. i got lost in a tangle of narrow and crooked streets, and stayed lost for an hour or two. finally i found a street which looked somewhat familiar, and said to myself, "now i am at home, i judge." but i was wrong; this was "hell street." presently i found another place which had a familiar look, and said to myself, "now i am at home, sure." it was another error. this was "purgatory street." after a little i said, "now i've got the right place, anyway ... no, this is 'paradise street'; i'm further from home than i was in the beginning." those were queer names--calvin was the author of them, likely. "hell" and "purgatory" fitted those two streets like a glove, but the "paradise" appeared to be sarcastic. i came out on the lake-front, at last, and then i knew where i was. i was walking along before the glittering jewelry shops when i saw a curious performance. a lady passed by, and a trim dandy lounged across the walk in such an apparently carefully timed way as to bring himself exactly in front of her when she got to him; he made no offer to step out of the way; he did not apologize; he did not even notice her. she had to stop still and let him lounge by. i wondered if he had done that piece of brutality purposely. he strolled to a chair and seated himself at a small table; two or three other males were sitting at similar tables sipping sweetened water. i waited; presently a youth came by, and this fellow got up and served him the same trick. still, it did not seem possible that any one could do such a thing deliberately. to satisfy my curiosity i went around the block, and, sure enough, as i approached, at a good round speed, he got up and lounged lazily across my path, fouling my course exactly at the right moment to receive all my weight. this proved that his previous performances had not been accidental, but intentional. i saw that dandy's curious game played afterward, in paris, but not for amusement; not with a motive of any sort, indeed, but simply from a selfish indifference to other people's comfort and rights. one does not see it as frequently in paris as he might expect to, for there the law says, in effect, "it is the business of the weak to get out of the way of the strong." we fine a cabman if he runs over a citizen; paris fines the citizen for being run over. at least so everybody says--but i saw something which caused me to doubt; i saw a horseman run over an old woman one day--the police arrested him and took him away. that looked as if they meant to punish him. it will not do for me to find merit in american manners--for are they not the standing butt for the jests of critical and polished europe? still, i must venture to claim one little matter of superiority in our manners; a lady may traverse our streets all day, going and coming as she chooses, and she will never be molested by any man; but if a lady, unattended, walks abroad in the streets of london, even at noonday, she will be pretty likely to be accosted and insulted--and not by drunken sailors, but by men who carry the look and wear the dress of gentlemen. it is maintained that these people are not gentlemen, but are a lower sort, disguised as gentlemen. the case of colonel valentine baker obstructs that argument, for a man cannot become an officer in the british army except he hold the rank of gentleman. this person, finding himself alone in a railway compartment with an unprotected girl--but it is an atrocious story, and doubtless the reader remembers it well enough. london must have been more or less accustomed to bakers, and the ways of bakers, else london would have been offended and excited. baker was "imprisoned"--in a parlor; and he could not have been more visited, or more overwhelmed with attentions, if he had committed six murders and then--while the gallows was preparing--"got religion"--after the manner of the holy charles peace, of saintly memory. arkansaw--it seems a little indelicate to be trumpeting forth our own superiorities, and comparisons are always odious, but still--arkansaw would certainly have hanged baker. i do not say she would have tried him first, but she would have hanged him, anyway. even the most degraded woman can walk our streets unmolested, her sex and her weakness being her sufficient protection. she will encounter less polish than she would in the old world, but she will run across enough humanity to make up for it. the music of a donkey awoke us early in the morning, and we rose up and made ready for a pretty formidable walk--to italy; but the road was so level that we took the train.. we lost a good deal of time by this, but it was no matter, we were not in a hurry. we were four hours going to chamb`ery. the swiss trains go upward of three miles an hour, in places, but they are quite safe. that aged french town of chambèry was as quaint and crooked as heilbronn. a drowsy reposeful quiet reigned in the back streets which made strolling through them very pleasant, barring the almost unbearable heat of the sun. in one of these streets, which was eight feet wide, gracefully curved, and built up with small antiquated houses, i saw three fat hogs lying asleep, and a boy (also asleep) taking care of them. from queer old-fashioned windows along the curve projected boxes of bright flowers, and over the edge of one of these boxes hung the head and shoulders of a cat--asleep. the five sleeping creatures were the only living things visible in that street. there was not a sound; absolute stillness prevailed. it was sunday; one is not used to such dreamy sundays on the continent. in our part of the town it was different that night. a regiment of brown and battered soldiers had arrived home from algiers, and i judged they got thirsty on the way. they sang and drank till dawn, in the pleasant open air. we left for turin at ten the next morning by a railway which was profusely decorated with tunnels. we forgot to take a lantern along, consequently we missed all the scenery. our compartment was full. a ponderous tow-headed swiss woman, who put on many fine-lady airs, but was evidently more used to washing linen than wearing it, sat in a corner seat and put her legs across into the opposite one, propping them intermediately with her up-ended valise. in the seat thus pirated, sat two americans, greatly incommoded by that woman's majestic coffin-clad feet. one of them begged, politely, to remove them. she opened her wide eyes and gave him a stare, but answered nothing. by and by he proferred his request again, with great respectfulness. she said, in good english, and in a deeply offended tone, that she had paid her passage and was not going to be bullied out of her "rights" by ill-bred foreigners, even if she was alone and unprotected. "but i have rights, also, madam. my ticket entitles me to a seat, but you are occupying half of it." "i will not talk with you, sir. what right have you to speak to me? i do not know you. one would know you came from a land where there are no gentlemen. no gentleman would treat a lady as you have treated me." "i come from a region where a lady would hardly give me the same provocation." "you have insulted me, sir! you have intimated that i am not a lady--and i hope i am not one, after the pattern of your country." "i beg that you will give yourself no alarm on that head, madam; but at the same time i must insist--always respectfully--that you let me have my seat." here the fragile laundress burst into tears and sobs. "i never was so insulted before! never, never! it is shameful, it is brutal, it is base, to bully and abuse an unprotected lady who has lost the use of her limbs and cannot put her feet to the floor without agony!" "good heavens, madam, why didn't you say that at first! i offer a thousand pardons. and i offer them most sincerely. i did not know--i could not know--anything was the matter. you are most welcome to the seat, and would have been from the first if i had only known. i am truly sorry it all happened, i do assure you." but he couldn't get a word of forgiveness out of her. she simply sobbed and sniffed in a subdued but wholly unappeasable way for two long hours, meantime crowding the man more than ever with her undertaker-furniture and paying no sort of attention to his frequent and humble little efforts to do something for her comfort. then the train halted at the italian line and she hopped up and marched out of the car with as firm a leg as any washerwoman of all her tribe! and how sick i was, to see how she had fooled me. turin is a very fine city. in the matter of roominess it transcends anything that was ever dreamed of before, i fancy. it sits in the midst of a vast dead-level, and one is obliged to imagine that land may be had for the asking, and no taxes to pay, so lavishly do they use it. the streets are extravagantly wide, the paved squares are prodigious, the houses are huge and handsome, and compacted into uniform blocks that stretch away as straight as an arrow, into the distance. the sidewalks are about as wide as ordinary european streets, and are covered over with a double arcade supported on great stone piers or columns. one walks from one end to the other of these spacious streets, under shelter all the time, and all his course is lined with the prettiest of shops and the most inviting dining-houses. there is a wide and lengthy court, glittering with the most wickedly enticing shops, which is roofed with glass, high aloft overhead, and paved with soft-toned marbles laid in graceful figures; and at night when the place is brilliant with gas and populous with a sauntering and chatting and laughing multitude of pleasure-seekers, it is a spectacle worth seeing. everything is on a large scale; the public buildings, for instance--and they are architecturally imposing, too, as well as large. the big squares have big bronze monuments in them. at the hotel they gave us rooms that were alarming, for size, and parlor to match. it was well the weather required no fire in the parlor, for i think one might as well have tried to warm a park. the place would have a warm look, though, in any weather, for the window-curtains were of red silk damask, and the walls were covered with the same fire-hued goods--so, also, were the four sofas and the brigade of chairs. the furniture, the ornaments, the chandeliers, the carpets, were all new and bright and costly. we did not need a parlor at all, but they said it belonged to the two bedrooms and we might use it if we chose. since it was to cost nothing, we were not averse to using it, of course. turin must surely read a good deal, for it has more book-stores to the square rod than any other town i know of. and it has its own share of military folk. the italian officers' uniforms are very much the most beautiful i have ever seen; and, as a general thing, the men in them were as handsome as the clothes. they were not large men, but they had fine forms, fine features, rich olive complexions, and lustrous black eyes. for several weeks i had been culling all the information i could about italy, from tourists. the tourists were all agreed upon one thing--one must expect to be cheated at every turn by the italians. i took an evening walk in turin, and presently came across a little punch and judy show in one of the great squares. twelve or fifteen people constituted the audience. this miniature theater was not much bigger than a man's coffin stood on end; the upper part was open and displayed a tinseled parlor--a good-sized handkerchief would have answered for a drop-curtain; the footlights consisted of a couple of candle-ends an inch long; various manikins the size of dolls appeared on the stage and made long speeches at each other, gesticulating a good deal, and they generally had a fight before they got through. they were worked by strings from above, and the illusion was not perfect, for one saw not only the strings but the brawny hand that manipulated them--and the actors and actresses all talked in the same voice, too. the audience stood in front of the theater, and seemed to enjoy the performance heartily. when the play was done, a youth in his shirt-sleeves started around with a small copper saucer to make a collection. i did not know how much to put in, but thought i would be guided by my predecessors. unluckily, i only had two of these, and they did not help me much because they did not put in anything. i had no italian money, so i put in a small swiss coin worth about ten cents. the youth finished his collection trip and emptied the result on the stage; he had some very animated talk with the concealed manager, then he came working his way through the little crowd--seeking me, i thought. i had a mind to slip away, but concluded i wouldn't; i would stand my ground, and confront the villainy, whatever it was. the youth stood before me and held up that swiss coin, sure enough, and said something. i did not understand him, but i judged he was requiring italian money of me. the crowd gathered close, to listen. i was irritated, and said--in english, of course: "i know it's swiss, but you'll take that or none. i haven't any other." he tried to put the coin in my hand, and spoke again. i drew my hand away, and said: "no, sir. i know all about you people. you can't play any of your fraudful tricks on me. if there is a discount on that coin, i am sorry, but i am not going to make it good. i noticed that some of the audience didn't pay you anything at all. you let them go, without a word, but you come after me because you think i'm a stranger and will put up with an extortion rather than have a scene. but you are mistaken this time--you'll take that swiss money or none." the youth stood there with the coin in his fingers, nonplused and bewildered; of course he had not understood a word. an english-speaking italian spoke up, now, and said: "you are misunderstanding the boy. he does not mean any harm. he did not suppose you gave him so much money purposely, so he hurried back to return you the coin lest you might get away before you discovered your mistake. take it, and give him a penny--that will make everything smooth again." i probably blushed, then, for there was occasion. through the interpreter i begged the boy's pardon, but i nobly refused to take back the ten cents. i said i was accustomed to squandering large sums in that way--it was the kind of person i was. then i retired to make a note to the effect that in italy persons connected with the drama do not cheat. the episode with the showman reminds me of a dark chapter in my history. i once robbed an aged and blind beggar-woman of four dollars--in a church. it happened this way. when i was out with the innocents abroad, the ship stopped in the russian port of odessa and i went ashore, with others, to view the town. i got separated from the rest, and wandered about alone, until late in the afternoon, when i entered a greek church to see what it was like. when i was ready to leave, i observed two wrinkled old women standing stiffly upright against the inner wall, near the door, with their brown palms open to receive alms. i contributed to the nearer one, and passed out. i had gone fifty yards, perhaps, when it occurred to me that i must remain ashore all night, as i had heard that the ship's business would carry her away at four o'clock and keep her away until morning. it was a little after four now. i had come ashore with only two pieces of money, both about the same size, but differing largely in value--one was a french gold piece worth four dollars, the other a turkish coin worth two cents and a half. with a sudden and horrified misgiving, i put my hand in my pocket, now, and sure enough, i fetched out that turkish penny! here was a situation. a hotel would require pay in advance --i must walk the street all night, and perhaps be arrested as a suspicious character. there was but one way out of the difficulty--i flew back to the church, and softly entered. there stood the old woman yet, and in the palm of the nearest one still lay my gold piece. i was grateful. i crept close, feeling unspeakably mean; i got my turkish penny ready, and was extending a trembling hand to make the nefarious exchange, when i heard a cough behind me. i jumped back as if i had been accused, and stood quaking while a worshiper entered and passed up the aisle. i was there a year trying to steal that money; that is, it seemed a year, though, of course, it must have been much less. the worshipers went and came; there were hardly ever three in the church at once, but there was always one or more. every time i tried to commit my crime somebody came in or somebody started out, and i was prevented; but at last my opportunity came; for one moment there was nobody in the church but the two beggar-women and me. i whipped the gold piece out of the poor old pauper's palm and dropped my turkish penny in its place. poor old thing, she murmured her thanks--they smote me to the heart. then i sped away in a guilty hurry, and even when i was a mile from the church i was still glancing back, every moment, to see if i was being pursued. that experience has been of priceless value and benefit to me; for i resolved then, that as long as i lived i would never again rob a blind beggar-woman in a church; and i have always kept my word. the most permanent lessons in morals are those which come, not of booky teaching, but of experience. chapter xlviii [beauty of women--and of old masters] in milan we spent most of our time in the vast and beautiful arcade or gallery, or whatever it is called. blocks of tall new buildings of the most sumptuous sort, rich with decoration and graced with statues, the streets between these blocks roofed over with glass at a great height, the pavements all of smooth and variegated marble, arranged in tasteful patterns--little tables all over these marble streets, people sitting at them, eating, drinking, or smoking--crowds of other people strolling by--such is the arcade. i should like to live in it all the time. the windows of the sumptuous restaurants stand open, and one breakfasts there and enjoys the passing show. we wandered all over the town, enjoying whatever was going on in the streets. we took one omnibus ride, and as i did not speak italian and could not ask the price, i held out some copper coins to the conductor, and he took two. then he went and got his tariff card and showed me that he had taken only the right sum. so i made a note--italian omnibus conductors do not cheat. near the cathedral i saw another instance of probity. an old man was peddling dolls and toy fans. two small american children bought fans, and one gave the old man a franc and three copper coins, and both started away; but they were called back, and the franc and one of the coppers were restored to them. hence it is plain that in italy, parties connected with the drama and the omnibus and the toy interests do not cheat. the stocks of goods in the shops were not extensive, generally. in the vestibule of what seemed to be a clothing store, we saw eight or ten wooden dummies grouped together, clothed in woolen business suits and each marked with its price. one suit was marked forty-five francs--nine dollars. harris stepped in and said he wanted a suit like that. nothing easier: the old merchant dragged in the dummy, brushed him off with a broom, stripped him, and shipped the clothes to the hotel. he said he did not keep two suits of the same kind in stock, but manufactured a second when it was needed to reclothe the dummy. in another quarter we found six italians engaged in a violent quarrel. they danced fiercely about, gesticulating with their heads, their arms, their legs, their whole bodies; they would rush forward occasionally with a sudden access of passion and shake their fists in each other's very faces. we lost half an hour there, waiting to help cord up the dead, but they finally embraced each other affectionately, and the trouble was over. the episode was interesting, but we could not have afforded all the time to it if we had known nothing was going to come of it but a reconciliation. note made--in italy, people who quarrel cheat the spectator. we had another disappointment afterward. we approached a deeply interested crowd, and in the midst of it found a fellow wildly chattering and gesticulating over a box on the ground which was covered with a piece of old blanket. every little while he would bend down and take hold of the edge of the blanket with the extreme tips of his fingertips, as if to show there was no deception--chattering away all the while--but always, just as i was expecting to see a wonder feat of legerdemain, he would let go the blanket and rise to explain further. however, at last he uncovered the box and got out a spoon with a liquid in it, and held it fair and frankly around, for people to see that it was all right and he was taking no advantage--his chatter became more excited than ever. i supposed he was going to set fire to the liquid and swallow it, so i was greatly wrought up and interested. i got a cent ready in one hand and a florin in the other, intending to give him the former if he survived and the latter if he killed himself--for his loss would be my gain in a literary way, and i was willing to pay a fair price for the item --but this impostor ended his intensely moving performance by simply adding some powder to the liquid and polishing the spoon! then he held it aloft, and he could not have shown a wilder exultation if he had achieved an immortal miracle. the crowd applauded in a gratified way, and it seemed to me that history speaks the truth when it says these children of the south are easily entertained. we spent an impressive hour in the noble cathedral, where long shafts of tinted light were cleaving through the solemn dimness from the lofty windows and falling on a pillar here, a picture there, and a kneeling worshiper yonder. the organ was muttering, censers were swinging, candles were glinting on the distant altar and robed priests were filing silently past them; the scene was one to sweep all frivolous thoughts away and steep the soul in a holy calm. a trim young american lady paused a yard or two from me, fixed her eyes on the mellow sparks flecking the far-off altar, bent her head reverently a moment, then straightened up, kicked her train into the air with her heel, caught it deftly in her hand, and marched briskly out. we visited the picture-galleries and the other regulation "sights" of milan--not because i wanted to write about them again, but to see if i had learned anything in twelve years. i afterward visited the great galleries of rome and florence for the same purpose. i found i had learned one thing. when i wrote about the old masters before, i said the copies were better than the originals. that was a mistake of large dimensions. the old masters were still unpleasing to me, but they were truly divine contrasted with the copies. the copy is to the original as the pallid, smart, inane new wax-work group is to the vigorous, earnest, dignified group of living men and women whom it professes to duplicate. there is a mellow richness, a subdued color, in the old pictures, which is to the eye what muffled and mellowed sound is to the ear. that is the merit which is most loudly praised in the old picture, and is the one which the copy most conspicuously lacks, and which the copyist must not hope to compass. it was generally conceded by the artists with whom i talked, that that subdued splendor, that mellow richness, is imparted to the picture by age. then why should we worship the old master for it, who didn't impart it, instead of worshiping old time, who did? perhaps the picture was a clanging bell, until time muffled it and sweetened it. in conversation with an artist in venice, i asked: "what is it that people see in the old masters? i have been in the doge's palace and i saw several acres of very bad drawing, very bad perspective, and very incorrect proportions. paul veronese's dogs to not resemble dogs; all the horses look like bladders on legs; one man had a right leg on the left side of his body; in the large picture where the emperor (barbarossa?) is prostrate before the pope, there are three men in the foreground who are over thirty feet high, if one may judge by the size of a kneeling little boy in the center of the foreground; and according to the same scale, the pope is seven feet high and the doge is a shriveled dwarf of four feet." the artist said: "yes, the old masters often drew badly; they did not care much for truth and exactness in minor details; but after all, in spite of bad drawing, bad perspective, bad proportions, and a choice of subjects which no longer appeal to people as strongly as they did three hundred years ago, there is a something about their pictures which is divine--a something which is above and beyond the art of any epoch since--a something which would be the despair of artists but that they never hope or expect to attain it, and therefore do not worry about it." that is what he said--and he said what he believed; and not only believed, but felt. reasoning--especially reasoning, without technical knowledge--must be put aside, in cases of this kind. it cannot assist the inquirer. it will lead him, in the most logical progression, to what, in the eyes of artists, would be a most illogical conclusion. thus: bad drawing, bad proportion, bad perspective, indifference to truthful detail, color which gets its merit from time, and not from the artist--these things constitute the old master; conclusion, the old master was a bad painter, the old master was not an old master at all, but an old apprentice. your friend the artist will grant your premises, but deny your conclusion; he will maintain that notwithstanding this formidable list of confessed defects, there is still a something that is divine and unapproachable about the old master, and that there is no arguing the fact away by any system of reasoning whatsoever. i can believe that. there are women who have an indefinable charm in their faces which makes them beautiful to their intimates, but a cold stranger who tried to reason the matter out and find this beauty would fail. he would say of one of these women: this chin is too short, this nose is too long, this forehead is too high, this hair is too red, this complexion is too pallid, the perspective of the entire composition is incorrect; conclusion, the woman is not beautiful. but her nearest friend might say, and say truly, "your premises are right, your logic is faultless, but your conclusion is wrong, nevertheless; she is an old master--she is beautiful, but only to such as know her; it is a beauty which cannot be formulated, but it is there, just the same." i found more pleasure in contemplating the old masters this time than i did when i was in europe in former years, but still it was a calm pleasure; there was nothing overheated about it. when i was in venice before, i think i found no picture which stirred me much, but this time there were two which enticed me to the doge's palace day after day, and kept me there hours at a time. one of these was tintoretto's three-acre picture in the great council chamber. when i saw it twelve years ago i was not strongly attracted to it--the guide told me it was an insurrection in heaven--but this was an error. the movement of this great work is very fine. there are ten thousand figures, and they are all doing something. there is a wonderful "go" to the whole composition. some of the figures are driving headlong downward, with clasped hands, others are swimming through the cloud-shoals--some on their faces, some on their backs--great processions of bishops, martyrs, and angels are pouring swiftly centerward from various outlying directions--everywhere is enthusiastic joy, there is rushing movement everywhere. there are fifteen or twenty figures scattered here and there, with books, but they cannot keep their attention on their reading--they offer the books to others, but no one wishes to read, now. the lion of st. mark is there with his book; st. mark is there with his pen uplifted; he and the lion are looking each other earnestly in the face, disputing about the way to spell a word--the lion looks up in rapt admiration while st. mark spells. this is wonderfully interpreted by the artist. it is the master-stroke of this imcomparable painting. i visited the place daily, and never grew tired of looking at that grand picture. as i have intimated, the movement is almost unimaginably vigorous; the figures are singing, hosannahing, and many are blowing trumpets. so vividly is noise suggested, that spectators who become absorbed in the picture almost always fall to shouting comments in each other's ears, making ear-trumpets of their curved hands, fearing they may not otherwise be heard. one often sees a tourist, with the eloquent tears pouring down his cheeks, funnel his hands at his wife's ear, and hears him roar through them, "oh, to be there and at rest!" none but the supremely great in art can produce effects like these with the silent brush. twelve years ago i could not have appreciated this picture. one year ago i could not have appreciated it. my study of art in heidelberg has been a noble education to me. all that i am today in art, i owe to that. the other great work which fascinated me was bassano's immortal hair trunk. this is in the chamber of the council of ten. it is in one of the three forty-foot pictures which decorate the walls of the room. the composition of this picture is beyond praise. the hair trunk is not hurled at the stranger's head--so to speak--as the chief feature of an immortal work so often is; no, it is carefully guarded from prominence, it is subordinated, it is restrained, it is most deftly and cleverly held in reserve, it is most cautiously and ingeniously led up to, by the master, and consequently when the spectator reaches it at last, he is taken unawares, he is unprepared, and it bursts upon him with a stupefying surprise. one is lost in wonder at all the thought and care which this elaborate planning must have cost. a general glance at the picture could never suggest that there was a hair trunk in it; the hair trunk is not mentioned in the title even--which is, "pope alexander iii. and the doge ziani, the conqueror of the emperor frederick barbarossa"; you see, the title is actually utilized to help divert attention from the trunk; thus, as i say, nothing suggests the presence of the trunk, by any hint, yet everything studiedly leads up to it, step by step. let us examine into this, and observe the exquisitely artful artlessness of the plan. at the extreme left end of the picture are a couple of women, one of them with a child looking over her shoulder at a wounded man sitting with bandaged head on the ground. these people seem needless, but no, they are there for a purpose; one cannot look at them without seeing the gorgeous procession of grandees, bishops, halberdiers, and banner-bearers which is passing along behind them; one cannot see the procession without feeling the curiosity to follow it and learn whither it is going; it leads him to the pope, in the center of the picture, who is talking with the bonnetless doge--talking tranquilly, too, although within twelve feet of them a man is beating a drum, and not far from the drummer two persons are blowing horns, and many horsemen are plunging and rioting about--indeed, twenty-two feet of this great work is all a deep and happy holiday serenity and sunday-school procession, and then we come suddenly upon eleven and one-half feet of turmoil and racket and insubordination. this latter state of things is not an accident, it has its purpose. but for it, one would linger upon the pope and the doge, thinking them to be the motive and supreme feature of the picture; whereas one is drawn along, almost unconsciously, to see what the trouble is about. now at the very end of this riot, within four feet of the end of the picture, and full thirty-six feet from the beginning of it, the hair trunk bursts with an electrifying suddenness upon the spectator, in all its matchless perfection, and the great master's triumph is sweeping and complete. from that moment no other thing in those forty feet of canvas has any charm; one sees the hair trunk, and the hair trunk only--and to see it is to worship it. bassano even placed objects in the immediate vicinity of the supreme feature whose pretended purpose was to divert attention from it yet a little longer and thus delay and augment the surprise; for instance, to the right of it he has placed a stooping man with a cap so red that it is sure to hold the eye for a moment--to the left of it, some six feet away, he has placed a red-coated man on an inflated horse, and that coat plucks your eye to that locality the next moment--then, between the trunk and the red horseman he has intruded a man, naked to his waist, who is carrying a fancy flour-sack on the middle of his back instead of on his shoulder--this admirable feat interests you, of course--keeps you at bay a little longer, like a sock or a jacket thrown to the pursuing wolf--but at last, in spite of all distractions and detentions, the eye of even the most dull and heedless spectator is sure to fall upon the world's masterpiece, and in that moment he totters to his chair or leans upon his guide for support. descriptions of such a work as this must necessarily be imperfect, yet they are of value. the top of the trunk is arched; the arch is a perfect half-circle, in the roman style of architecture, for in the then rapid decadence of greek art, the rising influence of rome was already beginning to be felt in the art of the republic. the trunk is bound or bordered with leather all around where the lid joins the main body. many critics consider this leather too cold in tone; but i consider this its highest merit, since it was evidently made so to emphasize by contrast the impassioned fervor of the hasp. the highlights in this part of the work are cleverly managed, the motif is admirably subordinated to the ground tints, and the technique is very fine. the brass nail-heads are in the purest style of the early renaissance. the strokes, here, are very firm and bold--every nail-head is a portrait. the handle on the end of the trunk has evidently been retouched--i think, with a piece of chalk--but one can still see the inspiration of the old master in the tranquil, almost too tranquil, hang of it. the hair of this trunk is real hair--so to speak--white in patches, brown in patches. the details are finely worked out; the repose proper to hair in a recumbent and inactive attitude is charmingly expressed. there is a feeling about this part of the work which lifts it to the highest altitudes of art; the sense of sordid realism vanishes away--one recognizes that there is soul here. view this trunk as you will, it is a gem, it is a marvel, it is a miracle. some of the effects are very daring, approaching even to the boldest flights of the rococo, the sirocco, and the byzantine schools--yet the master's hand never falters--it moves on, calm, majestic, confident--and, with that art which conceals art, it finally casts over the tout ensemble, by mysterious methods of its own, a subtle something which refines, subdues, etherealizes the arid components and endures them with the deep charm and gracious witchery of poesy. among the art-treasures of europe there are pictures which approach the hair trunk--there are two which may be said to equal it, possibly--but there is none that surpasses it. so perfect is the hair trunk that it moves even persons who ordinarily have no feeling for art. when an erie baggagemaster saw it two years ago, he could hardly keep from checking it; and once when a customs inspector was brought into its presence, he gazed upon it in silent rapture for some moments, then slowly and unconsciously placed one hand behind him with the palm uppermost, and got out his chalk with the other. these facts speak for themselves. chapter xlix [hanged with a golden rope] one lingers about the cathedral a good deal, in venice. there is a strong fascination about it--partly because it is so old, and partly because it is so ugly. too many of the world's famous buildings fail of one chief virtue--harmony; they are made up of a methodless mixture of the ugly and the beautiful; this is bad; it is confusing, it is unrestful. one has a sense of uneasiness, of distress, without knowing why. but one is calm before st. mark's, one is calm within it, one would be calm on top of it, calm in the cellar; for its details are masterfully ugly, no misplaced and impertinent beauties are intruded anywhere; and the consequent result is a grand harmonious whole, of soothing, entrancing, tranquilizing, soul-satisfying ugliness. one's admiration of a perfect thing always grows, never declines; and this is the surest evidence to him that it is perfect. st. mark's is perfect. to me it soon grew to be so nobly, so augustly ugly, that it was difficult to stay away from it, even for a little while. every time its squat domes disappeared from my view, i had a despondent feeling; whenever they reappeared, i felt an honest rapture--i have not known any happier hours than those i daily spent in front of florian's, looking across the great square at it. propped on its long row of low thick-legged columns, its back knobbed with domes, it seemed like a vast warty bug taking a meditative walk. st. mark's is not the oldest building in the world, of course, but it seems the oldest, and looks the oldest--especially inside. when the ancient mosaics in its walls become damaged, they are repaired but not altered; the grotesque old pattern is preserved. antiquity has a charm of its own, and to smarten it up would only damage it. one day i was sitting on a red marble bench in the vestibule looking up at an ancient piece of apprentice-work, in mosaic, illustrative of the command to "multiply and replenish the earth." the cathedral itself had seemed very old; but this picture was illustrating a period in history which made the building seem young by comparison. but i presently found an antique which was older than either the battered cathedral or the date assigned to the piece of history; it was a spiral-shaped fossil as large as the crown of a hat; it was embedded in the marble bench, and had been sat upon by tourists until it was worn smooth. contrasted with the inconceivable antiquity of this modest fossil, those other things were flippantly modern--jejune--mere matters of day-before-yesterday. the sense of the oldness of the cathedral vanished away under the influence of this truly venerable presence. st. mark's is monumental; it is an imperishable remembrancer of the profound and simple piety of the middle ages. whoever could ravish a column from a pagan temple, did it and contributed his swag to this christian one. so this fane is upheld by several hundred acquisitions procured in that peculiar way. in our day it would be immoral to go on the highway to get bricks for a church, but it was no sin in the old times. st. mark's was itself the victim of a curious robbery once. the thing is set down in the history of venice, but it might be smuggled into the arabian nights and not seem out of place there: nearly four hundred and fifty years ago, a candian named stammato, in the suite of a prince of the house of este, was allowed to view the riches of st. mark's. his sinful eye was dazzled and he hid himself behind an altar, with an evil purpose in his heart, but a priest discovered him and turned him out. afterward he got in again--by false keys, this time. he went there, night after night, and worked hard and patiently, all alone, overcoming difficulty after difficulty with his toil, and at last succeeded in removing a great brick of the marble paneling which walled the lower part of the treasury; this block he fixed so that he could take it out and put it in at will. after that, for weeks, he spent all his midnights in his magnificent mine, inspecting it in security, gloating over its marvels at his leisure, and always slipping back to his obscure lodgings before dawn, with a duke's ransom under his cloak. he did not need to grab, haphazard, and run--there was no hurry. he could make deliberate and well-considered selections; he could consult his esthetic tastes. one comprehends how undisturbed he was, and how safe from any danger of interruption, when it is stated that he even carried off a unicorn's horn--a mere curiosity--which would not pass through the egress entire, but had to be sawn in two--a bit of work which cost him hours of tedious labor. he continued to store up his treasures at home until his occupation lost the charm of novelty and became monotonous; then he ceased from it, contented. well he might be; for his collection, raised to modern values, represented nearly fifty million dollars! he could have gone home much the richest citizen of his country, and it might have been years before the plunder was missed; but he was human--he could not enjoy his delight alone, he must have somebody to talk about it with. so he exacted a solemn oath from a candian noble named crioni, then led him to his lodgings and nearly took his breath away with a sight of his glittering hoard. he detected a look in his friend's face which excited his suspicion, and was about to slip a stiletto into him when crioni saved himself by explaining that that look was only an expression of supreme and happy astonishment. stammato made crioni a present of one of the state's principal jewels--a huge carbuncle, which afterward figured in the ducal cap of state--and the pair parted. crioni went at once to the palace, denounced the criminal, and handed over the carbuncle as evidence. stammato was arrested, tried, and condemned, with the old-time venetian promptness. he was hanged between the two great columns in the piazza--with a gilded rope, out of compliment to his love of gold, perhaps. he got no good of his booty at all--it was all recovered. in venice we had a luxury which very seldom fell to our lot on the continent--a home dinner with a private family. if one could always stop with private families, when traveling, europe would have a charm which it now lacks. as it is, one must live in the hotels, of course, and that is a sorrowful business. a man accustomed to american food and american domestic cookery would not starve to death suddenly in europe; but i think he would gradually waste away, and eventually die. he would have to do without his accustomed morning meal. that is too formidable a change altogether; he would necessarily suffer from it. he could get the shadow, the sham, the base counterfeit of that meal; but it would do him no good, and money could not buy the reality. to particularize: the average american's simplest and commonest form of breakfast consists of coffee and beefsteak; well, in europe, coffee is an unknown beverage. you can get what the european hotel-keeper thinks is coffee, but it resembles the real thing as hypocrisy resembles holiness. it is a feeble, characterless, uninspiring sort of stuff, and almost as undrinkable as if it had been made in an american hotel. the milk used for it is what the french call "christian" milk--milk which has been baptized. after a few months' acquaintance with european "coffee," one's mind weakens, and his faith with it, and he begins to wonder if the rich beverage of home, with its clotted layer of yellow cream on top of it, is not a mere dream, after all, and a thing which never existed. next comes the european bread--fair enough, good enough, after a fashion, but cold; cold and tough, and unsympathetic; and never any change, never any variety--always the same tiresome thing. next, the butter--the sham and tasteless butter; no salt in it, and made of goodness knows what. then there is the beefsteak. they have it in europe, but they don't know how to cook it. neither will they cut it right. it comes on the table in a small, round pewter platter. it lies in the center of this platter, in a bordering bed of grease-soaked potatoes; it is the size, shape, and thickness of a man's hand with the thumb and fingers cut off. it is a little overdone, is rather dry, it tastes pretty insipidly, it rouses no enthusiasm. imagine a poor exile contemplating that inert thing; and imagine an angel suddenly sweeping down out of a better land and setting before him a mighty porterhouse steak an inch and a half thick, hot and sputtering from the griddle; dusted with a fragrant pepper; enriched with little melting bits of butter of the most unimpeachable freshness and genuineness; the precious juices of the meat trickling out and joining the gravy, archipelagoed with mushrooms; a township or two of tender, yellowish fat gracing an outlying district of this ample county of beefsteak; the long white bone which divides the sirloin from the tenderloin still in its place; and imagine that the angel also adds a great cup of american home-made coffee, with a cream a-froth on top, some real butter, firm and yellow and fresh, some smoking hot-biscuits, a plate of hot buckwheat cakes, with transparent syrup--could words describe the gratitude of this exile? the european dinner is better than the european breakfast, but it has its faults and inferiorities; it does not satisfy. he comes to the table eager and hungry; he swallows his soup--there is an undefinable lack about it somewhere; thinks the fish is going to be the thing he wants--eats it and isn't sure; thinks the next dish is perhaps the one that will hit the hungry place--tries it, and is conscious that there was a something wanting about it, also. and thus he goes on, from dish to dish, like a boy after a butterfly which just misses getting caught every time it alights, but somehow doesn't get caught after all; and at the end the exile and the boy have fared about alike; the one is full, but grievously unsatisfied, the other has had plenty of exercise, plenty of interest, and a fine lot of hopes, but he hasn't got any butterfly. there is here and there an american who will say he can remember rising from a european table d'hôte perfectly satisfied; but we must not overlook the fact that there is also here and there an american who will lie. the number of dishes is sufficient; but then it is such a monotonous variety of unstriking dishes. it is an inane dead-level of "fair-to-middling." there is nothing to accent it. perhaps if the roast of mutton or of beef--a big, generous one--were brought on the table and carved in full view of the client, that might give the right sense of earnestness and reality to the thing; but they don't do that, they pass the sliced meat around on a dish, and so you are perfectly calm, it does not stir you in the least. now a vast roast turkey, stretched on the broad of his back, with his heels in the air and the rich juices oozing from his fat sides ... but i may as well stop there, for they would not know how to cook him. they can't even cook a chicken respectably; and as for carving it, they do that with a hatchet. this is about the customary table d'hôte bill in summer: soup (characterless). fish--sole, salmon, or whiting--usually tolerably good. roast--mutton or beef--tasteless--and some last year's potatoes. a pate, or some other made dish--usually good--"considering." one vegetable--brought on in state, and all alone--usually insipid lentils, or string-beans, or indifferent asparagus. roast chicken, as tasteless as paper. lettuce-salad--tolerably good. decayed strawberries or cherries. sometimes the apricots and figs are fresh, but this is no advantage, as these fruits are of no account anyway. the grapes are generally good, and sometimes there is a tolerably good peach, by mistake. the variations of the above bill are trifling. after a fortnight one discovers that the variations are only apparent, not real; in the third week you get what you had the first, and in the fourth the week you get what you had the second. three or four months of this weary sameness will kill the robustest appetite. it has now been many months, at the present writing, since i have had a nourishing meal, but i shall soon have one--a modest, private affair, all to myself. i have selected a few dishes, and made out a little bill of fare, which will go home in the steamer that precedes me, and be hot when i arrive--as follows: radishes. baked apples, with cream fried oysters; stewed oysters. frogs. american coffee, with real cream. american butter. fried chicken, southern style. porter-house steak. saratoga potatoes. broiled chicken, american style. hot biscuits, southern style. hot wheat-bread, southern style. hot buckwheat cakes. american toast. clear maple syrup. virginia bacon, broiled. blue points, on the half shell. cherry-stone clams. san francisco mussels, steamed. oyster soup. clam soup. philadelphia terapin soup. oysters roasted in shell-northern style. soft-shell crabs. connecticut shad. baltimore perch. brook trout, from sierra nevadas. lake trout, from tahoe. sheep-head and croakers, from new orleans. black bass from the mississippi. american roast beef. roast turkey, thanksgiving style. cranberry sauce. celery. roast wild turkey. woodcock. canvas-back-duck, from baltimore. prairie liens, from illinois. missouri partridges, broiled. 'possum. coon. boston bacon and beans. bacon and greens, southern style. hominy. boiled onions. turnips. pumpkin. squash. asparagus. butter beans. sweet potatoes. lettuce. succotash. string beans. mashed potatoes. catsup. boiled potatoes, in their skins. new potatoes, minus the skins. early rose potatoes, roasted in the ashes, southern style, served hot. sliced tomatoes, with sugar or vinegar. stewed tomatoes. green corn, cut from the ear and served with butter and pepper. green corn, on the ear. hot corn-pone, with chitlings, southern style. hot hoe-cake, southern style. hot egg-bread, southern style. hot light-bread, southern style. buttermilk. iced sweet milk. apple dumplings, with real cream. apple pie. apple fritters. apple puffs, southern style. peach cobbler, southern style peach pie. american mince pie. pumpkin pie. squash pie. all sorts of american pastry. fresh american fruits of all sorts, including strawberries which are not to be doled out as if they were jewelry, but in a more liberal way. ice-water--not prepared in the ineffectual goblet, but in the sincere and capable refrigerator. americans intending to spend a year or so in european hotels will do well to copy this bill and carry it along. they will find it an excellent thing to get up an appetite with, in the dispiriting presence of the squalid table d'hôte. foreigners cannot enjoy our food, i suppose, any more than we can enjoy theirs. it is not strange; for tastes are made, not born. i might glorify my bill of fare until i was tired; but after all, the scotchman would shake his head and say, "where's your haggis?" and the fijian would sigh and say, "where's your missionary?" i have a neat talent in matters pertaining to nourishment. this has met with professional recognition. i have often furnished recipes for cook-books. here are some designs for pies and things, which i recently prepared for a friend's projected cook-book, but as i forgot to furnish diagrams and perspectives, they had to be left out, of course. recipe for an ash-cake take a lot of water and add to it a lot of coarse indian-meal and about a quarter of a lot of salt. mix well together, knead into the form of a "pone," and let the pone stand awhile--not on its edge, but the other way. rake away a place among the embers, lay it there, and cover it an inch deep with hot ashes. when it is done, remove it; blow off all the ashes but one layer; butter that one and eat. n.b.--no household should ever be without this talisman. it has been noticed that tramps never return for another ash-cake. ---------recipe for new english pie to make this excellent breakfast dish, proceed as follows: take a sufficiency of water and a sufficiency of flour, and construct a bullet-proof dough. work this into the form of a disk, with the edges turned up some three-fourths of an inch. toughen and kiln-dry in a couple days in a mild but unvarying temperature. construct a cover for this redoubt in the same way and of the same material. fill with stewed dried apples; aggravate with cloves, lemon-peel, and slabs of citron; add two portions of new orleans sugars, then solder on the lid and set in a safe place till it petrifies. serve cold at breakfast and invite your enemy. ---------recipe for german coffee take a barrel of water and bring it to a boil; rub a chicory berry against a coffee berry, then convey the former into the water. continue the boiling and evaporation until the intensity of the flavor and aroma of the coffee and chicory has been diminished to a proper degree; then set aside to cool. now unharness the remains of a once cow from the plow, insert them in a hydraulic press, and when you shall have acquired a teaspoon of that pale-blue juice which a german superstition regards as milk, modify the malignity of its strength in a bucket of tepid water and ring up the breakfast. mix the beverage in a cold cup, partake with moderation, and keep a wet rag around your head to guard against over-excitement. to carve fowls in the german fashion use a club, and avoid the joints. 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 deafter 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! the footpath way an anthology for walkers with an introduction by hilaire belloc [illustration: logo] london sidgwick & jackson ltd. 1911 _all rights reserved_ contents page introduction 1 _h. belloc_ walking an antidote to city poison 17 _sidney smith_ on going a journey 19 _william hazlitt_ the bishop of salisbury's horse 37 _izaak walton_ a strolling pedlar 39 _sir walter scott_ a stout pedestrian 42 _sir walter scott_ lake scenery 48 _william wordsworth_ walking, and the wild 52 _h. d. thoreau_ a young tramp 104 _charles dickens_ de quincey leads the simple life 111 _thomas de quincey_ a resolution 116 _george borrow_ the snowdon ranger 131 _george borrow_ song of the open road 143 _walt whitman_ walking tours 159 _r. l. stevenson_ sylvanus urban discovers a good brew 173 _gentleman's magazine_ minchmoor 175 _dr john brown_ in praise of walking 191 _leslie stephen_ the exhilarations of the road 221 _john burroughs_ acknowledgments the thanks of the publishers are due to: messrs chatto & windus, messrs duckworth, and messrs houghton miflin of boston, u.s.a., for permission to include r. l. stevenson's _walking tours_; sir leslie stephen's _in praise of walking_; and mr john burroughs' _the exhilarations of the road_, from "winter sunshine"; also to mr a. h. bullen for the extract from _the gentleman's magazine_. introduction so long as man does not bother about what he is or whence he came or whither he is going, the whole thing seems as simple as the verb "to be"; and you may say that the moment he does begin thinking about what he is (which is more than thinking that he is) and whence he came and whither he is going, he gets on to a lot of roads that lead nowhere, and that spread like the fingers of a hand or the sticks of a fan; so that if he pursues two or more of them he soon gets beyond his straddle, and if he pursues only one he gets farther and farther from the rest of all knowledge as he proceeds. you may say that and it will be true. but there is one kind of knowledge a man does get when he thinks about what he is, whence he came and whither he is going, which is this: that it is the only important question he can ask himself. now the moment a man begins asking himself those questions (and all men begin at some time or another if you give them rope enough) man finds himself a very puzzling fellow. there was a school--it can hardly be called a school of philosophy--and it is now as dead as mutton, but anyhow there _was_ a school which explained the business in the very simple method known to the learned as tautology--that is, saying the same thing over and over again. for just as the woman in molière was dumb because she was affected with the quality of dumbness, so man, according to this school, did all the extraordinary things he does do because he had developed in that way. they took in a lot of people while they were alive (i believe a few of the very old ones still survive), they took in nobody more than themselves; but they have not taken in any of the younger generation. we who come after these scientists continue to ask ourselves the old question, and if there is no finding of an answer to it, so much the worse; for asking it, every instinct of our nature tells us, is the proper curiosity of man. of the great many things which man does which he should not do or need not do, if he were wholly explained by the verb "to be," you may count walking. of course if you build up a long series of guesses as to the steps by which he learnt to walk, and call _that_ an explanation, there is no more to be said. it is as though i were to ask you why mr smith went to liverpool, and you were to answer by giving me a list of all the stations between euston and lime street, in their exact order. at least that is what it would be like if your guesses were accurate, not only in their statement, but also in their proportion, and also in their order. it is millions to one that your guesses are nothing of the kind. but even granted by a miracle that you have got them all quite right (which is more than the wildest fanatic would grant to the dearest of his geologians) it tells me nothing. what on earth persuaded the animal to go on like that? or was it nothing on earth but something in heaven? just watch a man walking, if he is a proper man, and see the business of it: how he expresses his pride, or his determination, or his tenacity, or his curiosity, or perhaps his very purpose in his stride! well, all that business of walking that you are looking at is a piece of extraordinarily skilful trick-acting, such that were the animal not known to do it you would swear he could never be trained to it by any process, however lengthy, or however minute, or however strict. this is what happens when a man walks: first of all he is in stable equilibrium, though the arc of stability is minute. if he stands with his feet well apart, his centre of gravity (which is about half way up him or a little more) may oscillate within an arc of about five degrees on either side of stability and tend to return to rest. but if it oscillates beyond that five degrees or so, the stability of his equilibrium is lost, and down he comes. men have been known to sleep standing up without a support, especially on military service, which is the most fatiguing thing in the world; but it is extremely rare, and you may say of a man so standing, even with his feet well spread, that he is already doing a fine athletic feat. but wait a moment: he desires to go, to proceed, to reach a distant point, and instead of going on all fours, where equilibrium would indeed be stable, what does he do? he deliberately lifts one of his supports off the ground, and sends his equilibrium to the devil; at the same time he leans a little forward so as to make himself fall towards the object he desires to attain. you do not know that he does this, but that is because you are a man and your ignorance of it is like the ignorance in which so many really healthy people stand to religion, or the ignorance of a child who thinks his family established for ever in comfort, wealth and security. what you really do, man, when you want to get to that distant place (and let this be a parable of all adventure and of all desire) is to take an enormous risk, the risk of coming down bang and breaking something: you lift one foot off the ground, and, as though that were not enough, you deliberately throw your centre of gravity forward so that you begin to fall. that is the first act of the comedy. the second act is that you check your fall by bringing the foot which you had swung into the air down upon the ground again. that you would say was enough of a bout. slide the other foot up, take a rest, get your breath again and glory in your feat. but not a bit of it! the moment you have got that loose foot of yours firm on the earth, you use the impetus of your first tumble to begin another one. you get your centre of gravity by the momentum of your going well forward of the foot that has found the ground, you lift the other foot without a care, you let it swing in the fashion of a pendulum, and you check your second fall in the same manner as you checked your first; and even after that second clever little success you do not bring your feet both firmly to the ground to recover yourself before the next venture: you go on with the business, get your centre of gravity forward of the foot that is now on the ground, swinging the other beyond it like a pendulum, stopping your third catastrophe, and so on; and you have come to do all this so that you think it the most natural thing in the world! not only do you manage to do it but you can do it in a thousand ways, as a really clever acrobat will astonish his audience not only by walking on the tight-rope but by eating his dinner on it. you can walk quickly or slowly, or look over your shoulder as you walk, or shoot fairly accurately as you walk; you can saunter, you can force your pace, you can turn which way you will. you certainly did not teach yourself to accomplish this marvel, nor did your nurse. there was a spirit within you that taught you and that brought you out; and as it is with walking, so it is with speech, and so at last with humour and with irony, and with affection, and with the sense of colour and of form, and even with honour, and at last with prayer. by all this you may see that man is very remarkable, and this should make you humble, not proud; for you have been designed in spite of yourself for some astonishing fate, of which these mortal extravagances so accurately seized and so well moulded to your being are but the symbols. walking, like talking (which rhymes with it, i am glad to say), being so natural a thing to man, so varied and so unthought about, is necessarily not only among his chief occupations but among his most entertaining subjects of commonplace and of exercise. thus to walk without an object is an intense burden, as it is to talk without an object. to walk because it is good for you warps the soul, just as it warps the soul for a man to talk for hire or because he thinks it his duty. on the other hand, walking with an object brings out all that there is in a man, just as talking with an object does. and those who understand the human body, when they confine themselves to what they know and are therefore legitimately interesting, tell us this very interesting thing which experience proves to be true: that walking of every form of exercise is the most general and the most complete, and that while a man may be endangered by riding a horse or by running or swimming, or while a man may easily exaggerate any violent movement, walking will always be to his benefit--that is, of course, so long as he does not warp his soul by the detestable habit of walking for no object but exercise. for it has been so arranged that the moment we begin any minor and terrestrial thing as an object in itself, or with merely the furtherance of some other material thing, we hurt the inward part of us that governs all. but walk for glory or for adventure, or to see new sights, or to pay a bill or to escape the same, and you will very soon find how consonant is walking with your whole being. the chief proof of this (and how many men have tried it, and in how many books does not that truth shine out!) is the way in which a man walking becomes the cousin or the brother of everything round. if you will look back upon your life and consider what landscapes remain fixed in your memory, some perhaps you will discover to have struck you at the end of long rides or after you have been driven for hours, dragged by an animal or a machine. but much the most of these visions have come to you when you were performing that little miracle with a description of which i began this: and what is more, the visions that you get when you are walking, merge pleasantly into each other. some are greater, some lesser, and they make a continuous whole. the great moments are led up to and are fittingly framed. there is no time or weather, in england at least, in which a man walking does not feel this cousinship with everything round. there are weathers that are intolerable if you are doing anything else but walking: if you are crouching still against a storm or if you are driving against it; or if you are riding in extreme cold; or if you are running too quickly in extreme heat; but it is not so with walking. you may walk by night or by day, in summer or in winter, in fair weather or in foul, in calm or in a gale, and in every case you are doing something native to yourself and going the best way you could go. all men have felt this. walking, also from this same natural quality which it has, introduces particular sights to you in their right proportion. a man gets into his motor car, or more likely into somebody else's, and covers a great many miles in a very few hours. and what remains to him at the end of it, when he looks closely into the pictures of his mind, is a curious and unsatisfactory thing: there are patches of blurred nothingness like an uneasy sleep, one or two intense pieces of impression, disconnected, violently vivid and mad, a red cloak, a shining streak of water, and more particularly a point of danger. in all that ribbon of sights, each either much too lightly or much too heavily impressed, he is lucky if there is one great view which for one moment he seized and retained from a height as he whirled along. the whole record is like a bit of dry point that has been done by a hand not sure of itself upon a plate that trembled, now jagged chiselling bit into the metal; now blurred or hardly impressed it at all: only in some rare moment of self-possession or of comparative repose did the hand do what it willed and transfer its power. you may say that riding upon a horse one has a better chance. that is true, but after all one is busy riding. look back upon the very many times that you have ridden, and though you will remember many things you will not remember them in that calm and perfect order in which they presented themselves to you when you were afoot. as for a man running, if it be for any distance the effort is so unnatural as to concentrate upon himself all a man's powers, and he is almost blind to exterior things. men at the end of such efforts are actually and physically blind; they fall helpless. then there is the way of looking at the world which rich men imagine they can purchase with money when they build a great house looking over some view--but it is not in the same street with walking! you see the sight nine times out of ten when you are ill attuned to it, when your blood is slow and unmoved, and when the machine is not going. when you are walking the machine is always going, and every sense in you is doing what it should with the right emphasis and in due discipline to make a perfect record of all that is about. consider how a man walking approaches a little town; he sees it a long way off upon a hill; he sees its unity, he has time to think about it a great deal. next it is hidden from him by a wood, or it is screened by a roll of land. he tops this and sees the little town again, now much nearer, and he thinks more particularly of its houses, of the way in which they stand, and of what has passed in them. the sky, especially if it has large white clouds in it and is for the rest sunlit and blue, makes something against which he can see the little town, and gives it life. then he is at the outskirts, and he does not suddenly occupy it with a clamour or a rush, nor does he merely contemplate it, like a man from a window, unmoving. he enters in. he passes, healthily wearied, human doors and signs; he can note all the names of the people and the trade at which they work; he has time to see their faces. the square broadens before him, or the market-place, and so very naturally and rightly he comes to his inn, and he has fulfilled one of the great ends of man. lord, how tempted one is here to make a list of those monsters who are the enemies of inns! there is your monster who thinks of it as a place to which a man does not walk but into which he slinks to drink; and there is your monster who thinks of it as a place to be reached in a railway train and there to put on fine clothes for dinner and to be waited upon by germans. there is your more amiable monster, who says: "i hear there is a good inn at little studley or bampton major. let us go there." he waits until he has begun to be hungry, and he shoots there in an enormous automobile. there is your still more amiable monster, who in a hippo-mobile hippogriffically tools into a town and throws the ribbons to the person in gaiters with a straw in his mouth, and feels (oh, men, my brothers) that he is doing something like someone in a book. all these men, whether they frankly hate or whether they pretend to love, are the enemies of inns, and the enemies of inns are accursed before their creator and their kind. there are some things which are a consolation for eden and which clearly prove to the heavily-burdened race of adam that it has retained a memory of diviner things. we have all of us done evil. we have permitted the modern cities to grow up, and we have told such lies that now we are accursed with newspapers. and we have so loved wealth that we are all in debt, and that the poor are a burden to us and the rich are an offence. but we ought to keep up our hearts and not to despair, because we can still all of us pray when there is an absolute necessity to do so, and we have wormed out the way of building up that splendid thing which all over christendom men know under many names and which is called in england an inn. i have sometimes wondered when i sat in one of these places, remaking my soul, whether the inn would perish out of europe. i am convinced the terror was but the terror which we always feel for whatever is exceedingly beloved. there is an inn in the town of piacenza into which i once walked while i was still full of immortality, and there i found such good companions and so much marble, rooms so large and empty and so old, and cooking so excellent, that i made certain it would survive even that immortality which, i say, was all around. but no! i came there eight years later, having by that time heard the noise of the subterranean river and being well conscious of mortality. i came to it as to a friend, and the beastly thing had changed! in place of the grand stone doors there was a sort of twirlygig like the things that let you in to the zoo, where you pay a shilling, and inside there were decorations made up of meaningless curves like those with which the demons have punished the city of berlin; the salt at the table was artificial and largely made of chalk, and the faces of the host and hostess were no longer kind. i very well remember another inn which was native to the chiltern hills. this place had bow windows, which were divided into medium-sized panes, each of the panes a little rounded; and these window-panes were made of that sort of glass which i will adore until i die, and which has the property of distorting exterior objects: of such glass the windows of schoolrooms and of nurseries used to be made. i came to that place after many years by accident, and i found that orcus, which has devoured all lovely things, had devoured this too. the inn was called "an hotel," its front was rebuilt, the window's had only two panes, each quite enormous and flat, one above and one below, and the glass was that sort of thick, transparent glass through which it is no use to look, for you might as well be looking through air. all the faces were strange except that of one old servant in the stable-yard. i asked him if he regretted the old front, and he said "lord, no!" then he told me in great detail how kind the brewers had been to his master and how willingly they had rebuilt the whole place. these things reconcile one with the grave. well then, if walking, which has led me into this digression, prepares one for the inns where they are worthy, it has another character as great and as symbolic and as worthy of man. for remember that of the many ways of walking there is one way which is the greatest of all, and that is to walk away. put your hand before your eyes and remember, you that have walked, the places from which you have walked away, and the wilderness into which you manfully turned the steps of your abandonment. there is a place above the roman wall beyond the river tyne where one can do this thing. behind one lies the hospitality and the human noise which have inhabited the town of the river valley for certainly two thousand years. before one is the dead line of the road, and that complete emptiness of the moors as they rise up toward cheviot on the one hand and carter fell upon the other. the earth is here altogether deserted and alone: you go out into it because it is your business to go: you are walking away. as for your memories, they are of no good to you except to lend you that dignity which can always support a memoried man; you are bound to forget, and it is your business to leave all that you have known altogether behind you, and no man has eyes at the back of his head--go forward. upon my soul i think that the greatest way of walking, now i consider the matter, or now that i have stumbled upon it, is walking away. h. belloc. walking an antidote to city poison there is moral as well as bodily wholesomeness in a mountain walk, if the walker has the understanding heart, and eschews _picnics_. it is good for any man to be alone with nature and himself, or with a friend who knows when silence is more sociable than talk: "in the wilderness alone, there where nature worships god." it is well to be in places where man is little and god is great--where what he sees all around him has the same look as it had a thousand years ago, and will have the same, in all likelihood, when he has been a thousand years in his grave. it abates and rectifies a man, if he is worth the process. it is not favourable to religious feeling to hear only of the actions and interference of man, and to behold nothing but what human ingenuity has completed. there is an image of god's greatness impressed upon the outward face of nature fitted to make us all pious, and to breathe into our hearts a purifying and salutary fear. in cities everything is man, and man alone. he seems to move and govern all, and be the providence of cities; and there we do not render unto cæsar the things which are cæsar's, and unto god the things which are god's; but god is forgotten, and cæsar is supreme--all is human policy, human foresight, human power; nothing reminds us of _invisible dominion, and concealed omnipotence_--it is all earth, and no heaven. one cure of this is prayer and the solitary place. as the body, harassed with the noxious air of cities, seeks relief in the freedom and the purity of the fields and hills, so the mind, wearied by commerce with men, resumes its vigour in solitude, and repairs its dignity. _sydney smith._ on going a journey one of the pleasantest things in the world is going a journey; but i like to go by myself. i can enjoy society in a room; but out of doors nature is company enough for me. i am then never less alone than when alone. "the fields his study, nature was his book." i cannot see the wit of walking and talking at the same time. when i am in the country, i wish to vegetate like the country. i am not for criticising hedgerows and black cattle. i go out of the town in order to forget the town and all that is in it. there are those who for this purpose go to watering-places, and carry the metropolis with them. i like more elbow-room, and fewer encumbrances. i like solitude, when i give myself up to it, for the sake of solitude; nor do i ask for "a friend in my retreat, whom i may whisper solitude is sweet." the soul of a journey is liberty, perfect liberty, to think, feel, do, just as one pleases. we go a journey chiefly to be free of all impediments and of all inconveniences; to leave ourselves behind, much more to get rid of others. it is because i want a little breathing-space to muse on indifferent matters, where contemplation "may plume her feathers, and let grow her wings that in the various bustle of resort were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair'd," that i absent myself from the town for a while without feeling at a loss the moment i am left by myself. instead of a friend in a post-chaise or in a tilbury, to exchange good things with and vary the same stale topics over again, for once let me have a truce with impertinence. give me the clear blue sky over my head and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding road before me, and a three hours' march to dinner--and then to thinking! it is hard if i cannot start some game on these lone heaths. i laugh, i run, i leap, i sing for joy. from the point of yonder rolling cloud, i plunge into my past being, and revel there, as the sunburnt indian plunges headlong into the wave that wafts him to his native shore. then long-forgotten things, like "sunken wrack and sumless treasuries," burst upon my eager sight, and i begin to feel, think, and be myself again. instead of an awkward silence, broken by attempts at wit or dull commonplaces, mine is that undisturbed silence of the heart which alone is perfect eloquence. no one likes puns, alliterations, antitheses, argument, and analysis better than i do; but i sometimes had rather be without them. "leave, oh, leave me to my repose!" i have just now other business in hand, which would seem idle to you; but is with me "very stuff o' the conscience." is not this wild rose sweet without a comment? does not this daisy leap to my heart set in its coat of emerald? yet if i were to explain to you the circumstance that has so endeared it to me, you would only smile. had i not better, then, keep it to myself, and let it serve me to brood over, from here to yonder craggy point, and from thence onward to the far-distant horizon? i should be but bad company all that way, and therefore prefer being alone. i have heard it said that you may, when the moody fit comes on, walk or ride on by yourself, and indulge your reveries. but this looks like a breach of manners, a neglect of others, and you are thinking all the time that you ought to rejoin your party. "out upon such half-faced fellowship!" say i. i like to be either entirely to myself, or entirely at the disposal of others; to talk or be silent, to walk or sit still, to be sociable or solitary. i was pleased with an observation of mr cobbett's, that "he thought it a bad french custom to drink our wine with our meals, and that an englishman ought to do only one thing at a time." so i cannot talk and think, or indulge in melancholy musing and lively conversation, by fits and starts. "let me have a companion of my way," says sterne, "were it but to remark how the shadows lengthen as the sun declines." it is beautifully said; but, in my opinion, this continual comparing of notes interferes with the involuntary impression of things upon the mind, and hurts the sentiment. if you only hint what you feel in a kind of dumb show, it is insipid; if you have to explain it, it is making a toil of a pleasure. you cannot read the book of nature without being perpetually put to the trouble of translating it for the benefit of others. i am for this synthetical method on a journey in preference to the analytical. i am content to lay in a stock of ideas then, and to examine and anatomise them afterwards. i want to see my vague notions float like the down of the thistle before the breeze, and not to have them entangled in the briars and thorns of controversy. for once, i like to have it all my own way; and this is impossible unless you are alone, or in such company as i do not covet. i have no objection to argue a point with anyone for twenty miles of measured road, but not for pleasure. if you remark the scent of a beanfield crossing the road, perhaps your fellow-traveller has no smell. if you point to a distant object, perhaps he is short-sighted, and has to take out his glass to look at it. there is a feeling in the air, a tone in the colour of a cloud, which hits your fancy, but the effect of which you are unable to account for. there is then no sympathy, but an uneasy craving after it, and a dissatisfaction which pursues you on the way, and in the end probably produces ill-humour. now, i never quarrel with myself, and take all my own conclusions for granted till i find it necessary to defend them against objections. it is not merely that you may not be of accord on the objects and circumstances that present themselves before you--these may recall a number of objects, and lead to associations too delicate and refined to be possibly communicated to others. yet these i love to cherish, and sometimes still fondly clutch them, when i can escape from the throng to do so. to give way to our feelings before company seems extravagance or affectation; and, on the other hand, to have to unravel this mystery of our being at every turn, and to make others take an equal interest in it (otherwise the end is not answered), is a task to which few are competent. we must "give it an understanding, but no tongue." my old friend coleridge, however, could do both. he could go on in the most delightful explanatory way over hill and dale a summer's day, and convert a landscape into a didactic poem or a pindaric ode. "he talked far above singing." if i could so clothe my ideas in sounding and flowing words, i might perhaps wish to have some one with me to admire the swelling theme; or i could be more content, were it possible for me still to hear his echoing voice in the woods of all-foxden. they had "that fine madness in them which our first poets had"; and if they could have been caught by some rare instrument, would have breathed such strains as the following:- "here be woods as green as any, air likewise as fresh and sweet as when smooth zephyrus plays on the fleet face of the curled stream, with flow'rs as many as the young spring gives, and as choice as any; here be all new delights, cool streams and wells, arbours o'ergrown with woodbines, caves and dells; choose where thou wilt, whilst i sit by and sing, or gather rushes to make many a ring for thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love, how the pale phoebe, hunting in a grove, first saw the boy endymion, from whose eyes she took eternal fire that never dies; how she conveyed him softly in a sleep, his temples bound with poppy, to the steep head of old latmos, where she stoops each night, gilding the mountain with her brother's light, to kiss her sweetest." (fletcher's "faithful shepherdess.") had i words and images at command like these, i would attempt to wake the thoughts that lie slumbering on golden ridges in the evening clouds; but at the sight of nature my fancy, poor as it is, droops and closes up its leaves, like flowers at sunset. i can make nothing out on the spot: i must have time to collect myself. in general, a good thing spoils out-of-door prospects; it should be reserved for table-talk. lamb is, for this reason, i take it, the worst company in the world out of doors; because he is the best within. i grant there is one subject on which it is pleasant to talk on a journey, and that is, what we shall have for supper when we get to our inn at night. the open air improves this sort of conversation or friendly altercation, by setting a keener edge on appetite. every mile of the road heightens the flavour of the viands we expect at the end of it. how fine it is to enter some old town, walled and turreted, just at the approach of nightfall; or to come to some straggling village, with the lights streaming through the surrounding gloom; and then after inquiring for the best entertainment that the place affords, to "take one's ease at one's inn!" these eventful moments in our lives' history are too precious, too full of solid, heartfelt happiness, to be frittered and dribbled away in imperfect sympathy. i would have them all to myself, and drain them to the last drop; they will do to talk of or to write about afterwards. what a delicate speculation it is, after drinking whole goblets of tea, "the cups that cheer, but not inebriate," and letting the fumes ascend into the brain, to sit considering what we shall have for supper--eggs and a rasher, a rabbit smothered in onions, or an excellent veal-cutlet! sancho in such a situation once fixed on cow-heel; and his choice, though he could not help it, is not to be disparaged. then, in the intervals of pictured scenery and shandean contemplation, to catch the preparation and the stir in the kitchen (getting ready for the gentleman in the parlour). _procul, o procul este profani!_ these hours are sacred to silence and to musing, to be treasured up in the memory, and to feed the source of smiling thoughts hereafter. i would not waste them in idle talk; or if i must have the integrity of fancy broken in upon, i would rather it were by a stranger than a friend. a stranger takes his hue and character from the time and place; he is a part of the furniture and costume of an inn. if he is a quaker, or from the west riding of yorkshire, so much the better. i do not even try to sympathise with him, and he breaks no squares. how i love to see the camps of the gypsies, and to sigh my soul into that sort of life! if i express this feeling to another, he may qualify and spoil it with some objection. i associate nothing with my travelling companion but present objects and passing events. in his ignorance of me and my affairs, i in a manner forget myself. but a friend reminds me of other things, rips up old grievances, and destroys the abstraction of the scene. he comes in ungraciously between us and our imaginary character. something is dropped in the course of conversation that gives a hint of your profession and pursuits; or from having some one with you that knows the less sublime portions of your history, it seems that other people do. you are no longer a citizen of the world; but your "unhoused free condition is put into circumspection and confine." the _incognito_ of an inn is one of its striking privileges--"lord of one's self, uncumbered with a name." oh, it is great to shake off the trammels of the world and of public opinion; to lose our importunate, tormenting, everlasting personal identity in the elements of nature, and become the creature of the moment, clear of all ties; to hold to the universe only by a dish of sweetbreads, and to owe nothing but the score of the evening; and no longer seeking for applause and meeting with contempt, to be known by no other title than _the gentleman in the parlour_! one may take one's choice of all characters in this romantic state of uncertainty as to one's real pretensions, and become indefinitely respectable and negatively right-worshipful. we baffle prejudice and disappoint conjecture; and from being so to others, begin to be objects of curiosity and wonder even to ourselves. we are no more those hackneyed commonplaces that we appear in the world; an inn restores us to the level of nature, and quits scores with society! i have certainly spent some enviable hours at inns--sometimes when i have been left entirely to myself, and have tried to solve some metaphysical problem, as once at witham common, where i found out the proof that likeness is not a case of the association of ideas--at other times, when there have been pictures in the room, as at st neot's (i think it was), where i first met with gribelins' engravings of the cartoons, into which i entered at once, and at a little inn on the borders of wales, where there happened to be hanging some of westall's drawings, which i compared triumphantly (for a theory that i had, not for the admired artist) with the figure of a girl who had ferried me over the severn standing up in a boat between me and the twilight. at other times i might mention luxuriating in books, with a peculiar interest in this way, as i remember sitting up half the night to read _paul and virginia_, which i picked up at an inn at bridgewater, after being drenched in the rain all day; and at the same place i got through two volumes of madame d'arblay's _camilla_. it was on the 10th of april 1798, that i sat down to a volume of the _new heloïse_, at the inn at llangollen, over a bottle of sherry and a cold chicken. the letter i chose was that in which st preux describes his feelings as he first caught a glimpse from the heights of the jura of the pays de vaud, which i had brought with me as a _bon bouche_ to crown the evening with. it was my birthday, and i had for the first time come from a place in the neighbourhood to visit this delightful spot. the road to llangollen turns off between chirk and wrexham; and on passing a certain point you come all at once upon the valley, which opens like an amphitheatre, broad, barren hills rising in majestic state on either side, with "green upland swells that echo to the bleat of flocks" below, and the river dee babbling over its stony bed in the midst of them. the valley at this time "glittered green with sunny showers," and a budding ash-tree dipped its tender branches in the chiding stream. how proud, how glad i was to walk along the highroad that overlooks the delicious prospect, repeating the lines which i have just quoted from mr coleridge's poems! but besides the prospect which opened beneath my feet, another also opened to my inward sight, a heavenly vision on which were written in letters large as hope could make them, these four words, liberty, genius, love, virtue, which have since faded into the light of the common day, or mock my idle gaze. "the beautiful is vanished, and returns not." still, i would return some time or other to this enchanted spot; but i would return to it alone. what other self could i find to share that influx of thoughts, of regret, and delight, the fragments of which i could hardly conjure up to myself, so much have they been broken and defaced? i could stand on some tall rock, and overlook the precipice of years that separates me from what i then was. i was at that time going shortly to visit the poet whom i have above named. where is he now? not only i myself have changed; the world, which was then new to me, has become old and incorrigible. yet will i turn to thee in thought, o sylvan dee, in joy, in youth and gladness, as thou then wert; and thou shalt always be to me the river of paradise, where i will drink of the waters of life freely! there is hardly anything that shows the short-sightedness or capriciousness of the imagination more than travelling does. with change of place we change our ideas; nay, our opinions and feelings. we can by an effort, indeed, transport ourselves to old and long-forgotten scenes, and then the picture of the mind revives again; but we forget those that we have just left. it seems that we can think but of one place at a time. the canvas of the fancy is but of a certain extent, and if we paint one set of objects upon it, they immediately efface every other. we cannot enlarge our conceptions, we only shift our point of view. the landscape bares its bosom to the enraptured eye; we take our fill of it, and seem as if we could form no other image of beauty or grandeur. we pass on, and think no more of it: the horizon that shuts it from our sight also blots it from our memory like a dream. in travelling through a wild, barren country, i can form no idea of a woody and cultivated one. it appears to me that all the world must be barren, like what i see of it. in the country we forget the town, and in town we despise the country. "beyond hyde park," says sir fopling flutter, "all is a desert." all that part of the map that we do not see before us is blank. the world in our conceit of it is not much bigger than a nutshell. it is not one prospect expanded into another, county joined to county, kingdom to kingdom, land to seas, making an image voluminous and vast; the mind can form no larger idea of space than the eye can take in at a single glance. the rest is a name written in a map, a calculation of arithmetic. for instance, what is the true signification of that immense mass of territory and population known by the name of china to us? an inch of pasteboard on a wooden globe, of no more account than a china orange! things near us are seen of the size of life; things at a distance are diminished to the size of the understanding. we measure the universe by ourselves, and even comprehend the texture of our own being only piecemeal. in this way, however, we remember an infinity of things and places. the mind is like a mechanical instrument that plays a great variety of tunes, but it must play them in succession. one idea recalls another, but at the same time excludes all others. in trying to renew old recollections, we cannot as it were unfold the whole web of our existence; we must pick out the single threads. so in coming to a place where we have formerly lived, and with which we have intimate associations, every one must have found that the feeling grows more vivid the nearer we approach the spot, from the mere anticipation of the actual impression: we remember circumstances, feelings, persons, faces, names that we had not thought of for years; but for the time all the rest of the world is forgotten! to return to the question i have quitted above: i have no objection to go to see ruins, aqueducts, pictures, in company with a friend or a party, but rather the contrary, for the former reason reversed. they are intelligible matters, and will bear talking about. the sentiment here is not tacit, but communicable and overt. salisbury plain is barren of criticism, but stonehenge will bear a discussion antiquarian, picturesque, and philosophical. in setting out on a party of pleasure, the first consideration always is where we shall go to: in taking a solitary ramble, the question is what we shall meet with by the way. "the mind is its own place"; nor are we anxious to arrive at the end of our journey. i can myself do the honours indifferently well to the works of art and curiosity. i once took a party to oxford, with no mean _éclat_--showed them that seat of the muses at a distance, "with glistering spires and pinnacles adorn'd," descanted on the learned air that breathes from the grassy quadrangles and stone walls of halls and colleges; was at home in the bodleian; and at blenheim quite superseded the powdered cicerone that attended us, and that pointed in vain with his wand to commonplace beauties in matchless pictures. as another exception to the above reasoning, i should not feel confident in venturing on a journey in a foreign country without a companion. i should want at intervals to hear the sound of my own language. there is an involuntary antipathy in the mind of an englishman to foreign manners and notions that requires the assistance of social sympathy to carry it off. as the distance from home increases, this relief, which was at first a luxury, becomes a passion and an appetite. a person would almost feel stifled to find himself in the deserts of arabia without friends and countrymen: there must be allowed to be something in the view of athens or old rome that claims the utterance of speech; and i own that the pyramids are too mighty for any single contemplation. in such situations, so opposite to all one's ordinary train of ideas, one seems a species by one's self, a limb torn off from society, unless one can meet with instant fellowship and support. yet i did not feel this want or craving very pressing once, when i first set my foot on the laughing shores of france. calais was peopled with novelty and delight. the confused, busy murmur of the place was like oil and wine poured into my ears; nor did the mariners' hymn, which was sung from the top of an old crazy vessel in the harbour, as the sun went down, send an alien sound into my soul. i only breathed the air of general humanity. i walked over "the vine-covered hills and gay regions of france," erect and satisfied; for the image of man was not cast down and chained to the foot of arbitrary thrones: i was at no loss for language, for that of all the great schools of painting was open to me. the whole is vanished like a shade. pictures, heroes, glory, freedom, all are fled; nothing remains but the bourbons and the french people! there is undoubtedly a sensation in travelling into foreign parts that is to be had nowhere else; but it is more pleasing at the time than lasting. it is too remote from our habitual associations to be a common topic of discourse or reference, and, like a dream or another state of existence, does not piece into our daily modes of life. it is an animated but a momentary hallucination. it demands an effort to exchange our actual for our ideal identity; and to feel the pulse of our old transports revive very keenly, we must "jump" all our present comforts and connections. our romantic and itinerant character is not to be domesticated. dr johnson remarked how little foreign travel added to the facilities of conversation in those who had been abroad. in fact, the time we have spent there is both delightful and, in one sense, instructive; but it appears to be cut out of our substantial downright existence, and never to join kindly on to it. we are not the same, but another, and perhaps more enviable individual all the time we are out of our own country. we are lost to ourselves as well as to our friends. so the poet somewhat quaintly sings: "out of my country and myself i go." those who wish to forget painful thoughts do well to absent themselves for a while from the ties and objects that recall them: but we can be said only to fulfil our destiny in the place that gave us birth. i should on this account like well enough to spend the whole of my life in travelling abroad, if i could anywhere borrow another life to spend afterwards at home! _william hazlitt._ the bishop of salisbury's horse as soon as he was perfectly recovered of this sickness, he took a journey from oxford to exeter, to satisfy and see his good mother, being accompanied with a countryman and companion of his own college, and both on foot; which was then either more in fashion, or want of money, or their humility made it so: but on foot they went, and took salisbury on their way, purposely to see the good bishop, who made mr hooker and his companion dine with him at his own table: which mr hooker boasted of with much joy and gratitude when he saw his mother and friends: and at the bishop's parting with him, the bishop gave him good counsel, and his benediction, but forgot to give him money; which when the bishop had considered, he sent a servant in all haste to call richard back to him: and at richard's return, the bishop said to him, "richard, i sent for you back to lend you a horse, which hath carried me many a mile, and, i thank god, with much ease"; and presently delivered into his hand a walking-staff, with which he professed he had travelled through many parts of germany. and he said, "richard, i do not give, but lend you my horse: be sure you be honest, and bring my horse back to me at your return this way to oxford. and i do now give you ten groats, to bear your charges to exeter: and here is ten groats more, which i charge you to deliver to your mother and tell her i send her a bishop's benediction with it, and beg the continuance of her prayers for me. and if you bring my horse back to me, i will give you ten groats more, to carry you on foot to the college, and so god bless you, good richard." _izaak walton._ a strolling pedlar my frame gradually became hardened with my constitution, and being both tall and muscular, i was rather disfigured than disabled by my lameness. this personal disadvantage did not prevent me from taking much exercise on horseback, and making long journeys on foot, in the course of which i often walked from twenty to thirty miles a day. a distinct instance occurs to me. i remember walking with poor james ramsay, my fellow-apprentice, now no more, and two other friends, to breakfast at prestonpans. we spent the forenoon visiting the ruins at seton and the field of battle at preston--dined at prestonpans on tiled haddocks very sumptuously--drank half a bottle of port each, and returned in the evening. this could not be less than thirty miles, nor do i remember being at all fatigued upon the occasion. these excursions on foot and horseback formed by far my most favourite amusement. i have all my life delighted in travelling, though i have never enjoyed that pleasure upon a large scale. it was a propensity which i sometimes indulged so unduly as to alarm and vex my parents. wood, water, wilderness itself had an inexpressible charm for me, and i had a dreamy way of going much farther than i intended, so that unconsciously my return was protracted, and my parents had sometimes serious cause of uneasiness. for example, i once set out with mr george abercromby (son of the immortal general), mr william clerk, and some others, to fish in the lake above howgate, and the stream which descends from it into the esk. we breakfasted at howgate, and fished the whole day; and while we were on our return next morning, i was easily seduced by william clerk, then a great intimate, to visit pennycuik house, the seat of his family. here he and john irving, and i for their sake, were overwhelmed with kindness by the late sir john clerk and his lady, the present dowager lady clerk. the pleasure of looking at fine pictures, the beauty of the place, and the flattering hospitality of the owners, drowned all recollection of home for a day or two. meanwhile our companions, who had walked on without being aware of our digression, returned to edinburgh without us, and excited no small alarm in my father's household. at length, however, they became accustomed to my escapades. my father used to protest to me on such occasions that he thought i was born to be a strolling pedlar; and though the prediction was intended to mortify my conceit, i am not sure that i altogether disliked it. i was now familiar with shakespeare, and thought of autolycus's song: "jog on, jog on the footpath way and merrily hent the stile-a; a merry heart goes all the day, your sad tires in a mile-a." _sir walter scott._ a stout pedestrian let the reader conceive to himself a clear frosty november morning, the scene an open heath, having for the background that huge chain of mountains in which skiddaw and saddleback are preeminent; let him look along that _blind road_, by which i mean the track so slightly marked by the passengers' footsteps that it can but be traced by a slight shade of verdure from the darker heath around it, and, being only visible to the eye when at some distance, ceases to be distinguished while the foot is actually treading it--along this faintly-traced path advances the object of our present narrative. his firm step, his erect and free carriage, have a military air, which corresponds well with his well-proportioned limbs, and stature of six feet high. his dress is so plain and simple that it indicates nothing as to rank--it may be that of a gentleman who travels in this manner for his pleasure, or of an inferior person of whom it is the proper and usual garb. nothing can be on a more reduced scale than his travelling equipment. a volume of shakespeare in each pocket, a small bundle with a change of linen slung across his shoulders, an oaken cudgel in his hand, complete our pedestrian's accommodations, and in this equipage we present him to our readers. brown had parted that morning from his friend dudley, and began his solitary walk towards scotland. the first two or three miles were rather melancholy, from want of the society to which he had of late been accustomed. but this unusual mood of mind soon gave way to the influence of his natural good spirits, excited by the exercise and the bracing effects of the frosty air. he whistled as he went along, not "from want of thought," but to give vent to those buoyant feelings which he had no other mode of expressing. for each peasant whom he chanced to meet, he had a kind greeting or a good-humoured jest; the hardy cumbrians grinned as they passed, and said, "that's a kind heart, god bless un!" and the market-girl looked more than once over her shoulder at the athletic form, which corresponded so well with the frank and blithe address of the stranger. a rough terrier dog, his constant companion, who rivalled his master in glee, scampered at large in a thousand wheels round the heath, and came back to jump up on him, and assure him that he participated in the pleasure of the journey. dr johnson thought life had few things better than the excitation produced by being whirled rapidly along in a post-chaise; but he who has in youth experienced the confident and independent feeling of a stout pedestrian in an interesting country, and during fine weather, will hold the taste of the great moralist cheap in comparison. part of brown's view in choosing that unusual tract which leads through the eastern walls of cumberland into scotland, had been a desire to view the remains of the celebrated roman wall, which are more visible in that direction than in any other part of its extent. his education had been imperfect and desultory; but neither the busy scenes in which he had been engaged, nor the pleasures of youth, nor the precarious state of his own circumstances, had diverted him from the task of mental improvement.--"and this then is the roman wall," he said, scrambling up to a height which commanded the course of that celebrated work of antiquity: "what a people! whose labours, even at this extremity of their empire, comprehended such space, and were executed upon a scale of such grandeur! in future ages, when the science of war shall have changed, how few traces will exist of the labours of vauban and coehorn, while this wonderful people's remains will even then continue to interest and astonish posterity! their fortifications, their aqueducts, their theatres, their fountains, all their public works, bear the grave, solid, and majestic character of their language; while our modern labours, like our modern tongues, seem but constructed out of their fragments." having thus moralised, he remembered that he was hungry, and pursued his walk to a small public-house at which he proposed to get some refreshment. the alehouse, for it was no better, was situated in the bottom of a little dell, through which trilled a small rivulet. it was shaded by a large ash-tree, against which the clay-built shed, that served the purpose of a stable, was erected, and upon which it seemed partly to recline. in this shed stood a saddled horse, employed in eating his corn. the cottages in this part of cumberland partake of the rudeness which characterises those of scotland. the outside of the house promised little for the interior, notwithstanding the vaunt of a sign, where a tankard of ale voluntarily decanted itself into a tumbler, and a hieroglyphical scrawl below attempted to express a promise of "good entertainment for man and horse." brown was no fastidious traveller--he stooped and entered the cabaret. the first object which caught his eye in the kitchen was a tall, stout, country-looking man, in a large jockey great-coat, the owner of the horse which stood in the shed, who was busy discussing huge slices of cold boiled beef, and casting from time to time an eye through the window, to see how his steed sped with his provender. a large tankard of ale flanked his plate of victuals, to which he applied himself by intervals. the good woman of the house was employed in baking. the fire, as is usual in that country, was on a stone hearth, in the midst of an immensely large chimney, which had two seats extended beneath the vent. on one of these sat a remarkably tall woman, in a red cloak and slouched bonnet, having the appearance of a tinker or beggar. she was busily engaged with a short black tobacco-pipe. at the request of brown for some food, the landlady wiped with her mealy apron one corner of the deal table, placed a wooden trencher and knife and fork before the traveller, pointed to the round of beef, recommended mr dinmont's good example, and, finally, filled a brown pitcher with her home-brewed. brown lost no time in doing ample credit to both. for a while, his opposite neighbour and he were too busy to take much notice of each other, except by a good-humoured nod as each in turn raised the tankard to his head. at length, when our pedestrian began to supply the wants of little wasp, the scotch store-farmer, for such was mr dinmont, found himself at leisure to enter into conversation. _sir walter scott,--"guy mannering."_ lake scenery the morning was clear and cheerful after a night of sharp frost. at ten o'clock we took our way on foot towards pooley bridge on the same side of the lake we had coasted in a boat the day before.--looked backwards to the south from our favourite station above blowick. the dazzling sunbeams striking upon the church and village, while the earth was steaming with exhalations not traceable in other quarters, rendered their forms even more indistinct than the partial and flitting veil of unillumined vapour had done two days before. the grass on which we trod, and the trees in every thicket, were dripping with melted hoar-frost. we observed the lemon-coloured leaves of the birches, as the breeze turned them to the sun, sparkle, or rather _flash_, like diamonds, and the leafless purple twigs were tipped with globes of shining crystal. the day continued delightful, and unclouded to the end. i will not describe the country which we slowly travelled through nor relate our adventures; and will only add, that on the afternoon of the thirteenth we returned along the banks of ulswater by the usual road. the lake lay in deep repose after the agitations of a wet and stormy morning. the trees in gowbarrow park were in that state when what is gained by the exposure of their bark and branches compensates, almost, for the loss of foliage, exhibiting the variety which characterises the point of time between autumn and winter. the hawthorns were leafless; their round heads covered with rich scarlet berries, and adorned with arches of green brambles, and eglantines hung with glossy hips; and the grey trunks of some of the ancient oak, which in the summer season might have been regarded only for their venerable majesty, now attracted notice by a pretty embellishment of green mosses and fern intermixed with russet leaves retained by those slender outstarting twigs which the veteran tree would not have tolerated in his strength. the smooth silver branches of the ashes were bare; most of the alders as green as the devonshire cottage-myrtle that weathers the snows of christmas.--will you accept it as some apology for my having dwelt so long on the woodland ornaments of these scenes--that artists speak of the trees on the banks of ulswater, and especially along the bays of stybarrow crags, as having a peculiar character of picturesque intricacy in their stems and branches, which their rocky stations and the mountain winds have combined to give them? at the end of gowbarrow park a large herd of deer were either moving slowly or standing still among the fern. i was sorry when a chance-companion, who had joined us by the way, startled them with a whistle, disturbing an image of grave simplicity and thoughtful enjoyment; for i could have fancied that those natives of this wild and beautiful region were partaking with us a sensation of the solemnity of the closing day. the sun had been set some time; and we could perceive that the light was fading away from the coves of helvellyn, but the lake under a luminous sky, was more brilliant than before. after tea at patterdale, set out again:--a fine evening; the seven stars close to the mountain-top; all the stars seemed brighter than usual. the steeps were reflected in brotherswater, and, above the lake appeared like enormous black perpendicular walls. the kirkstone torrents had been swoln by the rain, and now filled the mountain pass with their roaring, which added greatly to the solemnity of our walk. behind us, when we had climbed to a great height, we saw one light very distant in the vale, like a large red star--a solitary one in the gloomy region. the cheerfulness of the scene was in the sky above us. reached home a little before midnight. _william wordsworth._ walking, and the wild i wish to speak a word for nature, for absolute freedom and wildness, as contrasted with a freedom and culture merely civil,--to regard man as an inhabitant, or a part and parcel of nature, rather than a member of society. i wish to make an extreme statement, if so i may make an emphatic one, for there are enough champions of civilisation: the minister and the school committee, and every one of you will take care of that. i have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of walking, that is, of taking walks,--who had a genius, so to speak, for _sauntering_: which word is beautifully derived "from idle people who roved about the country, in the middle ages, and asked charity, under pretence of going _à la sainte terre_," to the holy land, till the children exclaimed, "there goes a _sainte-terrer_," a saunterer--a holy-lander. they who never go to the holy land in their walks, as they pretend, are indeed mere idlers and vagabonds; but they who do go there are saunterers in the good sense, such as i mean. some, however, would derive the word from _sans terre_, without land or a home, which therefore, in the good sense, will mean, having no particular home, but equally at home everywhere. for this is the secret of successful sauntering. he who sits still in a house all the time may be the greatest vagrant of all; but the saunterer, in the good sense, is no more vagrant than the meandering river, which is all the while sedulously seeking the shortest course to the sea. but i prefer the first, which indeed is the most probable derivation. for every walk is a sort of crusade, preached by some peter the hermit in us, to go forth and reconquer this holy land from the hands of the infidels. it is true we are but faint-hearted crusaders, even the walkers, nowadays, who undertake no persevering, never-ending enterprises. our expeditions are but tours, and come round again at evening to the old hearth-side from which we set out. half the work is but retracing our steps. we should go forth on the shortest walk, perchance, in the spirit of undying adventure, never to return--prepared to send back our embalmed hearts only as relics to our desolate kingdoms. if you are ready to leave father and mother, and brother and sister, and wife and child and friends, and never see them again--if you have paid your debts, and made your will, and settled all your affairs, and are a free man, then you are ready for a walk. to come down to my own experience, my companion and i, for i sometimes have a companion, take pleasure in fancying ourselves knights of a new, or rather an old, order--not equestrians or chevaliers, not ritters or riders, but walkers, a still more ancient and honourable class, i trust. the chivalric and heroic spirit which once belonged to the rider seems now to reside in, or perchance to have subsided into, the walker,--not the knight, but walker errant. he is a sort of fourth estate, outside of church and state and people. we have felt that we almost alone hereabouts practised this noble art; though, to tell the truth, at least if their own assertions are to be received, most of my townsmen would fain walk sometimes, as i do, but they cannot. no wealth can buy the requisite leisure, freedom, and independence, which are the capital in this profession. it comes only by the grace of god. it requires a direct dispensation from heaven to become a walker. you must be born into the family of the walkers. _ambulator nascitur, non fit._ some of my townsmen, it is true, can remember and have described to me some walks which they took ten years ago, in which they were so blessed as to lose themselves for half-an-hour in the woods; but i know very well that they have confined themselves to the highway ever since, whatever pretensions they may make to belong to this select class. no doubt they were elevated for a moment as by the reminiscence of a previous state of existence, when even they were foresters and outlaws. "when he came to grene wode, in a mery mornynge, there he herde the notes small of byrdes mery syngynge. "it is ferre gone, sayd robyn, that i was last here; me lyste a lytell for to shote at the donne dere." i think that i cannot preserve my health and spirits unless i spend four hours a day at least--and it is commonly more than that--sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields, absolutely free from all worldly engagements. you may safely say, a penny for your thoughts, or a thousand pounds. when sometimes i am reminded that the mechanics and shopkeepers stay in their shops not only all the forenoon, but all the afternoon too, sitting with crossed legs, so many of them--as if the legs were made to sit upon, and not to stand or walk upon--i think that they deserve some credit for not having all committed suicide long ago. i, who cannot stay in my chamber for a single day without acquiring some rust, and when sometimes i have stolen forth for a walk at the eleventh hour of four o'clock in the afternoon, too late to redeem the day, when the shades of night were already beginning to be mingled with the daylight, have felt as if i had committed some sin to be atoned for,--i confess that i am astonished at the power of endurance, to say nothing of the moral insensibility, of my neighbours who confine themselves to shops and offices the whole day for weeks and months, ay, and years almost together. i know not what manner of stuff they are of--sitting there now at three o'clock in the afternoon, as if it were three o'clock in the morning. bonaparte may talk of the three-o'clock-in-the-morning courage, but it is nothing to the courage which can sit down cheerfully at this hour in the afternoon over against one's self whom you have known all the morning, to starve out a garrison to whom you are bound by such strong ties of sympathy. i wonder that about this time, or say between four and five o'clock in the afternoon, too late for the morning papers and too early for the evening ones, there is not a general explosion heard up and down the street, scattering a legion of antiquated and house-bred notions and whims to the four winds for an airing--and so the evil cure itself. how womankind, who are confined to the house still more than men, stand it i do not know; but i have ground to suspect that most of them do not _stand_ it at all. when, early in the summer afternoon, we have been shaking the dust of the village from the skirts of our garments, making haste past those houses with purely doric or gothic fronts, which have such an air of repose about them, my companion whispers that probably about these times their occupants are all gone to bed. then it is that i appreciate the beauty and the glory of architecture, which itself never turns in, but for ever stands out and erect, keeping watch over the slumberers. no doubt temperament, and, above all, age, have a good deal to do with it. as a man grows older, his ability to sit still and follow indoor occupations increases. he grows vespertinal in his habits as the evening of life approaches, till at last he comes forth only just before sundown, and gets all the walk that he requires in half-an-hour. but the walking of which i speak has nothing in it akin to taking exercise, as it is called, as the sick take medicine at stated hours--as the swinging of dumb-bells or chairs; but is itself the enterprise and adventure of the day. if you would get exercise, go in search of the springs of life. think of a man's swinging dumb-bells for his health, when those springs are bubbling up in far-off pastures unsought by him! moreover, you must walk like a camel, which is said to be the only beast which ruminates when walking. when a traveller asked wordsworth's servant to show him her master's study, she answered, "here is his library, but his study is out of doors." living much out of doors, in the sun and wind, will no doubt produce a certain roughness of character--will cause a thicker cuticle to grow over some of the finer qualities of our nature, as on the face and hands, or as severe manual labour robs the hands of some of their delicacy of touch. so staying in the house, on the other hand, may produce a softness and smoothness, not to say thinness of skin, accompanied by an increased sensibility to certain impressions. perhaps we should be more susceptible to some influences important to our intellectual and moral growth if the sun had shone and the wind blown on us a little less; and no doubt it is a nice matter to proportion rightly the thick and thin skin. but methinks that is a scurf that will fall off fast enough--that the natural remedy is to be found in the proportion which the night bears to the day, the winter to the summer, thought to experience. there will be so much the more air and sunshine in our thoughts. the callous palms of the labourer are conversant with finer tissues of self-respect and heroism, whose touch thrills the heart, than the languid fingers of idleness. that is mere sentimentality that lies abed by day and thinks itself white, far from the tan and callus of experience. when we walk, we naturally go to the fields and woods: what would become of us if we walked only in the garden or a mall? even some sects of philosophers have felt the necessity of importing the woods to themselves, since they did not go to the woods. "they planted groves and walks of platanes," where they took _subdiales ambulationes_ in porticos open to the air. of course it is of no use to direct our steps to the woods if they do not carry us thither. i am alarmed when it happens that i have walked a mile into the woods bodily without getting there in spirit. in my afternoon walk i would fain forget all my morning occupations and my obligations to society. but it sometimes happens that i cannot easily shake off the village. the thought of some work will run in my head, and i am not where my body is--i am out of my senses. in my walks i would fain return to my senses. what business have i in the woods, if i am thinking of something out of the woods? i suspect myself, and cannot help a shudder, when i find myself so implicated even in what are called good works--for this may sometimes happen. my vicinity affords many good walks; and though for so many years i have walked almost every day, and sometimes for several days together, i have not yet exhausted them. an absolutely new prospect is a great happiness, and i can still get this any afternoon. two or three hours' walking will carry me to as strange a country as i expect ever to see. a single farmhouse which i had not seen before is sometimes as good as the dominions of the king of dahomey. there is in fact a sort of harmony discoverable between the capabilities of the landscape within a circle of ten miles' radius, or the limits of an afternoon walk, and the threescore years and ten of human life. it will never become quite familiar to you. nowadays almost all man's improvements, so called, as the building of houses, and the cutting down of the forest and of all large trees, simply deform the landscape, and make it more and more tame and cheap. a people who would begin by burning the fences and let the forest stand! i saw the fences half consumed, their ends lost in the middle of the prairie, and some worldly miser with a surveyor looking after his bounds, while heaven had taken place around him, and he did not see the angels going to and fro, but was looking for an old posthole in the midst of paradise. i looked again, and saw him standing in the middle of a boggy, stygian fen, surrounded by devils, and he had found his bounds without a doubt, three little stones, where a stake had been driven, and looking nearer, i saw that the prince of darkness was his surveyor. i can easily walk ten, fifteen, twenty, any number of miles, commencing at my own door, without going by any house, without crossing a road except where the fox and the mink do: first along by the river, and then the brook, and then the meadow and the wood-side. there are square miles in my vicinity which have no inhabitant. from many a hill i can see civilisation and the abodes of man afar. the farmers and their works are scarcely more obvious than woodchucks and their burrows. man and his affairs, church and state and school, trade and commerce, and manufactures and agriculture, even politics, the most alarming of them all,--i am pleased to see how little space they occupy in the landscape. politics is but a narrow field, and that still narrower highway yonder leads to it. i sometimes direct the traveller thither. if you would go to the political world, follow the great road--follow that market-man, keep his dust in your eyes, and it will lead you straight to it; for it, too, has its place merely, and does not occupy all space. i pass from it as from a beanfield into the forest, and it is forgotten. in one half-hour i can walk off to some portion of the earth's surface where a man does not stand from one year's end to another and there, consequently, politics are not, for they are but as the cigar-smoke of a man. the village is the place to which the roads tend, a sort of expansion of the highway, as a lake of a river. it is the body of which roads are the arms and legs--a trivial or quadrivial place, the thoroughfare and ordinary of travellers. the word is from the latin _villa_, which, together with _via_, a way, or more anciently _ved_ and _vella_, varro derives from _veho_, to carry, because the villa is the place to and from which things are carried. they who get their living by teaming were said _vellaturam facere_. hence, too, apparently, the latin word _vilis_ and our vile; also _villain_. this suggests what kind of degeneracy villagers are liable to. they are wayworn by the travel that goes by and over them, without travelling themselves. some do not walk at all; others walk in the highways; a few walk across lots. roads are made for horses and men of business. i do not travel in them much, comparatively, because i am not in a hurry to get to any tavern or grocery or livery-stable or depôt to which they lead. i am a good horse to travel, but not from choice a roadster. the landscape-painter uses the figures of men to mark a road. he would not make that use of my figure. i walk out into a nature such as the old prophets and poets, menu, moses, homer, chaucer, walked in. you may name it america, but it is not america: neither americus vespucius, nor columbus, nor the rest were the discoverers of it. there is a truer account of it in mythology than in any history of america, so called, that i have seen. at present, in this vicinity, the best part of the land is not private property; the landscape is not owned, and the walker enjoys comparative freedom. but possibly the day will come when it will be partitioned off into so-called pleasure-grounds, in which a few will take a narrow and exclusive pleasure only,--when fences shall be multiplied, and mantraps and other engines invented to confine men to the _public road_, and walking over the surface of god's earth shall be construed to mean trespassing on some gentleman's grounds. to enjoy a thing exclusively is commonly to exclude yourself from the true enjoyment of it. let us improve our opportunities, then, before the evil days come. what is it that makes it so hard sometimes to determine whither we will walk? i believe that there is a subtle magnetism in nature which, if we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us aright. it is not indifferent to us which way we walk. there is a right way; but we are very liable from heedlessness and stupidity to take the wrong one. we would fain take that walk, never yet taken by us through this actual world, which is perfectly symbolical of the path which we love to travel in the interior and ideal world; and sometimes, no doubt, we find it difficult to choose our direction, because it does not yet exist distinctly in our idea. when i go out of the house for a walk, uncertain as yet whither i will bend my steps, and submit myself to my instinct to decide for me, i find, strange and whimsical as it may seem, that i finally and inevitably settle south-west, toward some particular wood or meadow or deserted pasture or hill in that direction. my needle is slow to settle,--varies a few degrees, and does not always point due south-west, it is true, and it has good authority for this variation, but it always settles between west and south-south-west. the future lies that way to me, and the earth seems more unexhausted and richer on that side. the outline which would bound my walks would be, not a circle, but a parabola, or rather like one of those cometary orbits which have been thought to be non-returning curves, in this case opening westward, in which my house occupies the place of the sun. i turn round and round irresolute, sometimes for a quarter of an hour, until i decide, for a thousandth time, that i will walk into the south-west or west. eastward i go only by force; but westward i go free. thither no business leads me. it is hard for me to believe that i shall find fair landscapes or sufficient wildness and freedom behind the eastern horizon. i am not excited by the prospect of a walk thither; but i believe that the forest which i see in the western horizon stretches uninterruptedly toward the setting sun, and there are no towns nor cities in it of enough consequence to disturb me. let me live where i will, on this side is the city, on that the wilderness, and ever i am leaving the city more and more, and withdrawing into the wilderness. i should not lay so much stress on this fact, if i did not believe that something like this is the prevailing tendency of my countrymen. i must walk toward oregon, and not toward europe. and that way the nation is moving, and i may say that mankind progress from east to west. within a few years we have witnessed the phenomenon of a south-eastward migration in the settlement of australia; but this affects us as a retrograde movement, and, judging from the moral and physical character of the first generation of australians, has not yet proved a successful experiment. the eastern tartars think that there is nothing west beyond thibet. "the world ends there," say they; "beyond there is nothing but a shoreless sea." it is unmitigated east where they live. we go eastward to realise history and study the works of art and literature, retracing the steps of the race; we go westward as into the future, with a spirit of enterprise and adventure. the atlantic is a lethean stream, in our passage over which we have had an opportunity to forget the old world and its institutions. if we do not succeed this time, there is perhaps one more chance for the race left before it arrives on the banks of the styx; and that is in the lethe of the pacific, which is three times as wide. i know not how significant it is, or how far it is an evidence of singularity, that an individual should thus consent in his pettiest walk with the general movement of the race; but i know that something akin to the migratory instinct in birds and quadrupeds,--which, in some instances, is known to have affected the squirrel tribe, impelling them to a general and mysterious movement, in which they were seen, say some, crossing the broadest rivers, each on its particular chip, with its tail raised for a sail, and bridging narrower streams with their dead,--that something like a _furor_ which affects the domestic cattle in the spring, and which is referred to a worm in their tails,--affects both nations and individuals, either perennially or from time to time. not a flock of wild geese cackles over our town, but it to some extent unsettles the value of real estate here, and, if i were a broker, i should probably take that disturbance into account. "than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages, and palmeres for to seken strange strondes." every sunset which i witness inspires me with the desire to go to a west as distant and as fair as that into which the sun goes down. he appears to migrate westward daily, and tempts us to follow him. he is the great western pioneer whom the nations follow. we dream all night of those mountain-ridges in the horizon, though they may be of vapour only, which were last gilded by his rays. the islands of atlantis, and the islands and gardens of the hesperides, a sort of terrestrial paradise, appear to have been the great west of the ancients, enveloped in mystery and poetry. who has not seen in imagination, when looking into the sunset sky, the gardens of the hesperides, and the foundation of all those fables? columbus felt the westward tendency more strongly than any before. he obeyed it, and found a new world for castile and leon. the head of men in those days scented fresh pastures from afar. "and now the sun had stretched out all the hills, and now was dropped into the western bay; at last _he_ rose, and twitched his mantle blue; to-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new." where on the globe can there be found an area of equal extent with that occupied by the bulk of our states, so fertile and so rich and varied in its proportions, and at the same time so habitable by the european, as this is? michaux, who knew but part of them, says that "the species of large trees are much more numerous in north america than in europe; in the united states there are more than one hundred and forty species that exceed thirty feet in height; in france there are but thirty that attain this size." later botanists more than confirm his observations. humboldt came to america to realise his youthful dreams of a tropical vegetation, and he beheld it in its greatest perfection in the primitive forests of the amazon, the most gigantic wilderness on the earth, which he has so eloquently described. the geographer guyot, himself a european, goes farther--farther than i am ready to follow him; yet not when he says: "as the plant is made for the animal, as the vegetable world is made for the animal world, america is made for the man of the old world.... the man of the old world sets out upon his way. leaving the highlands of asia, he descends from station to station towards europe. each of his steps is marked by a new civilisation superior to the preceding, by a greater power of development. arrived at the atlantic, he pauses on the shore of this unknown ocean, the bounds of which he knows not, and turns upon his footprints for an instant." when he has exhausted the rich soil of europe, and reinvigorated himself, "then recommences his adventurous career westward as in the earliest ages." so far guyot. from this western impulse coming in contact with the barrier of the atlantic sprang the commerce and enterprise of modern times. the younger michaux, in his _travels west of the alleghanies in 1802_, says that the common inquiry in the newly settled west was, "'from what part of the world have you come?' as if these vast and fertile regions would naturally be the place of meeting and common country of all the inhabitants of the globe." to use an obsolete latin word, i might say, _ex oriente lux; ex occidente_ frux. from the east light; from the west fruit. sir francis head, an english traveller and a governor-general of canada, tells us that "in both the northern and southern hemispheres of the new world, nature has not only outlined her words on a larger scale, but has painted the whole picture with brighter and more costly colours than she used in delineating and in beautifying the old world.... the heavens of america appear infinitely higher, the sky is bluer, the air is fresher, the cold is intenser, the moon looks larger, the stars are brighter, the thunder is louder, the lightning is vivider, the wind is stronger, the rain is heavier, the mountains are higher, the rivers longer, the forests bigger, the plains broader." this statement will do at least to set against buffon's account of this part of the world and its productions. linnæus said long ago, "_nescio quæ facies_ læta, glabra _plantis americanis_: i know not what there is of joyous and smooth in the aspect of american plants"; and i think that in this country there are no, or at most very few, _africanæ bestiæ_, african beasts, as the romans called them, and that in this respect also it is peculiarly fitted for the habitation of man. we are told that within three miles of the centre of the east indian city of singapore, some of the inhabitants are annually carried off by tigers; but the traveller can lie down in the woods at night almost anywhere in north america without fear of wild beasts. these are encouraging testimonies. if the moon looks larger here than in europe, probably the sun looks larger also. if the heavens of america appear infinitely higher, and the stars brighter, i trust that these facts are symbolical of the height to which the philosophy and poetry and religion of her inhabitants may one day soar. at length, perchance, the immaterial heaven will appear as much higher to the american mind, and the intimations that star it as much brighter. for i believe that climate does thus react on man--as there is something in the mountain air that feeds the spirit and inspires. will not man grow to greater perfection intellectually as well as physically under these influences? or is it unimportant how many foggy days there are in his life? i trust that we shall be more imaginative, that our thoughts will be clearer, fresher, and more ethereal, as our sky--our understanding more comprehensive and broader, like our plains--our intellect generally on a grander scale, like our thunder and lightning, our rivers and mountains and forests--and our hearts shall even correspond in breadth and depth and grandeur to our inland seas. perchance there will appear to the traveller something, he knows not what, of _læta_ and _glabra_, of joyous and serene, in our very faces. else to what end does the world go on, and why was america discovered? to americans i hardly need to say: "westward the star of empire takes its way." as a true patriot, i should be ashamed to think that adam in paradise was more favourably situated on the whole than the backwoodsman in this country. our sympathies in massachusetts are not confined to new england; though we may be estranged from the south, we sympathise with the west. there is the home of the younger sons, as among the scandinavians they took to the sea for their inheritance. it is too late to be studying hebrew; it is more important to understand even the slang of to-day. some months ago i went to see a panorama of the rhine. it was like a dream of the middle ages. i floated down its historic stream in something more than imagination, under bridges built by the romans, and repaired by later heroes, past cities and castles whose very names were music to my ears, and each of which was the subject of a legend. there were ehrenbreitstein and rolandseck and coblentz, which i knew only in history. they were ruins that interested me chiefly. there seemed to come up from its waters and its vine-clad hills and valleys a hushed music as of crusaders departing for the holy land. i floated along under the spell of enchantment, as if i had been transported to an heroic age, and breathed an atmosphere of chivalry. soon after i went to see a panorama of the mississippi, and as i worked my way up the river in the light of to-day, and saw the steamboats wooding up, counted the rising cities, gazed on the fresh ruins of nauvoo, beheld the indians moving west across the stream, and, as before i had looked up the moselle, now looked up the ohio and the missouri and heard the legends of dubuque and of wenona's cliff,--still thinking more of the future than of the past or present,--i saw that this was a rhine stream of a different kind; that the foundations of castles were yet to be laid, and the famous bridges were yet to be thrown over the river; and i felt that _this was the heroic age itself_, though we know it not, for the hero is commonly the simplest and obscurest of men. the west of which i speak is but another name for the wild; and what i have been preparing to say is, that in wildness is the preservation of the world. every tree sends its fibres forth in search of the wild. the cities import it at any price. men plough and sail for it. from the forest and wilderness come the tonics and barks which brace mankind. our ancestors were savages. the story of romulus and remus being suckled by a wolf is not a meaningless fable. the founders of every state which has risen to eminence have drawn their nourishment and vigour from a similar wild source. it was because the children of the empire were not suckled by the wolf that they were conquered and displaced by the children of the northern forests who were. i believe in the forest, and in the meadow, and in the night in which the corn grows. we require an infusion of hemlock-spruce or arbor-vitæ in our tea. there is a difference between eating and drinking for strength and from mere gluttony. the hottentots eagerly devour the marrow of the koodoo and other antelopes raw, as a matter of course. some of our northern indians eat raw the marrow of the arctic reindeer, as well as various other parts, including the summits of the antlers, as long as they are soft. and herein, perchance, they have stolen a march on the cooks of paris. they get what usually goes to feed the fire. this is probably better than stall-fed beef and slaughter-house pork to make a man of. give me a wildness whose glance no civilisation can endure,--as if we lived on the marrow of koodoos devoured raw. there are some intervals which border the strain of the wood-thrush, to which i would migrate,--wild lands where no settler has squatted; to which, methinks, i am already acclimated. the african hunter cummings tells us that the skin of the eland, as well as that of most other antelopes just killed, emits the most delicious perfume of trees and grass. i would have every man so much like a wild antelope, so much a part and parcel of nature, that his very person should thus sweetly advertise our senses of his presence, and remind us of those parts of nature which he most haunts. i feel no disposition to be satirical, when the trapper's coat emits the odour of musquash even; it is a sweeter scent to me than that which commonly exhales from the merchant's or the scholar's garments. when i go into their wardrobes and handle their vestments, i am reminded of no grassy plains and flowery meads which they have frequented, but of dusty merchants' exchanges and libraries rather. a tanned skin is something more than respectable, and perhaps olive is a fitter colour than white for a man--a denizen of the woods. "the pale white man!" i do not wonder that the african pitied him. darwin the naturalist says, "a white man bathing by the side of a tahitian was like a plant bleached by the gardener's art, compared with a fine, dark green one, growing vigorously in the open fields." ben jonson exclaims: "how near to good is what is fair!" so i would say: how near to good is what is _wild_! life consists with wildness. the most alive is the wildest. not yet subdued to man, its presence refreshes him. one who pressed forward incessantly and never rested from his labours, who grew fast and made infinite demands on life, would always find himself in a new country or wilderness, and surrounded by the raw material of life. he would be climbing over the prostrate stems of primitive forest trees. hope and the future for me are not in lawns and cultivated fields, not in towns and cities, but in the impervious and quaking swamps. when, formerly, i have analysed my partiality for some farm which i had contemplated purchasing, i have frequently found that i was attracted solely by a few square rods of impermeable and unfathomable bog--a natural sink in one corner of it. that was the jewel which dazzled me. i derive more of my subsistence from the swamps which surround my native town than from the cultivated gardens in the village. there are no richer parterres to my eyes than the dense beds of dwarf andromeda (_cassandra calyculata_) which cover these tender places on the earth's surface. botany cannot go further than tell me the names of the shrubs which grow there--the high-blueberry, panicled andromeda, lambkill, azalea, and rhodora--all standing in the quaking sphagnum. i often think that i should like to have my house front on this mass of dull red bushes, omitting other flower plots and borders, transplanted spruce and trim box, even gravelled walks--to have this fertile spot under my windows, not a few imported barrowfuls of soil only to cover the sand which was thrown out in digging the cellar. why not put my house, my parlour, behind this plot, instead of behind that meagre assemblage of curiosities, that poor apology for a nature and art which i call my front yard? it is an effort to clear up and make a decent appearance when the carpenter and mason have departed, though done as much for the passer-by as the dweller within. the most tasteful front-yard fence was never an agreeable object of study to me; the most elaborate ornaments, acorn-tops, or what not, soon wearied and disgusted me. bring your sills up to the very edge of the swamp, then (though it may not be the best place for a dry cellar), so that there be no access on that side to citizens. front yards are not made to walk in, but, at most, through, and you could go in the back way. yes, though you may think me perverse, if it were proposed to me to dwell in the neighbourhood of the most beautiful garden that ever human art contrived, or else of a dismal swamp, i should certainly decide for the swamp. how vain, then, have been all your labours, citizens, for me! my spirits infallibly rise in proportion to the outward dreariness. give me the ocean, the desert or the wilderness! in the desert, pure air and solitude compensate for want of moisture and fertility. the traveller burton says of it--"your _morale_ improves; you become frank and cordial, hospitable and single-minded.... in the desert, spirituous liquors excite only disgust. there is a keen enjoyment in a mere animal existence." they who have been travelling long on the steppes of tartary say--"on re-entering cultivated lands, the agitation, perplexity, and turmoil of civilisation oppressed and suffocated us; the air seemed to fail us, and we felt every moment as if about to die of asphyxia." when i would recreate myself, i seek the darkest wood, the thickest and most interminable, and, to the citizen, most dismal swamp. i enter a swamp as a sacred place,--_a sanctum sanctorum_. there is the strength, the marrow of nature. the wild-wood covers the virgin mould,--and the same soil is good for men and for trees. a man's health requires as many acres of meadow to his prospect as his farm does loads of muck. there are the strong meats on which he feeds. a town is saved, not more by the righteous men in it than by the woods and swamps that surround it. a township where one primitive forest waves above while another primitive forest rots below,--such a town is fitted to raise not only corn and potatoes, but poets and philosophers for the coming ages. in such a soil grew homer and confucius and the rest, and out of such a wilderness comes the reformer eating locusts and wild honey. to preserve wild animals implies generally the creation of a forest for them to dwell in or resort to. so it is with man. a hundred years ago they sold bark in our streets peeled from our own woods. in the very aspect of those primitive and rugged trees there was, methinks, a tanning principle which hardened and consolidated the fibres of men's thoughts. ah! already i shudder for these comparatively degenerate days of my native village, when you cannot collect a load of bark of good thickness; and we no longer produce tar and turpentine. the civilised nations--greece, rome, england--have been sustained by the primitive forests which anciently rotted where they stand. they survive as long as the soil is not exhausted. alas for human culture! little is to be expected of a nation when the vegetable mould is exhausted, and it is compelled to make manure of the bones of its fathers. there the poet sustains himself merely by his own superfluous fat, and the philosopher comes down on his marrow-bones. it is said to be the task of the american "to work the virgin soil," and that "agriculture here already assumes proportions unknown everywhere else." i think that the farmer displaces the indian even because he redeems the meadow, and so makes himself stronger and in some respects more natural. i was surveying for a man the other day a single straight line one hundred and thirty-two rods long, through a swamp, at whose entrance might have been written the words which dante read over the entrance to the infernal regions--"leave all hope, ye that enter,"--that is, of ever getting out again; where at one time i saw my employer actually up to his neck and swimming for his life in his property, though it was still winter. he had another similar swamp which i could not survey at all, because it was completely under water; and nevertheless, with regard to a third swamp, which i did _survey_ from a distance, he remarked to me, true to his instincts, that he would not part with it for any consideration, on account of the mud which it contained. and that man intends to put a girdling ditch round the whole in the course of forty months, and so redeem it by the magic of his spade. i refer to him only as the type of a class. the weapons with which we have gained our most important victories, which should be handed down as heirlooms from father to son, are not the sword and the lance, but the bush-whack, the turf cutter, the spade, and the bog-hoe, rusted with the blood of many a meadow, and begrimed with the dust of many a hard-fought field. the very winds blew the indian's corn-field into the meadow, and pointed out the way which he had not the skill to follow. he had no better implement with which to intrench himself in the land than a clamshell. but the farmer is armed with plough and spade. in literature it is only the wild that attracts us. dullness is but another name for tameness. it is the uncivilised free and wild thinking in _hamlet_ and the _iliad_, in all the scriptures and mythologies, not learned in the schools, that delights us. as the wild duck is more swift and beautiful than the tame, so is the wild--the mallard--thought, which 'mid falling dews wings its way above the fens. a truly good book is something as natural, and as unexpectedly and unaccountably fair and perfect, as a wild flower discovered on the prairies of the west or in the jungles of the east. genius is a light which makes the darkness visible, like the lightning's flash, which perchance shatters the temple of knowledge itself,--and not a taper lighted at the hearth-stone of the race, which pales before the light of common day. english literature, from the days of the minstrels to the lake poets--chaucer and spenser and milton, and even shakespeare, included--breathes no quite fresh and in this sense wild strain. it is an essentially tame and civilised literature, reflecting greece and rome. her wilderness is a green wood,--her wild man a robin hood. there is plenty of genial love of nature, but not so much of nature herself. her chronicles inform us when her wild animals, but not when the wild man in her, became extinct. the science of humboldt is one thing, poetry is another thing. the poet to-day, notwithstanding all the discoveries of science, and the accumulated learning of mankind, enjoys no advantage over homer. where is the literature which gives expression to nature? he would be a poet who could impress the winds and streams into his service, to speak for him; who nailed words to their primitive senses, as farmers drive down stakes in the spring, which the frost has heaved; who derived his words as often as he used them--transplanted them to his page with earth adhering to their roots; whose words were so true and fresh and natural that they would appear to expand like the buds at the approach of spring, though they lay half-smothered between two musty leaves in a library,--ay, to bloom and bear fruit there, after their kind, annually, for the faithful reader, in sympathy with surrounding nature. i do not know of any poetry to quote which adequately expresses this yearning for the wild. approached from this side, the best poetry is tame. i do not know where to find in any literature, ancient or modern, any account which contents me of that nature with which even i am acquainted. you will perceive that i demand something which no augustan nor elizabethan age, which no _culture_, in short, can give. mythology comes nearer to it than anything. how much more fertile a nature, at least, has grecian mythology its root in than english literature. mythology is the crop which the old world bore before its soil was exhausted, before the fancy and imagination were affected with blight; and, which it still bears, whenever its pristine vigour is unabated. all other literatures endure only as the elms which overshadow our houses; but this is like the great dragon-tree of the western isles, as old as mankind, and, whether that does or not, will endure as long; for the decay of other literatures makes the soil in which it thrives. the west is preparing to add its fables to those of the east. the valleys of the ganges, the nile, and the rhine, having yielded their crop, it remains to be seen what the valleys of the amazon, the plate, the orinoco, the st lawrence, and the mississippi will produce. perchance, when, in the course of ages, american liberty has become a fiction of the past--as it is to some extent a fiction of the present--the poets of the world will be inspired by american mythology. the wildest dreams of wild men, even, are not the less true, though they may not recommend themselves to the sense which is most common among englishmen and americans to-day. it is not every truth that recommends itself to the common sense. nature has a place for the wild clematis as well as for the cabbage. some expressions of truth are reminiscent,--others merely _sensible_, as the phrase is,--others prophetic. some forms of disease, even, may prophesy forms of health. the geologist has discovered that the figures of serpents, griffins, flying dragons, and other fanciful embellishments of heraldry, have their prototypes in the forms of fossil species which were extinct before man was created, and hence "indicate a faint and shadowy knowledge of a previous state of organic existence." the hindoos dreamed that the earth rested on an elephant, and the elephant on a tortoise, and the tortoise on a serpent; and though it may be an unimportant coincidence, it will not be out of place here to state that a fossil tortoise has lately been discovered in asia large enough to support an elephant. i confess that i am partial to these wild fancies, which transcend the order of time and development. they are the sublimest recreation of the intellect. the partridge loves peas, but not those that go with her into the pot. in short, all good things are wild and free there is something in a strain of music, whether produced by an instrument or by the human voice,--take the sound of a bugle in a summer night for instance,--which by its wildness, to speak without satire, reminds me of the cries emitted by wild beasts in their native forests. it is so much of their wildness as i can understand. give me for my friends and neighbours wild men, not tame ones. the wilderness of the savage is but a faint symbol of the awful ferity with which good men and lovers meet. i love even to see the domestic animals reassert their native rights,--any evidence that they have not wholly lost their original wild habits and vigour; as when my neighbour's cow breaks out of her pasture early in the spring and boldly swims the river, a cold, grey tide, twenty-five or thirty rods wide, swollen by the melted snow. it is the buffalo crossing the mississippi. this exploit confers some dignity on the herd of my eyes--already dignified. the seeds of instinct are preserved under the thick hides of cattle and horses, like seeds in the bowels of the earth, an indefinite period. any sportiveness in cattle is unexpected. i saw one day a herd of a dozen bullocks and cows running about and frisking in unwieldy sport, like huge rats, even like kittens. they shook their heads, raised their tails, and rushed up and down a hill, and i perceived by their horns, as well as by their activity, their relation to the deer tribe. but, alas! a sudden loud _whoa!_ would have damped their ardour at once, reduced them from venison to beef, and stiffened their sides and sinews like the locomotive. who but the evil one has cried, "whoa!" to mankind? indeed, the life of cattle, like that of many men, is but a sort of locomotiveness; they move a side at a time, and man, by his machinery, is meeting the horse and the ox half way. whatever part the whip has touched is thenceforth palsied. who would ever think of a _side_ of any of the supple cat tribe, as we speak of a _side_ of beef? i rejoice that horses and steers have to be broken before they can be made the slaves of men, and that men themselves have some wild oats still left to sow before they become submissive members of society. undoubtedly, all men are not equally fit subjects for civilisation; and because the majority, like dogs and sheep, are tame by inherited disposition, this is no reason why the others should have their natures broken that they may be reduced to the same level. men are in the main alike, but they were made several in order that they might be various. if a low use is to be served, one man will do nearly or quite as well as another; if a high one, individual excellence is to be regarded. any man can stop a hole to keep the wind away, but no other man could serve so rare a use as the author of this illustration did. confucius says--"the skins of the tiger and the leopard, when they are tanned, are as the skins of the dog and the sheep tanned." but it is not the part of a true culture to tame tigers, any more than it is to make sheep ferocious; and tanning their skins for shoes is not the best use to which they can be put. when looking over a list of men's names in a foreign language, as of military officers, or of authors who have written on a particular subject, i am reminded once more that there is nothing in a name. the name menschikoff, for instance, has nothing in it to my ears more human than a whisker, and it may belong to a rat. as the names of the poles and russians are to us, so are ours to them. it is as if they had been named by the child's rigmarole--_iery wiery ichery van, tittle-tol-tan_. i see in my mind a herd of wild creatures swarming over the earth, and to each the herdsman has affixed some barbarous sound in his own dialect. the names of men are of course as cheap and as meaningless as _bose_ and _tray_, the names of dogs. methinks it would be some advantage to philosophy if men were named merely in the gross, as they are known. it would be necessary only to know the genus, and perhaps the race or variety, to know the individual. we are not prepared to believe that every private soldier in a roman army had a name of his own, because we have not supposed that he had a character of his own. at present, our only true names are nicknames. i knew a boy who, from his peculiar energy, was called "buster" by his playmates, and this rightly supplanted his christian name. some travellers tell us that an indian had no name given him at first, but earned it, and his name was his fame; and among some tribes he acquired a new name with every new exploit. it is pitiful when a man bears a name for convenience merely, who has earned neither name nor fame. i will not allow mere names to make distinctions for me, but still see men in herds for all them. a familiar name cannot make a man less strange to me. it may be given to a savage who retains in secret his own wild title earned in the woods. we have a wild savage in us, and a savage name is perchance somewhere recorded as ours. i see that my neighbour, who bears the familiar epithet william, or edwin, takes it off with his jacket. it does not adhere to him when asleep or in anger, or aroused by any passion or inspiration. i seem to hear pronounced by some of his kin at such a time his original wild name in some jaw-breaking or else melodious tongue. here is this vast, savage, howling mother of ours, nature, lying all around, with such beauty, and such affection for her children, as the leopard; and yet we are so early weaned from her breast to society, to that culture which is exclusively an interaction of man on man--a sort of breeding in and in, which produces at most a merely english nobility, a civilisation destined to have a speedy limit. in society, in the best institutions of men, it is easy to detect a certain precocity. when we should still be growing children, we are already little men. give me a culture which imports much muck from the meadows, and deepens the soil--not that which trusts to heating manures and improved implements and modes of culture only. many a poor sore-eyed student that i have heard of would grow faster, both intellectually and physically, if, instead of sitting up so very late, he honestly slumbered a fool's allowance. there may be an excess even of informing light. niépce, a frenchman, discovered "actinism," that power in the sun's rays which produces a chemical effect,--that granite rocks, and stone structures, and statues of metal, "are all alike destructively acted upon during the hours of sunshine, and, but for provisions of nature no less wonderful, would soon perish under the delicate touch of the most subtile of the agencies of the universe." but he observed that "those bodies which underwent this change during the daylight possessed the power of restoring themselves to their original conditions during the hours of night, when this excitement was no longer influencing them." hence it has been inferred that "the hours of darkness are as necessary to the creation as we know night and sleep are to the organic kingdom." not even does the moon shine every night, but gives place to darkness. i would not have every man nor every part of man cultivated, any more than i would have every acre of earth cultivated: part will be tillage, but the greater part will be meadow and forest, not only serving an immediate use, but preparing a mould against a distant future, by the annual decay of the vegetation which it supports. there are other letters for the child to learn than those which cadmus invented. the spaniards have a good term to express this wild and dusky knowledge,--_gramática parda_, tawny grammar,--a kind of mother-wit derived from that same leopard to which i have referred. we have heard of a society for the diffusion of useful knowledge. it is said that knowledge is power; and the like. methinks there is equal need of a society for the diffusion of useful ignorance, what we will call beautiful knowledge, a knowledge useful in a higher sense: for what is most of our boasted so-called knowledge but a conceit that we know something, which robs us of the advantage of our actual ignorance? what we call knowledge is often our positive ignorance; ignorance our negative knowledge. by long years of patient industry and reading of the newspapers--for what are the libraries of science but files of newspapers?--a man accumulates a myriad facts, lays them up in his memory, and then when in some spring of his life he saunters abroad into the great fields of thought, he, as it were, goes to grass like a horse and leaves all his harness behind in the stable. i would say to the society for the diffusion of useful knowledge, sometimes,--go to grass. you have-eaten hay long enough. the spring has come with its green crop. the very cows are driven to their country pastures before the end of may; though i have heard of one unnatural farmer who kept his cow in the barn and fed her on hay all the year round. so, frequently, the society for the diffusion of useful knowledge treats its cattle. a man's ignorance sometimes is not only useful, but beautiful,--while his knowledge, so called, is oftentimes worse than useless, besides being ugly. which is the best man to deal with--he who knows nothing about a subject, and, what is extremely rare, knows that he knows nothing, or he who really knows something about it, but thinks that he knows all? my desire for knowledge is intermittent; but my desire to bathe my head in atmospheres unknown to my feet is perennial and constant. the highest that we can attain to is not knowledge, but sympathy with intelligence. i do not know that this higher knowledge amounts to anything more definite than a novel and grand surprise on a sudden revelation of the insufficiency of all that we called knowledge before--a discovery that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophy. it is the lighting up of the mist by the sun. man cannot _know_ in any higher sense than this, any more than he can look serenely and with impunity in the face of the sun: [greek: hôs ti noôn ny keinon noêseis],--"you will not perceive that, as perceiving a particular thing," say the chaldean oracles. there is something servile in the habit of seeking after a law which we may obey. we may study the laws of matter at and for our convenience, but a successful life knows no law. it is an unfortunate discovery certainly, that of a law which binds us where we did not know before that we were bound. live free, child of the mist,--and with respect to knowledge we are all children of the mist. the man who takes the liberty to live is superior to all the laws, by virtue of his relation to the law-maker. "that is active duty," says the vishnu purana, "which is not for our bondage; that is knowledge which is for our liberation: all other duty is good only unto weariness; all other knowledge is only the cleverness of an artist." it is remarkable how few events or crises there are in our histories; how little exercised we have been in our minds; how few experiences we have had. i would fain be assured that i am growing apace and rankly, though my very growth disturb this dull equanimity,--though it be with struggle through long, dark, muggy nights or seasons of gloom. it would be well if all our lives were a divine tragedy even, instead of this trivial comedy or farce. dante, bunyan, and others, appear to have been exercised in their minds more than we: they were subjected to a kind of culture such as our district schools and colleges do not contemplate. even mahomet, though many may scream at his name, had a good deal more to live for, ay, and to die for, than they have commonly. when, at rare intervals, some thought visits one, as perchance he is walking on a railroad, then indeed the cars go by without his hearing them. but soon, by some inexorable law, our life goes by and the cars return. "gentle breeze, that wanderest unseen, and bendest the thistles round loira of storms, traveller of the windy glens, why hast thou left my ear so soon?" while almost all men feel an attraction drawing them to society, few are attracted strongly to nature. in their relation to nature men appear to me for the most part, notwithstanding their arts, lower than the animals. it is not often a beautiful relation, as in the case of the animals. how little appreciation of the beauty of the landscape there is among us! we shall have to be told that the greeks called the world [greek: kosmos], beauty, or order, but we do not see clearly why they did so, and we esteem it at best only a curious philological fact. for my part, i feel that with regard to nature i live a sort of border life, on the confines of a world into which i make occasional and transitional and transient forays only, and my patriotism and allegiance to the state into whose territories i seem to retreat are those of a moss-trooper. unto a life which i call natural i would gladly follow even a will-o'-the wisp through bogs and sloughs unimaginable, but no moon nor fire-fly has shown me the causeway to it. nature is a personality so vast and universal that we have never seen one of her features. the walker in the familiar fields which stretch around my native town sometimes finds himself in another land than is described in their owners' deeds, as it were in some far-away field on the confines of the actual concord, where her jurisdiction ceases, and the idea which the word concord suggests ceases to be suggested. these farms which i have myself surveyed, these bounds which i have set up, appear dimly still as through a mist; but they have no chemistry to fix them; they fade from the surface of the glass; and the picture which the painter painted stands out dimly from beneath. the world with which we are commonly acquainted leaves no trace, and it will have no anniversary. i took a walk on spaulding's farm the other afternoon. i saw the setting sun lighting up the opposite side of a stately pine wood. its golden rays straggled into the aisles of the wood as into some noble hall. i was impressed as if some ancient and altogether admirable and shining family had settled there in that part of the land called concord, unknown to me,--to whom the sun was servant,--who had not gone into society in the village,--who had not been called on. i saw their park, their pleasure-ground, beyond through the wood, in spaulding's cranberry-meadow. the pines furnished them with gables as they grew. their house was not obvious to vision; the trees grew through it. i do not know whether i heard the sounds of a suppressed hilarity or not. they seemed to recline on the sunbeams. they have sons and daughters. they are quite well. the farmer's cart-path, which leads directly through their hall, does not in the least put them out,--as the muddy bottom of a pool is sometimes seen through the reflected skies. they never heard of spaulding, and do not know that he is their neighbour,--notwithstanding i heard him whistle as he drove his team through the house. nothing can equal the serenity of their lives. their coat of arms is simply a lichen. i saw it painted on the pines and oaks. their attics were in the tops of the trees. they are of no politics. there was no noise of labour. i did not perceive that they were weaving or spinning. yet i did detect, when the wind lulled and hearing was done away, the finest imaginable sweet musical hum,--as of a distant hive in may, which perchance was the sound of their thinking. they had no idle thoughts, and no one without could see their work, for their industry was not as in knots and excrescences embayed. but i find it difficult to remember them. they fade irrevocably out of my mind even now while i speak and endeavour to recall them, and recollect myself. it is only after a long and serious effort to recollect my best thoughts that i become again aware of their cohabitancy. if it were not for such families as this, i think i should move out of concord. we are accustomed to say in new england that few and fewer pigeons visit us every year. our forests furnish no mast for them. so, it would seem, few and fewer thoughts visit each growing man from year to year, for the grove in our minds is laid waste,--sold feed unnecessary fires of ambition, or sent to mill, and there is scarcely a twig left for them to perch on. they no longer build nor breed with us. in some more genial season, perchance, a faint shadow flits across the landscape of the mind, cast by the _wings_ of some thought in its vernal or autumnal migration, but, looking up, we are unable to detect the substance of the thought itself. our winged thoughts are turned to poultry. they no longer soar, and they attain only to a shanghai and cochin-china grandeur. those _gra-a-ate thoughts_, those _gra-a-ate men_ you hear of! we hug the earth--how rarely we mount! methinks we might elevate ourselves a little more. we might climb a tree, at least. i found my account in climbing a tree once. it was a tall white pine, on the top of a hill; and though i got well pitched, i was well paid for it, for i discovered new mountains in the horizon which i had never seen before,--so much more of the earth and the heavens. i might have walked about the foot of the tree for threescore years and ten, and yet i certainly should never have seen them. but, above all, i discovered around me,--it was near the end of june,--on the ends of the topmost branches only, a few minute and delicate red cone-like blossoms, the fertile flower of the white pine looking heavenward. i carried straightway to the village the topmost spire, and showed it to stranger jurymen who walked the streets,--for it was court-week,--and to farmers and lumber-dealers and wood-choppers and hunters, and not one had ever seen the like before, but they wondered as at a star dropped down. tell of ancient architects finishing their works on the tops of columns as perfectly as on the lower and more visible parts! nature has from the first expanded the minute blossoms of the forest only toward the heavens, above men's heads and unobserved by them. we see only the flowers that are under our feet in the meadows. the pines have developed their delicate blossoms on the highest twigs of the wood every summer for ages, as well over the heads of nature's red children as of her white ones; yet scarcely a farmer or hunter in the land has ever seen them. above all, we cannot afford not to live in the present. he is blessed over all mortals who loses no moment of the passing life in remembering the past. unless our philosophy hears the cock crow in every barn-yard within our horizon, it is belated. that sound commonly reminds us that we are growing rusty and antique in our employments and habits of thought. his philosophy comes down to a more recent time than ours. there is something suggested by it that is a newer testament--the gospel according to this moment. he has not fallen astern; he has got up early and kept up early, and to be where he is to be in season, in the foremost rank of time. it is an expression of the health and soundness of nature, a brag for all the world,--healthiness as of a spring burst forth, a new fountain of the muses, to celebrate this last instant of time. where he lives no fugitive slave laws are passed. who has not betrayed his master many times since last he heard the note? the merit of this bird's strain is in its freedom from all plaintiveness. the singer can easily move us to tears or to laughter, but where is he who can excite in us a pure morning joy? when, in doleful dumps, breaking the awful stillness of our wooden sidewalk on a sunday, or, perchance, a watcher in the house of mourning, i hear a cockerel crow far or near, i think to myself, "there is one of us well, at any rate,"--and with a sudden gush return to my senses. we had a remarkable sunset one day last november. i was walking in a meadow, the source of a small brook, when the sun at last, just before setting, after a cold grey day, reached a clear stratum in the horizon, and the softest, brightest morning sunlight fell on the dry grass and on the stems of the trees in the opposite horizon, and on the leaves of the shrub-oaks on the hillside, while our shadows stretched long over the meadow eastward, as if we were the only motes in its beams. it was such a light as we could not have imagined a moment before, and the air also was so warm and serene that nothing was wanting to make a paradise of that meadow. when we reflected that this was not a solitary phenomenon, never to happen again, but that it would happen for ever and ever an infinite number of evenings, and cheer and reassure the latest child that walked there, it was more glorious still. the sun sets on some retired meadow, where no house is visible, with all the glory and splendour that it lavishes on cities, and, perchance, as it has never set before,--where there is but a solitary marsh-hawk to have his wings gilded by it, or only a musquash looks out from his cabin, and there is some little black-veined brook in the midst of the marsh, just beginning to meander, winding slowly round a decaying stump. we walked in so pure and bright a light, gilding the withered grass and leaves, so softly and serenely bright, i thought i had never bathed in such a golden flood, without a ripple or a murmur to it. the west side of every wood and rising ground gleamed like the boundary of elysium, and the sun on our backs seemed like a gentle herdsman driving us home at evening. so we saunter toward the holy land, till one day the sun shall shine more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening light, as warm and serene and golden as on a bank-side in autumn. _h. d. thoreau._ a young tramp a plan had occurred to me for passing the night, which i was going to carry into execution. this was, to lie behind the wall at the back of my old school, in a corner where there used to be a haystack. i imagined it would be a kind of company to have the boys, and the bedroom where i used to tell the stories, so near me: although the boys would know nothing of my being there, and the bedroom would yield me no shelter. i had had a hard day's work, and was pretty well jaded when i came climbing out, at last, upon the level of blackheath. it cost me some trouble to find out salem house; but i found it, and i found a haystack in the corner, and i lay down by it; having first walked round the wall, and looked up at the windows, and seen that all was dark and silent within. never shall i forget the lonely sensation of first lying down, without a roof above my head. sleep came upon me as it came on many other outcasts, against whom house-doors were locked, and house-dogs barked, that night--and i dreamed of lying on my old school-bed, talking to the boys in my room; and found myself sitting upright, with steerforth's name upon my lips, looking wildly at the stars that were glistening and glimmering above me. when i remembered where i was at that untimely hour, a feeling stole upon me that made me get up, afraid of i don't know what, and walk about. but the faint glimmering of the stars, and the pale light in the sky where the day was coming, reassured me: and my eyes being very heavy, i lay down again, and slept--though with a knowledge in my sleep that it was cold--until the warm beams of the sun, and the ringing of the getting-up bell at salem house, awoke me. if i could have hoped that steerforth was there, i would have lurked about until he came out alone; but i knew he must have left long since. traddles still remained, perhaps, but it was very doubtful; and i had not sufficient confidence in his discretion or good luck, however strong my reliance was on his good-nature, to wish to trust him with my situation. so i crept away from the wall as mr creakle's boys were getting up, and struck into the long dusty track which i had first known to be the dover road when i was one of them, and when i little expected that any eyes would ever see me the wayfarer i was now, upon it. what a different sunday morning from the old sunday morning at yarmouth! in due time i heard the church-bells ringing, as i plodded on; and i met people who were going to church; and i passed a church or two where the congregation were inside, and the sound of singing came out into the sunshine, while the beadle sat and cooled himself in the shade of the porch, or stood beneath the yew-tree, with his hand to his forehead, glowering at me going by. but the peace and rest of the old sunday morning were on everything, except me. that was the difference. i felt quite wicked in my dirt and dust, with my tangled hair. but for the quiet picture i had conjured up, of my mother in her youth and beauty, weeping by the fire, and my aunt relenting to her, i hardly think i should have had courage to go on until next day. but it always went before me, and i followed. i got, that sunday, through three-and-twenty miles on the straight road, though not very easily, for i was new to that kind of toil. i see myself, as evening closes in, coming over the bridge at rochester, footsore and tired, and eating bread that i had bought for supper. one or two little houses, with the notice, "lodgings for travellers," hanging out, had tempted me; but i was afraid of spending the few pence i had, and was even more afraid of the vicious looks of the trampers i had met or overtaken. i sought no shelter, therefore, but the sky; and toiling into chatham,--which, in that night's aspect, is a mere dream of chalk, and drawbridges, and mastless ships in a muddy river, roofed like noah's arks,--crept, at last, upon a sort of grass-grown battery overhanging a lane, where a sentry was walking to and fro. here i lay down, near a cannon; and, happy in the society of the sentry's footsteps, though he knew no more of my being above him than the boys at salem house had known of my lying by the wall, slept soundly until morning. _charles dickens,--"david copperfield."_ "better than the gig!" mr pecksniff's horse being regarded in the light of a sacred animal, only to be driven by him, the chief priest of that temple, or by some person distinctly nominated for the time being to that high office by himself, the two young men agreed to walk to salisbury; and so, when the time came, they set off on foot; which was, after all, a better mode of travelling than in the gig, as the weather was very cold and very dry. better! a rare strong, hearty, healthy walk--four statute miles an hour--preferable to that rumbling, tumbling, jolting, shaking, scraping, creaking, villainous old gig? why, the two things will not admit of comparison. it is an insult to the walk, to set them side by side. where is an instance of a gig having ever circulated a man's blood, unless when, putting him in danger of his neck, it awakened in his veins and in his ears, and all along his spine, a tingling heat, much more peculiar than agreeable? when did a gig ever sharpen anybody's wits and energies, unless it was when the horse bolted, and, crashing madly down a steep hill with a stone wall at the bottom, his desperate circumstances suggested to the only gentleman left inside, some novel and unheard-of mode of dropping out behind? better than the gig! the air was cold, tom; so it was, there was no denying it; but would it have been more genial in the gig? the blacksmith's fire burned very bright, and leaped up high, as though it wanted men to warm; but would it have been less tempting, looked at from the clammy cushions of a gig? the wind blew keenly, nipping the features of the hardy wight who fought his way along; blinding him with his own hair if he had enough of it, and wintry dust if he hadn't; stopped his breath as though he had been soused in a cold bath; tearing aside his wrappings-up, and whistling in the very marrow of his bones; but it would have done all this a hundred times more fiercely to a man in a gig, wouldn't it? a fig for gigs! better than the gig! when were travellers by wheels and hoofs seen with such red-hot cheeks as those? when were they so good-humouredly and merrily bloused? when did their laughter ring upon the air, as they turned them round, what time the stronger gusts came sweeping up; and, facing round again as they passed by, dashed on, in such a glow of ruddy health as nothing could keep pace with, but the high spirits it engendered? better than the gig! why, here _is_ a man in a gig coming the same way now. look at him as he passes his whip into his left hand, chafes his numbed right fingers on his granite leg, and beats those marble toes of his upon the footboard. ha, ha, ha! who would exchange this rapid hurry of the blood for yonder stagnant misery, though its pace were twenty miles for one? better than the gig! no man in a gig could have such interest in the milestones. no man in a gig could see, or feel, or think, like merry users of their legs. how, as the wind sweeps on, upon these breezy downs, it tracks its flight in darkening ripples on the grass, and smoothest shadows on the hills! look round and round upon this bare black plain, and see even here, upon a winter's day, how beautiful the shadows are! alas! it is the nature of their kind to be so. the loveliest things in life, tom, are but shadows; and they come and go, and change and fade away, as rapidly as these! another mile, and then begins a fall of snow, making the crow, who skims away so close above the ground to shirk the wind, a blot of ink upon the landscape. but though it drives and drifts against them as they walk, stiffening on their skirts, and freezing in the lashes of their eyes, they wouldn't have it fall more sparingly, no, not so much as by a single flake, although they had to go a score of miles. and, lo! the towers of the old cathedral rise before them, even now! and by-and-bye they come into the sheltered streets, made strangely silent by their white carpet; and so to the inn for which they are bound; where they present such flushed and burning faces to the cold waiter, and are so brimful of vigour, that he almost feels assaulted by their presence; and, having nothing to oppose to the attack (being fresh, or rather stale, from the blazing fire in the coffee-room), is quite put out of his pale countenance. _charles dickens_,--"_martin chuzzlewit_." de quincey leads the simple life there were already, even in those days of 1802, numerous inns, erected at reasonable distances from each other, for the accommodation of tourists: and no sort of disgrace attached in wales, as too generally upon the great roads of england, to the pedestrian style of travelling. indeed, the majority of those whom i met as fellow-tourists in the quiet little cottage-parlours of the welsh posting-houses were pedestrian travellers. all the way from shrewsbury through llangollen, llanrwst, conway, bangor, then turning to the left at right angles through carnarvon, and so on to dolgelly (the chief town of merionethshire), tan-y-bwlch, harlech, barmouth, and through the sweet solitudes of cardiganshire, or turning back sharply towards the english border through the gorgeous wood scenery of montgomeryshire--everywhere at intermitting distances of twelve to sixteen miles, i found the most comfortable inns. one feature indeed of repose in all this chain of solitary resting-houses--viz., the fact that none of them rose above two storeys in height--was due to the modest scale on which the travelling system of the principality had moulded itself in correspondence to the calls of england, which then (but be it remembered this _then_ was in 1802, a year of peace) threw a very small proportion of her vast migratory population annually into this sequestered channel. no huge babylonian centres of commerce towered into the clouds on these sweet sylvan routes: no hurricanes of haste, or fever-stricken armies of horses and flying chariots, tormented the echoes in these mountain recesses. and it has often struck me that a world-wearied man, who sought for the peace of monasteries separated from their gloomy captivity--peace and silence such as theirs combined with the large liberty of nature--could not do better than revolve amongst these modest inns in the five northern welsh counties of denbigh, montgomery, carnarvon, merioneth, and cardigan. sleeping, for instance, and breakfasting at carnarvon; then, by an easy nine-mile walk, going forwards to dinner at bangor, thence to aber--nine miles; or to llanberris; and so on for ever, accomplishing seventy to ninety or one hundred miles in a week. this, upon actual experiment, and for week after week, i found the most delightful of lives. here was the eternal motion of winds and rivers, or of the wandering jew liberated from the persecution which compelled him to move, and turned his breezy freedom into a killing captivity. happier life i cannot imagine than this vagrancy, if the weather were but tolerable, through endless successions of changing beauty, and towards evening a courteous welcome in a pretty rustic home--that having all the luxuries of a fine hotel (in particular some luxuries[1] that are almost sacred to alpine regions), was at the same time liberated from the inevitable accompaniments of such hotels in great cities or at great travelling stations--viz., the tumult and uproar. life on this model was but too delightful; and to myself especially, that am never thoroughly in health unless when having pedestrian exercise to the extent of fifteen miles at the most, and eight to ten miles at the least. living thus, a man earned his daily enjoyment. but what did it cost? about half a guinea a day: whilst my boyish allowance was not a third of this. the flagrant health, health boiling over in fiery rapture, which ran along, side by side, with exercise on this scale, whilst all the while from morning to night i was inhaling mountain air, soon passed into a hateful scourge. perquisites to servants and a bed would have absorbed the whole of my weekly guinea. my policy therefore was, if the autumnal air was warm enough, to save this expense of a bed and the chambermaid by sleeping amongst ferns or furze upon a hillside; and perhaps with a cloak of sufficient _weight_ as well as compass, or an arab's burnoose, this would have been no great hardship. but then in the daytime what an oppressive burden to carry! so perhaps it was as well that i had no cloak at all. i did, however, for some weeks try the plan of carrying a canvas tent manufactured by myself, and not larger than an ordinary umbrella: but to pitch this securely i found difficult; and on windy nights it became a troublesome companion. as winter drew near, this bivouacking system became too dangerous to attempt. still one may bivouack decently, barring rain and wind, up to the end of october. and i counted, on the whole, that in a fortnight i spent nine nights abroad. there are, as perhaps the reader knows by experience, no jaguars in wales--nor pumas--nor anacondas--nor (generally speaking) any thugs. what i feared most, but perhaps only through ignorance of zoology, was, lest, whilst my sleeping face was upturned to the stars, some one of the many little brahminical-looking cows on the cambrian hills, one or other, might poach her foot into the centre of my face. i do not suppose any fixed hostility of that nature to english faces in welsh cows: but everywhere i observe in the feminine mind something of beautiful caprice, a floral exuberance of that charming wilfulness which characterises our dear human sisters i fear through all worlds. against thugs i had juvenal's license to be careless in the emptiness of my pockets (_cantabit vacuus coram latrone viator_). but i fear that juvenal's license will not always hold water. there are people bent upon cudgelling one who will persist in excusing one's having nothing but a bad shilling in one's purse, without reading in that juvenalian _vacuitas_ any privilege or license of exemption from the general fate of travellers that intrude upon the solitude of robbers. _thomas de quincey._ footnote: [1] but a luxury of another class, and quite peculiar to wales, was in those days (i hope in these) the welsh harp, in attendance at every inn. a resolution i had long ago determined to leave london as soon as the means should be in my power, and, now that they were, i determined to leave the great city; yet i felt some reluctance to go. i would fain have pursued the career of original authorship which had just opened itself to me, and have written other tales of adventure. the bookseller had given me encouragement enough to do so; he had assured me that he should be always happy to deal with me for an article (that was the word) similar to the one i had brought him, provided my terms were moderate; and the bookseller's wife, by her complimentary language, had given me yet more encouragement. but for some months past i had been far from well, and my original indisposition, brought on partly by the peculiar atmosphere of the big city, partly by anxiety of mind, had been much increased by the exertions which i had been compelled to make during the last few days. i felt that, were i to remain where i was, i should die, or become a confirmed valetudinarian. i would go forth into the country, travelling on foot, and, by exercise and inhaling pure air, endeavour to recover my health, leaving my subsequent movements to be determined by providence. but whither should i bend my course? once or twice i thought of walking home to the old town, stay some time with my mother and my brother, and enjoy the pleasant walks in the neighbourhood; but, though i wished very much to see my mother and my brother, and felt much disposed to enjoy the said pleasant walks, the old town was not exactly the place to which i wished to go at this present juncture. i was afraid the people would ask, where are your northern ballads? where are your alliterative translations from ab gwilym--of which you were always talking, and with which you promised to astonish the world? now, in the event of such interrogations, what could i answer? it is true i had compiled newgate lives and trials, and had written the life of joseph sell, but i was afraid that the people of the old town would scarcely consider these as equivalents for the northern ballads and the songs of ab gwilym. i would go forth and wander in any direction but that of the old town. but how one's sensibility on any particular point diminishes with time; at present, i enter the old town perfectly indifferent as to what the people may be thinking on the subject of the songs and ballads. with respect to the people themselves, whether, like my sensibility, their curiosity has altogether evaporated, or whether, which is at least equally probable, they never entertained any, one thing is certain, that never in a single instance have they troubled me with any remarks on the subject of the songs and ballads. as it was my intention to travel on foot, with a bundle and a stick, i despatched my trunk containing some few clothes and books to the old town. my preparations were soon made; in about three days i was in readiness to start. stonehenge after standing still a minute or two, considering what i should do, i moved down what appeared to be the street of a small straggling town; presently i passed by a church, which rose indistinctly on my right hand; anon there was the rustling of foliage and the rushing of waters. i reached a bridge, beneath which a small stream was running in the direction of the south. i stopped and leaned over the parapet, for i have always loved to look upon streams, especially at the still hours. "what stream is this, i wonder?" said i, as i looked down from the parapet into the water, which whirled and gurgled below. leaving the bridge, i ascended a gentle acclivity, and presently reached what appeared to be a tract of moory undulating ground. it was now tolerably light, but there was a mist or haze abroad which prevented my seeing objects with much precision. i felt chill in the damp air of the early morn, and walked rapidly forward. in about half an hour i arrived where the road divided into two, at an angle or tongue of dark green sward. "to the right or the left?" said i, and forthwith took, without knowing why, the left-hand road, along which i proceeded about a hundred yards, when, in the midst of the tongue of sward formed by the two roads, collaterally with myself, i perceived what i at first conceived to be a small grove of blighted trunks of oaks, barked and grey. i stood still for a moment, and then, turning off the road, advanced slowly towards it over the sward; as i drew nearer, i perceived that the objects which had attracted my curiosity, and which formed a kind of circle, were not trees, but immense upright stones. a thrill pervaded my system; just before me were two, the mightiest of the whole, tall as the stems of proud oaks, supporting on their tops a huge transverse stone, and forming a wonderful doorway. i knew now where i was, and, laying down my stick and bundle, and taking off my hat, i advanced slowly, and cast myself--it was folly, perhaps, but i could not help what i did--cast myself, with my face on the dewy earth, in the middle of the portal of giants, beneath the transverse stone. the spirit of stonehenge was strong upon me! and after i had remained with my face on the ground for some time, i arose, placed my hat on my head, and, taking up my stick and bundle, wandered around the wondrous circle, examining each individual stone, from the greatest to the least; and then, entering by the great door, seated myself upon an immense broad stone, one side of which was supported by several small ones, and the other slanted upon the earth; and there in deep meditation, i sat for an hour or two, till the sun shone in my face above the tall stones of the eastern side. and as i still sat there, i heard the noise of bells, and presently a large number of sheep came browsing past the circle of stones; two or three entered, and grazed upon what they could find, and soon a man also entered the circle at the northern side. "early here, sir," said the man, who was tall, and dressed in a dark green slop, and had all the appearance of a shepherd; "a traveller, i suppose?" "yes," said i, "i am a traveller; are these sheep yours?" "they are, sir; that is, they are my master's. a strange place this, sir," said he, looking at the stones; "ever here before?" "never in body, frequently in mind." "heard of the stones, i suppose; no wonder--all the people of the plain talk of them." "what do the people of the plain say of them?" "why, they say--how did they ever come here?" "do they not suppose them to have been brought?" "who should have brought them?" "i have read that they were brought by many thousand men." "where from?" "ireland." "how did they bring them?" "i don't know." "and what did they bring them for?" "to form a temple, perhaps." "what is that?" "a place to worship god in." "a strange place to worship god in." "why?" "it has no roof." "yes, it has." "where?" said the man, looking up. "what do you see above you?" "the sky." "well?" "well!" "have you anything to say?" "how did those stones come here?" "are there other stones like these on the plains?" said i. "none; and yet there are plenty of strange things on these downs." "what are they?" "strange heaps, and barrows, and great walls of earth built on the top of hills." "do the people of the plain wonder how they came there?" "they do not." "why?" "they were raised by hands." "and these stones?" "how did they ever come here?" "i wonder whether they are here?" said i. "these stones?" "yes." "so sure as the world," said the man; "and as the world, they will stand as long." "i wonder whether there is a world." "what do you mean?" "an earth and sea, moon and stars, sheep and men." "do you doubt it?" "sometimes." "i never heard it doubted before." "it is impossible there should be a world." "it ain't possible there shouldn't be a world." "just so." at this moment a fine ewe, attended by a lamb, rushed into the circle and fondled the knees of the shepherd. "i suppose you would not care to have some milk?" said the man. "why do you suppose so?" "because, so be, there be no sheep, no milk, you know; and what there ben't is not worth having." "you could not have argued better," said i, "that is, supposing you have argued; with respect to the milk you may do as you please." "be still, nanny," said the man; and producing a tin vessel from his scrip, he milked the ewe into it. "here is milk of the plains, master," said the man, as he handed the vessel to me. "where are those barrows and great walls of earth you were speaking of?" said i, after i had drunk some of the milk; "are there any near where we are?" "not within many miles; the nearest is yonder away," said the shepherd, pointing to the south-east. "it's a grand place, that, but not like this; quite different, and from it you have a sight of the finest spire in the world." "i must go to it," said i, and i drank the remainder of the milk; "yonder, you say." "yes, yonder; but you cannot get to it in that direction, the river lies between." "what river?" "the avon." "avon is british," said i. "yes," said the man, "we are all british here." "no, we are not," said i. "what are we, then?" "english." "a'n't they one?" "no." "who were the british?" "the men who are supposed to have worshipped god in this place, and who raised these stones." "where are they now?" "our forefathers slaughtered them, spilled their blood all about, especially in this neighbourhood, destroyed their pleasant places, and left not, to use their own words, one stone upon another." "yes, they did," said the shepherd, looking aloft at the transverse stone. "and it is well for them they did; whenever that stone, which english hands never raised, is by english hands thrown down, woe, woe, woe to the english race; spare it, english! hengist spared it!--here is sixpence." "i won't have it," said the man. "why not?" "you talk so prettily about these stones; you seem to know all about them." "i never receive presents; with respect to the stones, i say with yourself, how did they ever come here?" "how did they ever come here?" said the shepherd. a prospect leaving the shepherd, i bent my way in the direction pointed out by him as that in which the most remarkable of the strange remains of which he had spoken lay. i proceeded rapidly, making my way over the downs covered with coarse grass and fern; with respect to the river of which he had spoken, i reflected that, either by wading or swimming, i could easily transfer myself and what i bore to the opposite side. on arriving at its banks, i found it a beautiful stream, but shallow, with here and there a deep place, where the water ran dark and still. always fond of the pure lymph, i undressed, and plunged into one of these gulfs, from which i emerged, my whole frame in a glow, and tingling with delicious sensations. after conveying my clothes and scanty baggage to the farther side, i dressed, and then with hurried steps bent my course in the direction of some lofty ground; i at length found myself on a high road, leading over wide and arid downs; following the road for some miles without seeing anything remarkable, i supposed at length that i had taken the wrong path, and wended on slowly and disconsolately for some time, till, having nearly surmounted a steep hill, i knew at once, from certain appearances, that i was near the object of my search. turning to the right near the brow of the hill, i proceeded along a path which brought me to a causeway leading over a deep ravine, and connecting the hill with another which had once formed part of it, for the ravine was evidently the work of art. i passed over the causeway, and found myself in a kind of gateway which admitted me into a square space of many acres, surrounded on all sides by mounds or ramparts of earth. though i had never been in such a place before, i knew that i stood within the precincts of what had been a roman encampment, and one probably of the largest size, for many thousand warriors might have found room to perform their evolutions in that space, in which corn was now growing, the green ears waving in the morning wind. after i had gazed about the space for a time, standing in the gateway formed by the mounds, i clambered up the mound to the left hand, and on the top of that mound i found myself at a great altitude; beneath, at the distance of a mile, was a fair old city, situated amongst verdant meadows, watered with streams, and from the heart of that old city, from amidst mighty trees, i beheld towering to the sky the finest spire in the world. after i had looked from the roman rampart for a long time, i hurried away, and, retracing my steps along the causeway, regained the road, and, passing over the brow of the hill, descended to the city of the spire. "one of the pleasant moments of life" after walking about a dozen miles, i came to a town, where i rested for the night. the next morning i set out again in the direction of the north-west. i continued journeying for four days, my daily journeys varying from twenty to twenty-five miles. during this time nothing occurred to me worthy of any especial notice. the weather was brilliant, and i rapidly improved both in strength and spirits. on the fifth day, about two o'clock, i arrived at a small town. feeling hungry, i entered a decent-looking inn--within a kind of bar i saw a huge, fat, landlord-looking person, with a very pretty, smartly-dressed maiden. addressing myself to the fat man, "house!" said i, "house! can i have dinner, house?" "young gentleman," said the huge fat landlord, "you are come at the right time; dinner will be taken up in a few minutes, and such a dinner," he continued, rubbing his hands, "as you will not see every day in these times." "i am hot and dusty," said i, "and should wish to cool my hands and face." "jenny!" said the huge landlord, with the utmost gravity, "show the gentleman into number seven, that he may wash his hands and face." "by no means," said i, "i am a person of primitive habits, and there is nothing like the pump in weather like this." "jenny!" said the landlord, with the same gravity as before, "go with the young gentleman to the pump in the back kitchen, and take a clean towel along with you." thereupon the rosy-faced clean-looking damsel went to a drawer, and producing a large, thick, but snowy-white towel, she nodded to me to follow her; whereupon i followed jenny through a long passage into the back kitchen. and at the end of the back kitchen there stood a pump; and going to it i placed my hands beneath the spout, and said, "pump, jenny"; and jenny incontinently, without laying down the towel, pumped with one hand, and i washed and cooled my heated hands. and, when my hands were washed and cooled, i took off my neckcloth, and unbuttoning my shirt collar, i placed my head beneath the spout of the pump, and i said unto jenny, "now, jenny, lay down the towel, and pump for your life." thereupon jenny, placing the towel on a linen-horse, took the handle of the pump with both hands and pumped over my head as handmaid had never pumped before; so that the water poured in torrents from my head, my face, and my hair down upon the brick floor. and after the lapse of somewhat more than a minute, i called out with a half-strangled voice, "hold, jenny!" and jenny desisted. i stood for a few moments to recover my breath, then taking the towel which jenny proffered, i dried composedly my hands and head, my face and hair; then, returning the towel to jenny, i gave a deep sigh and said, "surely this is one of the pleasant moments of life." _george borrow_,--"_lavengro_." the snowdon ranger i quickened my steps, and soon came up to the two individuals. one was an elderly man, dressed in a smock frock, and with a hairy cap on his head. the other was much younger, wore a hat, and was dressed in a coarse suit of blue, nearly new, and doubtless his sunday's best. he was smoking a pipe. i greeted them in english, and sat down near them. they responded in the same language, the younger man with considerable civility and briskness, the other in a tone of voice denoting some reserve. "may i ask the name of this lake?" said i, addressing myself to the young man, who sat between me and the elderly one. "its name is llyn cwellyn, sir," said he, taking the pipe out of his mouth. "and a fine lake it is." "plenty of fish in it?" i demanded. "plenty, sir; plenty of trout and pike and char." "is it deep?" said i. "near the shore it is shallow, sir, but in the middle and near the other side it is deep, so deep that no one knows how deep it is." "what is the name," said i, "of the great black mountain there on the other side?" "it is called mynydd mawr, or the great mountain. yonder rock, which bulks out from it, down the lake yonder, and which you passed as you came along, is called castell cidwm, which means wolf s rock or castle." "did a wolf ever live there?" i demanded. "perhaps so," said the man, "for i have heard say that there were wolves of old in wales." "and what is the name of the beautiful hill yonder, before us across the water?" "that, sir, is called cairn drws y coed," said the man. "the stone heap of the gate of the wood," said i. "are you welsh, sir?" said the man. "no," said i, "but i know something of the language of wales. i suppose you live in that house?" "not exactly, sir; my father-in-law here lives in that house, and my wife with him. i am a miner, and spend six days in the week at my mine, but every sunday i come here, and pass the day with my wife and him." "and what profession does he follow?" said i; "is he a fisherman?" "fisherman!" said the elderly man contemptuously, "not i. i am the snowdon ranger." "and what is that?" said i. the elderly man tossed his head proudly, and made no reply. "a ranger means a guide, sir," said the younger man--"my father-in-law is generally termed the snowdon ranger because he is a tip-top guide, and he has named the house after him the snowdon ranger. he entertains gentlemen in it who put themselves under his guidance in order to ascend snowdon and to see the country." "there is some difference in your professions," said i; "he deals in heights, you in depths; both, however, are break-necky trades." "i run more risk from gunpowder than anything else," said the younger man. "i am a slate-miner, and am continually blasting. i have, however, had my falls. are you going far to-night, sir?" "i am going to bethgelert," said i. "a good six miles, sir, from here. do you come from caernarvon?" "farther than that," said i. "i come from bangor." "to-day, sir, and walking?" "to-day, and walking." "you must be rather tired, sir; you came along the valley very slowly." "i am not in the slightest degree tired," said i; "when i start from here, i shall put on my best pace, and soon get to bethgelert." "anybody can get along over level ground," said the old man, laconically. "not with equal swiftness," said i. "i do assure you, friend, to be able to move at a good swinging pace over level ground is something not to be sneezed at. not," said i, lifting up my voice, "that i would for a moment compare walking on the level ground to mountain ranging, pacing along the road to springing up crags like a mountain goat, or assert that even powell himself, the first of all road walkers, was entitled to so bright a wreath of fame as the snowdon ranger." "won't you walk in, sir?" said the elderly man. "no, i thank you," said i; "i prefer sitting out here, gazing on the lake and the noble mountains." "i wish you would, sir," said the elderly man, "and take a glass of something; i will charge you nothing." "thank you," said i--"i am in want of nothing, and shall presently start. do many people ascend snowdon from your house?" "not so many as i could wish," said the ranger; "people in general prefer ascending snowdon from that trumpery place bethgelert; but those who do are fools--begging your honour's pardon. the place to ascend snowdon from is my house. the way from my house up snowdon is wonderful for the romantic scenery which it affords; that from bethgelert can't be named in the same day with it for scenery; moreover, from my house you may have the best guide in wales; whereas the guides of bethgelert--but i say nothing. if your honour is bound for the wyddfa, as i suppose you are, you had better start from my house to-morrow under my guidance." "i have already been up the wyddfa from llanberis," said i, "and am now going through bethgelert to llangollen, where my family are; were i going up snowdon again, i should most certainly start from your house under your guidance, and were i not in a hurry at present, i would certainly take up my quarters here for a week, and every day make excursions with you into the recesses of eryri. i suppose you are acquainted with all the secrets of the hills?" "trust the old ranger for that, your honour. i would show your honour the black lake in the frightful hollow, in which the fishes have monstrous heads and little bodies, the lake on which neither swan, duck nor any kind of wildfowl was ever seen to light. then i would show your honour the fountain of the hopping creatures, where, where----" "were you ever at that wolf's crag, that castell y cidwm?" said i. "can't say i ever was, your honour. you see it lies so close by, just across that lake, that----" "you thought you could see it any day, and so never went," said i. "can't you tell me whether there are any ruins upon it?" "i can't, your honour." "i shouldn't wonder," said i, "if in old times it was the stronghold of some robber-chieftain; cidwm in the old welsh is frequently applied to a ferocious man. castell cidwm, i should think, rather ought to be translated the robber's castle, than the wolf's rock. if i ever come into these parts again, you and i will visit it together, and see what kind of a place it is. now farewell! it is getting late." i then departed. "what a nice gentleman!" said the younger man, when i was a few yards distant. "i never saw a nicer gentleman," said the old ranger. i sped along, snowdon on my left, the lake on my right, and the tip of a mountain peak right before me in the east. after a little time i looked back; what a scene! the silver lake and the shadowy mountain over its southern side looking now, methought, very much like gibraltar. i lingered and lingered, gazing and gazing, and at last only by an effort tore myself away. the evening had now become delightfully cool in this land of wonders. on i sped, passing by two noisy brooks coming from snowdon to pay tribute to the lake. and now i had left the lake and the valley behind, and was ascending a hill. as i gained its summit, up rose the moon to cheer my way. in a little time, a wild stony gorge confronted me, a stream ran down the gorge with hollow roar, a bridge lay across it. i asked a figure whom i saw standing by the bridge the place's name. "rhyd du"--the black ford--i crossed the bridge. the voice of the methodist was yelling from a little chapel on my left. i went to the door and listened: "when the sinner takes hold of god, god takes hold of the sinner." the voice was frightfully hoarse. i passed on; night fell fast around me, and the mountain to the south-east, towards which i was tending, looked blackly grand. and now i came to a milestone, on which i read with difficulty: "three miles to bethgelert." the way for some time had been upward, but now it was downward. i reached a torrent, which, coming from the north-west, rushed under a bridge, over which i passed. the torrent attended me on my right hand the whole way to bethgelert. the descent now became very rapid. i passed a pine wood on my left, and proceeded for more than two miles at a tremendous rate. i then came to a wood--this wood was just above bethgelert--proceeding in the direction of a black mountain, i found myself amongst houses, at the bottom of a valley. i passed over a bridge, and inquiring of some people, whom i met, the way to the inn, was shown an edifice brilliantly lighted up, which i entered. of umbrellas wending my course to the north, i came to the white bare spot which i had seen from the moor, and which was in fact the top of a considerable elevation over which the road passed. here i turned and looked at the hills i had come across. there they stood, darkly blue, a rain cloud, like ink, hanging over their summits. o, the wild hills of wales, the land of old renown and of wonder, the land of arthur and merlin. the road now lay nearly due west. rain came on, but it was at my back, so i expanded my umbrella, flung it over my shoulder and laughed. o, how a man laughs who has a good umbrella when he has the rain at his back, aye and over his head too, and at all times when it rains except when the rain is in his face, when the umbrella is not of much service. o, what a good friend to a man is an umbrella in rain time, and likewise at many other times. what need he fear if a wild bull or a ferocious dog attacks him, provided he has a good umbrella? he unfurls the umbrella in the face of the bull or dog, and the brute turns round quite scared, and runs away. or if a footpad asks him for his money, what need he care provided he has an umbrella? he threatens to dodge the ferrule into the ruffian's eye, and the fellow starts back and says, "lord, sir! i meant no harm. i never saw you before in all my life. i merely meant a little fun." moreover, who doubts that you are a respectable character provided you have an umbrella? you go into a public-house and call for a pot of beer, and the publican puts it down before you with one hand without holding out the other for the money, for he sees that you have an umbrella and consequently property. and what respectable man, when you overtake him on the way and speak to him, will refuse to hold conversation with you, provided you have an umbrella? no one. the respectable man sees you have an umbrella and concludes that you do not intend to rob him, and with justice, for robbers never carry umbrellas. o, a tent, a shield, a lance and a voucher for character is an umbrella. amongst the very best friends of man must be reckoned an umbrella.[2] the way lay over dreary, moory hills: at last it began to descend and i saw a valley below me with a narrow river running through it to which wooded hills sloped down; far to the west were blue mountains. the scene was beautiful but melancholy; the rain had passed away, but a gloomy almost november sky was above, and the mists of night were coming down apace. i crossed a bridge at the bottom of the valley and presently saw a road branching to the right. i paused, but after a little time went straight forward. gloomy woods were on each side of me and night had come down. fear came upon me that i was not in the right road, but i saw no house at which i could inquire, nor did i see a single individual for miles of whom i could ask. at last i heard the sound of hatchets in a dingle on my right, and catching a glimpse of a gate at the head of a path, which led down into it, i got over it. after descending some time i hallooed. the noise of the hatchets ceased. i hallooed again, and a voice cried in welsh, "what do you want?" "to know the way to bala," i replied. there was no answer, but presently i heard steps, and the figure of a man drew nigh half undistinguishable in the darkness and saluted me. i returned his salutation, and told him i wanted to know the way to bala. he told me, and i found i had been going right. i thanked him and regained the road. i sped onward and in about half an hour saw some houses, then a bridge, then a lake on my left, which i recognised as the lake of bala. i skirted the end of it, and came to a street cheerfully lighted up, and in a minute more was in the white lion inn. supper--and a morning view the sun was going down as i left the inn. i recrossed the streamlet by means of the pole and rail. the water was running with much less violence than in the morning, and was considerably lower. the evening was calm and beautifully cool, with a slight tendency to frost. i walked along with a bounding and elastic step, and never remember to have felt more happy and cheerful. i reached the hospice at about six o'clock, a bright moon shining upon me, and found a capital supper awaiting me, which i enjoyed exceedingly. how one enjoys one's supper at one's inn, after a good day's walk, provided one has the proud and glorious consciousness of being able to pay one's reckoning on the morrow! the morning of the sixth was bright and glorious. as i looked from the window of the upper sitting-room of the hospice the scene which presented itself was wild and beautiful to a degree. the oak-covered tops of the volcanic crater were gilded with the brightest sunshine, whilst the eastern side remained in dark shade and the gap or narrow entrance to the north in shadow yet darker, in the midst of which shone the silver of the rheidol cataract. should i live a hundred years i shall never forget the wild fantastic beauty of that morning scene. _george borrow_,--"_wild wales_." footnote: [2] as the umbrella is rather a hackneyed subject two or three things will of course be found in the above eulogium on an umbrella which have been said by other folks on that subject; the writer, however, flatters himself that in his eulogium on an umbrella two or three things will also be found which have never been said by any one else about an umbrella. song of the open road afoot and light-hearted i take to the open road! healthy, free, the world before me, the long brown path before me, leading where-ever i choose! henceforth i ask not good-fortune, i myself am good-fortune, henceforth i whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms, strong and content i travel the open road. the earth--that is sufficient, i do not want the constellations any nearer, i know they are very well where they are, i know they suffice for those who belong to them. still here i carry my old delicious burdens, i carry them, men and women--i carry them with me wherever i go, i swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them, i am fill'd with them, and i will fill them in return. you road i travel and look around! i believe you are not all that is here! i believe that something unseen is also here. here is the profound lesson of reception, neither preference or denial; the black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseased, the illiterate person, are not denied, the birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar's tramp, the drunkard's stagger, the laughing party of mechanics, the escaped youth, the rich person's carriage, the fop, the eloping couple, the early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, the return back from the town, they pass, i also pass, any thing passes, none can be interdicted, none but are accepted, none but are dear to me. you air that serves me with breath to speak! you objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them shape! you light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers! you paths worn in the irregular hollows by the road-sides! i think you are latent with curious existences--you are so dear to me. you flagg'd walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges! you ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined sides! you distant ships! you rows of houses! you window-pierced façades! you roofs! you porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards! you windows whose transparent shells might expose so much! you doors and ascending steps! you arches! you grey stones of interminable pavements! you trodden crossings! from all that has been near you i believe you have imparted to yourselves, and now would impart the same secretly to me, from the living and the dead i think you have peopled your impassive surfaces, and the spirits thereof would be evident and amicable with me. the earth expanding right hand and left hand, the picture alive, every part in its best light, the music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted, the cheerful voice of the public road--the gay fresh sentiment of the road. o highway i travel! o public road! do you say to me, do not leave me? do you say, venture not?--if you leave me you are lost? do you say, i am already prepared--i am well beaten and undenied--adhere to me? o public road! i say back i am not afraid to leave you--yet i love you, you express me better than i can express myself, you shall be more to me than my poem. i think heroic deeds were all conceived in the open air, i think i could stop here myself and do miracles, i think whatever i meet on the road i shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me, i think whoever i see must be happy. from this hour, freedom! from this hour i ordain myself loosed of limits and imaginary lines! going where i list--my own master, total and absolute, listening to others, considering well what they say, pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating. gently but with undeniable will divesting myself of the holds that would hold me. i inhale great draughts of air, the east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine. i am larger than i thought! i did not know i held so much goodness! all seems beautiful to me, i can repeat over to men and women, you have done such good to me, i would do the same to you, i will recruit for myself and you as i go, i will scatter myself among men and women as i go, i will toss a new gladness and roughness among them, whoever denies me it shall not trouble me, whoever accepts me he or she shall be blessed and shall bless me. now if a thousand perfect men were to appear, it would not amaze me, now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear'd, it would not astonish me. now i see the secret of the making of the best persons, it is to grow in the open air, and eat and sleep with the earth. here a great personal deed has room, (such a deed seizes upon the hearts of the whole race of men, its effusion of strength and will overwhelms laws and mocks all authority and all argument against it.) here is the test of wisdom, wisdom is not finally tested in schools, wisdom cannot be pass'd from one having it to another not having it, wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof, applies to all stages and objects and qualities and is content, is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and the excellence of things; something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes it out of the soul. now i re-examine philosophies and religions, they may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all under the spacious clouds and along the landscape and flowing currents. here is realization, here is a man tallied--he realizes here what he has in him, the past, the future, majesty, love--if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them. only the kernel of every object nourishes; where is he who tears off the husks for you and me? where is he that undoes stratagems and envelopes for you and me? here is adhesiveness, it is not previously fashion'd, it is apropos; do you know what it is as you pass to be loved by strangers? do you know the talk of those turning eyeballs? here is the efflux of the soul, the efflux of the soul comes from within through embower'd gates, ever provoking questions. these yearnings why are they? these thoughts in the darkness why are they? why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood? why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank? why are there trees i never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me? (i think they hang there winter and summer on those trees and almost drop fruit as i pass;) what is it i interchange so suddenly with strangers? what with some driver as i ride on the seat by his side? what with some fisherman drawing his seine by the shore as i walk by and pause? what gives me to be free to a woman's and man's good-will? what gives them to be free to mine? the efflux of the soul is happiness, here is happiness. i think it pervades the open air, waiting at all times, now it flows unto us, we are rightly charged. here rises the fluid and attaching character, the fluid and attaching character is the freshness and sweetness of man and woman, (the herbs of the morning sprout no fresher and sweeter every day out of the roots of themselves, than it sprouts fresh and sweet continually out of itself.) toward the fluid and attaching character exudes the sweat of the love of young and old, from it falls distill'd the charm that mocks beauty and attainments, toward it heaves the shuddering longing ache of contact. allons! whoever you are come travel with me. travelling with me you find what never tires. the earth never tires, the earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first, nature is rude and incomprehensible at first, be not discouraged, keep on, there are divine things well envelop'd, i swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell. allons! we must not stop here, however sweet these laid-up stores, however convenient this dwelling we cannot remain here, however shelter'd this port and however calm these waters we must not anchor here, however welcome the hospitality that surrounds us we are permitted to receive it but a little while. allons! the inducements shall be greater, we will sail pathless and wild seas, we will go where winds blow, waves dash, and the yankee clipper speeds by under full sail. allons! with power, liberty, the earth, the elements, health, defiance, gaiety, self-esteem, curiosity; allons! from all formulas! from your formulas, o bat-eyed and materialistic priests. the stale cadaver blocks up the passage--the burial waits no longer. allons! yet take warning! he travelling with me needs the best blood, thews, endurance, none may come to the trial till he or she bring courage and health, come not here if you have already spent the best of yourself, only those may come who come in sweet and determined bodies, no diseas'd person, no rum drinker or venereal taint is permitted here. (i and mine do not convince by arguments, similes, rhymes, we convince by our presence.) listen! i will be honest with you, i do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes, these are the days that must happen to you: you shall not heap up what is call'd riches: you shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve, you but arrive at the city to which you were destin'd, you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction before you are call'd by an irresistible call to depart, you shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you, what beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting, you shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach'd hands toward you. allons! after the great companions, and to belong to them! they too are on the road--they are the swift and majestic men--they are the greatest women, enjoyers of calms of seas and storms of seas, sailors of many a ship, walkers of many a mile of land, habitués of many distant countries, habitués of far distant dwellings, trusters of men and women, observers of cities, solitary toilers, pausers and contemplators of tufts, blossoms, shells of the shore, dancers at wedding-dances, kissers of brides, tender helpers of children, bearers of children, soldiers of revolts, standers by gaping graves, lowerers-down of coffins, journeyers over consecutive seasons, over the years, the curious years each emerging from that which preceded it, journeyers as with companions, namely their own diverse phases, forth-steppers from the latent unrealized baby-days, journeyers gaily with their own youth, journeyers with their bearded and well-grain'd manhood, journeyers with their womanhood, ample, unsurpass'd, content, journeyers with their own sublime old age, of manhood or womanhood, old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe, old age, flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death. allons! to that which is endless as it was beginningless, to undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights, to merge all in the travel they tend to, and the days and nights they tend to, again to merge them in the start of superior journeys, to see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it, to conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach it and pass it, to look up or down the road but it stretches and waits for you, however long but it stretches and waits for you, to see no being, not god's or any, but you also go thither, to see no possession but may possess it, enjoying all without labour or purchase, abstracting the feast yet not abstracting one particle of it, to take the best of the farmer's farm and the rich man's elegant villa, and the chaste blessings of the well-married couple, and the fruits of orchards and flowers of gardens, to take to your use out of the compact cities as you pass through, to carry buildings and streets with you afterward where-ever you go, to gather the minds of men out of their brains as you encounter them, to gather the love out of their hearts. to take your lovers on the road with you, for all that you leave them behind you, to know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for travelling souls. all parts away for the progress of souls, all religion, all solid things, arts, governments--all that was or is apparent upon this globe or any globe, falls into niches and corners before the procession of souls along the grand roads of the universe. of the progress of the souls of men and women along the grand roads of the universe, all other progress is the needed emblem and sustenance. forever alive, forever forward, stately, solemn, sad, withdrawn, baffled, mad, turbulent, feeble, dissatisfied, desperate, proud, fond, sick, accepted by men, rejected by men, they go! they go! i know that they go, but i know not where they go, but i know that they go toward the best--toward something great. whoever you are, come forth! or man or woman come forth! you must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house, though you built it, or though it has been built for you. out of the dark confinement! out from behind the screen! it is useless to protest, i know all and expose it. behold through you as bad as the rest, through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping of people, inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those wash'd and trimm'd faces, behold a secret silent loathing and despair. no husband, no wife, no friend, trusted to hear the confession, another self, a duplicate of every one, skulking and hiding it goes, formless and wordless through the streets of the cities, polite and bland in the parlours, in the cars of railroads, in steamboats, in the public assembly, home to the houses of men and women, at the table, in the bed-room, everywhere, smartly attired, countenance smiling, form upright, death under the breast-bones, hell under the skull-bones, under the broadcloth and gloves, under the ribbons and artificial flowers, keeping fair with the customs, speaking not a syllable of itself. speaking of anything else, but never of itself. allons! through struggles and wars! the goal that was named cannot be countermanded. have the past struggles succeeded? what has succeeded? yourself? your nation? nature? now understand me well--it is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary. my call is the call of the battle, i nourish active rebellion, he going with me must go well arm'd, he going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions. allons! the road is before us! it is safe--i have tried it--my own feet have tried it well--be not detain'd! let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen'd! let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn'd! let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher! let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law. camerado, i will give you my hand! i give you my love more precious than money, i give you myself before preaching or law; will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me? shall we stick by each other as long as we live? _walt whitman._ walking tours it must not be imagined that a walking tour, as some would have us fancy, is merely a better or worse way of seeing the country. there are many ways of seeing landscape quite as good; and none more vivid, in spite of canting dilettantes, than from a railway train. but landscape on a walking tour is quite accessory. he who is indeed of the brotherhood does not voyage in quest of the picturesque, but of certain jolly humours--of the hope and spirit with which the march begins at morning, and the peace and spiritual repletion of the evening's rest. he cannot tell whether he puts his knapsack on, or takes it off, with more delight. the excitement of the departure puts him in key for that of the arrival. whatever he does is not only a reward in itself, but will be further rewarded in the sequel; and so pleasure leads on to pleasure in an endless chain. it is this that so few can understand; they will either be always lounging or always at five miles an hour; they do not play off the one against the other, prepare all day for the evening, and all evening for the next day. and, above all, it is here that your overwalker fails of comprehension. his heart rises against those who drink their curaçoa in liqueur glasses, when he himself can swill it in a brown john. he will not believe that the flavour is more delicate in the smaller dose. he will not believe that to walk this unconscionable distance is merely to stupefy and brutalise himself, and come to his inn, at night, with a sort of frost on his five wits, and a starless night of darkness in his spirit. not for him the mild luminous evening of the temperate walker! he has nothing left of man but a physical need for bedtime and a double nightcap; and even his pipe, if he be a smoker, will be savourless and disenchanted. it is the fate of such an one to take twice as much trouble as is needed to obtain happiness, and miss the happiness in the end; he is the man of the proverb, in short, who goes further and fares worse. now, to be properly enjoyed, a walking tour should be gone upon alone. if you go in a company, or even in pairs, it is no longer a walking tour in anything but name; it is something else and more in the nature of a picnic. a walking tour should be gone upon alone, because freedom is of the essence; because you should be able to stop and go on, and follow this way or that, as the freak takes you; and because you must have your own pace, and neither trot alongside a champion walker, nor mince in time with a girl. and then you must be open to all impressions and let your thoughts take colour from what you see. you should be as a pipe for any wind to play upon. "i cannot see the wit," says hazlitt, "of walking and talking at the same time. when i am in the country, i wish to vegetate like the country," which is the gist of all that can be said upon the matter. there should be no cackle of voices at your elbow, to jar on the meditative silence of the morning. and so long as a man is reasoning he cannot surrender himself to that fine intoxication that comes of much motion in the open air, that begins in a sort of dazzle and sluggishness of the brain, and ends in a peace that passes comprehension. during the first day or so of any tour there are moments of bitterness, when the traveller feels more than coldly towards his knapsack, when he is half in a mind to throw it bodily over the hedge and, like christian on a similar occasion, "give three leaps and go on singing." and yet it soon acquires a property of easiness. it becomes magnetic; the spirit of the journey enters into it. and no sooner have you passed the straps over your shoulder than the lees of sleep are cleared from you, you pull yourself together with a shake, and fall at once into your stride. and surely, of all possible moods, this, in which a man takes the road, is the best. of course, if he _will_ keep thinking of his anxieties, if he _will_ open the merchant abudah's chest and walk arm in arm with the hag--why, wherever he is, and whether he walk fast or slow, the chances are that he will not be happy. and so much the more shame to himself! there are perhaps thirty men setting forth at that same hour, and i would lay a large wager there is not another dull face among the thirty. it would be a fine thing to follow, in a coat of darkness, one after another of these wayfarers, some summer morning, for the first few miles upon the road. this one, who walks fast, with a keen look in his eyes, is all concentrated in his own mind; he is up at his loom, weaving and weaving, to set the landscape to words. this one peers about, as he goes, among the grasses; he waits by the canal to watch the dragon-flies; he leans on the gate of the pasture, and cannot look enough upon the complacent kine. and here comes another talking, laughing, and gesticulating to himself. his face changes from time to time, as indignation flashes from his eyes or anger clouds his forehead. he is composing articles, delivering orations, and conducting the most impassioned interviews, by the way. a little farther on, and it is as like as not he will begin to sing. and well for him, supposing him to be no great master in that art, if he stumble across no stolid peasant at a corner; for on such an occasion, i scarcely know which is the more troubled, or whether it is worse to suffer the confusion of your troubadour or the unfeigned alarm of your clown. a sedentary population, accustomed, besides, to the strange mechanical bearing of the common tramp, can in no wise explain to itself the gaiety of these passers-by. i knew one man who was arrested as a runaway lunatic, because, although a full-grown person with a red beard, he skipped as he went like a child. and you would be astonished if i were to tell you all the grave and learned heads who have confessed to me that, when on walking tours, they sang--and sang very ill--and had a pair of red ears when, as described above, the inauspicious peasant plumped into their arms from round a corner. and here, lest you think i am exaggerating, is hazlitt's own confession, from his essay "on going a journey," which is so good that there should be a tax levied on all who have not read it:-"give me the clear blue sky over my head," says he, "and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding road before me, and a three hours' march to dinner--and then to thinking! it is hard if i cannot start some game on these lone heaths. i laugh, i run, i leap, i sing for joy." bravo! after that adventure of my friend with the policeman, you would not have cared, would you, to publish that in the first person? but we have no bravery nowadays, and, even in books, must all pretend to be as dull and foolish as our neighbours. it was not so with hazlitt. and notice how learned he is (as, indeed, throughout the essay) in the theory of walking tours. he is none of your athletic men in purple stockings, who walk their fifty miles a day: three hours' march is his ideal. and then he must have a winding road, the epicure! yet there is one thing i object to in these words of his, one thing in the great master's practice that seems to me not wholly wise. i do not approve of that leaping and running. both of these hurry the respiration; they both shake up the brain out of its glorious open-air confusion; and they both break the pace. uneven walking is not so agreeable to the body, and it distracts and irritates the mind. whereas, when once you have fallen into an equable stride, it requires no conscious thought from you to keep it up, and yet it prevents you from thinking earnestly of anything else. like knitting, like the work of a copying clerk, it gradually neutralises and sets to sleep the serious activity of the mind. we can think of this or that, lightly and laughingly, as a child thinks, or as we think in a morning doze; we can make puns or puzzle out acrostics, and trifle in a thousand ways with words or rhymes; but when it comes to honest work, when we come to gather ourselves together for an effort, we may sound the trumpet as loud and long as we please; the great barons of the mind will not rally to the standard, but sit, each one, at home, warming his hands over his own fire and brooding on his own private thought! in the course of a day's walk, you see, there is much variance in the mood. from the exhilaration of the start, to the happy phlegm of the arrival, the change is certainly great. as the day goes on, the traveller moves from the one extreme towards the other. he becomes more and more incorporated with the material landscape, and the open-air drunkenness grows upon him with great strides, until he posts along the road, and sees everything about him, as in a cheerful dream. the first is certainly brighter, but the second stage is the more peaceful. a man does not make so many articles towards the end, nor does he laugh aloud; but the purely animal pleasures, the sense of physical well-being, the delight of every inhalation, of every time the muscles tighten down the thigh, console him for the absence of the others, and bring him to his destination still content. nor must i forget to say a word on bivouacs. you come to a milestone on a hill, or some place where deep ways meet under trees; and off goes the knapsack, and down you sit to smoke a pipe in the shade. you sink into yourself, and the birds come round and look at you, and your smoke dissipates upon the afternoon under the blue dome of heaven; and the sun lies warm upon your feet, and the cool air visits your neck and turns aside your open shirt. if you are not happy, you must have an evil conscience. you may dally as long as you like by the roadside. it is almost as if the millennium were arrived, when we shall throw our clocks and watches over the housetop, and remember time and seasons no more. not to keep hours for a lifetime is, i was going to say, to live for ever. you have no idea, unless you have tried it, how endlessly long is a summer's day, that you measure out only by hunger, and bring to an end only when you are drowsy. i know a village where there are hardly any clocks, where no one knows more of the days of the week than by a sort of instinct for the _fête_ on sundays, and where only one person can tell you the day of the month, and she is generally wrong; and if people were aware how slow time journeyed in that village, and what armfuls of spare hours he gives, over and above the bargain, to its wise inhabitants, i believe there would be a stampede out of london, liverpool, paris, and a variety of large towns, where the clocks lose their heads, and shake the hours out each one faster than the other, as though they were all in a wager. and all these foolish pilgrims would each bring his own misery along with him, in a watch-pocket! it is to be noticed, there were no clocks and watches in the much-vaunted days before the flood. it follows, of course, there were no appointments, and punctuality was not yet thought upon. "though ye take from a covetous man all his treasure," says milton, "he has yet one jewel left; ye cannot deprive him of his covetousness." and so i would say of a modern man of business, you may do what you will for him, put him in eden, give him the elixir of life--he has still a flaw at heart, he still has his business habits. now, there is no time when business habits are more mitigated than on a walking tour. and so during these halts, as i say, you will feel almost free. but it is at night, and after dinner, that the best hour comes. there are no such pipes to be smoked as those that follow a good day's march; the flavour of the tobacco is a thing to be remembered, it is so dry and aromatic, so full and so fine. if you wind up the evening with grog, you will own there was never such grog; at every sip a jocund tranquillity spreads about your limbs, and sits easily in your heart. if you read a book--and you will never do so save by fits and starts--you find the language strangely racy and harmonious; words take a new meaning; single sentences possess the ear for half an hour together; and the writer endears himself to you, at every page, by the nicest coincidence of sentiment. it seems as if it were a book you had written yourself in a dream. to all we have read on such occasions we look back with special favour. "it was on the 10th of april 1798," says hazlitt, with amorous precision, "that i sat down to a volume of the new _heloïse_, at the inn at llangollen, over a bottle of sherry and a cold chicken." i should wish to quote more, for though we are mighty fine fellows nowadays, we cannot write like hazlitt. and, talking of that, a volume of hazlitt's essays would be a capital pocket-book on such a journey; so would a volume of heine's songs; and for _tristram shandy_ i can pledge a fair experience. if the evening be fine and warm, there is nothing better in life than to lounge before the inn door in the sunset, or lean over the parapet of the bridge, to watch the weeds and the quick fishes. it is then, if ever, that you taste joviality to the full significance of that audacious word. your muscles are so agreeably slack, you feel so clean and so strong and so idle, that whether you move or sit still, whatever you do is done with pride and a kingly sort of pleasure. you fall in talk with any one, wise or foolish, drunk or sober. and it seems as if a hot walk purged you, more than of anything else, of all narrowness and pride, and left curiosity to play its part freely, as in a child or a man of science. you lay aside all your own hobbies, to watch provincial humours develop themselves before you, now as a laughable farce, and now grave and beautiful like an old tale. or perhaps you are left to your own company for the night, and surly weather imprisons you by the fire. you may remember how burns, numbering past pleasures, dwells upon the hours when he has been "happy thinking." it is a phrase that may well perplex a poor modern girt about on every side by clocks and chimes, and haunted, even at night, by flaming dial-plates. for we are all so busy, and have so many far-off projects to realise, and castles in the fire to turn into solid, habitable mansions on a gravel soil, that we can find no time for pleasure trips into the land of thought and among the hills of vanity. changed times, indeed, when we must sit all night, beside the fire, with folded hands; and a changed world for most of us, when we find we can pass the hours without discontent, and be happy thinking. we are in such haste to be doing, to be writing, to be gathering gear, to make our voice audible a moment in the derisive silence of eternity, that we forget that one thing, of which these are but the parts--namely, to live. we fall in love, we drink hard, we run to and fro upon the earth like frightened sheep. and now you are to ask yourself if, when all is done, you would not have been better to sit by the fire at home, and be happy thinking. to sit still and contemplate,--to remember the faces of women without desire, to be pleased by the great deeds of men without envy, to be everything and everywhere in sympathy, and yet content to remain where and what you are--is not this to know both wisdom and virtue, and to dwell with happiness? after all, it is not they who carry flags, but they who look upon it from a private chamber, who have the fun of the procession. and once you are at that, you are in the very humour of all social heresy. it is no time for shuffling, or for big empty words. if you ask yourself what you mean by fame, riches, or learning, the answer is far to seek; and you go back into that kingdom of light imaginations, which seem so vain in the eyes of philistines perspiring after wealth, and so momentous to those who are stricken with the disproportions of the world, and, in the face of the gigantic stars, cannot stop to split differences between two degrees of the infinitesimally small, such as a tobacco pipe or the roman empire, a million of money or a fiddlestick's end. you lean from the window, your last pipe reeking whitely into the darkness, your body full of delicious pains, your mind enthroned in the seventh circle of content; when suddenly the mood changes, the weathercock goes about, and you ask yourself one question more: whether, for the interval, you have been the wisest philosopher or the most egregious of donkeys? human experience is not yet able to reply; but at least you have had a fine moment, and looked down upon all the kingdoms of the earth. and whether it was wise or foolish, to-morrow's travel will carry you, body and mind, into some different parish of the infinite. _robert louis stevenson._ sylvanus urban discovers a good brew it must be nearly thirty years ago, long before the days of bicycles and motors, since sylvanus urban, then but a boy, passed over it. he had started from chepstow on a solitary walking tour, and was soon caught in a rattling thunderstorm on the wyndcliff. tintern abbey and raglan castle are fresh in his memory to-day. a mile or two out of monmouth he came upon some excellent nutty-hearted ale, that george borrow would have immortalised. as he pursued his way to raglan castle he pondered on the ale--"this way and that dividing the swift mind"--until at length, in despair of meeting an equal brew, he turned back again and had another tankard. heavens, what days were those! in his pack he carried the _essays of elia_ and read them in an old inn at llandovery, where the gracious hostess lighted in his honour tall wax candles fit to stand before an altar. after leaving llandovery, he lost his way among the caermarthenshire hills, and was in very poor plight with hunger and fatigue when he reached the white-washed walls of tregaron. at harlech he rested for a couple of days, and then covered the way to beddgelert--twenty miles, if he remembers rightly--at a spanking pace; proceeding in the late afternoon to climb snowdon, and arriving at llanberis an hour or so before midnight. back to london, every inch of the way, walked the young sylvanus. he indulges the hope that he may yet shoulder his pack again. _gentleman's magazine._ minchmoor now that everybody is out of town, and every place in the guide-books is as well known as princes street or pall-mall, it is something to discover a hill everybody has not been to the top of, and which is not in _black_. such a hill is _minchmoor_, nearly three times as high as arthur's seat, and lying between tweed and yarrow. the best way to ascend it is from traquair. you go up the wild old selkirk road, which passes almost right over the summit, and by which montrose and his cavaliers fled from philiphaugh, where sir walter's mother remembered crossing, when a girl, in a coach-and-six, on her way to a ball at peebles, several footmen marching on either side of the carriage to prop it up or drag it out of the moss _haggs_; and where, to our amazement, we learned that the duchess of buccleuch had lately driven her ponies. before this we had passed the grey, old-world entrance to traquair house, and looked down its grassy and untrod avenue to the pallid, forlorn mansion, stricken all o'er with eld, and noticed the wrought-iron gate embedded in a foot deep and more of soil, never having opened since the '45. there are the huge bradwardine bears on each side--most grotesque supporters--with a superfluity of ferocity and canine teeth. the whole place, like the family whose it has been, seems dying out--everything subdued to settled desolation. the old race, the old religion, the gaunt old house, with its small, deep, comfortless windows, the decaying trees, the stillness about the doors, the grass overrunning everything, nature reinstating herself in her quiet way--all this makes the place look as strange and pitiful among its fellows in the vale as would the earl who built it three hundred years ago if we met him tottering along our way in the faded dress of his youth; but it looks the earl's house still, and has a dignity of its own. we soon found the minchmoor road, and took at once to the hill, the ascent being, as often is with other ascents in this world, steepest at first. nothing could be more beautiful than the view as we ascended, and got a look of the "eye-sweet" tweed hills, and their "silver stream." it was one of the five or six good days of this summer--in early morning, "soft" and doubtful; but the mists drawing up, and now the noble, tawny hills were dappled with gleams and shadows- "sunbeams upon distant hills gliding apace"-the best sort of day for mountain scenery--that ripple of light and shadow brings out the forms and the depths of the hills far better than a cloudless sky; and the horizon is generally wider. before us and far away was the round flat head of minchmoor, with a dark, rich bloom on it from the thick, short heather--the hills around being green. near the top, on the tweed side, its waters trotting away cheerily to the glen at bold, is the famous _cheese well_--always full, never overflowing. here every traveler--duchess, shepherd, or houseless _mugger_--stops, rests, and is thankful; doubtless so did montrose, poor fellow, and his young nobles and their jaded steeds, on their scurry from lesly and his dragoons. it is called the cheese well from those who rest there dropping in bits of their provisions, as votive offerings to the fairies whose especial haunt this mountain was. after our rest and drink, we left the road and made for the top. when there we were well rewarded. the great round-backed, kindly, solemn hills of tweed, yarrow, and ettrick lay all about like sleeping mastiffs--too plain to be grand, too ample and beautiful to be commonplace. there, to the north-east, is the place--_williamhope_ ridge--where sir walter scott bade farewell to his heroic friend mungo park. they had come up from _ashestiel_, where scott then lived, and where _marmion_ was written and its delightful epistles inspired--where he passed the happiest part of his life--leaving it, as hogg said, "for gude an' a'"; for his fatal "dreams about his cottage" were now begun. he was to have "a hundred acres, two spare bed-rooms, with dressing rooms, each of which will on a pinch have a couch-bed." we all know what the dream, and the cottage, and the hundred acres came to--the ugly abbotsford; the over-burdened, shattered brain driven wild, and the end, death, and madness. well, it was on the ridge that the two friends--each romantic, but in such different ways--parted never to meet again. there is the ditch park's horse stumbled over and all but fell. "i am afraid, mungo, that's a bad omen," said the sheriff; to which he answered, with a bright smile on his handsome, fearless face--"_freits_ (omens) follow those who look to them." with this expression, he struck the spurs into his horse, and scott never saw him again. he had not long been married to a lovely and much-loved woman, and had been speaking to scott about his new african scheme, and how he meant to tell his family he had some business in edinburgh--send them his blessing, and be off--alas! never to return! scott used to say, when speaking of this parting, "i stood and looked back, but he did not." a more memorable place for two such men to part in would not easily be found. where we are standing is the spot scott speaks of when writing to joanna baillie about her new tragedies--"were it possible for me to hasten the treat i expect in such a composition with you, i would promise to read the volume _at the silence of noonday upon the top of minchmoor_. the hour is allowed, by those skilful in demonology, _to be as full of witching_ as midnight itself; and i assure you i have felt really oppressed with a sort of fearful loneliness when looking around the naked towering ridges of desolate barrenness, which is all the eye takes in from the top of such a mountain, the patches of cultivation being hidden in the little glens, or only appearing to make one feel how feeble and ineffectual man has been to contend with the genius of the soil. it is in such a scene that the unknown and gifted author of _albania_ places the superstition which consists in hearing the noise of a chase, the baying of the hounds, the throttling sobs of the deer, the wild hollos of the huntsmen, and the 'hoof thick beating on the hollow hill.' i have often repeated his verses with some sensations of awe, in this place." the lines--and they are noble, and must have sounded wonderful with his voice and look--are as follows. can no one tell us anything more of their author?- "there oft is heard, at midnight, or at noon, beginning faint, but rising still more loud, and nearer, voice of hunters, and of hounds; and horns, hoarse-winded, blowing far and keen! forthwith the hubbub multiplies; the gale labours with wilder shrieks, and rifer din of hot pursuit; the broken cry of deer mangled by throttling dogs; the shouts of men, and hoofs thick beating on the hollow hill. sudden the grazing heifer in the vale starts at the noise, and both the herdman's ears tingle with inward dread--aghast he eyes the mountain's height, and all the ridges round, yet not one trace of living wight discerns, nor knows, o'erawed and trembling as he stands, to what or whom he owes his idle fear- to ghost, to witch, to fairy, or to fiend; but wonders, and no end of wondering finds." we listened for the hunt, but could only hear the wind sobbing from the blind "_hopes_."[3] the view from the top reaches from the huge _harestane broadlaw_--nearly as high as ben lomond--whose top is as flat as a table, and would make a race-course of two miles, and where the clouds are still brooding, to the _cheviot_; and from the _maiden paps_ in liddesdale, and that wild huddle of hills at _moss paul_, to _dunse law_, and the weird _lammermoors_. there is _ruberslaw_, always surly and dark. the _dunion_, beyond which lies jedburgh. there are the _eildons_, with their triple heights; and you can get a glimpse of the upper woods of abbotsford, and the top of the hill above cauldshiels loch, that very spot where the "wondrous potentate,"--when suffering from languor and pain, and beginning to break down under his prodigious fertility,--composed those touching lines:- "the sun upon the weirdlaw hill in ettrick's vale is sinking sweet; the westland wind is hushed and still; the lake lies sleeping at my feet. yet not the landscape to mine eye bears those bright hues that once it bore, though evening, with her richest dye, flames o'er the hills of ettrick's shore. with listless look along the plain i see tweed's silver current glide, and coldly mark the holy fane of melrose rise in ruined pride. the quiet lake, and balmy air, the hill, the stream, the tower, the tree, are they still such as once they were, or is the dreary change in me? alas! the warped and broken board, how can it bear the painter's dye! the harp of strained and tuneless chord, how to the minstrel's skill reply! to aching eyes each landscape lowers, to feverish pulse each gale blows chill; and araby or eden's bowers were barren as this moorland hill." there, too, is _minto hill_, as modest and shapely and smooth as clytie's shoulders, and _earlston black hill_, with cowdenknowes at its foot; and there, standing stark and upright as a warder, is the stout old _smailholme tower_, seen and seeing all around. it is quite curious how unmistakable and important it looks at what must be twenty and more miles. it is now ninety years since that "lonely infant," who has sung its awful joys, was found in a thunderstorm, as we all know, lying on the soft grass at the foot of the grey old strength, clapping his hands at each flash, and shouting, "bonny! bonny!" we now descended into yarrow, and forgathered with a shepherd who was taking his lambs over to the great melrose fair. he was a fine specimen of a border herd--young, tall, sagacious, self-contained, and free in speech and air. we got his heart by praising his dog _jed_, a very fine collie, black and comely, gentle and keen--"ay, she's a fell yin; she can do a' but speak." on asking him if the sheep dogs needed much teaching--"whyles ay and whyles no; her kind (jed's) needs nane. she sooks't in wi' her mither's milk." on asking him if the dogs were ever sold, he said--"never, but at an orra time. naebody wad sell a gude dowg, and naebody wad buy an ill ane." he told us with great feeling, of the death of one of his best dogs by poison. it was plainly still a grief to him. "what was he poisoned with?" "strychnia," he said, as decidedly as might dr christison. "how do you know?" "i opened him, puir fallow, and got him analeezed!" now we are on birkindale brae, and are looking down on the same scene as did "james boyd (the earle of arran, his brother was he)," when he crossed minchmoor on his way to deliver james the fifth's message to "yon outlaw murray, surely whaur bauldly bideth he." "down birkindale brae when that he cam he saw the feir foreste wi' his ee." how james boyd fared, and what the outlaw said, and what james and his nobles said and did, and how the outlaw at last made peace with his king, and rose up "sheriffe of ettricke foreste," and how the bold ruffian boasted, "fair philiphaugh is mine by right, and lewinshope still mine shall be; newark, foulshiels, and tinnies baith my bow and arrow purchased me. and i have native steads to me the newark lee o' hangingshaw. i have many steads in the forest schaw, but them by name i dinna knaw." and how king james snubbed "the kene laird of buckscleuth, a stalwart man and stern was he." when the laird hinted that, "for a king to gang an outlaw till is beneath his state and dignitie. the man that wins yon forest intill he lives by reif and felony." "then out and spak the nobil king, and round him cast a wilie ee. 'now haud thy tongue, sir walter scott, nor speak o' reif or felonie- _for, had every honest man his awin kye,_ _a richt puir clan thy name wud be_!'" (by-the-bye, why did professor aytoun leave out this excellent hit in his edition?)--all this and much more may you see if you take up _the border minstrelsy_, and read "the song of the outlaw murray," with the incomparable notes of scott. but we are now well down the hill. there to the left, in the hollow, is _permanscore_, where the king and the outlaw met:- "bid him mete me at permanscore, and bring four in his companie; five erles sall cum wi' mysel', gude reason i sud honoured be." and there goes our shepherd with his long swinging stride. as different from his dark, wily companion, the badenoch drover, as was harry wakefield from robin oig; or as the big, sunny cheviot is from the lowering ruberslaw; and there is _jed_ trotting meekly behind him--may she escape strychnia, and, dying at the fireside among the children, be laid like "paddy tims--whose soul at aise is- with the point of his nose and the tips of his toes turn'd up to the roots of the daisies"-_unanaleezed_, save by the slow cunning of the grave. and may her master get the top price for his lambs! do you see to the left that little plantation on the brow of foulshiels hill, with the sunlight lying on its upper corner? if you were there you might find among the brackens and foxglove a little headstone with "i. t." rudely carved on it. that is _tibbie tamson's grave_, known and feared all the country round. this poor outcast was a selkirk woman, who, under the stress of spiritual despair--that sense of perdition, which, as in cowper's case, often haunts and overmasters the deepest and gentlest natures, making them think themselves "damn'd below judas, more abhorred than he was,"-committed suicide; and being, with the gloomy, cruel superstition of the time, looked on by her neighbours as accursed of god, she was hurried into a rough white deal coffin, and carted out of the town, the people stoning it all the way till it crossed the ettrick. here, on this wild hillside, it found its rest, being buried where three lairds' lands meet. may we trust that the light of god's reconciled countenance has for all these long years been resting on that once forlorn soul, as his blessed sunshine now lies on her moorland grave! for "the mountains shall depart, and the hills be removed; but my kindness shall not depart from thee, neither shall the covenant of my peace be removed, saith the lord that hath mercy on thee." now, we see down into the yarrow--there is the famous stream twinkling in the sun. what stream and valley was ever so be-sung! you wonder at first why this has been, but the longer you look the less you wonder. there is a charm about it--it is not easy to say what. the huge sunny hills in which it is embosomed give it a look at once gentle and serious. they are great, and their gentleness makes them greater. wordsworth has the right words, "pastoral melancholy"; and besides, the region is "not uninformed with phantasy and looks that threaten the profane"--the flowers of yarrow, the douglas tragedy, the dowie dens, wordsworth's yarrow unvisited, visited, and re-visited, and, above all, the glamour of sir walter, and park's fatal and heroic story. where can you find eight more exquisite lines anywhere than logan's, which we all know by heart:- "his mother from the window looked, with all the longing of a mother; his little sister, weeping, walked the greenwood path to meet her brother. they sought him east, they sought him west, they sought him all the forest thorough- they only saw the cloud of night, they only heard the roar of yarrow." and there is _newark tower_ among the rich woods; and _harehead_, that cosiest, loveliest, and hospitablest of nests. methinks i hear certain young voices among the hazels; out they come on the little haugh by the side of the deep, swirling stream, _fabulosus_ as was ever hydaspes. there they go "running races in their mirth," and is not that--_an me ludit amabilis insania?_--the voice of _ma pauvre petite--animosa infans_--the wilful, rich-eyed, delicious eppie? "oh blessed vision, happy child, thou art so exquisitely wild!" and there is _black andro and glowr owr'em_ and _foulshiels_, where park was born and bred; and there is the deep pool in the yarrow where scott found him plunging one stone after another into the water, and watching anxiously the bubbles as they rose to the surface. "this," said scott to him, "appears but an idle amusement for one who has seen so much adventure." "not so idle, perhaps, as you suppose," answered mungo, "this was the way i used to ascertain the depth of a river in africa." he was then meditating his second journey, but had said so to no one. we go down by _broadmeadows_, now held by that yair "hoppringle"--who so well governed scinde--and into the grounds of bowhill, and passing _philiphaugh_, see where stout david lesly crossed in the mist at daybreak with his heavy dragoons, many of them old soldiers of gustavus, and routed the gallant graeme; and there is _slainmens lee_, where the royalists lie; and there is _carterhaugh_, the scene of the strange wild story of _tamlane_ and lady janet, when "she prinked hersell and prinned hersell by the ae light of the moon, and she's awa' to carterhaugh to speak wi' young tamlane." noel paton might paint that night, when "'twixt the hours of twelve and yin a north wind _tore the bent_"; when "fair janet" in her green mantle "---heard strange elritch sounds upon the wind that went." and straightway "about the dead hour o' the night she heard the bridles ring; their oaten pipes blew wondrous shrill, the hemlock small blew clear; and louder notes from hemlock large and bog reed, struck the ear," and then the fairy cavalcade swept past, while janet, filled with love and fear, looked out for the milk-white steed, and "gruppit it fast," and "pu'd the rider doon," the young tamlane, whom, after dipping "in a stand of milk and then in a stand of water," "she wrappit ticht in her green mantle, and sae her true love won!" this ended our walk. we found the carriage at the philiphaugh home-farm, and we drove home by _yair_ and _fernilee_, _ashestiel_ and _elibank_, and passed the bears as ferocious as ever, "the orange sky of evening" glowing through their wild tusks, the old house looking even older in the fading light. and is not this a walk worth making? one of our number had been at the land's end and johnnie groat's, and now on minchmoor; and we wondered how many other men had been at all the three, and how many had enjoyed minchmoor more than he. _dr john brown._ footnote: [3] the native word for hollows in the hills: thus, dryhope, gameshope, chapelhope, &c. in praise of walking as a man grows old, he is told by some moralists that he may find consolation for increasing infirmities in looking back upon a well-spent life. no doubt such a retrospect must be very agreeable, but the question must occur to many of us whether our life offers the necessary materials for self-complacency. what part of it, if any, has been well spent? to that i find it convenient to reply, for my own purposes, any part in which i thoroughly enjoyed myself. if it be proposed to add "innocently," i will not quarrel with the amendment. perhaps, indeed, i may have a momentary regret for some pleasures which do not quite deserve that epithet, but the pleasure of which i am about to speak is obtrusively and pre-eminently innocent. walking is among recreations what ploughing and fishing are among industrial labours: it is primitive and simple; it brings us into contact with mother earth and unsophisticated nature; it requires no elaborate apparatus and no extraneous excitement. it is fit even for poets and philosophers, and he who can thoroughly enjoy it must have at least some capacity for worshipping the "cherub contemplation." he must be able to enjoy his own society without the factitious stimulants of the more violent physical recreations. i have always been a humble admirer of athletic excellence. i retain, in spite of much head-shaking from wise educationalists, my early veneration for the heroes of the river and the cricket-field. to me they have still the halo which surrounded them in the days when "muscular christianity" was first preached and the whole duty of man said to consist in fearing god and walking a thousand miles in a thousand hours. i rejoice unselfishly in these later days to see the stream of bicyclists restoring animation to deserted highroads or to watch even respected contemporaries renewing their youth in the absorbing delights of golf. while honouring all genuine delight in manly exercises, i regret only the occasional admixture of lower motives which may lead to its degeneration. now it is one merit of walking that its real devotees are little exposed to such temptations. of course there are such things as professional pedestrians making "records" and seeking the applause of the mob. when i read of the immortal captain barclay performing his marvellous feats, i admire respectfully, but i fear that his motives included a greater admixture of vanity than of the emotions congenial to the higher intellect. the true walker is one to whom the pursuit is in itself delightful; who is not indeed priggish enough to be above a certain complacency in the physical prowess required for his pursuit, but to whom the muscular effort of the legs is subsidiary to the "cerebration" stimulated by the effort; to the quiet musings and imaginings which arise most spontaneously as he walks, and generate the intellectual harmony which is the natural accompaniment to the monotonous tramp of his feet. the cyclist or the golf-player, i am told, can hold such intercourse with himself in the intervals of striking the ball or working his machine. but the true pedestrian loves walking because, so far from distracting his mind, it is favourable to the equable and abundant flow of tranquil and half-conscious meditation. therefore i should be sorry if the pleasures of cycling or any other recreation tended to put out of fashion the habit of the good old walking tour. for my part, when i try to summon up remembrance of "well-spent" moments, i find myself taking a kind of inverted view of the past; inverted, that is, so far as the accidental becomes the essential. if i turn over the intellectual album which memory is always compiling, i find that the most distinct pictures which it contains are those of old walks. other memories of incomparably greater intrinsic value coalesce into wholes. they are more massive but less distinct. the memory of a friendship that has brightened one's whole life survives not as a series of incidents but as a general impression of the friend's characteristic qualities due to the superposition of innumerable forgotten pictures. i remember him, not the specific conversations by which he revealed himself. the memories of walks, on the other hand, are all localised and dated; they are hitched on to particular times and places; they spontaneously form a kind of calendar or connecting thread upon which other memories may be strung. as i look back, a long series of little vignettes presents itself, each representing a definite stage of my earthly pilgrimage summed up and embodied in a walk. their background of scenery recalls places once familiar, and the thoughts associated with the places revive thoughts of the contemporary occupations. the labour of scribbling books happily leaves no distinct impression, and i would forget that it had ever been undergone; but the picture of some delightful ramble includes incidentally a reference to the nightmare of literary toil from which it relieved me. the author is but the accidental appendage of the tramp. my days are bound each to each not by "natural piety" (or not, let me say, by natural piety alone) but by pedestrian enthusiasm. the memory of school days, if one may trust to the usual reminiscences, generally clusters round a flogging, or some solemn words from the spiritual teacher instilling the seed of a guiding principle of life. i remember a sermon or two rather ruefully; and i confess to memories of a flogging so unjust that i am even now stung by the thought of it. but what comes most spontaneously to my mind is the memory of certain strolls, "out of bounds," when i could forget the latin grammar, and enjoy such a sense of the beauties of nature as is embodied for a child in a pond haunted by water-rats, or a field made romantic by threats of "mantraps and spring-guns." then, after a crude fashion, one was becoming more or less of a reflecting and individual being, not a mere automaton set in movement by pedagogic machinery. the day on which i was fully initiated into the mysteries is marked by a white stone. it was when i put on a knapsack and started from heidelberg for a march through the odenwald. then i first knew the delightful sensation of independence and detachment enjoyed during a walking tour. free from all bothers of railway time-tables and extraneous machinery, you trust to your own legs, stop when you please, diverge into any track that takes your fancy, and drop in upon some quaint variety of human life at every inn where you put up for the night. you share for the time the mood in which borrow settled down in the dingle after escaping from his bondage in the publishers' london slums. you have no dignity to support, and the dress-coat of conventional life has dropped into oblivion, like the bundle from christian's shoulders. you are in the world of lavengro, and would be prepared to take tea with miss isopel berners or with the welsh preacher who thought that he had committed the unpardonable sin. borrow, of course, took the life more seriously than the literary gentleman who is only escaping on ticket-of-leave from the prison-house of respectability, and is quite unequal to a personal conflict with "blazing bosville"--the flaming tinman. he is only dipping in the element where his model was thoroughly at home. i remember, indeed, one figure in that first walk which i associate with benedict moll, the strange treasure-seeker whom borrow encountered in his spanish rambles. my acquaintance was a mild german innkeeper, who sat beside me on a bench while i was trying to assimilate certain pancakes, the only dinner he could provide, still fearful in memory, but just attackable after a thirty-miles' tramp. he confided to me that, poor as he was, he had discovered the secret of perpetual motion. he kept his machine upstairs, where it discharged the humble duty of supplying the place of a shoe-black; but he was about to go to london to offer it to a british capitalist. he looked wistfully at me as possibly a capitalist in (very deep) disguise, and i thought it wise to evade a full explanation. i have not been worthy to encounter many of such quaint incidents and characters as seem to have been normal in borrow's experience; but the first walk, commonplace enough, remains distinct in my memory. i kept no journal, but i could still give the narrative day by day--the sights which i dutifully admired and the very state of my bootlaces. walking tours thus rescue a bit of one's life from oblivion. they play in one's personal recollections the part of those historical passages in which carlyle is an unequalled master; the little islands of light in the midst of the darkening gloom of the past, on which you distinguish the actors in some old drama actually alive and moving. the devotee of other athletic sports remembers special incidents: the occasion on which he hit a cricket-ball over the pavilion at lord's, or the crab which he caught as his boat was shooting barnes bridge. but those are memories of exceptional moments of glory or the reverse, and apt to be tainted by vanity or the spirit of competition. the walks are the unobtrusive connecting thread of other memories, and yet each walk is a little drama in itself, with a definite plot with episodes and catastrophes, according to the requirements of aristotle; and it is naturally interwoven with all the thoughts, the friendships, and the interests that form the staple of ordinary life. walking is the natural recreation for a man who desires not absolutely to suppress his intellect but to turn it out to play for a season. all great men of letters have, therefore, been enthusiastic walkers (exceptions, of course, excepted). shakespeare, besides being a sportsman, a lawyer, a divine, and so forth, conscientiously observed his own maxim, "jog on, jog on, the footpath way"; though a full proof of this could only be given in an octavo volume. anyhow, he divined the connection between walking and a "merry heart"; that is, of course, a cheerful acceptance of our position in the universe founded upon the deepest moral and philosophical principles. his friend, ben jonson, walked from london to scotland. another gentleman of the period (i forget his name) danced from london to norwich. tom coryate hung up in his parish church the shoes in which he walked from venice and then started to walk (with occasional lifts) to india. contemporary walkers of more serious character might be quoted, such as the admirable barclay, the famous quaker apologist, from whom the great captain barclay inherited his prowess. every one, too, must remember the incident in walton's _life of hooker_. walking from oxford to exeter, hooker went to see his godfather, bishop jewel, at salisbury. the bishop said that he would lend him "a horse which hath carried me many a mile, and, i thank god, with much ease," and "presently delivered into his hands a walking staff with which he professed he had travelled through many parts of germany." he added ten groats and munificently promised ten groats more when hooker should restore the "horse." when, in later days, hooker once rode to london, he expressed more passion than that mild divine was ever known to show upon any other occasion against a friend who had dissuaded him from "footing it." the hack, it seems, "trotted when he did not," and discomposed the thoughts which had been soothed by the walking staff. his biographer must be counted, i fear, among those who do not enjoy walking without the incidental stimulus of sport. yet the _compleat angler_ and his friends start by a walk of twenty good miles before they take their "morning draught." swift, perhaps, was the first person to show a full appreciation of the moral and physical advantages of walking. he preached constantly upon this text to stella, and practised his own advice. it is true that his notions of a journey were somewhat limited. ten miles a day was his regular allowance when he went from london to holyhead, but then he spent time in lounging at wayside inns to enjoy the talk of the tramps and ostlers. the fact, though his biographers are rather scandalised, shows that he really appreciated one of the true charms of pedestrian expeditions. wesley is generally credited with certain moral reforms, but one secret of his power is not always noticed. in his early expeditions he went on foot to save horse hire, and made the great discovery that twenty or thirty miles a day was a wholesome allowance for a healthy man. the fresh air and exercise put "spirit into his sermons," which could not be rivalled by the ordinary parson of the period, who too often passed his leisure lounging by his fireside. fielding points the contrast. trulliber, embodying the clerical somnolence of the day, never gets beyond his pig-sties, but the model parson adams steps out so vigorously that he distances the stagecoach, and disappears in the distance rapt in the congenial pleasures of walking and composing a sermon. fielding, no doubt, shared his hero's taste, and that explains the contrast between his vigorous naturalism and the sentimentalism of richardson, who was to be seen, as he tells us, "stealing along from hammersmith to kensington with his eyes on the ground, propping his unsteady limbs with a stick." even the ponderous johnson used to dissipate his early hypochondria by walking from lichfield to birmingham and back (thirty-two miles), and his later melancholy would have changed to a more cheerful view of life could he have kept up the practice in his beloved london streets. the literary movement at the end of the eighteenth century was obviously due in great part, if not mainly, to the renewed practice of walking. wordsworth's poetical autobiography shows how every stage in his early mental development was connected with some walk in the lakes. the sunrise which startled him on a walk after a night spent in dancing first set him apart as a "dedicated spirit." his walking tour in the alps--then a novel performance--roused him to his first considerable poem. his chief performance is the record of an excursion on foot. he kept up the practice, and de quincey calculates somewhere what multiple of the earth's circumference he had measured on his legs, assuming, it appears, that he averaged ten miles a day. de quincey himself, we are told, slight and fragile as he was, was a good walker, and would run up a hill "like a squirrel." opium-eating is not congenial to walking, yet even coleridge, after beginning the habit, speaks of walking forty miles a day in scotland, and, as we all know, the great manifesto of the new school of poetry, the lyrical ballads, was suggested by the famous walk with wordsworth, when the first stanzas of the _ancient mariner_ were composed. a remarkable illustration of the wholesome influence might be given from the cases of scott and byron. scott, in spite of his lameness, delighted in walks of twenty and thirty miles a day, and in climbing crags, trusting to the strength of his arms to remedy the stumblings of his foot. the early strolls enabled him to saturate his mind with local traditions, and the passion for walking under difficulties showed the manly nature which has endeared him to three generations. byron's lameness was too severe to admit of walking, and therefore all the unwholesome humours which would have been walked off in a good cross-country march accumulated in his brain and caused the defects, the morbid affectation and perverse misanthropy, which half ruined the achievement of the most masculine intellect of his time. it is needless to accumulate examples of a doctrine which will no doubt be accepted as soon as it is announced. walking is the best of panaceas for the morbid tendencies of authors. it is, i need only observe, as good for reasoners as for poets. the name of "peripatetic" suggests the connection. hobbes walked steadily up and down the hills in his patron's park when he was in his venerable old age. to the same practice may be justly ascribed the utilitarian philosophy. old jeremy bentham kept himself up to his work for eighty years by his regular "post-jentacular circumgyrations." his chief disciple, james mill, walked incessantly and preached as he walked. john stuart mill imbibed at once psychology, political economy, and a love of walks from his father. walking was his one recreation; it saved him from becoming a mere smoke-dried pedant; and though he put forward the pretext of botanical researches, it helped him to perceive that man is something besides a mere logic machine. mill's great rival as a spiritual guide, carlyle, was a vigorous walker, and even in his latest years was a striking figure when performing his regular constitutionals in london. one of the vivid passages in the _reminiscences_ describes his walk with irving from glasgow to drumclog. here they sat on the "brow of a peat hag, while far, far away to the westward, over our brown horizon, towered up white and visible at the many miles of distance a high irregular pyramid. ailsa craig we at once guessed, and thought of the seas and oceans over yonder." the vision naturally led to a solemn conversation, which was an event in both lives. neither irving nor carlyle himself feared any amount of walking in those days, it is added, and next day carlyle took his longest walk, fifty-four miles. carlyle is unsurpassable in his descriptions of scenery: from the pictures of mountains in _sartor resartus_ to the battle-pieces in _frederick_. ruskin, himself a good walker, is more rhetorical but not so graphic; and it is self-evident that nothing educates an eye for the features of a landscape so well as the practice of measuring it by your own legs. the great men, it is true, have not always acknowledged their debt to the genius, whoever he may be, who presides over pedestrian exercise. indeed, they have inclined to ignore the true source of their impulse. even when they speak of the beauties of nature, they would give us to understand that they might have been disembodied spirits, taking aerial flights among mountain solitudes, and independent of the physical machinery of legs and stomachs. when long ago the alps cast their spell upon me, it was woven in a great degree by the eloquence of _modern painters_. i hoped to share ruskin's ecstasies in a reverent worship of mont blanc and the matterhorn. the influence of any cult, however, depends upon the character of the worshipper, and i fear that in this case the charm operated rather perversely. i stimulated a passion for climbing which absorbed my energies and distracted me from the prophet's loftier teaching. i might have followed him from the mountains to picture-galleries, and spent among the stones of venice hours which i devoted to attacking hitherto unascended peaks and so losing my last chance of becoming an art critic. i became a fair judge of an alpine guide, but i do not even know how to make a judicious allusion to botticelli or tintoretto. i can't say that i feel the smallest remorse. i had a good time, and at least escaped one temptation to talking nonsense. it follows, however, that my passion for the mountains had something earthly in its composition. it is associated with memories of eating and drinking. it meant delightful comradeship with some of the best of friends; but our end, i admit, was not always of the most exalted or æsthetic strain. a certain difficulty results. i feel an uncomfortable diffidence. i hold that alpine walks are the poetry of the pursuit; i could try to justify the opinion by relating some of the emotions suggested by the great scenic effects: the sunrise on the snow fields; the storm-clouds gathering under the great peaks; the high pasturages knee-deep in flowers; the torrents plunging through the "cloven ravines," and so forth. but the thing has been done before, better than i could hope to do it; and when i look back at those old passages in _modern painters_, and think of the enthusiasm which prompted to exuberant sentences of three or four hundred words, i am not only abashed by the thought of their unapproachable eloquence, but feel as though they conveyed a tacit reproach. you, they seem to say, are, after all, a poor prosaic creature, affecting a love of sublime scenery as a cloak for more grovelling motives. i could protest against this judgment, but it is better at present to omit the topic, even though it would give the strongest groundwork for my argument. perhaps, therefore, it is better to trust the case for walking to where the external stimulus of splendours and sublimities is not so overpowering. a philosophic historian divides the world into the regions where man is stronger than nature and the regions where nature is stronger than man. the true charm of walking is most unequivocally shown when it is obviously dependent upon the walker himself. i became an enthusiast in the alps, but i have found almost equal pleasure in walks such as one described by cowper, where the view from a summit is bounded, not by alps or apennines, but by "a lofty quickset hedge." walking gives a charm to the most commonplace british scenery. a love of walking not only makes any english county tolerable but seems to make the charm inexhaustible. i know only two or three districts minutely, but the more familiar i have become with any of them the more i have wished to return, to invent some new combination of old strolls or to inspect some hitherto unexplored nook. i love the english lakes, and certainly not on account of associations. i cannot "associate." much as i respect wordsworth, i don't care to see the cottage in which he lived: it only suggests to me that anybody else might have lived there. there is an intrinsic charm about the lake country, and to me at least a music in the very names of helvellyn and skiddaw and scawfell. but this may be due to the suggestion that it is a miniature of the alps. i appeal, therefore, to the fen country, the country of which alton locke's farmer boasted that it had none of your "darned ups and downs" and "was as flat as his barn-door for forty miles on end." i used to climb the range of the gogmagogs, to see the tower of ely, some sixteen miles across the dead level, and i boasted that every term i devised a new route for walking to the cathedral from cambridge. many of these routes led by the little public-house called "five miles from anywhere": which in my day was the mecca to which a remarkable club, called--from the name of the village--the "upware republic," made periodic pilgrimages. what its members specifically did when they got there beyond consuming beer is unknown to me; but the charm was in the distance "from anywhere"--a sense of solitude under the great canopy of the heavens, where, like emblems of infinity, "the trenched waters run from sky to sky." i have always loved walks in the fens. in a steady march along one of the great dykes by the monotonous canal with the exuberant vegetation dozing in its stagnant waters, we were imbibing the spirit of the scenery. our talk might be of senior wranglers or the university crew, but we felt the curious charm of the great flats. the absence, perhaps, of definite barriers makes you realise that you are on the surface of a planet rolling through free and boundless space. one queer figure comes back to me--a kind of scholar-gipsy of the fens. certain peculiarities made it undesirable to trust him with cash, and his family used to support him by periodically paying his score at riverside publics. they allowed him to print certain poems, moreover, which he would impart when one met him on the towpath. in my boyhood, i remember, i used to fancy that the most delightful of all lives must be that of a bargee--enjoying a perpetual picnic. this gentleman seemed to have carried out the idea; and in the intervals of lectures, i could fancy that he had chosen the better part. his poems, alas! have long vanished from my memory, and i therefore cannot quote what would doubtless have given the essence of the local sentiment and invested such names as wicken fen or swaffham lode with associations equal to those of arnold's hincksey ridge and fyfield elm. another set of walks may, perhaps, appeal to more general sympathy. the voice of the sea, we know, is as powerful as the voice of the mountain; and, to my taste, it is difficult to say whether the land's end is not in itself a more impressive station than the top of mont blanc. the solitude of the frozen peaks suggests tombstones and death. the sea is always alive and at work. the hovering gulls and plunging gannets and the rollicking porpoises are animating symbols of a gallant struggle with wind and wave. even the unassociative mind has a vague sense of the armada and hakluyt's heroes in the background. america and australia are just over the way. "is not this a dull place?" asked some one of an old woman whose cottage was near to the lizard lighthouse. "no," she replied, "it is so 'cosmopolitan.'" that was a simple-minded way of expressing the charm suggested in milton's wonderful phrase: "where the great vision of the guarded mount looks towards namancos and bayona's hold." she could mentally follow the great ships coming and going, and shake hands with people at the ends of the earth. the very sight of a fishing-boat, as painters seem to have found out, is a poem in itself. but is it not all written in _westward ho!_ and in the _prose idylls_, in which kingsley put his most genuine power? of all walks that i have made, i can remember none more delightful than those round the south-western promontory. i have followed the coast at different times from the mouth of the bristol avon by the land's end to the isle of wight, and i am only puzzled to decide which bay or cape is the most delightful. i only know that the most delightful was the more enjoyable when placed in its proper setting by a long walk. when you have made an early start, followed the coastguard track on the slopes above the cliffs, struggled through the gold and purple carpeting of gorse and heather on the moors, dipped down into quaint little coves with a primitive fishing village, followed the blinding whiteness of the sands round a lonely bay, and at last emerged upon a headland where you can settle into a nook of the rocks, look down upon the glorious blue of the atlantic waves breaking into foam on the granite, and see the distant sea-levels glimmering away till they blend imperceptibly into cloudland; then you can consume your modest sandwiches, light your pipe, and feel more virtuous and thoroughly at peace with the universe than it is easy even to conceive yourself elsewhere. i have fancied myself on such occasions to be a felicitous blend of poet and saint--which is an agreeable sensation. what i wish to point out, however, is that the sensation is confined to the walker. i respect the cyclist, as i have said; but he is enslaved by his machine: he has to follow the highroad, and can only come upon what points of view open to the commonplace tourist. he can see nothing of the retired scenery which may be close to him, and cannot have his mind brought into due harmony by the solitude and by the long succession of lovely bits of scenery which stand so coyly aside from public notice. the cockney cyclist who wisely seeks to escape at intervals from the region "where houses thick and sewers annoy the air," suffers the same disadvantages. to me, for many years, it was a necessity of life to interpolate gulps of fresh air between the periods of inhaling london fogs. when once beyond the "town" i looked out for notices that trespassers would be prosecuted. that gave a strong presumption that the trespass must have some attraction. the cyclist could only reflect that trespassing for him was not only forbidden but impossible. to me it was a reminder of the many delicious bits of walking which, even in the neighbourhood of london, await the man who has no superstitious reverence for legal rights. it is indeed surprising how many charming walks can be contrived by a judicious combination of a little trespassing with the rights of way happily preserved over so many commons and footpaths. london, it is true, goes on stretching its vast octopus arms farther into the country. unlike the devouring dragon of wantley, to whom "houses and churches" were like "geese and turkies," it spreads houses and churches over the fields of our childhood. and yet, between the great lines of railway there are still fields not yet desecrated by advertisements of liver pills. it is a fact that within twenty miles of london two travellers recently asked their way at a lonely farmhouse; and that the mistress of the house, seeing that they were far from an inn, not only gave them a seat and luncheon, but positively refused to accept payment. that suggested an idyllic state of society which, it is true, one must not count upon discovering. yet hospitality, the virtue of primitive regions, has not quite vanished, it would appear, even from this over-civilised region. the travellers, perhaps, had something specially attractive in their manners. in that or some not distant ramble they made time run back for a couple of centuries. they visited the quiet grave where penn lies under the shadow of the old friends' meeting-house, and came to the cottage where the seat on which milton talked to ellwood about _paradise regained_ seems to be still waiting for his return; and climbed the hill to the queer monument which records how captain cook demonstrated the goodness of providence by disproving the existence of a continent in the south sea--(the argument is too obvious to require exposition); and then gazed reverently upon the obelisk, not far off, which marks the point at which george iii. concluded a famous stag hunt. a little valley in the quiet chalk country of buckinghamshire leads past these and other memorials, and the lover of historical associations, with the help of thorne's _environs of london_, may add indefinitely to the list. i don't object to an association when it presents itself spontaneously and unobtrusively. it should not be the avowed goal but the accidental addition to the interest of a walk; and it is then pleasant to think of one's ancestors as sharers in the pleasures. the region enclosed within a radius of thirty miles from charing cross has charms enough even for the least historical of minds. you can't hold a fire in your hand, according to a high authority, by thinking on the frosty caucasus; but i can comfort myself now and then, when the fellow-passengers who tread on my heels in london have put me out of temper, by thinking of leith hill. it only rises to the height of a thousand feet by help of the "folly" on the top, but you can see, says my authority, twelve counties from the tower; and, if certain legendary ordnance surveyors spoke the truth, distinguish the english channel to the south, and dunstable hill, far beyond london, to the north. the crystal palace, too, as we are assured, "sparkles like a diamond." that is gratifying; but to me the panorama suggests a whole network of paths, which have been the scene of personally conducted expeditions, in which i displayed the skill on which i most pride myself--skill, i mean, in devising judicious geographical combinations, and especially of contriving admirable short cuts. the persistence of some companions in asserting that my short cuts might be the longest way round shows that the best of men are not free from jealousy. mine, at any rate, led me and my friends through pleasant places innumerable. my favourite passage in _pilgrim's progress_--an allegory which could have occurred, by the way, to no one who was not both a good man and a good walker--was always that in which christian and hopeful leave the highroad to cross a stile into "bypath meadow." i should certainly have approved the plan. the path led them, it is true, into the castle of giant despair; but the law of trespass has become milder; and the incident really added that spice of adventure which is delightful to the genuine pilgrim. we defied giant despair; and if our walks were not quite so edifying as those of christian and his friends, they add a pleasant strand to the thread of memory which joins the past years. conversation, we are often told, like letter-writing, is a lost art. we live too much in crowds. but if ever men can converse pleasantly, it is when they are invigorated by a good march: when the reserve is lowered by the long familiarity of a common pursuit, or when, if bored, you can quietly drop behind, or perhaps increase the pace sufficiently to check the breath of the persistent argufier. nowhere, at least, have i found talk flow so freely and pleasantly as in a march through pleasant country. and yet there is also a peculiar charm in the solitary expedition when your interlocutor must be yourself. that may be enjoyed, perhaps even best enjoyed, in london streets themselves. i have read somewhere of a distinguished person who composed his writings during such perambulations, and the statement was supposed to prove his remarkable power of intellectual concentration. my own experience would tend to diminish the wonder. i hopelessly envy men who can think consecutively under conditions distracting to others--in a crowded meeting or in the midst of their children--for i am as sensitive as most people to distraction; but if i can think at all, i am not sure that the roar of the strand is not a more favourable environment than the quiet of my own study. the mind--one must only judge from one's own--seems to me to be a singularly ill-constructed apparatus. thoughts are slippery things. it is terribly hard to keep them in the track presented by logic. they jostle each other, and suddenly skip aside to make room for irrelevant and accidental neighbours; till the stream of thought, of which people talk, resembles rather such a railway journey as one makes in dreams, where at every few yards you are shunted on to the wrong line. now, though a london street is full of distractions, they become so multitudinous that they neutralise each other. the whirl of conflicting impulses becomes a continuous current because it is so chaotic and determines a mood of sentiment if not a particular vein of reflection. wordsworth describes the influence upon himself in a curious passage of his _prelude_. he wandered through london as a raw country lad, seeing all the sights from bartholomew fair to st stephen's, and became a unit of the "monstrous ant-hill in a too busy world." of course, according to his custom, he drew a moral, and a most excellent moral, from the bewildering complexity of his new surroundings. he learnt, it seems, to recognise the unity of man and to feel that the spirit of nature was upon him "in london's vast domain" as well as on the mountains. that comes of being a philosophical poet with a turn for optimism. i will not try to interpret or to comment, for i am afraid that i have not shared the emotions which he expresses. a cockney, born and bred, takes surroundings for granted. the hubbub has ceased to distract him; he is like the people who were said to become deaf because they always lived within the roar of a waterfall: he realises the common saying that the deepest solitude is solitude in a crowd; he derives a certain stimulus from a vague sympathy with the active life around him, but each particular stimulus remains, as the phrase goes, "below the threshold of consciousness." to some such effect, till psychologists will give me a better theory, i attribute the fact that what i please to call my "mind" seems to work more continuously and coherently in a street walk than elsewhere. this, indeed, may sound like a confession of cynicism. the man who should open his mind to the impressions naturally suggested by the "monstrous ant-hill" would be in danger of becoming a philanthropist or a pessimist, of being overpowered by thoughts of gigantic problems, or of the impotence of the individual to solve them. carlyle, if i remember rightly, took emerson round london in order to convince his optimistic friend that the devil was still in full activity. the gates of hell might be found in every street. i remember how, when coming home from a country walk on a sweltering summer night, and seeing the squalid population turning out for a gasp of air in their only playground, the vast labyrinth of hideous lanes, i seemed to be in thomson's _city of dreadful night_. even the vanishing of quaint old nooks is painful when one's attention is aroused. there is a certain churchyard wall, which i pass sometimes, with an inscription to commemorate the benefactor who erected it "to keep out the pigs." i regret the pigs and the village green which they presumably imply. the heart, it may be urged, must be hardened not to be moved by many such texts for melancholy reflection. i will not argue the point. none of us can be always thinking over the riddle of the universe, and i confess that my mind is generally employed on much humbler topics. i do not defend my insensibility nor argue that london walks are the best. i only maintain that even in london, walking has a peculiar fascination. the top of an omnibus is an excellent place for meditation; but it has not, for me at least, that peculiar hypnotic influence which seems to be favourable to thinking, and to pleasant daydreaming when locomotion is carried on by one's own muscles. the charm, however, is that even a walk in london often vaguely recalls better places and nobler forms of the exercise. wordsworth's susan hears a thrush at the corner of wood street, and straightway sees "a mountain ascending, a vision of trees, bright volumes of vapour through lothbury glide, and a river flows on through the vale of cheapside." the gulls which seem lately to have found out the merits of london give to occasional susans, i hope, a whiff of fresh sea-breezes. but, even without gulls or wood-pigeons, i can often find occasions in the heart of london for recalling the old memories, without any definable pretext; little pictures of scenery, sometimes assignable to no definable place, start up invested with a faint aroma of old friendly walks and solitary meditations and strenuous exercise, and i feel convinced that, if i am not a thorough scoundrel, i owe that relative excellence to the harmless monomania which so often took me, to appropriate bunyan's phrase, from the amusements of _vanity fair_ to the _delectable mountains_ of pedestrianism. _leslie stephen._ the exhilarations of the road _afoot and light-hearted i take to the open road._ whitman. occasionally on the sidewalk, amid the dapper, swiftly-moving, high-heeled boots and gaiters, i catch a glimpse of the naked human foot. nimbly it scuffs along, the toes spread, the sides flatten, the heel protrudes; it grasps the curbing, or bends to the form of the uneven surfaces,--a thing sensuous and alive, that seems to take cognisance of whatever it touches or passes. how primitive and uncivil it looks in such company,--a real barbarian in the parlour. we are so unused to the human anatomy, to simple, unadorned nature, that it looks a little repulsive; but it is beautiful for all that. though it be a black foot and an unwashed foot, it shall be exalted. it is a thing of life amid leather, a free spirit amid cramped, a wild bird amid caged, an athlete amid consumptives. it is the symbol of my order, the order of walkers. that unhampered, vitally playing piece of anatomy is the type of the pedestrian, man returned to first principles, in direct contact and intercourse with the earth and the elements, his faculties unsheathed, his mind plastic, his body toughened, his heart light, his soul dilated: while those cramped and distorted members in the calf and kid are the unfortunate wretches doomed to carriages and cushions. i am not going to advocate the disuse of boots and shoes, or the abandoning of the improved modes of travel; but i am going to brag as lustily as i can on behalf of the pedestrian, and show how all the shining angels second and accompany the man who goes afoot, while all the dark spirits are ever looking out for a chance to ride. when i see the discomforts that able-bodied american men will put up with rather than go a mile or half a mile on foot, the abuses they will tolerate and encourage, crowding the street car on a little fall in the temperature or the appearance of an inch or two of snow, packing up to overflowing, dangling to the straps, treading on each other's toes, breathing each other's breaths, crushing the women and children, hanging by tooth and nail to a square inch of the platform, imperilling their limbs and killing the horses,--i think the commonest tramp in the street has good reason to felicitate himself on his rare privilege of going afoot. indeed, a race that neglects or despises this primitive gift, that fears the touch of the soil, that has no footpaths, no community of ownership in the land which they imply, that warns off the walker as a trespasser, that knows no way but the highway, the carriage-way, that forgets the stile, the foot-bridge, that even ignores the rights of the pedestrian in the public road, providing no escape for him but in the ditch or up the bank, is in a fair way to far more serious degeneracy. shakespeare makes the chief qualification of the walker a merry heart:- "jog on, jog on the footpath way, and merrily hent the stile-a; a merry heart goes all the day, your sad tires in a mile-a." the human body is a steed that goes freest and longest under a light rider, and the lightest of all riders is a cheerful heart. your sad, or morose, or embittered, or preoccupied heart settles heavily into the saddle, and the poor beast, the body, breaks down the first mile. indeed, the heaviest thing in the world is a heavy heart. next to that the most burdensome to the walker is a heart not in perfect sympathy and accord with the body--a reluctant or unwilling heart. the horse and rider must not only both be willing to go the same way, but the rider must lead the way and infuse his own lightness and eagerness into the steed. herein is no doubt our trouble and one reason of the decay of the noble art in this country. we are unwilling walkers. we are not innocent and simple-hearted enough to enjoy a walk. we have fallen from that state of grace which capacity to enjoy a walk implies. it cannot be said that as a people we are so positively sad, or morose, or melancholic as that we are vacant of that sportiveness and surplusage of animal spirits that characterised our ancestors, and that springs from full and harmonious life,--a sound heart in accord with a sound body. a man must invest himself near at hand and in common things, and be content with a steady and moderate return, if he would know the blessedness of a cheerful heart and the sweetness of a walk over the round earth. this is a lesson the american has yet to learn--capability of amusement on a low key. he expects rapid and extraordinary returns. he would make the very elemental laws pay usury. he has nothing to invest in a walk; it is too slow, too cheap. we crave the astonishing, the exciting, the far away, and do not know the highways of the gods when we see them,--always a sign of the decay of the faith and simplicity of man. if i say to my neighbour, "come with me, i have great wonders to show you," he pricks up his ears and comes forthwith; but when i take him on the hills under the full blaze of the sun, or along the country road, our footsteps lighted by the moon and stars, and say to him, "behold, these are the wonders, these are the circuits of the gods, this we now tread is a morning star," he feels defrauded, and as if i had played him a trick. and yet nothing less than dilatation and enthusiasm like this is the badge of the master walker. if we are not sad we are careworn, hurried, discontented, mortgaging the present for the promise of the future. if we take a walk, it is as we take a prescription, with about the same relish and with about the same purpose; and the more the fatigue the greater our faith in the virtue of the medicine. of those gleesome saunters over the hills in spring, or those sallies of the body in winter, those excursions into space when the foot strikes fire at every step, when the air tastes like a new and finer mixture, when we accumulate force and gladness as we go along, when the sight of objects by the roadside and of the fields and woods pleases more than pictures or than all the art in the world,--those ten or twelve mile dashes that are but the wit and affluence of the corporeal powers,--of such diversion and open road entertainment, i say, most of us know very little. i notice with astonishment that at our fashionable watering-places nobody walks; that of all those vast crowds of health-seekers and lovers of country air, you can never catch one in the fields or woods, or guilty of trudging along the country road with dust on his shoes and sun-tan on his hands and face. the sole amusement seems to be to eat and dress and sit about the hotels and glare at each other. the men look bored, the women look tired, and all seem to sigh, "o lord! what shall we do to be happy and not be vulgar?" quite different from our british cousins across the water, who have plenty of amusement and hilarity, spending most of the time at their watering-places in the open air, strolling, picnicking, boating, climbing, briskly walking, apparently with little fear of sun-tan or of compromising their "gentility." it is indeed astonishing with what ease and hilarity the english walk. to an american it seems a kind of infatuation. when dickens was in this country i imagine the aspirants to the honour of a walk with him were not numerous. in a pedestrian tour of england by an american, i read that "after breakfast with the independent minister, he walked with us for six miles out of town upon our road. three little boys and girls, the youngest six years old, also accompanied us. they were romping and rambling about all the while, and their morning walk must have been as much as fifteen miles; but they thought nothing of it, and when we parted were apparently as fresh as when they started, and very loath to return." i fear, also, the american is becoming disqualified for the manly art of walking, by a falling off in the size of his foot. he cherishes and cultivates this part of his anatomy, and apparently thinks his taste and good breeding are to be inferred from its diminutive size. a small, trim foot, well booted or gaitered, is the national vanity. how we stare at the big feet of foreigners, and wonder what may be the price of leather in those countries, and where all the aristocratic blood is, that these plebeian extremities so predominate. if we were admitted to the confidences of the shoemaker to her majesty or to his royal highness, no doubt we would modify our views upon this latter point, for a truly large and royal nature is never stunted in the extremities; a little foot never yet supported a great character. it is said that englishmen when they first come to this country are for some time under the impression that american women all have deformed feet, they are so coy of them and so studiously careful to keep them hid. that there is an astonishing difference between the women of the two countries in this respect, every traveller can testify; and that there is a difference equally astonishing between the pedestrian habits and capabilities of the rival sisters is also certain. the english pedestrian, no doubt, has the advantage of us in the matter of climate; for notwithstanding the traditional gloom and moroseness of english skies, they have in that country none of those relaxing, sinking, enervating days, of which we have so many here, and which seem especially trying to the female constitution--days which withdraw all support from the back and loins, and render walking of all things burdensome. theirs is a climate of which it has been said that "it invites men abroad more days in the year and more hours in the day than that of any other country." then their land is threaded with paths which invite the walker, and which are scarcely less important than the highways. i heard of a surly nobleman near london who took it into his head to close a footpath that passed through his estate near his house, and open another one a little farther off. the pedestrians objected; the matter got into the courts, and after protracted litigation the aristocrat was beaten. the path could not be closed or moved. the memory of man ran not to the time when there was not a footpath there, and every pedestrian should have the right of way there still. i remember the pleasure i had in the path that connects stratford-on-avon with shottery, shakespeare's path when he went courting anne hathaway. by the king's highway the distance is somewhat farther, so there is a well-worn path along the hedgerows and through the meadows and turnip patches. the traveller in it has the privilege of crossing the railroad track, an unusual privilege in england, and one denied to the lord in his carriage, who must either go over or under it. (it is a privilege, is it not, to be allowed the forbidden, even if it be the privilege of being run over by the engine?) in strolling over the south downs, too, i was delighted to find that where the hill was steepest some benefactor of the order of walkers had made notches in the sward, so that the foot could bite the better and firmer; the path became a kind of stairway, which i have no doubt the ploughman respected. when you see an english country church withdrawn, secluded, out of the reach of wheels, standing amid grassy graves and surrounded by noble trees, approached by paths and shaded lanes, you appreciate more than ever this beautiful habit of the people. only a race that knows how to use its feet, and holds footpaths sacred, could put such a charm of privacy and humility into such a structure. i think i should be tempted to go to church myself if i saw all my neighbours starting off across the fields or along paths that led to such charmed spots, and was sure i would not be jostled or run over by the rival chariots of the worshippers at the temple doors. i think this is what ails our religion; humility and devoutness of heart leave one when he lays by his walking shoes and walking clothes, and sets out for church drawn by something. indeed, i think it would be tantamount to an astonishing revival of religion if the people would all walk to church on sunday and walk home again. think how the stones would preach to them by the wayside; how their benumbed minds would warm up beneath the friction of the gravel; how their vain and foolish thoughts, their desponding thoughts, their besetting demons of one kind and another, would drop behind them, unable to keep up or to endure the fresh air. they would walk away from their _ennui_, their worldly cares, their uncharitableness, their pride of dress; for these devils always want to ride, while the simple virtues are never so happy as when on foot. let us walk by all means; but if we will ride, get an ass. then the english claim that they are a more hearty and robust people than we are. it is certain they are a plainer people, have plainer tastes, dress plainer, build plainer, speak plainer, keep closer to facts, wear broader shoes and coarser clothes, place a lower estimate on themselves, etc.--all of which traits favour pedestrian habits. the english grandee is not confined to his carriage; but if the american aristocrat leaves his, he is ruined. oh, the weariness, the emptiness, the plotting, the seeking rest and finding none, that goes by in the carriages! while your pedestrian is always cheerful, alert, refreshed, with his heart in his hand and his hand free to all. he looks down upon nobody; he is on the common level. his pores are all open, his circulation is active, his digestion good. his heart is not cold, nor his faculties asleep. he is the only real traveller; he alone tastes the "gay, fresh sentiment of the road." he is not isolated, but one with things, with the farms and industries on either hand. the vital, universal currents play through him. he knows the ground is alive; he feels the pulses of the wind, and reads the mute language of things. his sympathies are all aroused; his senses are continually reporting messages to his mind. wind, frost, rain, heat, cold, are something to him. he is not merely a spectator of the panorama of nature, but a participator in it. he experiences the country he passes through--tastes it, feels it, absorbs it; the traveller in his fine carriage sees it merely. this gives the fresh charm to that class of books that may be called "views afoot," and to the narratives of hunters, naturalists, exploring parties, etc. the walker does not need a large territory. when you get into a railway car you want a continent, the man in his carriage requires a township; but a walker like thoreau finds as much and more along the shores of walden pond. the former, as it were, has merely time to glance at the headings of the chapters, while the latter need not miss a line, and thoreau reads between the lines. then the walker has the privilege of the fields, the woods, the hills, the by-ways. the apples by the roadside are for him, and the berries, and the spring of water, and the friendly shelter; and if the weather is cold, he eats the frost grapes and the persimmons, or even the white meated turnip, snatched from the field he passed through, with incredible relish. afoot and in the open road, one has a fair start in life at last. there is no hindrance now. let him put his best foot forward. he is on the broadest humane plane. this is on the level of all the great laws and heroic deeds. from this platform he is eligible to any good fortune. he was sighing for the golden age; let him walk to it. every step brings him nearer. the youth of the world is but a few days' journey distant. indeed, i know persons who think they have walked back to that fresh aforetime of a single bright sunday in autumn or early spring. before noon they felt its airs upon their cheeks, and by nightfall, on the banks of some quiet stream, or along some path in the wood, or on some hill-top, aver they have heard the voices and felt the wonder and the mystery that so enchanted the early races of men. i think if i could walk through a country i should not only see many things and have adventures that i should otherwise miss, but that i should come into relations with that country at first hand, and with the men and women in it, in a way that would afford the deepest satisfaction. hence i envy the good fortune of all walkers, and feel like joining myself to every tramp that comes along. i am jealous of the clergyman i read about the other day who footed it from edinburgh to london, as poor effie deans did, carrying her shoes in her hand most of the way, and over the ground that rugged ben jonson strode, larking it to scotland, so long ago. i read with longing of the pedestrian feats of college youths, so gay and light-hearted, with their coarse shoes on their feet and their knapsacks on their backs. it would have been a good draught of the rugged cup to have walked with wilson the ornithologist, deserted by his companions, from niagara to philadelphia through the snows of winter. i almost wish that i had been born to the career of a german mechanic, that i might have had that delicious adventurous year of wandering over my country before i settled down to work. i think how much richer and firmer-grained life would be to me if i could journey afoot through florida and texas, or follow the windings of the platte or the yellowstone, or stroll through oregon, or browse for a season about canada. in the bright inspiring days of autumn i only want the time and the companion to walk back to the natal spot, the family nest, across two states and into the mountains of a third. what adventures we would have by the way, what hard pulls, what prospects from hills, what spectacles we would behold of night and day, what passages with dogs, what glances, what peeps into windows, what characters we should fall in with, and how seasoned and hardy we should arrive at our destination! for companion i should want a veteran of the war! those marches put something into him i like. even at this distance his mettle is but little softened. as soon as he gets warmed up it all comes back to him. he catches your step and away you go, a gay, adventurous, half predatory couple. how quickly he falls into the old ways of jest and anecdote and song! you may have known him for years without having heard him hum an air, or more than casually revert to the subject of his experience during the war. you have even questioned and cross-questioned him without firing the train you wished. but get him out on a vacation tramp, and you can walk it all out of him. by the camp-fire at night or swinging along the streams by day, song, anecdote, adventure, come to the surface, and you wonder how your companion has kept silent so long. it is another proof of how walking brings out the true character of a man. the devil never yet asked his victims to take a walk with him. you will not be long in finding your companion out. all disguises will fall away from him. as his pores open his character is laid bare. his deepest and most private self will come to the top. it matters little whom you ride with, so he be not a pickpocket; for both of you will, very likely, settle down closer and firmer in your reserve, shaken down like a measure of corn by the jolting as the journey proceeds. but walking is a more vital copartnership; the relation is a closer and more sympathetic one, and you do not feel like walking ten paces with a stranger without speaking to him. hence the fastidiousness of the professional walker in choosing or admitting a companion, and hence the truth of a remark of emerson that you will generally fare better to take your dog than to invite your neighbour. your cur-dog is a true pedestrian, and your neighbour is very likely a small politician. the dog enters thoroughly into the spirit of the enterprise; he is not indifferent or preoccupied; he is constantly sniffing adventure, laps at every spring, looks upon every field and wood as a new world to be explored, is ever on some fresh trail, knows something important will happen a little farther on, gazes with the true wonder-seeing eyes, whatever the spot or whatever the road finds it good to be there--in short, is just that happy, delicious, excursive vagabond that touches one at so many points, and whose human prototype in a companion robs miles and leagues of half their power to fatigue. persons who find themselves spent in a short walk to the market or the post-office, or to do a little shopping, wonder how it is that their pedestrian friends can compass so many weary miles and not fall down from sheer exhaustion; ignorant of the fact that the walker is a kind of projectile that drops far or near according to the expansive force of the motive that set it in motion, and that it is easy enough to regulate the charge according to the distance to be traversed. if i am loaded to carry only one mile and am compelled to walk three, i generally feel more fatigue than if i had walked six under the proper impetus of pre-adjusted resolution. in other words, the will or corporeal mainspring, whatever it be, is capable of being wound up to different degrees of tension, so that one may walk all day nearly as easy as half that time if he is prepared beforehand. he knows his task, and he measures and distributes his powers accordingly. it is for this reason that an unknown road is always a long road. we cannot cast the mental eye along it and see the end from the beginning. we are fighting in the dark, and cannot take the measure of our foe. every step must be preordained and provided for in the mind. hence also the fact that to vanquish one mile in the woods seems equal to compassing three in the open country. the furlongs are ambushed, and we magnify them. then, again, how annoying to be told it is only five miles to the next place when it is really eight or ten! we fall short nearly half the distance, and are compelled to urge and roll the spent ball the rest of the way. in such a case walking degenerates from a fine art to a mechanic art; we walk merely; to get over the ground becomes the one serious and engrossing thought; whereas success in walking is not to let your right foot know what your left foot doeth. your heart must furnish such music that in keeping time to it your feet will carry you around the globe without knowing it. the walker i would describe takes no note of distance; his walk is a sally, a _bon mot_, an unspoken _jeu d'esprit_; the ground is his butt, his provocation; it furnishes him the resistance his body craves; he rebounds upon it, he glances off and returns again, and uses it gaily as his tool. i do not think i exaggerate the importance or the charms of pedestrianism, or our need as a people to cultivate the art. i think it would tend to soften the national manners, to teach us the meaning of leisure, to acquaint us with the charms of the open air, to strengthen and foster the tie between the race and the land. no one else looks out upon the world so kindly and charitably as the pedestrian; no one else gives and takes so much from the country he passes through. next to the labourer in the fields, the walker holds the closest relation to the soil; and he holds a closer and more vital relation to nature because he is freer and his mind more at leisure. man takes root at his feet, and at best he is no more than a potted plant in his house or carriage till he has established communication with the soil by the loving and magnetic touch of his soles to it. then the tie of association is born; then spring those invisible fibres and rootlets through which character comes to smack of the soil, and which make a man kindred to the spot of earth he inhabits. the roads and paths you have walked along in summer and winter weather, the fields and hills which you have looked upon in lightness and gladness of heart, where fresh thoughts have come into your mind, or some noble prospect has opened before you, and especially the quiet ways where you have walked in sweet converse with your friend, pausing under the trees, drinking at the spring--henceforth they are not the same; a new charm is added; those thoughts spring there perennial, your friend walks there for ever. we have produced some good walkers and saunterers, and some noted climbers; but as a staple recreation, as a daily practice, the mass of the people dislike and despise walking. thoreau said he was a good horse, but a poor roadster. i chant the virtues of the roadster as well. i sing of the sweetness of gravel, good sharp quartz-grit. it is the proper condiment for the sterner seasons, and many a human gizzard would be cured of half its ills by a suitable daily allowance of it. i think thoreau himself would have profited immensely by it. his diet was too exclusively vegetable. a man cannot live on grass alone. if one has been a lotus-eater all summer, he must turn gravel-eater in the fall and winter. those who have tried it know that gravel possesses an equal though an opposite charm. it spurs to action. the foot tastes it and henceforth rests not. the joy of moving and surmounting, of attrition and progression, the thirst for space, for miles and leagues of distance, for sights and prospects, to cross mountains and thread rivers, and defy frost, heat, snow, danger, difficulties, seizes it; and from that day forth its possessor is enrolled in the noble army of walkers. _john burroughs._ the riverside press limited, edinburgh. 