THREE MEN ON THE BUMMELby JEROME K. JEROME

_Illustrated by L. Raven Hill_

A NEW EDITION

BRISTOLJ. W. ARROWSMITH LTD. , QUAY STREETLONDONSIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT AND CO. LIMITED1914

TO THE GENTLE

GUIDE

WHO LETS ME EVER GO MY OWN WAY, YET BRINGS ME RIGHT--

TO THE LAUGHTER-LOVING

PHILOSOPHER

WHO, IF HE HAS NOT RECONCILED ME TO BEARING THE TOOTHACHEPATENTLY, AT LEAST HAS TAUGHT ME THE COMFORT THATTHIS EVEN WILL ALSO PASS--

TO THE GOOD

FRIEND

WHO SMILES WHEN I TELL HIM OF MY TROUBLES, AND WHOWHEN I ASK FOR HELP, ANSWERS ONLY "WAIT!"--

TO THE GRAVE-FACED

JESTER

TO WHOM ALL LIFE IS BUT A VOLUME OF OLD HUMOUR--

TO GOOD MASTER

Time

THIS LITTLE WORK OF A POOR

PUPIL

IS DEDICATED

CHAPTER I

Three men need change--Anecdote showing evil result of deception--Moralcowardice of George--Harris has ideas--Yarn of the Ancient Mariner andthe Inexperienced Yachtsman--A hearty crew--Danger of sailing when thewind is off the land--Impossibility of sailing when the wind is off thesea--The argumentativeness of Ethelbertha--The dampness of theriver--Harris suggests a bicycle tour--George thinks of the wind--Harrissuggests the Black Forest--George thinks of the hills--Plan adopted byHarris for ascent of hills--Interruption by Mrs. Harris. 

"What we want, " said Harris, "is a change. "

At this moment the door opened, and Mrs. Harris put her head in to saythat Ethelbertha had sent her to remind me that we must not be lategetting home because of Clarence. Ethelbertha, I am inclined to think, is unnecessarily nervous about the children. As a matter of fact, therewas nothing wrong with the child whatever. He had been out with his auntthat morning; and if he looks wistfully at a pastrycook's window shetakes him inside and buys him cream buns and "maids-of-honour" until heinsists that he has had enough, and politely, but firmly, refuses to eatanother anything. Then, of course, he wants only one helping of puddingat lunch, and Ethelbertha thinks he is sickening for something. Mrs. Harris added that it would be as well for us to come upstairs soon, onour own account also, as otherwise we should miss Muriel's rendering of"The Mad Hatter's Tea Party, " out of _Alice in Wonderland_. Muriel isHarris's second, age eight: she is a bright, intelligent child; but Iprefer her myself in serious pieces. We said we would finish ourcigarettes and follow almost immediately; we also begged her not to letMuriel begin until we arrived. She promised to hold the child back aslong as possible, and went. Harris, as soon as the door was closed, resumed his interrupted sentence. 

"You know what I mean, " he said, "a complete change. "

The question was how to get it. 

George suggested "business. " It was the sort of suggestion George wouldmake. A bachelor thinks a married woman doesn't know enough to get outof the way of a steam-roller. I knew a young fellow once, an engineer, who thought he would go to Vienna "on business. " His wife wanted to know"what business?" He told her it would be his duty to visit the mines inthe neighbourhood of the Austrian capital, and to make reports. She saidshe would go with him; she was that sort of woman. He tried to dissuadeher: he told her that a mine was no place for a beautiful woman. Shesaid she felt that herself, and that therefore she did not intend toaccompany him down the shafts; she would see him off in the morning, andthen amuse herself until his return, looking round the Vienna shops, andbuying a few things she might want. Having started the idea, he did notsee very well how to get out of it; and for ten long summer days he didvisit the mines in the neighbourhood of Vienna, and in the evening wrotereports about them, which she posted for him to his firm, who didn't wantthem. 

I should be grieved to think that either Ethelbertha or Mrs. Harrisbelonged to that class of wife, but it is as well not to overdo"business"--it should be kept for cases of real emergency. 

"No, " I said, "the thing is to be frank and manly. I shall tellEthelbertha that I have come to the conclusion a man never valueshappiness that is always with him. I shall tell her that, for the sakeof learning to appreciate my own advantages as I know they should beappreciated, I intend to tear myself away from her and the children forat least three weeks. I shall tell her, " I continued, turning to Harris, "that it is you who have shown me my duty in this respect; that it is toyou we shall owe--"

Harris put down his glass rather hurriedly. 

"If you don't mind, old man, " he interrupted, "I'd really rather youdidn't. She'll talk it over with my wife, and--well, I should not behappy, taking credit that I do not deserve. "

"But you do deserve it, " I insisted; "it was your suggestion. "

"It was you gave me the idea, " interrupted Harris again. "You know yousaid it was a mistake for a man to get into a groove, and that unbrokendomesticity cloyed the brain. "

"I was speaking generally, " I explained. 

"It struck me as very apt, " said Harris. "I thought of repeating it toClara; she has a great opinion of your sense, I know. I am sure thatif--"

"We won't risk it, " I interrupted, in my turn; "it is a delicate matter, and I see a way out of it. We will say George suggested the idea. "

There is a lack of genial helpfulness about George that it sometimesvexes me to notice. You would have thought he would have welcomed thechance of assisting two old friends out of a dilemma; instead, he becamedisagreeable. 

"You do, " said George, "and I shall tell them both that my original planwas that we should make a party--children and all; that I should bring myaunt, and that we should hire a charming old chateau I know of inNormandy, on the coast, where the climate is peculiarly adapted todelicate children, and the milk such as you do not get in England. Ishall add that you over-rode that suggestion, arguing we should behappier by ourselves. "

With a man like George kindness is of no use; you have to be firm. 

"You do, " said Harris, "and I, for one, will close with the offer. Wewill just take that chateau. You will bring your aunt--I will see tothat, --and we will have a month of it. The children are all fond of you;J. And I will be nowhere. You've promised to teach Edgar fishing; and itis you who will have to play wild beasts. Since last Sunday Dick andMuriel have talked of nothing else but your hippopotamus. We will picnicin the woods--there will only be eleven of us, --and in the evenings wewill have music and recitations. Muriel is master of six pieces already, as perhaps you know; and all the other children are quick studies. "

George climbed down--he has no real courage--but he did not do itgracefully. He said that if we were mean and cowardly and false-heartedenough to stoop to such a shabby trick, he supposed he couldn't help it;and that if I didn't intend to finish the whole bottle of claret myself, he would trouble me to spare him a glass. He also added, somewhatillogically, that it really did not matter, seeing both Ethelbertha andMrs. Harris were women of sense who would judge him better than tobelieve for a moment that the suggestion emanated from him. 

This little point settled, the question was: What sort of a change?

Harris, as usual, was for the sea. He said he knew a yacht, just thevery thing--one that we could manage by ourselves; no skulking lot oflubbers loafing about, adding to the expense and taking away from theromance. Give him a handy boy, he would sail it himself. We knew thatyacht, and we told him so; we had been on it with Harris before. Itsmells of bilge-water and greens to the exclusion of all other scents; noordinary sea air can hope to head against it. So far as sense of smellis concerned, one might be spending a week in Limehouse Hole. There isno place to get out of the rain; the saloon is ten feet by four, and halfof that is taken up by a stove, which falls to pieces when you go tolight it. You have to take your bath on deck, and the towel blowsoverboard just as you step out of the tub. Harris and the boy do all theinteresting work--the lugging and the reefing, the letting her go and theheeling her over, and all that sort of thing, --leaving George and myselfto do the peeling of the potatoes and the washing up. 

"Very well, then, " said Harris, "let's take a proper yacht, with askipper, and do the thing in style. "

That also I objected to. I know that skipper; his notion of yachting isto lie in what he calls the "offing, " where he can be well in touch withhis wife and family, to say nothing of his favourite public-house. 

Years ago, when I was young and inexperienced, I hired a yacht myself. Three things had combined to lead me into this foolishness: I had had astroke of unexpected luck; Ethelbertha had expressed a yearning for seaair; and the very next morning, in taking up casually at the club a copyof the _Sportsman_, I had come across the following advertisement:--

TO YACHTSMEN. --Unique Opportunity. --"Rogue, " 28-ton Yawl. --Owner, calledaway suddenly on business, is willing to let this superbly-fitted"greyhound of the sea" for any period short or long. Two cabins andsaloon; pianette, by Woffenkoff; new copper. Terms, 10 guineas aweek. --Apply Pertwee and Co. , 3A Bucklersbury. 

It had seemed to me like the answer to a prayer. "The new copper" didnot interest me; what little washing we might want could wait, I thought. But the "pianette by Woffenkoff" sounded alluring. I picturedEthelbertha playing in the evening--something with a chorus, in which, perhaps, the crew, with a little training, might join--while our movinghome bounded, "greyhound-like, " over the silvery billows. 

I took a cab and drove direct to 3A Bucklersbury. Mr. Pertwee was anunpretentious-looking gentleman, who had an unostentatious office on thethird floor. He showed me a picture in water-colours of the _Rogue_flying before the wind. The deck was at an angle of 95 to the ocean. Inthe picture no human beings were represented on the deck; I suppose theyhad slipped off. Indeed, I do not see how anyone could have kept on, unless nailed. I pointed out this disadvantage to the agent, who, however, explained to me that the picture represented the _Rogue_doubling something or other on the well-known occasion of her winning theMedway Challenge Shield. Mr. Pertwee assumed that I knew all about theevent, so that I did not like to ask any questions. Two specks near theframe of the picture, which at first I had taken for moths, represented, it appeared, the second and third winners in this celebrated race. Aphotograph of the yacht at anchor off Gravesend was less impressive, butsuggested more stability. All answers to my inquiries beingsatisfactory, I took the thing for a fortnight. Mr. Pertwee said it wasfortunate I wanted it only for a fortnight--later on I came to agree withhim, --the time fitting in exactly with another hiring. Had I required itfor three weeks he would have been compelled to refuse me. 

The letting being thus arranged, Mr. Pertwee asked me if I had a skipperin my eye. That I had not was also fortunate--things seemed to beturning out luckily for me all round, --because Mr. Pertwee felt sure Icould not do better than keep on Mr. Goyles, at present in charge--anexcellent skipper, so Mr. Pertwee assured me, a man who knew the sea as aman knows his own wife, and who had never lost a life. 

It was still early in the day, and the yacht was lying off Harwich. Icaught the ten forty-five from Liverpool Street, and by one o'clock wastalking to Mr. Goyles on deck. He was a stout man, and had a fatherlyway with him. I told him my idea, which was to take the outlying Dutchislands and then creep up to Norway. He said, "Aye, aye, sir, " andappeared quite enthusiastic about the trip; said he should enjoy ithimself. We came to the question of victualling, and he grew moreenthusiastic. The amount of food suggested by Mr. Goyles, I confess, surprised me. Had we been living in the days of Drake and the SpanishMain, I should have feared he was arranging for something illegal. However, he laughed in his fatherly way, and assured me we were notoverdoing it. Anything left the crew would divide and take home withthem--it seemed this was the custom. It appeared to me that I wasproviding for this crew for the winter, but I did not like to appearstingy, and said no more. The amount of drink required also surprisedme. I arranged for what I thought we should need for ourselves, and thenMr. Goyles spoke up for the crew. I must say that for him, he did thinkof his men. 

"We don't want anything in the nature of an orgie, Mr. Goyles, " Isuggested. 

"Orgie!" replied Mr. Goyles; "why they'll take that little drop in theirtea. "

He explained to me that his motto was, Get good men and treat them well. 

"They work better for you, " said Mr. Goyles; "and they come again. "

Personally, I didn't feel I wanted them to come again. I was beginningto take a dislike to them before I had seen them; I regarded them as agreedy and guzzling crew. But Mr. Goyles was so cheerfully emphatic, andI was so inexperienced, that again I let him have his way. He alsopromised that even in this department he would see to it personally thatnothing was wasted. 

I also left him to engage the crew. He said he could do the thing, andwould, for me, with the help two men and a boy. If he was alluding tothe clearing up of the victuals and drink, I think he was making an under-estimate; but possibly he may have been speaking of the sailing of theyacht. 

I called at my tailors on the way home and ordered a yachting suit, witha white hat, which they promised to bustle up and have ready in time; andthen I went home and told Ethelbertha all I had done. Her delight wasclouded by only one reflection--would the dressmaker be able to finish ayachting costume for her in time? That is so like a woman. 

Our honeymoon, which had taken place not very long before, had beensomewhat curtailed, so we decided we would invite nobody, but have theyacht to ourselves. And thankful I am to Heaven that we did so decide. On Monday we put on all our clothes and started. I forget whatEthelbertha wore, but, whatever it may have been, it looked veryfetching. My own costume was a dark blue trimmed with a narrow whitebraid, which, I think, was rather effective. 

Mr. Goyles met us on deck, and told us that lunch was ready. I mustadmit Goyles had secured the services of a very fair cook. Thecapabilities of the other members of the crew I had no opportunity ofjudging. Speaking of them in a state of rest, however, I can say of themthey appeared to be a cheerful crew. 

My idea had been that so soon as the men had finished their dinner wewould weigh anchor, while I, smoking a cigar, with Ethelbertha by myside, would lean over the gunwale and watch the white cliffs of theFatherland sink imperceptibly into the horizon. Ethelbertha and Icarried out our part of the programme, and waited, with the deck toourselves. 

"They seem to be taking their time, " said Ethelbertha. 

"If, in the course of fourteen days, " I said, "they eat half of what ison this yacht, they will want a fairly long time for every meal. We hadbetter not hurry them, or they won't get through a quarter of it. "

"They must have gone to sleep, " said Ethelbertha, later on. "It will betea-time soon. "

They were certainly very quiet. I went for'ard, and hailed CaptainGoyles down the ladder. I hailed him three times; then he came upslowly. He appeared to be a heavier and older man than when I had seenhim last. He had a cold cigar in his mouth. 

"When you are ready, Captain Goyles, " I said, "we'll start. "

Captain Goyles removed the cigar from his mouth. 

"Not to-day we won't, sir, " he replied, "_with_ your permission. "

"Why, what's the matter with to-day?" I said. I know sailors are asuperstitious folk; I thought maybe a Monday might be considered unlucky. 

"The day's all right, " answered Captain Goyles, "it's the wind I'ma-thinking of. It don't look much like changing. "

"But do we want it to change?" I asked. "It seems to me to be just whereit should be, dead behind us. "

"Aye, aye, " said Captain Goyles, "dead's the right word to use, for deadwe'd all be, bar Providence, if we was to put out in this. You see, sir, " he explained, in answer to my look of surprise, "this is what wecall a 'land wind, ' that is, it's a-blowing, as one might say, direct offthe land. "

When I came to think of it the man was right; the wind was blowing offthe land. 

"It may change in the night, " said Captain Goyles, more hopefully"anyhow, it's not violent, and she rides well. "

Captain Goyles resumed his cigar, and I returned aft, and explained toEthelbertha the reason for the delay. Ethelbertha, who appeared to beless high spirited than when we first boarded, wanted to know _why_ wecouldn't sail when the wind was off the land. 

"If it was not blowing off the land, " said Ethelbertha, "it would beblowing off the sea, and that would send us back into the shore again. Itseems to me this is just the very wind we want. "

I said: "That is your inexperience, love; it _seems_ to be the very windwe want, but it is not. It's what we call a land wind, and a land windis always very dangerous. "

Ethelbertha wanted to know _why_ a land wind was very dangerous. 

Her argumentativeness annoyed me somewhat; maybe I was feeling a bitcross; the monotonous rolling heave of a small yacht at anchor depressesan ardent spirit. 

"I can't explain it to you, " I replied, which was true, "but to set sailin this wind would be the height of foolhardiness, and I care for you toomuch, dear, to expose you to unnecessary risks. "

I thought this rather a neat conclusion, but Ethelbertha merely repliedthat she wished, under the circumstances, we hadn't come on board tillTuesday, and went below. 

In the morning the wind veered round to the north; I was up early, andobserved this to Captain Goyles. 

"Aye, aye, sir, " he remarked; "it's unfortunate, but it can't be helped. "

"You don't think it possible for us to start to-day?" I hazarded. 

He did not get angry with me, he only laughed. 

"Well, sir, " said he, "if you was a-wanting to go to Ipswich, I shouldsay as it couldn't be better for us, but our destination being, as yousee, the Dutch coast--why there you are!"

I broke the news to Ethelbertha, and we agreed to spend the day on shore. Harwich is not a merry town, towards evening you might call it dull. Wehad some tea and watercress at Dovercourt, and then returned to the quayto look for Captain Goyles and the boat. We waited an hour for him. Whenhe came he was more cheerful than we were; if he had not told me himselfthat he never drank anything but one glass of hot grog before turning infor the night, I should have said he was drunk. 

The next morning the wind was in the south, which made Captain Goylesrather anxious, it appearing that it was equally unsafe to move or tostop where we were; our only hope was it would change before anythinghappened. By this time, Ethelbertha had taken a dislike to the yacht;she said that, personally, she would rather be spending a week in abathing machine, seeing that a bathing machine was at least steady. 

We passed another day in Harwich, and that night and the next, the windstill continuing in the south, we slept at the "King's Head. " On Fridaythe wind was blowing direct from the east. I met Captain Goyles on thequay, and suggested that, under these circumstances, we might start. Heappeared irritated at my persistence. 

"If you knew a bit more, sir, " he said, "you'd see for yourself that it'simpossible. The wind's a-blowing direct off the sea. "

I said: "Captain Goyles, tell me what is this thing I have hired? Is ita yacht or a house-boat?"

He seemed surprised at my question. 

He said: "It's a yawl. "

"What I mean is, " I said, "can it be moved at all, or is it a fixturehere? If it is a fixture, " I continued, "tell me so frankly, then wewill get some ivy in boxes and train over the port-holes, stick someflowers and an awning on deck, and make the thing look pretty. If, onthe other hand, it can be moved--"

"Moved!" interrupted Captain Goyles. "You get the right wind behind the_Rogue_--"

I said: "What is the right wind?"

Captain Goyles looked puzzled. 

"In the course of this week, " I went on, "we have had wind from thenorth, from the south, from the east, from the west--with variations. Ifyou can think of any other point of the compass from which it can blow, tell me, and I will wait for it. If not, and if that anchor has notgrown into the bottom of the ocean, we will have it up to-day and seewhat happens. "

He grasped the fact that I was determined. 

"Very well, sir, " he said, "you're master and I'm man. I've only got onechild as is still dependent on me, thank God, and no doubt your executorswill feel it their duty to do the right thing by the old woman. "

His solemnity impressed me. 

"Mr. Goyles, " I said, "be honest with me. Is there any hope, in anyweather, of getting away from this damned hole?"

Captain Goyles's kindly geniality returned to him. 

"You see, sir, " he said, "this is a very peculiar coast. We'd be allright if we were once out, but getting away from it in a cockle-shelllike that--well, to be frank, sir, it wants doing. "

I left Captain Goyles with the assurance that he would watch the weatheras a mother would her sleeping babe; it was his own simile, and it struckme as rather touching. I saw him again at twelve o'clock; he waswatching it from the window of the "Chain and Anchor. "

At five o'clock that evening a stroke of luck occurred; in the middle ofthe High Street I met a couple of yachting friends, who had had to put inby reason of a strained rudder. I told them my story, and they appearedless surprised than amused. Captain Goyles and the two men were stillwatching the weather. I ran into the "King's Head, " and preparedEthelbertha. The four of us crept quietly down to the quay, where wefound our boat. Only the boy was on board; my two friends took charge ofthe yacht, and by six o'clock we were scudding merrily up the coast. 

We put in that night at Aldborough, and the next day worked up toYarmouth, where, as my friends had to leave, I decided to abandon theyacht. We sold the stores by auction on Yarmouth sands early in themorning. I made a loss, but had the satisfaction of "doing" CaptainGoyles. I left the _Rogue_ in charge of a local mariner, who, for acouple of sovereigns, undertook to see to its return to Harwich; and wecame back to London by train. There may be yachts other than the_Rogue_, and skippers other than Mr. Goyles, but that experience hasprejudiced me against both. 

George also thought a yacht would be a good deal of responsibility, so wedismissed the idea. 

"What about the river?" suggested Harris. 

"We have had some pleasant times on that. "

George pulled in silence at his cigar, and I cracked another nut. 

"The river is not what it used to be, " said I; "I don't know what, butthere's a something--a dampness--about the river air that always startsmy lumbago. "

"It's the same with me, " said George. "I don't know how it is, but Inever can sleep now in the neighbourhood of the river. I spent a week atJoe's place in the spring, and every night I woke up at seven o'clock andnever got a wink afterwards. "

"I merely suggested it, " observed Harris. "Personally, I don't think itgood for me, either; it touches my gout. "

"What suits me best, " I said, "is mountain air. What say you to awalking tour in Scotland?"

"It's always wet in Scotland, " said George. "I was three weeks inScotland the year before last, and was never dry once all the time--notin that sense. "

"It's fine enough in Switzerland, " said Harris. 

"They would never stand our going to Switzerland by ourselves, " Iobjected. "You know what happened last time. It must be some placewhere no delicately nurtured woman or child could possibly live; acountry of bad hotels and comfortless travelling; where we shall have torough it, to work hard, to starve perhaps--"

"Easy!" interrupted George, "easy, there! Don't forget I'm coming withyou. "

"I have it!" exclaimed Harris; "a bicycle tour!"

George looked doubtful. 

"There's a lot of uphill about a bicycle tour, " said he, "and the wind isagainst you. "

"So there is downhill, and the wind behind you, " said Harris. 

"I've never noticed it, " said George. 

"You won't think of anything better than a bicycle tour, " persistedHarris. 

I was inclined to agree with him. 

"And I'll tell you where, " continued he; "through the Black Forest. "

"Why, that's _all_ uphill, " said George. 

"Not all, " retorted Harris; "say two-thirds. And there's one thingyou've forgotten. "

He looked round cautiously, and sunk his voice to a whisper. 

"There are little railways going up those hills, little cogwheel thingsthat--"

The door opened, and Mrs. Harris appeared. She said that Ethelbertha wasputting on her bonnet, and that Muriel, after waiting, had given "The MadHatter's Tea Party" without us. 

"Club, to-morrow, at four, " whispered Harris to me, as he rose, and Ipassed it on to George as we went upstairs

CHAPTER II

A delicate business--What Ethelbertha might have said--What she didsay--What Mrs. Harris said--What we told George--We will start onWednesday--George suggests the possibility of improving our minds--Harrisand I are doubtful--Which man on a tandem does the most work?--Theopinion of the man in front--Views of the man behind--How Harris lost hiswife--The luggage question--The wisdom of my late Uncle Podger--Beginningof story about a man who had a bag. 

I opened the ball with Ethelbertha that same evening. I commenced bybeing purposely a little irritable. My idea was that Ethelbertha wouldremark upon this. I should admit it, and account for it by over brainpressure. This would naturally lead to talk about my health in general, and the evident necessity there was for my taking prompt and vigorousmeasures. I thought that with a little tact I might even manage so thatthe suggestion should come from Ethelbertha herself. I imagined hersaying: "No, dear, it is change you want; complete change. Now bepersuaded by me, and go away for a month. No, do not ask me to come withyou. I know you would rather that I did, but I will not. It is thesociety of other men you need. Try and persuade George and Harris to gowith you. Believe me, a highly strung brain such as yours demandsoccasional relaxation from the strain of domestic surroundings. Forgetfor a little while that children want music lessons, and boots, andbicycles, with tincture of rhubarb three times a day; forget there aresuch things in life as cooks, and house decorators, and next-door dogs, and butchers' bills. Go away to some green corner of the earth, whereall is new and strange to you, where your over-wrought mind will gatherpeace and fresh ideas. Go away for a space and give me time to miss you, and to reflect upon your goodness and virtue, which, continually presentwith me, I may, human-like, be apt to forget, as one, through use, growsindifferent to the blessing of the sun and the beauty of the moon. Goaway, and come back refreshed in mind and body, a brighter, better man--ifthat be possible--than when you went away. "

But even when we obtain our desires they never come to us garbed as wewould wish. To begin with, Ethelbertha did not seem to remark that I wasirritable; I had to draw her attention to it. I said:

"You must forgive me, I'm not feeling quite myself to-night. "

She said: "Oh! I have not noticed anything different; what's the matterwith you?"

"I can't tell you what it is, " I said; "I've felt it coming on forweeks. "

"It's that whisky, " said Ethelbertha. "You never touch it except when wego to the Harris's. You know you can't stand it; you have not a stronghead. "

"It isn't the whisky, " I replied; "it's deeper than that. I fancy it'smore mental than bodily. "

"You've been reading those criticisms again, " said Ethelbertha, moresympathetically; "why don't you take my advice and put them on the fire?"

"And it isn't the criticisms, " I answered; "they've been quite flatteringof late--one or two of them. "

"Well, what is it?" said Ethelbertha; "there must be something to accountfor it. "

"No, there isn't, " I replied; "that's the remarkable thing about it; Ican only describe it as a strange feeling of unrest that seems to havetaken possession of me. "

Ethelbertha glanced across at me with a somewhat curious expression, Ithought; but as she said nothing, I continued the argument myself. 

"This aching monotony of life, these days of peaceful, uneventfulfelicity, they appal one. "

"I should not grumble at them, " said Ethelbertha; "we might get some ofthe other sort, and like them still less. "

"I'm not so sure of that, " I replied. "In a life of continuous joy, Ican imagine even pain coming as a welcome variation. I wonder sometimeswhether the saints in heaven do not occasionally feel the continualserenity a burden. To myself a life of endless bliss, uninterrupted by asingle contrasting note, would, I feel, grow maddening. I suppose, " Icontinued, "I am a strange sort of man; I can hardly understand myself attimes. There are moments, " I added, "when I hate myself. "

Often a little speech like this, hinting at hidden depths ofindescribable emotion has touched Ethelbertha, but to-night she appearedstrangely unsympathetic. With regard to heaven and its possible effectupon me, she suggested my not worrying myself about that, remarking itwas always foolish to go half-way to meet trouble that might never come;while as to my being a strange sort of fellow, that, she supposed, Icould not help, and if other people were willing to put up with me, therewas an end of the matter. The monotony of life, she added, was a commonexperience; there she could sympathise with me. 

"You don't know I long, " said Ethelbertha, "to get away occasionally, even from you; but I know it can never be, so I do not brood upon it. "

I had never heard Ethelbertha speak like this before; it astonished andgrieved me beyond measure. 

"That's not a very kind remark to make, " I said, "not a wifely remark. "

"I know it isn't, " she replied; "that is why I have never said it before. You men never can understand, " continued Ethelbertha, "that, however fonda woman may be of a man, there are times when he palls upon her. Youdon't know how I long to be able sometimes to put on my bonnet and goout, with nobody to ask me where I am going, why I am going, how long Iam going to be, and when I shall be back. You don't know how I sometimeslong to order a dinner that I should like and that the children wouldlike, but at the sight of which you would put on your hat and be off tothe Club. You don't know how much I feel inclined sometimes to invitesome woman here that I like, and that I know you don't; to go and see thepeople that I want to see, to go to bed when _I_ am tired, and to get upwhen _I_ feel I want to get up. Two people living together are boundboth to be continually sacrificing their own desires to the other one. Itis sometimes a good thing to slacken the strain a bit. "

On thinking over Ethelbertha's words afterwards, have come to see theirwisdom; but at the time I admit I was hurt and indignant. 

"If your desire, " I said, "is to get rid of me--"

"Now, don't be an old goose, " said Ethelbertha; "I only want to get ridof you for a little while, just long enough to forget there are one ortwo corners about you that are not perfect, just long enough to let meremember what a dear fellow you are in other respects, and to lookforward to your return, as I used to look forward to your coming in theold days when I did not see you so often as to become, perhaps, a littleindifferent to you, as one grows indifferent to the glory of the sun, just because he is there every day. "

I did not like the tone that Ethelbertha took. There seemed to be afrivolity about her, unsuited to the theme into which we had drifted. That a woman should contemplate cheerfully an absence of three or fourweeks from her husband appeared to me to be not altogether nice, not whatI call womanly; it was not like Ethelbertha at all. I was worried, Ifelt I didn't want to go this trip at all. If it had not been for Georgeand Harris, I would have abandoned it. As it was, I could not see how tochange my mind with dignity. 

"Very well, Ethelbertha, " I replied, "it shall be as you wish. If youdesire a holiday from my presence, you shall enjoy it; but if it be notimpertinent curiosity on the part of a husband, I should like to knowwhat you propose doing in my absence?"

"We will take that house at Folkestone, " answered Ethelbertha, "and I'llgo down there with Kate. And if you want to do Clara Harris a goodturn, " added Ethelbertha, "you'll persuade Harris to go with you, andthen Clara can join us. We three used to have some very jolly timestogether before you men ever came along, and it would be just delightfulto renew them. Do you think, " continued Ethelbertha, "that you couldpersuade Mr. Harris to go with you?"

I said I would try. 

"There's a dear boy, " said Ethelbertha; "try hard. You might get Georgeto join you. "

I replied there was not much advantage in George's coming, seeing he wasa bachelor, and that therefore nobody would be much benefited by hisabsence. But a woman never understands satire. Ethelbertha merelyremarked it would look unkind leaving him behind. I promised to put itto him. 

I met Harris at the Club in the afternoon, and asked him how he had goton. 

He said, "Oh, that's all right; there's no difficulty about gettingaway. "

But there was that about his tone that suggested incomplete satisfaction, so I pressed him for further details. 

"She was as sweet as milk about it, " he continued; "said it was anexcellent idea of George's, and that she thought it would do me good. "

"That seems all right, " I said; "what's wrong about that?"

"There's nothing wrong about that, " he answered, "but that wasn't all. She went on to talk of other things. "

"I understand, " I said. 

"There's that bathroom fad of hers, " he continued. 

"I've heard of it, " I said; "she has started Ethelbertha on the sameidea. "

"Well, I've had to agree to that being put in hand at once; I couldn'targue any more when she was so nice about the other thing. That willcost me a hundred pounds, at the very least. "

"As much as that?" I asked. 

"Every penny of it, " said Harris; "the estimate alone is sixty. "

I was sorry to hear him say this. 

"Then there's the kitchen stove, " continued Harris; "everything that hasgone wrong in the house for the last two years has been the fault of thatkitchen stove. "

"I know, " I said. "We have been in seven houses since we were married, and every kitchen stove has been worse than the last. Our present one isnot only incompetent; it is spiteful. It knows when we are giving aparty, and goes out of its way to do its worst. "

"_We_ are going to have a new one, " said Harris, but he did not say itproudly. "Clara thought it would be such a saving of expense, having thetwo things done at the same time. I believe, " said Harris, "if a womanwanted a diamond tiara, she would explain that it was to save the expenseof a bonnet. "

"How much do you reckon the stove is going to cost you?" I asked. I feltinterested in the subject. 

"I don't know, " answered Harris; "another twenty, I suppose. Then wetalked about the piano. Could you ever notice, " said Harris, "anydifference between one piano and another?"

"Some of them seem to be a bit louder than others, " I answered; "but onegets used to that. "

"Ours is all wrong about the treble, " said Harris. "By the way, what_is_ the treble?"

"It's the shrill end of the thing, " I explained; "the part that sounds asif you'd trod on its tail. The brilliant selections always end up with aflourish on it. "

"They want more of it, " said Harris; "our old one hasn't got enough ofit. I'll have to put it in the nursery, and get a new one for thedrawing-room. "

"Anything else?" I asked. 

"No, " said Harris; "she didn't seem able to think of anything else. "

"You'll find when you get home, " I said, "she has thought of one otherthing. "

"What's that?" said Harris. 

"A house at Folkestone for the season. "

"What should she want a house at Folkestone for?" said Harris. 

"To live in, " I suggested, "during the summer months. "

"She's going to her people in Wales, " said Harris, "for the holidays, with the children; we've had an invitation. "

"Possibly, " I said, "she'll go to Wales before she goes to Folkestone, ormaybe she'll take Wales on her way home; but she'll want a house atFolkestone for the season, notwithstanding. I may be mistaken--I hopefor your sake that I am--but I feel a presentiment that I'm not. "

"This trip, " said Harris, "is going to be expensive. "

"It was an idiotic suggestion, " I said, "from the beginning. "

"It was foolish of us to listen to him, " said Harris; "he'll get us intoreal trouble one of these days. "

"He always was a muddler, " I agreed. 

"So headstrong, " added Harris. 

We heard his voice at that moment in the hall, asking for letters. 

"Better not say anything to him, " I suggested; "it's too late to go backnow. "

"There would be no advantage in doing so, " replied Harris. "I shouldhave to get that bathroom and piano in any case now. "

He came in looking very cheerful. 

"Well, " he said, "is it all right? Have you managed it?"

There was that about his tone I did not altogether like; I noticed Harrisresented it also. 

"Managed what?" I said. 

"Why, to get off, " said George. 

I felt the time was come to explain things to George. 

"In married life, " I said, "the man proposes, the woman submits. It isher duty; all religion teaches it. "

George folded his hands and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. 

"We may chaff and joke a little about these things, " I continued; "butwhen it comes to practice, that is what always happens. We havementioned to our wives that we are going. Naturally, they are grieved;they would prefer to come with us; failing that, they would have usremain with them. But we have explained to them our wishes on thesubject, and--there's an end of the matter. "

George said, "Forgive me; I did not understand. I am only a bachelor. People tell me this, that, and the other, and I listen. "

I said, "That is where you do wrong. When you want information come toHarris or myself; we will tell you the truth about these questions. "

George thanked us, and we proceeded with the business in hand. 

"When shall we start?" said George. 

"So far as I am concerned, " replied Harris, "the sooner the better. "

His idea, I fancy, was to get away before Mrs. H. Thought of otherthings. We fixed the following Wednesday. 

"What about route?" said Harris. 

"I have an idea, " said George. "I take it you fellows are naturallyanxious to improve your minds?"

I said, "We don't want to become monstrosities. To a reasonable degree, yes, if it can be done without much expense and with little personaltrouble. "

"It can, " said George. "We know Holland and the Rhine. Very well, mysuggestion is that we take the boat to Hamburg, see Berlin and Dresden, and work our way to the Schwarzwald, through Nuremberg and Stuttgart. "

"There are some pretty bits in Mesopotamia, so I've been told, " murmuredHarris. 

George said Mesopotamia was too much out of our way, but that the Berlin-Dresden route was quite practicable. For good or evil, he persuaded usinto it. 

"The machines, I suppose, " said George, "as before. Harris and I on thetandem, J. --"

"I think not, " interrupted Harris, firmly. "You and J. On the tandem, Ion the single. "

"All the same to me, " agreed George. "J. And I on the tandem, Harris--"

"I do not mind taking my turn, " I interrupted, "but I am not going tocarry George _all_ the way; the burden should be divided. "

"Very well, " agreed Harris, "we'll divide it. But it must be on thedistinct understanding that he works. "

"That he what?" said George. 

"That he works, " repeated Harris, firmly; "at all events, uphill. "

"Great Scott!" said George; "don't you want _any_ exercise?"

There is always unpleasantness about this tandem. It is the theory ofthe man in front that the man behind does nothing; it is equally thetheory of the man behind that he alone is the motive power, the man infront merely doing the puffing. The mystery will never be solved. It isannoying when Prudence is whispering to you on the one side not to overdoyour strength and bring on heart disease; while Justice into the otherear is remarking, "Why should you do it all? This isn't a cab. He's notyour passenger:" to hear him grunt out:

"What's the matter--lost your pedals?"

Harris, in his early married days, made much trouble for himself on oneoccasion, owing to this impossibility of knowing what the person behindis doing. He was riding with his wife through Holland. The roads werestony, and the machine jumped a good deal. 

"Sit tight, " said Harris, without turning his head. 

What Mrs. Harris thought he said was, "Jump off. " Why she should havethought he said "Jump off, " when he said "Sit tight, " neither of them canexplain. 

Mrs. Harris puts it in this way, "If you had said, 'Sit tight, ' whyshould I have jumped off?"

Harris puts it, "If I had wanted you to jump off, why should I have said'Sit tight!'?"

The bitterness is past, but they argue about the matter to this day. 

Be the explanation what it may, however, nothing alters the fact thatMrs. Harris did jump off, while Harris pedalled away hard, under theimpression she was still behind him. It appears that at first shethought he was riding up the hill merely to show off. They were bothyoung in those days, and he used to do that sort of thing. She expectedhim to spring to earth on reaching the summit, and lean in a careless andgraceful attitude against the machine, waiting for her. When, on thecontrary, she saw him pass the summit and proceed rapidly down a long andsteep incline, she was seized, first with surprise, secondly withindignation, and lastly with alarm. She ran to the top of the hill andshouted, but he never turned his head. She watched him disappear into awood a mile and a half distant, and then sat down and cried. They hadhad a slight difference that morning, and she wondered if he had taken itseriously and intended desertion. She had no money; she knew no Dutch. People passed, and seemed sorry for her; she tried to make themunderstand what had happened. They gathered that she had lost something, but could not grasp what. They took her to the nearest village, andfound a policeman for her. He concluded from her pantomime that some manhad stolen her bicycle. They put the telegraph into operation, anddiscovered in a village four miles off an unfortunate boy riding a lady'smachine of an obsolete pattern. They brought him to her in a cart, butas she did not appear to want either him or his bicycle they let him goagain, and resigned themselves to bewilderment. 

Meanwhile, Harris continued his ride with much enjoyment. It seemed tohim that he had suddenly become a stronger, and in every way a morecapable cyclist. Said he to what he thought was Mrs. Harris:

"I haven't felt this machine so light for months. It's this air, Ithink; it's doing me good. "

Then he told her not to be afraid, and he would show her how fast he_could_ go. He bent down over the handles, and put his heart into hiswork. The bicycle bounded over the road like a thing of life; farmhousesand churches, dogs and chickens came to him and passed. Old folks stoodand gazed at him, the children cheered him. 

In this way he sped merrily onward for about five miles. Then, as heexplains it, the feeling began to grow upon him that something was wrong. He was not surprised at the silence; the wind was blowing strongly, andthe machine was rattling a good deal. It was a sense of void that cameupon him. He stretched out his hand behind him, and felt; there wasnothing there but space. He jumped, or rather fell off, and looked backup the road; it stretched white and straight through the dark wood, andnot a living soul could be seen upon it. He remounted, and rode back upthe hill. In ten minutes he came to where the road broke into four;there he dismounted and tried to remember which fork he had come down. 

While he was deliberating a man passed, sitting sideways on a horse. Harris stopped him, and explained to him that he had lost his wife. Theman appeared to be neither surprised nor sorry for him. While they weretalking another farmer came along, to whom the first man explained thematter, not as an accident, but as a good story. What appeared tosurprise the second man most was that Harris should be making a fussabout the thing. He could get no sense out of either of them, andcursing them he mounted his machine again, and took the middle road onchance. Half-way up, he came upon a party of two young women with oneyoung man between them. They appeared to be making the most of him. Heasked them if they had seen his wife. They asked him what she was like. He did not know enough Dutch to describe her properly; all he could tellthem was she was a very beautiful woman, of medium size. Evidently thisdid not satisfy them, the description was too general; any man could saythat, and by this means perhaps get possession of a wife that did notbelong to him. They asked him how she was dressed; for the life of himhe could not recollect. 

I doubt if any man could tell how any woman was dressed ten minutes afterhe had left her. He recollected a blue skirt, and then there wassomething that carried the dress on, as it were, up to the neck. Possibly, this may have been a blouse; he retained a dim vision of abelt; but what sort of a blouse? Was it green, or yellow, or blue? Hadit a collar, or was it fastened with a bow? Were there feathers in herhat, or flowers? Or was it a hat at all? He dared not say, for fear ofmaking a mistake and being sent miles after the wrong party. The twoyoung women giggled, which in his then state of mind irritated Harris. The young man, who appeared anxious to get rid of him, suggested thepolice station at the next town. Harris made his way there. The policegave him a piece of paper, and told him to write down a full descriptionof his wife, together with details of when and where he had lost her. Hedid not know where he had lost her; all he could tell them was the nameof the village where he had lunched. He knew he had her with him then, and that they had started from there together. 

The police looked suspicious; they were doubtful about three matters:Firstly, was she really his wife? Secondly, had he really lost her?Thirdly, why had he lost her? With the aid of a hotel-keeper, however, who spoke a little English, he overcame their scruples. They promised toact, and in the evening they brought her to him in a covered wagon, together with a bill for expenses. The meeting was not a tender one. Mrs. Harris is not a good actress, and always has great difficulty indisguising her feelings. On this occasion, she frankly admits, she madeno attempt to disguise them. 

The wheel business settled, there arose the ever-lasting luggagequestion. 

"The usual list, I suppose, " said George, preparing to write. 

That was wisdom I had taught them; I had learned it myself years ago frommy Uncle Podger. 

"Always before beginning to pack, " my Uncle would say, "make a list. "

He was a methodical man. 

"Take a piece of paper"--he always began at the beginning--"put down onit everything you can possibly require, then go over it and see that itcontains nothing you can possibly do without. Imagine yourself in bed;what have you got on? Very well, put it down--together with a change. You get up; what do you do? Wash yourself. What do you wash yourselfwith? Soap; put down soap. Go on till you have finished. Then takeyour clothes. Begin at your feet; what do you wear on your feet? Boots, shoes, socks; put them down. Work up till you get to your head. Whatelse do you want besides clothes? A little brandy; put it down. Acorkscrew, put it down. Put down everything, then you don't forgetanything. "

That is the plan he always pursued himself. The list made, he would goover it carefully, as he always advised, to see that he had forgottennothing. Then he would go over it again, and strike out everything itwas possible to dispense with. 

Then he would lose the list. 

Said George: "Just sufficient for a day or two we will take with us onour bikes. The bulk of our luggage we must send on from town to town. "

"We must be careful, " I said; "I knew a man once--"

Harris looked at his watch. 

"We'll hear about him on the boat, " said Harris; "I have got to meetClara at Waterloo Station in half an hour. "

"It won't take half an hour, " I said; "it's a true story, and--"

"Don't waste it, " said George: "I am told there are rainy evenings in theBlack Forest; we may he glad of it. What we have to do now is to finishthis list. "

Now I come to think of it, I never did get off that story; somethingalways interrupted it. And it really was true. 

CHAPTER III

Harris's one fault--Harris and the Angel--A patent bicycle lamp--Theideal saddle--The "Overhauler"--His eagle eye--His method--His cheeryconfidence--His simple and inexpensive tastes--His appearance--How to getrid of him--George as prophet--The gentle art of making oneselfdisagreeable in a foreign tongue--George as a student of human nature--Heproposes an experiment--His Prudence--Harris's support secured, uponconditions. 

On Monday afternoon Harris came round; he had a cycling paper in hishand. 

I said: "If you take my advice, you will leave it alone. "

Harris said: "Leave what alone?"

I said: "That brand-new, patent, revolution in cycling, record-breaking, Tomfoolishness, whatever it may be, the advertisement of which you havethere in your hand. "

He said: "Well, I don't know; there will be some steep hills for us tonegotiate; I guess we shall want a good brake. "

I said: "We shall want a brake, I agree; what we shall not want is amechanical surprise that we don't understand, and that never acts when itis wanted. "

"This thing, " he said, "acts automatically. "

"You needn't tell me, " I said. "I know exactly what it will do, byinstinct. Going uphill it will jamb the wheel so effectively that weshall have to carry the machine bodily. The air at the top of the hillwill do it good, and it will suddenly come right again. Going downhillit will start reflecting what a nuisance it has been. This will lead toremorse, and finally to despair. It will say to itself: 'I'm not fit tobe a brake. I don't help these fellows; I only hinder them. I'm acurse, that's what I am;' and, without a word of warning, it will 'chuck'the whole business. That is what that brake will do. Leave it alone. You are a good fellow, " I continued, "but you have one fault. "

"What?" he asked, indignantly. 

"You have too much faith, " I answered. "If you read an advertisement, you go away and believe it. Every experiment that every fool has thoughtof in connection with cycling you have tried. Your guardian angelappears to be a capable and conscientious spirit, and hitherto she hasseen you through; take my advice and don't try her too far. She musthave had a busy time since you started cycling. Don't go on till youmake her mad. "

He said: "If every man talked like that there would be no advancementmade in any department of life. If nobody ever tried a new thing theworld would come to a standstill. It is by--"

"I know all that can be said on that side of the argument, " Iinterrupted. "I agree in trying new experiments up to thirty-five;_after_ thirty-five I consider a man is entitled to think of himself. Youand I have done our duty in this direction, you especially. You havebeen blown up by a patent gas lamp--"

He said: "I really think, you know, that was my fault; I think I musthave screwed it up too tight. "

I said: "I am quite willing to believe that if there was a wrong way ofhandling the thing that is the way you handle it. You should take thattendency of yours into consideration; it bears upon the argument. Myself, I did not notice what you did; I only know we were riding peacefully andpleasantly along the Whitby Road, discussing the Thirty Years' War, whenyour lamp went off like a pistol-shot. The start sent me into the ditch;and your wife's face, when I told her there was nothing the matter andthat she was not to worry, because the two men would carry you upstairs, and the doctor would be round in a minute bringing the nurse with him, still lingers in my memory. "

He said: "I wish you had thought to pick up the lamp. I should like tohave found out what was the cause of its going off like that. "

I said: "There was not time to pick up the lamp. I calculate it wouldhave taken two hours to have collected it. As to its 'going off, ' themere fact of its being advertised as the safest lamp ever invented wouldof itself, to anyone but you, have suggested accident. Then there wasthat electric lamp, " I continued. 

"Well, that really did give a fine light, " he replied; "you said soyourself. "

I said: "It gave a brilliant light in the King's Road, Brighton, andfrightened a horse. The moment we got into the dark beyond Kemp Town itwent out, and you were summoned for riding without a light. You mayremember that on sunny afternoons you used to ride about with that lampshining for all it was worth. When lighting-up time came it wasnaturally tired, and wanted a rest. "

"It was a bit irritating, that lamp, " he murmured; "I remember it. "

I said: "It irritated me; it must have been worse for you. Then thereare saddles, " I went on--I wished to get this lesson home to him. "Canyou think of any saddle ever advertised that you have _not_ tried?"

He said: "It has been an idea of mine that the right saddle is to befound. "

I said: "You give up that idea; this is an imperfect world of joy andsorrow mingled. There may be a better land where bicycle saddles aremade out of rainbow, stuffed with cloud; in this world the simplest thingis to get used to something hard. There was that saddle you bought inBirmingham; it was divided in the middle, and looked like a pair ofkidneys. "

He said: "You mean that one constructed on anatomical principles. "

"Very likely, " I replied. "The box you bought it in had a picture on thecover, representing a sitting skeleton--or rather that part of a skeletonwhich does sit. "

He said: "It was quite correct; it showed you the true position of the--"

I said: "We will not go into details; the picture always seemed to meindelicate. "

He said: "Medically speaking, it was right. "

"Possibly, " I said, "for a man who rode in nothing but his bones. I onlyknow that I tried it myself, and that to a man who wore flesh it wasagony. Every time you went over a stone or a rut it nipped you; it waslike riding on an irritable lobster. You rode that for a month. "

"I thought it only right to give it a fair trial, " he answered. 

I said: "You gave your family a fair trial also; if you will allow me theuse of slang. Your wife told me that never in the whole course of yourmarried life had she known you so bad tempered, so un-Christian like, asyou were that month. Then you remember that other saddle, the one withthe spring under it. "

He said: "You mean 'the Spiral. '"

I said: "I mean the one that jerked you up and down like a Jack-in-the-box; sometimes you came down again in the right place, and sometimes youdidn't. I am not referring to these matters merely to recall painfulmemories, but I want to impress you with the folly of trying experimentsat your time of life. "

He said. "I wish you wouldn't harp so much on my age. A man at thirty-four--"

"A man at what?"

He said: "If you don't want the thing, don't have it. If your machineruns away with you down a mountain, and you and George get flung througha church roof, don't blame me. "

"I cannot promise for George, " I said; "a little thing will sometimesirritate him, as you know. If such an accident as you suggest happen, hemay be cross, but I will undertake to explain to him that it was not yourfault. "

"Is the thing all right?" he asked. 

"The tandem, " I replied, "is well. "

He said: "Have you overhauled it?"

I said: "I have not, nor is anyone else going to overhaul it. The thingis now in working order, and it is going to remain in working order tillwe start. "

I have had experience of this "overhauling. " There was a man atFolkestone; I used to meet him on the Lees. He proposed one evening weshould go for a long bicycle ride together on the following day, and Iagreed. I got up early, for me; I made an effort, and was pleased withmyself. He came half an hour late: I was waiting for him in the garden. It was a lovely day. He said:--

"That's a good-looking machine of yours. How does it run?"

"Oh, like most of them!" I answered; "easily enough in the morning; goesa little stiffly after lunch. "

He caught hold of it by the front wheel and the fork and shook itviolently. 

I said: "Don't do that; you'll hurt it. "

I did not see why he should shake it; it had not done anything to him. Besides, if it wanted shaking, I was the proper person to shake it. Ifelt much as I should had he started whacking my dog. 

He said: "This front wheel wobbles. "

I said: "It doesn't if you don't wobble it. " It didn't wobble, as amatter of fact--nothing worth calling a wobble. 

He said: "This is dangerous; have you got a screw-hammer?"

I ought to have been firm, but I thought that perhaps he really did knowsomething about the business. I went to the tool shed to see what Icould find. When I came back he was sitting on the ground with the frontwheel between his legs. He was playing with it, twiddling it roundbetween his fingers; the remnant of the machine was lying on the gravelpath beside him. 

He said: "Something has happened to this front wheel of yours. "

"It looks like it, doesn't it?" I answered. But he was the sort of manthat never understands satire. 

He said: "It looks to me as if the bearings were all wrong. "

I said: "Don't you trouble about it any more; you will make yourselftired. Let us put it back and get off. "

He said: "We may as well see what is the matter with it, now it is out. "He talked as though it had dropped out by accident. 

Before I could stop him he had unscrewed something somewhere, and outrolled all over the path some dozen or so little balls. 

"Catch 'em!" he shouted; "catch 'em! We mustn't lose any of them. " Hewas quite excited about them. 

We grovelled round for half an hour, and found sixteen. He said he hopedwe had got them all, because, if not, it would make a serious differenceto the machine. He said there was nothing you should be more carefulabout in taking a bicycle to pieces than seeing you did not lose any ofthe balls. He explained that you ought to count them as you took themout, and see that exactly the same number went back in each place. Ipromised, if ever I took a bicycle to pieces I would remember his advice. 

I put the balls for safety in my hat, and I put my hat upon the doorstep. It was not a sensible thing to do, I admit. As a matter of fact, it wasa silly thing to do. I am not as a rule addle-headed; his influence musthave affected me. 

He then said that while he was about it he would see to the chain for me, and at once began taking off the gear-case. I did try to persuade himfrom that. I told him what an experienced friend of mine once said to mesolemnly:--

"If anything goes wrong with your gear-case, sell the machine and buy anew one; it comes cheaper. "

He said: "People talk like that who understand nothing about machines. Nothing is easier than taking off a gear-case. "

I had to confess he was right. In less than five minutes he had the gear-case in two pieces, lying on the path, and was grovelling for screws. Hesaid it was always a mystery to him the way screws disappeared. 

We were still looking for the screws when Ethelbertha came out. Sheseemed surprised to find us there; she said she thought we had startedhours ago. 

He said: "We shan't be long now. I'm just helping your husband tooverhaul this machine of his. It's a good machine; but they all wantgoing over occasionally. "

Ethelbertha said: "If you want to wash yourselves when you have done youmight go into the back kitchen, if you don't mind; the girls have justfinished the bedrooms. "

She told me that if she met Kate they would probably go for a sail; butthat in any case she would be back to lunch. I would have given asovereign to be going with her. I was getting heartily sick of standingabout watching this fool breaking up my bicycle. 

Common sense continued to whisper to me: "Stop him, before he does anymore mischief. You have a right to protect your own property from theravages of a lunatic. Take him by the scruff of the neck, and kick himout of the gate!"

But I am weak when it comes to hurting other people's feelings, and I lethim muddle on. 

He gave up looking for the rest of the screws. He said screws had aknack of turning up when you least expected them; and that now he wouldsee to the chain. He tightened it till it would not move; next heloosened it until it was twice as loose as it was before. Then he saidwe had better think about getting the front wheel back into its placeagain. 

I held the fork open, and he worried with the wheel. At the end of tenminutes I suggested he should hold the forks, and that I should handlethe wheel; and we changed places. At the end of his first minute hedropped the machine, and took a short walk round the croquet lawn, withhis hands pressed together between his thighs. He explained as he walkedthat the thing to be careful about was to avoid getting your fingerspinched between the forks and the spokes of the wheel. I replied I wasconvinced, from my own experience, that there was much truth in what hesaid. He wrapped himself up in a couple of dusters, and we commencedagain. At length we did get the thing into position; and the moment itwas in position he burst out laughing. 

I said: "What's the joke?"

He said: "Well, I am an ass!"

It was the first thing he had said that made me respect him. I asked himwhat had led him to the discovery. 

He said: "We've forgotten the balls!"

I looked for my hat; it was lying topsy-turvy in the middle of the path, and Ethelbertha's favourite hound was swallowing the balls as fast as hecould pick them up. 

"He will kill himself, " said Ebbson--I have never met him since that day, thank the Lord; but I think his name was Ebbson--"they are solid steel. "

I said: "I am not troubling about the dog. He has had a bootlace and apacket of needles already this week. Nature's the best guide; puppiesseem to require this kind of stimulant. What I am thinking about is mybicycle. "

He was of a cheerful disposition. He said: "Well, we must put back allwe can find, and trust to Providence. "

We found eleven. We fixed six on one side and five on the other, andhalf an hour later the wheel was in its place again. It need hardly beadded that it really did wobble now; a child might have noticed it. Ebbson said it would do for the present. He appeared to be getting a bittired himself. If I had let him, he would, I believe, at this point havegone home. I was determined now, however, that he should stop andfinish; I had abandoned all thoughts of a ride. My pride in the machinehe had killed. My only interest lay now in seeing him scratch and bumpand pinch himself. I revived his drooping spirits with a glass of beerand some judicious praise. I said:

"Watching you do this is of real use to me. It is not only your skilland dexterity that fascinates me, it is your cheery confidence inyourself, your inexplicable hopefulness, that does me good. "

Thus encouraged, he set to work to refix the gear-case. He stood thebicycle against the house, and worked from the off side. Then he stoodit against a tree, and worked from the near side. Then I held it forhim, while he lay on the ground with his head between the wheels, andworked at it from below, and dropped oil upon himself. Then he took itaway from me, and doubled himself across it like a pack-saddle, till helost his balance and slid over on to his head. Three times he said:

"Thank Heaven, that's right at last!"

And twice he said:

"No, I'm damned if it is after all!"

What he said the third time I try to forget. 

Then he lost his temper and tried bullying the thing. The bicycle, I wasglad to see, showed spirit; and the subsequent proceedings degeneratedinto little else than a rough-and-tumble fight between him and themachine. One moment the bicycle would be on the gravel path, and he ontop of it; the next, the position would be reversed--he on the gravelpath, the bicycle on him. Now he would be standing flushed with victory, the bicycle firmly fixed between his legs. But his triumph would beshort-lived. By a sudden, quick movement it would free itself, and, turning upon him, hit him sharply over the head with one of its handles. 

At a quarter to one, dirty and dishevelled, cut and breeding, he said: "Ithink that will do;" and rose and wiped his brow. 

The bicycle looked as if it also had had enough of it. Which hadreceived most punishment it would have been difficult to say. I took himinto the back kitchen, where, so far as was possible without soda andproper tools, he cleaned himself, and sent him home. 

The bicycle I put into a cab and took round to the nearest repairingshop. The foreman of the works came up and looked at it. 

"What do you want me to do with that?" said he. 

"I want you, " I said, "so far as is possible, to restore it. "

"It's a bit far gone, " said he; "but I'll do my best. "

He did his best, which came to two pounds ten. But it was never the samemachine again; and at the end of the season I left it in an agent's handsto sell. I wished to deceive nobody; I instructed the man to advertiseit as a last year's machine. The agent advised me not to mention anydate. He said:

"In this business it isn't a question of what is true and what isn't;it's a question of what you can get people to believe. Now, between youand me, it don't look like a last year's machine; so far as looks areconcerned, it might be a ten-year old. We'll say nothing about date;we'll just get what we can. "

I left the matter to him, and he got me five pounds, which he said wasmore than he had expected. 

There are two ways you can get exercise out of a bicycle: you can"overhaul" it, or you can ride it. On the whole, I am not sure that aman who takes his pleasure overhauling does not have the best of thebargain. He is independent of the weather and the wind; the state of theroads troubles him not. Give him a screw-hammer, a bundle of rags, anoil-can, and something to sit down upon, and he is happy for the day. Hehas to put up with certain disadvantages, of course; there is no joywithout alloy. He himself always looks like a tinker, and his machinealways suggests the idea that, having stolen it, he has tried to disguiseit; but as he rarely gets beyond the first milestone with it, this, perhaps, does not much matter. The mistake some people make is inthinking they can get both forms of sport out of the same machine. Thisis impossible; no machine will stand the double strain. You must make upyour mind whether you are going to be an "overhauler" or a rider. Personally, I prefer to ride, therefore I take care to have near menothing that can tempt me to overhaul. When anything happens to mymachine I wheel it to the nearest repairing shop. If I am too far fromthe town or village to walk, I sit by the roadside and wait till a cartcomes along. My chief danger, I always find, is from the wanderingoverhauler. The sight of a broken-down machine is to the overhauler as awayside corpse to a crow; he swoops down upon it with a friendly yell oftriumph. At first I used to try politeness. I would say:

"It is nothing; don't you trouble. You ride on, and enjoy yourself, Ibeg it of you as a favour; please go away. "

Experience has taught me, however, that courtesy is of no use in such anextremity. Now I say:

"You go away and leave the thing alone, or I will knock your silly headoff. "

And if you look determined, and have a good stout cudgel in your hand, you can generally drive him off. 

George came in later in the day. He said:

"Well, do you think everything will be ready?"

I said: "Everything will be ready by Wednesday, except, perhaps, you andHarris. "

He said: "Is the tandem all right?"

"The tandem, " I said, "is well. "

He said: "You don't think it wants overhauling?"

I replied: "Age and experience have taught me that there are few mattersconcerning which a man does well to be positive. Consequently, thereremain to me now but a limited number of questions upon which I feel anydegree of certainty. Among such still-unshaken beliefs, however, is theconviction that that tandem does not want overhauling. I also feel apresentiment that, provided my life is spared, no human being between nowand Wednesday morning is going to overhaul it. "

George said: "I should not show temper over the matter, if I were you. There will come a day, perhaps not far distant, when that bicycle, with acouple of mountains between it and the nearest repairing shop, will, inspite of your chronic desire for rest, _have_ to be overhauled. Then youwill clamour for people to tell you where you put the oil-can, and whatyou have done with the screw-hammer. Then, while you exert yourselfholding the thing steady against a tree, you will suggest that somebodyelse should clean the chain and pump the back wheel. "

I felt there was justice in George's rebuke--also a certain amount ofprophetic wisdom. I said:

"Forgive me if I seemed unresponsive. The truth is, Harris was roundhere this morning--"

George said: "Say no more; I understand. Besides, what I came to talk toyou about was another matter. Look at that. "

He handed me a small book bound in red cloth. It was a guide to Englishconversation for the use of German travellers. It commenced "On a Steam-boat, " and terminated "At the Doctor's"; its longest chapter beingdevoted to conversation in a railway carriage, among, apparently, acompartment load of quarrelsome and ill-mannered lunatics: "Can you notget further away from me, sir?"--"It is impossible, madam; my neighbour, here, is very stout"--"Shall we not endeavour to arrange ourlegs?"--"Please have the goodness to keep your elbows down"--"Pray do notinconvenience yourself, madam, if my shoulder is of any accommodation toyou, " whether intended to be said sarcastically or not, there was nothingto indicate--"I really must request you to move a little, madam, I canhardly breathe, " the author's idea being, presumably, that by this timethe whole party was mixed up together on the floor. The chapterconcluded with the phrase, "Here we are at our destination, God bethanked! (_Gott sei dank_!)" a pious exclamation, which under thecircumstances must have taken the form of a chorus. 

At the end of the book was an appendix, giving the German traveller hintsconcerning the preservation of his health and comfort during his sojournin English towns, chief among such hints being advice to him to alwaystravel with a supply of disinfectant powder, to always lock his bedroomdoor at night, and to always carefully count his small change. 

"It is not a brilliant publication, " I remarked, handing the book back toGeorge; "it is not a book that personally I would recommend to any Germanabout to visit England; I think it would get him disliked. But I haveread books published in London for the use of English travellers abroadevery whit as foolish. Some educated idiot, misunderstanding sevenlanguages, would appear to go about writing these books for themisinformation and false guidance of modern Europe. "

"You cannot deny, " said George, "that these books are in large request. They are bought by the thousand, I know. In every town in Europe theremust be people going about talking this sort of thing. "

"Maybe, " I replied; "but fortunately nobody understands them. I havenoticed, myself, men standing on railway platforms and at street cornersreading aloud from such books. Nobody knows what language they arespeaking; nobody has the slightest knowledge of what they are saying. This is, perhaps, as well; were they understood they would probably beassaulted. "

George said: "Maybe you are right; my idea is to see what would happen ifthey were understood. My proposal is to get to London early on Wednesdaymorning, and spend an hour or two going about and shopping with the aidof this book. There are one or two little things I want--a hat and apair of bedroom slippers, among other articles. Our boat does not leaveTilbury till twelve, and that just gives us time. I want to try thissort of talk where I can properly judge of its effect. I want to see howthe foreigner feels when he is talked to in this way. "

It struck me as a sporting idea. In my enthusiasm I offered to accompanyhim, and wait outside the shop. I said I thought that Harris would liketo be in it, too--or rather outside. 

George said that was not quite his scheme. His proposal was that Harrisand I should accompany him into the shop. With Harris, who looksformidable, to support him, and myself at the door to call the police ifnecessary, he said he was willing to adventure the thing. 

We walked round to Harris's, and put the proposal before him. Heexamined the book, especially the chapters dealing with the purchase ofshoes and hats. He said:

"If George talks to any bootmaker or any hatter the things that are putdown here, it is not support he will want; it is carrying to the hospitalthat he will need. "

That made George angry. 

"You talk, " said George, "as though I were a foolhardy boy without anysense. I shall select from the more polite and less irritating speeches;the grosser insults I shall avoid. "

This being clearly understood, Harris gave in his adhesion; and our startwas fixed for early Wednesday morning. 

CHAPTER IV

Why Harris considers alarm clocks unnecessary in a family--Socialinstinct of the young--A child's thoughts about the morning--Thesleepless watchman--The mystery of him--His over anxiety--Nightthoughts--The sort of work one does before breakfast--The good sheep andthe bad--Disadvantages of being virtuous--Harris's new stove beginsbadly--The daily out-going of my Uncle Podger--The elderly city manconsidered as a racer--We arrive in London--We talk the language of thetraveller. 

George came down on Tuesday evening, and slept at Harris's place. Wethought this a better arrangement than his own suggestion, which was thatwe should call for him on our way and "pick him up. " Picking George upin the morning means picking him out of bed to begin with, and shakinghim awake--in itself an exhausting effort with which to commence the day;helping him find his things and finish his packing; and then waiting forhim while he eats his breakfast, a tedious entertainment from thespectator's point of view, full of wearisome repetition. 

I knew that if he slept at "Beggarbush" he would be up in time; I haveslept there myself, and I know what happens. About the middle of thenight, as you judge, though in reality it may be somewhat later, you arestartled out of your first sleep by what sounds like a rush of cavalryalong the passage, just outside your door. Your half-awakenedintelligence fluctuates between burglars, the Day of Judgment, and a gasexplosion. You sit up in bed and listen intently. You are not keptwaiting long; the next moment a door is violently slammed, and somebody, or something, is evidently coming downstairs on a tea-tray. 

"I told you so, " says a voice outside, and immediately some hardsubstance, a head one would say from the ring of it, rebounds against thepanel of your door. 

By this time you are charging madly round the room for your clothes. Nothing is where you put it overnight, the articles most essential havedisappeared entirely; and meanwhile the murder, or revolution, orwhatever it is, continues unchecked. You pause for a moment, with yourhead under the wardrobe, where you think you can see your slippers, tolisten to a steady, monotonous thumping upon a distant door. The victim, you presume, has taken refuge there; they mean to have him out and finishhim. Will you be in time? The knocking ceases, and a voice, sweetlyreassuring in its gentle plaintiveness, asks meekly:

"Pa, may I get up?"

You do not hear the other voice, but the responses are:

"No, it was only the bath--no, she ain't really hurt, --only wet, youknow. Yes, ma, I'll tell 'em what you say. No, it was a pure accident. Yes; good-night, papa. "

Then the same voice, exerting itself so as to be heard in a distant partof the house, remarks:

"You've got to come upstairs again. Pa says it isn't time yet to getup. "

You return to bed, and lie listening to somebody being dragged upstairs, evidently against their will. By a thoughtful arrangement the sparerooms at "Beggarbush" are exactly underneath the nurseries. The samesomebody, you conclude, still offering the most creditable opposition, isbeing put back into bed. You can follow the contest with muchexactitude, because every time the body is flung down upon the springmattress, the bedstead, just above your head, makes a sort of jump; whileevery time the body succeeds in struggling out again, you are aware bythe thud upon the floor. After a time the struggle wanes, or maybe thebed collapses; and you drift back into sleep. But the next moment, orwhat seems to be the next moment, you again open your eyes under theconsciousness of a presence. The door is being held ajar, and foursolemn faces, piled one on top of the other, are peering at you, asthough you were some natural curiosity kept in this particular room. Seeing you awake, the top face, walking calmly over the other three, comes in and sits on the bed in a friendly attitude. 

"Oh!" it says, "we didn't know you were awake. I've been awake sometime. "

"So I gather, " you reply, shortly. 

"Pa doesn't like us to get up too early, " it continues. "He sayseverybody else in the house is liable to be disturbed if we get up. So, of course, we mustn't. "

The tone is that of gentle resignation. It is instinct with the spiritof virtuous pride, arising from the consciousness of self-sacrifice. 

"Don't you call this being up?" you suggest. 

"Oh, no; we're not really up, you know, because we're not properlydressed. " The fact is self-evident. "Pa's always very tired in themorning, " the voice continues; "of course, that's because he works hardall day. Are you ever tired in the morning?"

At this point he turns and notices, for the first time, that the threeother children have also entered, and are sitting in a semi-circle on thefloor. From their attitude it is clear they have mistaken the wholething for one of the slower forms of entertainment, some comic lecture orconjuring exhibition, and are waiting patiently for you to get out of bedand do something. It shocks him, the idea of their being in the guest'sbedchamber. He peremptorily orders them out. They do not answer him, they do not argue; in dead silence, and with one accord they fall uponhim. All you can see from the bed is a confused tangle of waving armsand legs, suggestive of an intoxicated octopus trying to find bottom. Nota word is spoken; that seems to be the etiquette of the thing. If youare sleeping in your pyjamas, you spring from the bed, and only add tothe confusion; if you are wearing a less showy garment, you stop whereyou are and shout commands, which are utterly unheeded. The simplestplan is to leave it to the eldest boy. He does get them out after awhile, and closes the door upon them. It re-opens immediately, and one, generally Muriel, is shot back into the room. She enters as from acatapult. She is handicapped by having long hair, which can be used as aconvenient handle. Evidently aware of this natural disadvantage, sheclutches it herself tightly in one hand, and punches with the other. Heopens the door again, and cleverly uses her as a battering-ram againstthe wall of those without. You can hear the dull crash as her headenters among them, and scatters them. When the victory is complete, hecomes back and resumes his seat on the bed. There is no bitterness abouthim; he has forgotten the whole incident. 

"I like the morning, " he says, "don't you?"

"Some mornings, " you agree, "are all right; others are not so peaceful. "

He takes no notice of your exception; a far-away look steals over hissomewhat ethereal face. 

"I should like to die in the morning, " he says; "everything is sobeautiful then. "

"Well, " you answer, "perhaps you will, if your father ever invites anirritable man to come and sleep here, and doesn't warn him beforehand. "

He descends from his contemplative mood, and becomes himself again. 

"It's jolly in the garden, " he suggests; "you wouldn't like to get up andhave a game of cricket, would you?"

It was not the idea with which you went to bed, but now, as things haveturned out, it seems as good a plan as lying there hopelessly awake; andyou agree. 

You learn, later in the day, that the explanation of the proceeding isthat you, unable to sleep, woke up early in the morning, and thought youwould like a game of cricket. The children, taught to be ever courteousto guests, felt it their duty to humour you. Mrs. Harris remarks atbreakfast that at least you might have seen to it that the children wereproperly dressed before you took them out; while Harris points out toyou, pathetically, how, by your one morning's example and encouragement, you have undone his labour of months. 

On this Wednesday morning, George, it seems, clamoured to get up at aquarter-past five, and persuaded them to let him teach them cyclingtricks round the cucumber frames on Harris's new wheel. Even Mrs. Harris, however, did not blame George on this occasion; she feltintuitively the idea could not have been entirely his. 

It is not that the Harris children have the faintest notion of avoidingblame at the expense of a friend and comrade. One and all they arehonesty itself in accepting responsibility for their own misdeeds. Itsimply is, that is how the thing presents itself to their understanding. When you explain to them that you had no original intention of getting upat five o'clock in the morning to play cricket on the croquet lawn, or tomimic the history of the early Church by shooting with a cross-bow atdolls tied to a tree; that as a matter of fact, left to your owninitiative, you would have slept peacefully till roused in Christianfashion with a cup of tea at eight, they are firstly astonished, secondlyapologetic, and thirdly sincerely contrite. In the present instance, waiving the purely academic question whether the awakening of George at alittle before five was due to natural instinct on his part, or to theaccidental passing of a home-made boomerang through his bedroom window, the dear children frankly admitted that the blame for his uprising wastheir own. As the eldest boy said:

"We ought to have remembered that Uncle George had a long day, beforehim, and we ought to have dissuaded him from getting up. I blame myselfentirely. "

But an occasional change of habit does nobody any harm; and besides, asHarris and I agreed, it was good training for George. In the BlackForest we should be up at five every morning; that we had determined on. Indeed, George himself had suggested half-past four, but Harris and I hadargued that five would be early enough as an average; that would enableus to be on our machines by six, and to break the back of our journeybefore the heat of the day set in. Occasionally we might start a littleearlier, but not as a habit. 

I myself was up that morning at five. This was earlier than I hadintended. I had said to myself on going to sleep, "Six o'clock, sharp!"

There are men I know who can wake themselves at any time to the minute. They say to themselves literally, as they lay their heads upon thepillow, "Four-thirty, " "Four-forty-five, " or "Five-fifteen, " as the casemay be; and as the clock strikes they open their eyes. It is verywonderful this; the more one dwells upon it, the greater the mysterygrows. Some Ego within us, acting quite independently of our consciousself, must be capable of counting the hours while we sleep. Unaided byclock or sun, or any other medium known to our five senses, it keepswatch through the darkness. At the exact moment it whispers "Time!" andwe awake. The work of an old riverside fellow I once talked with calledhim to be out of bed each morning half an hour before high tide. He toldme that never once had he overslept himself by a minute. Latterly, henever even troubled to work out the tide for himself. He would lie downtired, and sleep a dreamless sleep, and each morning at a different hourthis ghostly watchman, true as the tide itself, would silently call him. Did the man's spirit haunt through the darkness the muddy river stairs;or had it knowledge of the ways of Nature? Whatever the process, the manhimself was unconscious of it. 

In my own case my inward watchman is, perhaps, somewhat out of practice. He does his best; but he is over-anxious; he worries himself, and losescount. I say to him, maybe, "Five-thirty, please;" and he wakes me witha start at half-past two. I look at my watch. He suggests that, perhaps, I forgot to wind it up. I put it to my ear; it is still going. He thinks, maybe, something has happened to it; he is confident himselfit is half-past five, if not a little later. To satisfy him, I put on apair of slippers and go downstairs to inspect the dining-room clock. Whathappens to a man when he wanders about the house in the middle of thenight, clad in a dressing-gown and a pair of slippers, there is no needto recount; most men know by experience. Everything--especiallyeverything with a sharp corner--takes a cowardly delight in hitting him. When you are wearing a pair of stout boots, things get out of your way;when you venture among furniture in woolwork slippers and no socks, itcomes at you and kicks you. I return to bed bad tempered, and refusingto listen to his further absurd suggestion that all the clocks in thehouse have entered into a conspiracy against me, take half an hour to getto sleep again. From four to five he wakes me every ten minutes. I wishI had never said a word to him about the thing. At five o'clock he goesto sleep himself, worn out, and leaves it to the girl, who does it halfan hour later than usual. 

On this particular Wednesday he worried me to such an extent, that I gotup at five simply to be rid of him. I did not know what to do withmyself. Our train did not leave till eight; all our luggage had beenpacked and sent on the night before, together with the bicycles, toFenchurch Street Station. I went into my study; I thought I would put inan hour's writing. The early morning, before one has breakfasted, isnot, I take it, a good season for literary effort. I wrote threeparagraphs of a story, and then read them over to myself. Some unkindthings have been said about my work; but nothing has yet been writtenwhich would have done justice to those three paragraphs. I threw theminto the waste-paper basket, and sat trying to remember what, if any, charitable institutions provided pensions for decayed authors. 

To escape from this train of reflection, I put a golf-ball in my pocket, and selecting a driver, strolled out into the paddock. A couple of sheepwere browsing there, and they followed and took a keen interest in mypractice. The one was a kindly, sympathetic old party. I do not thinkshe understood the game; I think it was my doing this innocent thing soearly in the morning that appealed to her. At every stroke I made shebleated:

"Go-o-o-d, go-o-o-d ind-e-e-d!"

She seemed as pleased as if she had done it herself. 

As for the other one, she was a cantankerous, disagreeable old thing, asdiscouraging to me as her friend was helpful. 

"Ba-a-ad, da-a-a-m ba-a-a-d!" was her comment on almost every stroke. Asa matter of fact, some were really excellent strokes; but she did it justto be contradictory, and for the sake of irritating. I could see that. 

By a most regrettable accident, one of my swiftest balls struck the goodsheep on the nose. And at that the bad sheep laughed--laughed distinctlyand undoubtedly, a husky, vulgar laugh; and, while her friend stood gluedto the ground, too astonished to move, she changed her note for the firsttime and bleated:

"Go-o-o-d, ve-e-ry go-o-o-d! Be-e-e-est sho-o-o-ot he-e-e's ma-a-a-de!"

I would have given half-a-crown if it had been she I had hit instead ofthe other one. It is ever the good and amiable who suffer in this world. 

I had wasted more time than I had intended in the paddock, and whenEthelbertha came to tell me it was half-past seven, and the breakfast wason the table, I remembered that I had not shaved. It vexes Ethelberthamy shaving quickly. She fears that to outsiders it may suggest a poor-spirited attempt at suicide, and that in consequence it may get about theneighbourhood that we are not happy together. As a further argument, shehas also hinted that my appearance is not of the kind that can be trifledwith. 

On the whole, I was just as glad not to be able to take a long farewellof Ethelbertha; I did not want to risk her breaking down. But I shouldhave liked more opportunity to say a few farewell words of advice to thechildren, especially as regards my fishing rod, which they will persistin using for cricket stumps; and I hate having to run for a train. Quarter of a mile from the station I overtook George and Harris; theywere also running. In their case--so Harris informed me, jerkily, whilewe trotted side by side--it was the new kitchen stove that was to blame. This was the first morning they had tried it, and from some cause orother it had blown up the kidneys and scalded the cook. He said he hopedthat by the time we returned they would have got more used to it. 

We caught the train by the skin of our teeth, as the saying is, andreflecting upon the events of the morning, as we sat gasping in thecarriage, there passed vividly before my mind the panorama of my UnclePodger, as on two hundred and fifty days in the year he would start fromEaling Common by the nine-thirteen train to Moorgate Street. 

From my Uncle Podger's house to the railway station was eight minutes'walk. What my uncle always said was:

"Allow yourself a quarter of an hour, and take it easily. "

What he always did was to start five minutes before the time and run. Ido not know why, but this was the custom of the suburb. Many stout Citygentlemen lived at Ealing in those days--I believe some live therestill--and caught early trains to Town. They all started late; they allcarried a black bag and a newspaper in one hand, and an umbrella in theother; and for the last quarter of a mile to the station, wet or fine, they all ran. 

Folks with nothing else to do, nursemaids chiefly and errand boys, withnow and then a perambulating costermonger added, would gather on thecommon of a fine morning to watch them pass, and cheer the mostdeserving. It was not a showy spectacle. They did not run well, theydid not even run fast; but they were earnest, and they did their best. The exhibition appealed less to one's sense of art than to one's naturaladmiration for conscientious effort. 

Occasionally a little harmless betting would take place among the crowd. 

"Two to one agin the old gent in the white weskit!"

"Ten to one on old Blowpipes, bar he don't roll over hisself 'fore 'egets there!"

"Heven money on the Purple Hemperor!"--a nickname bestowed by a youth ofentomological tastes upon a certain retired military neighbour of myuncle's, --a gentleman of imposing appearance when stationary, but apt tocolour highly under exercise. 

My uncle and the others would write to the _Ealing Press_ complainingbitterly concerning the supineness of the local police; and the editorwould add spirited leaders upon the Decay of Courtesy among the LowerOrders, especially throughout the Western Suburbs. But no good everresulted. 

It was not that my uncle did not rise early enough; it was that troublescame to him at the last moment. The first thing he would do afterbreakfast would be to lose his newspaper. We always knew when UnclePodger had lost anything, by the expression of astonished indignationwith which, on such occasions, he would regard the world in general. Itnever occurred to my Uncle Podger to say to himself:

"I am a careless old man. I lose everything: I never know where I haveput anything. I am quite incapable of finding it again for myself. Inthis respect I must be a perfect nuisance to everybody about me. I mustset to work and reform myself. "

On the contrary, by some peculiar course of reasoning, he had convincedhimself that whenever he lost a thing it was everybody else's fault inthe house but his own. 

"I had it in my hand here not a minute ago!" he would exclaim. 

From his tone you would have thought he was living surrounded byconjurers, who spirited away things from him merely to irritate him. 

"Could you have left it in the garden?" my aunt would suggest. 

"What should I want to leave it in the garden for? I don't want a paperin the garden; I want the paper in the train with me. "

"You haven't put it in your pocket?"

"God bless the woman! Do you think I should be standing here at fiveminutes to nine looking for it if I had it in my pocket all the while? Doyou think I'm a fool?"

Here somebody would explain, "What's this?" and hand him from somewhere apaper neatly folded. 

"I do wish people would leave my things alone, " he would growl, snatchingat it savagely. 

He would open his bag to put it in, and then glancing at it, he wouldpause, speechless with sense of injury. 

"What's the matter?" aunt would ask. 

"The day before yesterday's!" he would answer, too hurt even to shout, throwing the paper down upon the table. 

If only sometimes it had been yesterday's it would have been a change. But it was always the day before yesterday's; except on Tuesday; then itwould be Saturday's. 

We would find it for him eventually; as often as not he was sitting onit. And then he would smile, not genially, but with the weariness thatcomes to a man who feels that fate has cast his lot among a band ofhopeless idiots. 

"All the time, right in front of your noses--!" He would not finish thesentence; he prided himself on his self-control. 

This settled, he would start for the hall, where it was the custom of myAunt Maria to have the children gathered, ready to say good-bye to him. 

My aunt never left the house herself, if only to make a call next door, without taking a tender farewell of every inmate. One never knew, shewould say, what might happen. 

One of them, of course, was sure to be missing, and the moment this wasnoticed all the other six, without an instant's hesitation, would scatterwith a whoop to find it. Immediately they were gone it would turn up byitself from somewhere quite near, always with the most reasonableexplanation for its absence; and would at once start off after the othersto explain to them that it was found. In this way, five minutes at leastwould be taken up in everybody's looking for everybody else, which wasjust sufficient time to allow my uncle to find his umbrella and lose hishat. Then, at last, the group reassembled in the hall, the drawing-roomclock would commence to strike nine. It possessed a cold, penetratingchime that always had the effect of confusing my uncle. In hisexcitement he would kiss some of the children twice over, pass by others, forget whom he had kissed and whom he hadn't, and have to begin all overagain. He used to say he believed they mixed themselves up on purpose, and I am not prepared to maintain that the charge was altogether false. To add to his troubles, one child always had a sticky face; and thatchild would always be the most affectionate. 

If things were going too smoothly, the eldest boy would come out withsome tale about all the clocks in the house being five minutes slow, andof his having been late for school the previous day in consequence. Thiswould send my uncle rushing impetuously down to the gate, where he wouldrecollect that he had with him neither his bag nor his umbrella. All thechildren that my aunt could not stop would charge after him, two of themstruggling for the umbrella, the others surging round the bag. And whenthey returned we would discover on the hall table the most importantthing of all that he had forgotten, and wondered what he would say aboutit when he came home. 

We arrived at Waterloo a little after nine, and at once proceeded to putGeorge's experiment into operation. Opening the book at the chapterentitled "At the Cab Rank, " we walked up to a hansom, raised our hats, and wished the driver "Good-morning. "

This man was not to be outdone in politeness by any foreigner, real orimitation. Calling to a friend named "Charles" to "hold the steed, " hesprang from his box, and returned to us a bow, that would have donecredit to Mr. Turveydrop himself. Speaking apparently in the name of thenation, he welcomed us to England, adding a regret that Her Majesty wasnot at the moment in London. 

We could not reply to him in kind. Nothing of this sort had beenanticipated by the book. We called him "coachman, " at which he againbowed to the pavement, and asked him if he would have the goodness todrive us to the Westminster Bridge road. 

He laid his hand upon his heart, and said the pleasure would be his. 

Taking the third sentence in the chapter, George asked him what his farewould be. 

The question, as introducing a sordid element into the conversation, seemed to hurt his feelings. He said he never took money fromdistinguished strangers; he suggested a souvenir--a diamond scarf pin, agold snuffbox, some little trifle of that sort by which he could rememberus. 

As a small crowd had collected, and as the joke was drifting rather toofar in the cabman's direction, we climbed in without further parley, andwere driven away amid cheers. We stopped the cab at a boot shop a littlepast Astley's Theatre that looked the sort of place we wanted. It wasone of those overfed shops that the moment their shutters are taken downin the morning disgorge their goods all round them. Boxes of boots stoodpiled on the pavement or in the gutter opposite. Boots hung in festoonsabout its doors and windows. Its sun-blind was as some grimy vine, bearing bunches of black and brown boots. Inside, the shop was a bowerof boots. The man, when we entered, was busy with a chisel and hammeropening a new crate full of boots. 

George raised his hat, and said "Good-morning. "

The man did not even turn round. He struck me from the first as adisagreeable man. He grunted something which might have been"Good-morning, " or might not, and went on with his work. 

George said: "I have been recommended to your shop by my friend, Mr. X. "

In response, the man should have said: "Mr. X. Is a most worthygentleman; it will give me the greatest pleasure to serve any friend ofhis. "

What he did say was: "Don't know him; never heard of him. "

This was disconcerting. The book gave three or four methods of buyingboots; George had carefully selected the one centred round "Mr. X, " asbeing of all the most courtly. You talked a good deal with theshopkeeper about this "Mr. X, " and then, when by this means friendshipand understanding had been established, you slid naturally and gracefullyinto the immediate object of your coming, namely, your desire for boots, "cheap and good. " This gross, material man cared, apparently, nothingfor the niceties of retail dealing. It was necessary with such an one tocome to business with brutal directness. George abandoned "Mr. X, " andturning back to a previous page, took a sentence at random. It was not ahappy selection; it was a speech that would have been superfluous made toany bootmaker. Under the present circumstances, threatened and stifledas we were on every side by boots, it possessed the dignity of positiveimbecilitiy. It ran:--"One has told me that you have here boots forsale. "

For the first time the man put down his hammer and chisel, and looked atus. He spoke slowly, in a thick and husky voice. He said:

"What d'ye think I keep boots for--to smell 'em?"

He was one of those men that begin quietly and grow more angry as theyproceed, their wrongs apparently working within them like yeast. 

"What d'ye think I am, " he continued, "a boot collector? What d'ye thinkI'm running this shop for--my health? D'ye think I love the boots, andcan't bear to part with a pair? D'ye think I hang 'em about here to lookat 'em? Ain't there enough of 'em? Where d'ye think you are--in aninternational exhibition of boots? What d'ye think these boots are--ahistorical collection? Did you ever hear of a man keeping a boot shopand not selling boots? D'ye think I decorate the shop with 'em to makeit look pretty? What d'ye take me for--a prize idiot?"

I have always maintained that these conversation books are never of anyreal use. What we wanted was some English equivalent for the well-knownGerman idiom: "Behalten Sie Ihr Haar auf. "

Nothing of the sort was to be found in the book from beginning to end. However, I will do George the credit to admit he chose the very bestsentence that was to be found therein and applied it. He said:. 

"I will come again, when, perhaps, you will have some more boots to showme. Till then, adieu!"

With that we returned to our cab and drove away, leaving the man standingin the centre of his boot-bedecked doorway addressing remarks to us. Whathe said, I did not hear, but the passers-by appeared to find itinteresting. 

George was for stopping at another boot shop and trying the experimentafresh; he said he really did want a pair of bedroom slippers. But wepersuaded him to postpone their purchase until our arrival in someforeign city, where the tradespeople are no doubt more inured to thissort of talk, or else more naturally amiable. On the subject of the hat, however, he was adamant. He maintained that without that he could nottravel, and, accordingly, we pulled up at a small shop in the BlackfriarsRoad. 

The proprietor of this shop was a cheery, bright-eyed little man, and hehelped us rather than hindered us. 

When George asked him in the words of the book, "Have you any hats?" hedid not get angry; he just stopped and thoughtfully scratched his chin. 

"Hats, " said he. "Let me think. Yes"--here a smile of positive pleasurebroke over his genial countenance--"yes, now I come to think of it, Ibelieve I have a hat. But, tell me, why do you ask me?"

George explained to him that he wished to purchase a cap, a travellingcap, but the essence of the transaction was that it was to be a "goodcap. "

The man's face fell. 

"Ah, " he remarked, "there, I am afraid, you have me. Now, if you hadwanted a bad cap, not worth the price asked for it; a cap good fornothing but to clean windows with, I could have found you the very thing. But a good cap--no; we don't keep them. But wait a minute, " hecontinued, --on seeing the disappointment that spread over George'sexpressive countenance, "don't be in a hurry. I have a cap here"--hewent to a drawer and opened it--"it is not a good cap, but it is not sobad as most of the caps I sell. "

He brought it forward, extended on his palm. 

"What do you think of that?" he asked. "Could you put up with that?"

George fitted it on before the glass, and, choosing another remark fromthe book, said:

"This hat fits me sufficiently well, but, tell me, do you consider thatit becomes me?"

The man stepped back and took a bird's-eye view. 

"Candidly, " he replied, "I can't say that it does. "

He turned from George, and addressed himself to Harris and myself. 

"Your friend's beauty, " said he, "I should describe as elusive. It isthere, but you can easily miss it. Now, in that cap, to my mind, you domiss it. "

At that point it occurred to George that he had had sufficient fun withthis particular man. He said:

"That is all right. We don't want to lose the train. How much?"

Answered the man: "The price of that cap, sir, which, in my opinion, istwice as much as it is worth, is four-and-six. Would you like it wrappedup in brown paper, sir, or in white?"

George said he would take it as it was, paid the man four-and-sixin-silver, and went out. Harris and I followed. 

At Fenchurch Street we compromised with our cabman for five shillings. Hemade us another courtly bow, and begged us to remember him to the Emperorof Austria. 

Comparing views in the train, we agreed that we had lost the game by twopoints to one; and George, who was evidently disappointed, threw the bookout of window. 

We found our luggage and the bicycles safe on the boat, and with the tideat twelve dropped down the river. 

CHAPTER V

A necessary digression--Introduced by story containing moral--One of thecharms of this book--The Journal that did not command success--Its boast:"Instruction combined with Amusement"--Problem: say what should beconsidered instructive and what amusing--A popular game--Expert opinionon English law--Another of the charms of this book--A hackneyed tune--Yeta third charm of this book--The sort of wood it was where the maidenlived--Description of the Black Forest. 

A story is told of a Scotchman who, loving a lassie, desired her for hiswife. But he possessed the prudence of his race. He had noticed in hiscircle many an otherwise promising union result in disappointment anddismay, purely in consequence of the false estimate formed by bride orbridegroom concerning the imagined perfectability of the other. Hedetermined that in his own case no collapsed ideal should be possible. Therefore, it was that his proposal took the following form:

"I'm but a puir lad, Jennie; I hae nae siller to offer ye, and nae land. "

"Ah, but ye hae yoursel', Davie!"

"An' I'm wishfu' it wa' onything else, lassie. I'm nae but a puir ill-seasoned loon, Jennie. "

"Na, na; there's mony a lad mair ill-looking than yoursel', Davie. "

"I hae na seen him, lass, and I'm just a-thinkin' I shouldna' care to. "

"Better a plain man, Davie, that ye can depend a' than ane that would bea speirin' at the lassies, a-bringin' trouble into the hame wi' hisflouting ways. "

"Dinna ye reckon on that, Jennie; it's nae the bonniest Bubbly Jock thatmak's the most feathers to fly in the kailyard. I was ever a lad to runafter the petticoats, as is weel kent; an' it's a weary handfu' I'll beto ye, I'm thinkin'. "

"Ah, but ye hae a kind heart, Davie! an' ye love me weel. I'm sureon't. "

"I like ye weel enoo', Jennie, though I canna say how long the feelingmay bide wi' me; an' I'm kind enoo' when I hae my ain way, an' naethin'happens to put me oot. But I hae the deevil's ain temper, as my mithercall tell ye, an' like my puir fayther, I'm a-thinkin', I'll grow naebetter as I grow mair auld. "

"Ay, but ye're sair hard upon yersel', Davie. Ye're an honest lad. Iken ye better than ye ken yersel', an' ye'll mak a guid hame for me. "

"Maybe, Jennie! But I hae my doots. It's a sair thing for wife an'bairns when the guid man canna keep awa' frae the glass; an' when thescent of the whusky comes to me it's just as though I hae'd the throat o'a Loch Tay salmon; it just gaes doon an' doon, an' there's nae filling o'me. "

"Ay, but ye're a guid man when ye're sober, Davie. "

"Maybe I'll be that, Jennie, if I'm nae disturbed. "

"An' ye'll bide wi' me, Davie, an' work for me?"

"I see nae reason why I shouldna bide wi' yet Jennie; but dinna ye clackaboot work to me, for I just canna bear the thoct o't. "

"Anyhow, ye'll do your best, Davie? As the minister says, nae man can domair than that. "

"An' it's a puir best that mine'll be, Jennie, and I'm nae sae sure ye'llhae ower muckle even o' that. We're a' weak, sinfu' creatures, Jennie, an' ye'd hae some deefficulty to find a man weaker or mair sinfu' thanmysel'. "

"Weel, weel, ye hae a truthfu' tongue, Davie. Mony a lad will mak finepromises to a puir lassie, only to break 'em an' her heart wi' 'em. Yespeak me fair, Davie, and I'm thinkin' I'll just tak ye, an' see whatcomes o't. "

Concerning what did come of it, the story is silent, but one feels thatunder no circumstances had the lady any right to complain of her bargain. Whether she ever did or did not--for women do not invariably order theirtongues according to logic, nor men either for the matter of that--Davie, himself, must have had the satisfaction of reflecting that all reproacheswere undeserved. 

I wish to be equally frank with the reader of this book. I wish hereconscientiously to let forth its shortcomings. I wish no one to readthis book under a misapprehension. 

There will be no useful information in this book. 

Anyone who should think that with the aid of this book he would be ableto make a tour through Germany and the Black Forest would probably losehimself before he got to the Nore. That, at all events, would be thebest thing that could happen to him. The farther away from home he got, the greater only would be his difficulties. 

I do not regard the conveyance of useful information as my _forte_. Thisbelief was not inborn with me; it has been driven home upon me byexperience. 

In my early journalistic days, I served upon a paper, the forerunner ofmany very popular periodicals of the present day. Our boast was that wecombined instruction with amusement; as to what should be regarded asaffording amusement and what instruction, the reader judged for himself. We gave advice to people about to marry--long, earnest advice that would, had they followed it, have made our circle of readers the envy of thewhole married world. We told our subscribers how to make fortunes bykeeping rabbits, giving facts and figures. The thing that must havesurprised them was that we ourselves did not give up journalism and startrabbit-farming. Often and often have I proved conclusively fromauthoritative sources how a man starting a rabbit farm with twelveselected rabbits and a little judgment must, at the end of three years, be in receipt of an income of two thousand a year, rising rapidly; hesimply could not help himself. He might not want the money. He mightnot know what to do with it when he had it. But there it was for him. Ihave never met a rabbit farmer myself worth two thousand a year, though Ihave known many start with the twelve necessary, assorted rabbits. Something has always gone wrong somewhere; maybe the continued atmosphereof a rabbit farm saps the judgment. 

We told our readers how many bald-headed men there were in Iceland, andfor all we knew our figures may have been correct; how many red herringsplaced tail to mouth it would take to reach from London to Rome, whichmust have been useful to anyone desirous of laying down a line of redherrings from London to Rome, enabling him to order in the right quantityat the beginning; how many words the average woman spoke in a day; andother such like items of information calculated to make them wise andgreat beyond the readers of other journals. 

We told them how to cure fits in cats. Personally I do not believe, andI did not believe then, that you can cure fits in cats. If I had a catsubject to fits I should advertise it for sale, or even give it away. Butour duty was to supply information when asked for. Some fool wrote, clamouring to know; and I spent the best part of a morning seekingknowledge on the subject. I found what I wanted at length at the end ofan old cookery book. What it was doing there I have never been able tounderstand. It had nothing to do with the proper subject of the bookwhatever; there was no suggestion that you could make anything savouryout of a cat, even when you had cured it of its fits. The authoress hadjust thrown in this paragraph out of pure generosity. I can only saythat I wish she had left it out; it was the cause of a deal of angrycorrespondence and of the loss of four subscribers to the paper, if notmore. The man said the result of following our advice had been twopounds worth of damage to his kitchen crockery, to say nothing of abroken window and probable blood poisoning to himself; added to which thecat's fits were worse than before. And yet it was a simple enoughrecipe. You held the cat between your legs, gently, so as not to hurtit, and with a pair of scissors made a sharp, clean cut in its tail. Youdid not cut off any part of the tail; you were to be careful not to dothat; you only made an incision. 

As we explained to the man, the garden or the coal cellar would have beenthe proper place for the operation; no one but an idiot would haveattempted to perform it in a kitchen, and without help. 

We gave them hints on etiquette. We told them how to address peers andbishops; also how to eat soup. We instructed shy young men how toacquire easy grace in drawing-rooms. We taught dancing to both sexes bythe aid of diagrams. We solved their religious doubts for them, andsupplied them with a code of morals that would have done credit to astained-glass window. 

The paper was not a financial success, it was some years before its time, and the consequence was that our staff was limited. My own apartment, Iremember, included "Advice to Mothers"--I wrote that with the assistanceof my landlady, who, having divorced one husband and buried fourchildren, was, I considered, a reliable authority on all domesticmatters; "Hints on Furnishing and Household Decorations--with Designs" acolumn of "Literary Counsel to Beginners"--I sincerely hope my guidancewas of better service to them than it has ever proved to myself; and ourweekly article, "Straight Talks to Young Men, " signed "Uncle Henry. " Akindly, genial old fellow was "Uncle Henry, " with wide and variedexperience, and a sympathetic attitude towards the rising generation. Hehad been through trouble himself in his far back youth, and knew mostthings. Even to this day I read of "Uncle Henry's" advice, and, though Isay it who should not, it still seems to me good, sound advice. I oftenthink that had I followed "Uncle Henry's" counsel closer I would havebeen wiser, made fewer mistakes, felt better satisfied with myself thanis now the case. 

A quiet, weary little woman, who lived in a bed-sitting room off theTottenham Court Road, and who had a husband in a lunatic asylum, did our"Cooking Column, " "Hints on Education"--we were full of hints, --and apage and a half of "Fashionable Intelligence, " written in the pertlypersonal style which even yet has not altogether disappeared, so I aminformed, from modern journalism: "I must tell you about the _divine_frock I wore at 'Glorious Goodwood' last week. Prince C. --but there, Ireally must not repeat all the things the silly fellow says; he is _too_foolish--and the _dear_ Countess, I fancy, was just the _weeish_ bitjealous"--and so on. 

Poor little woman! I see her now in the shabby grey alpaca, with theinkstains on it. Perhaps a day at "Glorious Goodwood, " or anywhere elsein the fresh air, might have put some colour into her cheeks. 

Our proprietor--one of the most unashamedly ignorant men I ever met--Iremember his gravely informing a correspondent once that Ben Jonson hadwritten _Rabelais_ to pay for his mother's funeral, and only laughinggood-naturedly when his mistakes were pointed out to him--wrote with theaid of a cheap encyclopedia the pages devoted to "General Information, "and did them on the whole remarkably well; while our office boy, with anexcellent pair of scissors for his assistant, was responsible for oursupply of "Wit and Humour. "

It was hard work, and the pay was poor, what sustained us was theconsciousness that we were instructing and improving our fellow men andwomen. Of all games in the world, the one most universally and eternallypopular is the game of school. You collect six children, and put them ona doorstep, while you walk up and down with the book and cane. We playit when babies, we play it when boys and girls, we play it when men andwomen, we play it as, lean and slippered, we totter towards the grave. Itnever palls upon, it never wearies us. Only one thing mars it: thetendency of one and all of the other six children to clamour for theirturn with the book and the cane. The reason, I am sure, that journalismis so popular a calling, in spite of its many drawbacks, is this: eachjournalist feels he is the boy walking up and down with the cane. TheGovernment, the Classes, and the Masses, Society, Art, and Literature, are the other children sitting on the doorstep. He instructs andimproves them. 

But I digress. It was to excuse my present permanent disinclination tobe the vehicle of useful information that I recalled these matters. Letus now return. 

Somebody, signing himself "Balloonist, " had written to ask concerning themanufacture of hydrogen gas. It is an easy thing to manufacture--atleast, so I gathered after reading up the subject at the British Museum;yet I did warn "Balloonist, " whoever he might be, to take all necessaryprecaution against accident. What more could I have done? Ten daysafterwards a florid-faced lady called at the office, leading by the handwhat, she explained, was her son, aged twelve. The boy's face wasunimpressive to a degree positively remarkable. His mother pushed himforward and took off his hat, and then I perceived the reason for this. He had no eyebrows whatever, and of his hair nothing remained but ascrubby dust, giving to his head the appearance of a hard-boiled egg, skinned and sprinkled with black pepper. 

"That was a handsome lad this time last week, with naturally curly hair, "remarked the lady. She spoke with a rising inflection, suggestive of thebeginning of things. 

"What has happened to him?" asked our chief. 

"This is what's happened to him, " retorted the lady. She drew from hermuff a copy of our last week's issue, with my article on hydrogen gasscored in pencil, and flung it before his eyes. Our chief took it andread it through. 

"He was 'Balloonist'?" queried the chief. 

"He was 'Balloonist, '" admitted the lady, "the poor innocent child, andnow look at him!"

"Maybe it'll grow again, " suggested our chief. 

"Maybe it will, " retorted the lady, her key continuing to rise, "andmaybe it won't. What I want to know is what you are going to do forhim. "

Our chief suggested a hair wash. I thought at first she was going to flyat him; but for the moment she confined herself to words. It appears shewas not thinking of a hair wash, but of compensation. She also madeobservations on the general character of our paper, its utility, itsclaim to public support, the sense and wisdom of its contributors. 

"I really don't see that it is our fault, " urged the chief--he was a mild-mannered man; "he asked for information, and he got it. "

"Don't you try to be funny about it, " said the lady (he had not meant tobe funny, I am sure; levity was not his failing) "or you'll get somethingthat _you_ haven't asked for. Why, for two pins, " said the lady, with asuddenness that sent us both flying like scuttled chickens behind ourrespective chairs, "I'd come round and make your head like it!" I takeit, she meant like the boy's. She also added observations upon ourchief's personal appearance, that were distinctly in bad taste. She wasnot a nice woman by any means. 

Myself, I am of opinion that had she brought the action she threatened, she would have had no case; but our chief was a man who had hadexperience of the law, and his principle was always to avoid it. I haveheard him say:

"If a man stopped me in the street and demanded of me my watch, I shouldrefuse to give it to him. If he threatened to take it by force, I feel Ishould, though not a fighting man, do my best to protect it. If, on theother hand, he should assert his intention of trying to obtain it bymeans of an action in any court of law, I should take it out of my pocketand hand it to him, and think I had got off cheaply. "

He squared the matter with the florid-faced lady for a five-pound note, which must have represented a month's profits on the paper; and shedeparted, taking her damaged offspring with her. After she was gone, ourchief spoke kindly to me. He said:

"Don't think I am blaming you in the least; it is not your fault, it isFate. Keep to moral advice and criticism--there you are distinctly good;but don't try your hand any more on 'Useful Information. ' As I havesaid, it is not your fault. Your information is correct enough--there isnothing to be said against that; it simply is that you are not lucky withit. "

I would that I had followed his advice always; I would have saved myselfand other people much disaster. I see no reason why it should be, but soit is. If I instruct a man as to the best route between London and Rome, he loses his luggage in Switzerland, or is nearly shipwrecked off Dover. If I counsel him in the purchase of a camera, he gets run in by theGerman police for photographing fortresses. I once took a deal oftrouble to explain to a man how to marry his deceased wife's sister atStockholm. I found out for him the time the boat left Hull and the besthotels to stop at. There was not a single mistake from beginning to endin the information with which I supplied him; no hitch occurred anywhere;yet now he never speaks to me. 

Therefore it is that I have come to restrain my passion for the giving ofinformation; therefore it is that nothing in the nature of practicalinstruction will be found, if I can help it, within these pages. 

There will be no description of towns, no historical reminiscences, noarchitecture, no morals. 

I once asked an intelligent foreigner what he thought of London. 

He said: "It is a very big town. "

I said: "What struck you most about it?"

He replied: "The people. "

I said: "Compared with other towns--Paris, Rome, Berlin, --what did youthink of it?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "It is bigger, " he said; "what more can onesay?"

One anthill is very much like another. So many avenues, wide or narrow, where the little creatures swarm in strange confusion; these bustling by, important; these halting to pow-wow with one another. These strugglingwith big burdens; those but basking in the sun. So many granaries storedwith food; so many cells where the little things sleep, and eat, andlove; the corner where lie their little white bones. This hive islarger, the next smaller. This nest lies on the sand, and another underthe stones. This was built but yesterday, while that was fashioned agesago, some say even before the swallows came; who knows?

Nor will there be found herein folk-lore or story. 

Every valley where lie homesteads has its song. I will tell you theplot; you can turn it into verse and set it to music of your own. 

There lived a lass, and there came a lad, who loved and rode away. 

It is a monotonous song, written in many languages; for the young manseems to have been a mighty traveller. Here in sentimental Germany theyremember him well. So also the dwellers of the Blue Alsatian Mountainsremember his coming among them; while, if my memory serves me truly, helikewise visited the Banks of Allan Water. A veritable Wandering Jew ishe; for still the foolish girls listen, so they say, to the dying away ofhis hoof-beats. 

In this land of many ruins, that long while ago were voice-filled homes, linger many legends; and here again, giving you the essentials, I leaveyou to cook the dish for yourself. Take a human heart or two, assorted;a bundle of human passions--there are not many of them, half a dozen atthe most; season with a mixture of good and evil; flavour the whole withthe sauce of death, and serve up where and when you will. "The Saint'sCell, " "The Haunted Keep, " "The Dungeon Grave, " "The Lover's Leap"--callit what you will, the stew's the same. 

Lastly, in this book there will be no scenery. This is not laziness onmy part; it is self-control. Nothing is easier to write than scenery;nothing more difficult and unnecessary to read. When Gibbon had to trustto travellers' tales for a description of the Hellespont, and the Rhinewas chiefly familiar to English students through the medium of _Caesar'sCommentaries_, it behoved every globe-trotter, for whatever distance, todescribe to the best of his ability the things that he had seen. Dr. Johnson, familiar with little else than the view down Fleet Street, couldread the description of a Yorkshire moor with pleasure and with profit. To a cockney who had never seen higher ground than the Hog's Back inSurrey, an account of Snowdon must have appeared exciting. But we, orrather the steam-engine and the camera for us, have changed all that. Theman who plays tennis every year at the foot of the Matterhorn, andbilliards on the summit of the Rigi, does not thank you for an elaborateand painstaking description of the Grampian Hills. To the average man, who has seen a dozen oil paintings, a hundred photographs, a thousandpictures in the illustrated journals, and a couple of panoramas ofNiagara, the word-painting of a waterfall is tedious. 

An American friend of mine, a cultured gentleman, who loved poetry wellenough for its own sake, told me that he had obtained a more correct andmore satisfying idea of the Lake district from an eighteenpenny book ofphotographic views than from all the works of Coleridge, Southey, andWordsworth put together. I also remember his saying concerning thissubject of scenery in literature, that he would thank an author as muchfor writing an eloquent description of what he had just had for dinner. But this was in reference to another argument; namely, the properprovince of each art. My friend maintained that just as canvas andcolour were the wrong mediums for story telling, so word-painting was, atits best, but a clumsy method of conveying impressions that could muchbetter be received through the eye. 

As regards the question, there also lingers in my memory very distinctlya hot school afternoon. The class was for English literature, and theproceedings commenced with the reading of a certain lengthy, butotherwise unobjectionable, poem. The author's name, I am ashamed to say, I have forgotten, together with the title of the poem. The readingfinished, we closed our books, and the Professor, a kindly, white-hairedold gentleman, suggested our giving in our own words an account of whatwe had just read. 

"Tell me, " said the Professor, encouragingly, "what it is all about. "

"Please, sir, " said the first boy--he spoke with bowed head and evidentreluctance, as though the subject were one which, left to himself, hewould never have mentioned, --"it is about a maiden. "

"Yes, " agreed the Professor; "but I want you to tell me in your ownwords. We do not speak of a maiden, you know; we say a girl. Yes, it isabout a girl. Go on. "

"A girl, " repeated the top boy, the substitution apparently increasinghis embarrassment, "who lived in a wood. "

"What sort of a wood?" asked the Professor. 

The first boy examined his inkpot carefully, and then looked at theceiling. 

"Come, " urged the Professor, growing impatient, "you have been readingabout this wood for the last ten minutes. Surely you can tell mesomething concerning it. "

"The gnarly trees, their twisted branches"--recommenced the top boy. 

"No, no, " interrupted the Professor; "I do not want you to repeat thepoem. I want you to tell me in your own words what sort of a wood it waswhere the girl lived. "

The Professor tapped his foot impatiently; the top boy made a dash forit. 

"Please, sir, it was the usual sort of a wood. "

"Tell him what sort of a wood, " said he, pointing to the second lad. 

The second boy said it was a "green wood. " This annoyed the Professorstill more; he called the second boy a blockhead, though really I cannotsee why, and passed on to the third, who, for the last minute, had beensitting apparently on hot plates, with his right arm waving up and downlike a distracted semaphore signal. He would have had to say it the nextsecond, whether the Professor had asked him or not; he was red in theface, holding his knowledge in. 

"A dark and gloomy wood, " shouted the third boy, with much relief to hisfeelings. 

"A dark and gloomy wood, " repeated the Professor, with evident approval. "And why was it dark and gloomy?"

The third boy was still equal to the occasion. 

"Because the sun could not get inside it. "

The Professor felt he had discovered the poet of the class. 

"Because the sun could not get into it, or, better, because the sunbeamscould not penetrate. And why could not the sunbeams penetrate there?"

"Please, sir, because the leaves were too thick. "

"Very well, " said the Professor. "The girl lived in a dark and gloomywood, through the leafy canopy of which the sunbeams were unable topierce. Now, what grew in this wood?" He pointed to the fourth boy. 

"Please, sir, trees, sir. "

"And what else?"

"Toadstools, sir. " This after a pause. 

The Professor was not quite sure about the toadstools, but on referringto the text he found that the boy was right; toadstools had beenmentioned. 

"Quite right, " admitted the Professor, "toadstools grew there. And whatelse? What do you find underneath trees in a wood?"

"Please, sir, earth, sir. "

"No; no; what grows in a wood besides trees?"

"Oh, please, sir, bushes, sir. "

"Bushes; very good. Now we are getting on. In this wood there weretrees and bushes. And what else?"

He pointed to a small boy near the bottom, who having decided that thewood was too far off to be of any annoyance to him, individually, wasoccupying his leisure playing noughts and crosses against himself. Vexedand bewildered, but feeling it necessary to add something to theinventory, he hazarded blackberries. This was a mistake; the poet hadnot mentioned blackberries. 

"Of course, Klobstock would think of something to eat, " commented theProfessor, who prided himself on his ready wit. This raised a laughagainst Klobstock, and pleased the Professor. 

"You, " continued he, pointing to a boy in the middle; "what else wasthere in this wood besides trees and bushes?"

"Please, sir, there was a torrent there. "

"Quite right; and what did the torrent do?"

"Please, sir, it gurgled. "

"No; no. Streams gurgle, torrents--?"

"Roar, sir. "

"It roared. And what made it roar?"

This was a poser. One boy--he was not our prize intellect, Iadmit--suggested the girl. To help us the Professor put his question inanother form:

"When did it roar?"

Our third boy, again coming to the rescue, explained that it roared whenit fell down among the rocks. I think some of us had a vague idea thatit must have been a cowardly torrent to make such a noise about a littlething like this; a pluckier torrent, we felt, would have got up and goneon, saying nothing about it. A torrent that roared every time it fellupon a rock we deemed a poor spirited torrent; but the Professor seemedquite content with it. 

"And what lived in this wood beside the girl?" was the next question. 

"Please, sir, birds, sir. "

"Yes, birds lived in this wood. What else?"

Birds seemed to have exhausted our ideas. 

"Come, " said the Professor, "what are those animals with tails, that runup trees?"

We thought for a while, then one of us suggested cats. 

This was an error; the poet had said nothing about cats; squirrels waswhat the Professor was trying to get. 

I do not recall much more about this wood in detail. I only recollectthat the sky was introduced into it. In places where there occurred anopening among the trees you could by looking up see the sky above you;very often there were clouds in this sky, and occasionally, if I rememberrightly, the girl got wet. 

I have dwelt upon this incident, because it seems to me suggestive of thewhole question of scenery in literature. I could not at the time, Icannot now, understand why the top boy's summary was not sufficient. Withall due deference to the poet, whoever he may have been, one cannot butacknowledge that his wood was, and could not be otherwise than, "theusual sort of a wood. "

I could describe the Black Forest to you at great length. I couldtranslate to you Hebel, the poet of the Black Forest. I could writepages concerning its rocky gorges and its smiling valleys, its pine-cladslopes, its rock-crowned summits, its foaming rivulets (where the tidyGerman has not condemned them to flow respectably through wooden troughsor drainpipes), its white villages, its lonely farmsteads. 

But I am haunted by the suspicion you might skip all this. Were yousufficiently conscientious--or weak-minded enough--not to do so, Ishould, all said and done, succeed in conveying to you only an impressionmuch better summed up in the simple words of the unpretentious guidebook:

"A picturesque, mountainous district, bounded on the south and the westby the plain of the Rhine, towards which its spurs descend precipitately. Its geological formation consists chiefly of variegated sandstone andgranite; its lower heights being covered with extensive pine forests. Itis well watered with numerous streams, while its populous valleys arefertile and well cultivated. The inns are good; but the local winesshould be partaken of by the stranger with discretion. "

CHAPTER VI

Why we went to Hanover--Something they do better abroad--The art ofpolite foreign conversation, as taught in English schools--A truehistory, now told for the first time--The French joke, as provided forthe amusement of British youth--Fatherly instincts of Harris--The road-waterer, considered as an artist--Patriotism of George--What Harris oughtto have done--What he did--We save Harris's life--A sleepless city--Thecab-horse as a critic. 

We arrived in Hamburg on Friday after a smooth and uneventful voyage; andfrom Hamburg we travelled to Berlin by way of Hanover. It is not themost direct route. I can only account for our visit to Hanover as thenigger accounted to the magistrate for his appearance in the Deacon'spoultry-yard. 

"Well?"

"Yes, sar, what the constable sez is quite true, sar; I was dar, sar. "

"Oh, so you admit it? And what were you doing with a sack, pray, inDeacon Abraham's poultry-yard at twelve o'clock at night?"

"I'se gwine ter tell yer, sar; yes, sar. I'd been to Massa Jordan's wida sack of melons. Yes, sar; an' Massa Jordan he wuz very 'greeable, an'axed me for ter come in. "

"Yes, sar, very 'greeable man is Massa Jordan. An' dar we sat a talkingan' a talking--"

"Very likely. What we want to know is what you were doing in theDeacon's poultry-yard?"

"Yes, sar, dat's what I'se cumming to. It wuz ver' late 'fore I leftMassa Jordan's, an' den I sez ter mysel', sez I, now yer jest step outwith yer best leg foremost, Ulysses, case yer gets into trouble wid deole woman. Ver' talkative woman she is, sar, very--"

"Yes, never mind her; there are other people very talkative in this townbesides your wife. Deacon Abraham's house is half a mile out of your wayhome from Mr. Jordan's. How did you get there?"

"Dat's what I'm a-gwine ter explain, sar. "

"I am glad of that. And how do you propose to do it?"

"Well, I'se thinkin', sar, I must ha' digressed. "

I take it we digressed a little. 

At first, from some reason or other, Hanover strikes you as anuninteresting town, but it grows upon you. It is in reality two towns; aplace of broad, modern, handsome streets and tasteful gardens; side byside with a sixteenth-century town, where old timbered houses overhangthe narrow lanes; where through low archways one catches glimpses ofgalleried courtyards, once often thronged, no doubt, with troops ofhorse, or blocked with lumbering coach and six, waiting its rich merchantowner, and his fat placid Frau, but where now children and chickensscuttle at their will; while over the carved balconies hang dingy clothesa-drying. 

A singularly English atmosphere hovers over Hanover, especially onSundays, when its shuttered shops and clanging bells give to it thesuggestion of a sunnier London. Nor was this British Sunday atmosphereapparent only to myself, else I might have attributed it to imagination;even George felt it. Harris and I, returning from a short stroll withour cigars after lunch on the Sunday afternoon, found him peacefullyslumbering in the smoke-room's easiest chair. 

"After all, " said Harris, "there is something about the British Sundaythat appeals to the man with English blood in his veins. I should besorry to see it altogether done away with, let the new generation saywhat it will. "

And taking one each end of the ample settee, we kept George company. 

To Hanover one should go, they say, to learn the best German. Thedisadvantage is that outside Hanover, which is only a small province, nobody understands this best German. Thus you have to decide whether tospeak good German and remain in Hanover, or bad German and travel about. Germany being separated so many centuries into a dozen principalities, isunfortunate in possessing a variety of dialects. Germans from Posenwishful to converse with men of Wurtemburg, have to talk as often as notin French or English; and young ladies who have received an expensiveeducation in Westphalia surprise and disappoint their parents by beingunable to understand a word said to them in Mechlenberg. AnEnglish-speaking foreigner, it is true, would find himself equallynonplussed among the Yorkshire wolds, or in the purlieus of Whitechapel;but the cases are not on all fours. Throughout Germany it is not only inthe country districts and among the uneducated that dialects aremaintained. Every province has practically its own language, of which itis proud and retentive. An educated Bavarian will admit to you that, academically speaking, the North German is more correct; but he willcontinue to speak South German and to teach it to his children. 

In the course of the century, I am inclined to think that Germany willsolve her difficulty in this respect by speaking English. Every boy andgirl in Germany, above the peasant class, speaks English. Were Englishpronunciation less arbitrary, there is not the slightest doubt but thatin the course of a very few years, comparatively speaking, it wouldbecome the language of the world. All foreigners agree that, grammatically, it is the easiest language of any to learn. A German, comparing it with his own language, where every word in every sentence isgoverned by at least four distinct and separate rules, tells you thatEnglish has no grammar. A good many English people would seem to havecome to the same conclusion; but they are wrong. As a matter of fact, there is an English grammar, and one of these days our schools willrecognise the fact, and it will be taught to our children, penetratingmaybe even into literary and journalistic circles. But at present weappear to agree with the foreigner that it is a quantity neglectable. English pronunciation is the stumbling-block to our progress. Englishspelling would seem to have been designed chiefly as a disguise topronunciation. It is a clever idea, calculated to check presumption onthe part of the foreigner; but for that he would learn it in a year. 

For they have a way of teaching languages in Germany that is not our way, and the consequence is that when the German youth or maiden leaves thegymnasium or high school at fifteen, "it" (as in Germany one convenientlymay say) can understand and speak the tongue it has been learning. InEngland we have a method that for obtaining the least possible result atthe greatest possible expenditure of time and money is perhapsunequalled. An English boy who has been through a good middle-classschool in England can talk to a Frenchman, slowly and with difficulty, about female gardeners and aunts; conversation which, to a man possessedperhaps of neither, is liable to pall. Possibly, if he be a brightexception, he may be able to tell the time, or make a few guardedobservations concerning the weather. No doubt he could repeat a goodlynumber of irregular verbs by heart; only, as a matter of fact, fewforeigners care to listen to their own irregular verbs, recited by youngEnglishmen. Likewise he might be able to remember a choice selection ofgrotesquely involved French idioms, such as no modern Frenchman has everheard or understands when he does hear. 

The explanation is that, in nine cases out of ten, he has learnt Frenchfrom an "Ahn's First-Course. " The history of this famous work isremarkable and instructive. The book was originally written for a joke, by a witty Frenchman who had resided for some years in England. Heintended it as a satire upon the conversational powers of Britishsociety. From this point of view it was distinctly good. He submittedit to a London publishing firm. The manager was a shrewd man. He readthe book through. Then he sent for the author. 

"This book of yours, " said he to the author, "is very clever. I havelaughed over it myself till the tears came. "

"I am delighted to hear you say so, " replied the pleased Frenchman. "Itried to be truthful without being unnecessarily offensive. "

"It is most amusing, " concurred the manager; "and yet published as aharmless joke, I feel it would fail. "

The author's face fell. 

"Its humour, " proceeded the manager, "would be denounced as forced andextravagant. It would amuse the thoughtful and intelligent, but from abusiness point of view that portion of the public are never worthconsidering. But I have an idea, " continued the manager. He glancedround the room to be sure they were alone, and leaning forward sunk hisvoice to a whisper. "My notion is to publish it as a serious work forthe use of schools!"

The author stared, speechless. 

"I know the English schoolman, " said the manager; "this book will appealto him. It will exactly fit in with his method. Nothing sillier, nothing more useless for the purpose will he ever discover. He willsmack his lips over the book, as a puppy licks up blacking. "

The author, sacrificing art to greed, consented. They altered the titleand added a vocabulary, but left the book otherwise as it was. 

The result is known to every schoolboy. "Ahn" became the palladium ofEnglish philological education. If it no longer retains its ubiquity, itis because something even less adaptable to the object in view has beensince invented. 

Lest, in spite of all, the British schoolboy should obtain, even from thelike of "Ahn, " some glimmering of French, the British educational methodfurther handicaps him by bestowing upon him the assistance of, what istermed in the prospectus, "A native gentleman. " This native Frenchgentleman, who, by-the-by, is generally a Belgian, is no doubt a mostworthy person, and can, it is true, understand and speak his own languagewith tolerable fluency. There his qualifications cease. Invariably heis a man with a quite remarkable inability to teach anybody anything. Indeed, he would seem to be chosen not so much as an instructor as anamuser of youth. He is always a comic figure. No Frenchman of adignified appearance would be engaged for any English school. If hepossess by nature a few harmless peculiarities, calculated to causemerriment, so much the more is he esteemed by his employers. The classnaturally regards him as an animated joke. The two to four hours a weekthat are deliberately wasted on this ancient farce, are looked forward toby the boys as a merry interlude in an otherwise monotonous existence. And then, when the proud parent takes his son and heir to Dieppe merelyto discover that the lad does not know enough to call a cab, he abusesnot the system, but its innocent victim. 

I confine my remarks to French, because that is the only language weattempt to teach our youth. An English boy who could speak German wouldbe looked down upon as unpatriotic. Why we waste time in teaching evenFrench according to this method I have never been able to understand. Aperfect unacquaintance with a language is respectable. But putting asidecomic journalists and lady novelists, for whom it is a businessnecessity, this smattering of French which we are so proud to possessonly serves to render us ridiculous. 

In the German school the method is somewhat different. One hour everyday is devoted to the same language. The idea is not to give the ladtime between each lesson to forget what he learned at the last; the ideais for him to get on. There is no comic foreigner provided for hisamusement. The desired language is taught by a German school-master whoknows it inside and out as thoroughly as he knows his own. Maybe thissystem does not provide the German youth with that perfection of foreignaccent for which the British tourist is in every land remarkable, but ithas other advantages. The boy does not call his master "froggy, " or"sausage, " nor prepare for the French or English hour any exhibition ofhomely wit whatever. He just sits there, and for his own sake tries tolearn that foreign tongue with as little trouble to everybody concernedas possible. When he has left school he can talk, not about penknivesand gardeners and aunts merely, but about European politics, history, Shakespeare, or the musical glasses, according to the turn theconversation may take. 

Viewing the German people from an Anglo-Saxon standpoint, it may be thatin this book I shall find occasion to criticise them: but on the otherhand there is much that we might learn from them; and in the matter ofcommon sense, as applied to education, they can give us ninety-nine in ahundred and beat us with one hand. 

The beautiful wood of the Eilenriede bounds Hanover on the south andwest, and here occurred a sad drama in which Harris took a prominentpart. 

We were riding our machines through this wood on the Monday afternoon inthe company of many other cyclists, for it is a favourite resort with theHanoverians on a sunny afternoon, and its shady pathways are then filledwith happy, thoughtless folk. Among them rode a young and beautiful girlon a machine that was new. She was evidently a novice on the bicycle. One felt instinctively that there would come a moment when she wouldrequire help, and Harris, with his accustomed chivalry, suggested weshould keep near her. Harris, as he occasionally explains to George andto myself, has daughters of his own, or, to speak more correctly, adaughter, who as the years progress will no doubt cease practisingcatherine wheels in the front garden, and will grow up into a beautifuland respectable young lady. This naturally gives Harris an interest inall beautiful girls up to the age of thirty-five or thereabouts; theyremind him, so he says, of home. 

We had ridden for about two miles, when we noticed, a little ahead of usin a space where five ways met, a man with a hose, watering the roads. The pipe, supported at each joint by a pair of tiny wheels, writhed afterhim as he moved, suggesting a gigantic-worm, from whose open neck, as theman, gripping it firmly in both hands, pointing it now this way, and nowthat, now elevating it, now depressing it, poured a strong stream ofwater at the rate of about a gallon a second. 

"What a much better method than ours, " observed Harris, enthusiastically. Harris is inclined to be chronically severe on all British institutions. "How much simpler, quicker, and more economical! You see, one man bythis method can in five minutes water a stretch of road that would takeus with our clumsy lumbering cart half an hour to cover. "

George, who was riding behind me on the tandem, said, "Yes, and it isalso a method by which with a little carelessness a man could cover agood many people in a good deal less time than they could get out of theway. "

George, the opposite to Harris, is British to the core. I rememberGeorge quite patriotically indignant with Harris once for suggesting theintroduction of the guillotine into England. 

"It is so much neater, " said Harris. 

"I don't care if it is, " said George; "I'm an Englishman; hanging is goodenough for me. "

"Our water-cart may have its disadvantages, " continued George, "but itcan only make you uncomfortable about the legs, and you can avoid it. This is the sort of machine with which a man can follow you round thecorner and upstairs. "

"It fascinates me to watch them, " said Harris. "They are so skilful. Ihave seen a man from the corner of a crowded square in Strassburg coverevery inch of ground, and not so much as wet an apron string. It ismarvellous how they judge their distance. They will send the water up toyour toes, and then bring it over your head so that it falls around yourheels. They can--"

"Ease up a minute, " said George. I said: "Why?"

He said: "I am going to get off and watch the rest of this show frombehind a tree. There may be great performers in this line, as Harrissays; this particular artist appears to me to lack something. He hasjust soused a dog, and now he's busy watering a sign-post. I am going towait till he has finished. "

"Nonsense, " said Harris; "he won't wet you. "

"That is precisely what I am going to make sure of, " answered George, saying which he jumped off, and, taking up a position behind a remarkablyfine elm, pulled out and commenced filling his pipe. 

I did not care to take the tandem on by myself, so I stepped off andjoined him, leaving the machine against a tree. Harris shouted somethingor other about our being a disgrace to the land that gave us birth, androde on. 

The next moment I heard a woman's cry of distress. Glancing round thestem of the tree, I perceived that it proceeded from the young andelegant lady before mentioned, whom, in our interest concerning the road-waterer, we had forgotten. She was riding her machine steadily andstraightly through a drenching shower of water from the hose. Sheappeared to be too paralysed either to get off or turn her wheel aside. Every instant she was becoming wetter, while the man with the hose, whowas either drunk or blind, continued to pour water upon her with utterindifference. A dozen voices yelled imprecations upon him, but he tookno heed whatever. 

Harris, his fatherly nature stirred to its depths, did at this pointwhat, under the circumstances, was quite the right and proper thing todo. Had he acted throughout with the same coolness and judgment he thendisplayed, he would have emerged from that incident the hero of the hour, instead of, as happened, riding away followed by insult and threat. Without a moment's hesitation he spurted at the man, sprang to theground, and, seizing the hose by the nozzle, attempted to wrest it away. 

What he ought to have done, what any man retaining his common sense wouldhave done the moment he got his hands upon the thing, was to turn off thetap. Then he might have played foot-ball with the man, or battledore andshuttlecock as he pleased; and the twenty or thirty people who had rushedforward to assist would have only applauded. His idea, however, as heexplained to us afterwards, was to take away the hose from the man, and, for punishment, turn it upon the fool himself. The waterman's ideaappeared to be the same, namely, to retain the hose as a weapon withwhich to soak Harris. Of course, the result was that, between them, theysoused every dead and living thing within fifty yards, except themselves. One furious man, too drenched to care what more happened to him, leaptinto the arena and also took a hand. The three among them proceeded tosweep the compass with that hose. They pointed it to heaven, and thewater descended upon the people in the form of an equinoctial storm. Theypointed it downwards, and sent the water in rushing streams that tookpeople off their feet, or caught them about the waist line, and doubledthem up. 

Not one of them would loosen his grip upon the hose, not one of themthought to turn the water off. You might have concluded they werestruggling with some primeval force of nature. In forty-five seconds, soGeorge said, who was timing it, they had swept that circus bare of everyliving thing except one dog, who, dripping like a water nymph, rolledover by the force of water, now on this side, now on that, stillgallantly staggered again and again to its feet to bark defiance at whatit evidently regarded as the powers of hell let loose. 

Men and women left their machines upon the ground, and flew into thewoods. From behind every tree of importance peeped out wet, angry heads. 

At last, there arrived upon the scene one man of sense. Braving allthings, he crept to the hydrant, where still stood the iron key, andscrewed it down. And then from forty trees began to creep more or lesssoaked human beings, each one with something to say. 

At first I fell to wondering whether a stretcher or a clothes basketwould be the more useful for the conveyance of Harris's remains back tothe hotel. I consider that George's promptness on that occasion savedHarris's life. Being dry, and therefore able to run quicker, he wasthere before the crowd. Harris was for explaining things, but George cuthim short. 

"You get on that, " said George, handing him his bicycle, "and go. Theydon't know we belong to you, and you may trust us implicitly not toreveal the secret. We'll hang about behind, and get in their way. Ridezig-zag in case they shoot. "

I wish this book to be a strict record of fact, unmarred by exaggeration, and therefore I have shown my description of this incident to Harris, lest anything beyond bald narrative may have crept into it. Harrismaintains it is exaggerated, but admits that one or two people may havebeen "sprinkled. " I have offered to turn a street hose on him at adistance of five-and-twenty yards, and take his opinion afterwards, as towhether "sprinkled" is the adequate term, but he has declined the test. Again, he insists there could not have been more than half a dozenpeople, at the outside, involved in the catastrophe, that forty is aridiculous misstatement. I have offered to return with him to Hanoverand make strict inquiry into the matter, and this offer he has likewisedeclined. Under these circumstances, I maintain that mine is a true andrestrained narrative of an event that is, by a certain number ofHanoverians, remembered with bitterness unto this very day. 

We left Hanover that same evening, and arrived at Berlin in time forsupper and an evening stroll. Berlin is a disappointing town; its centreover-crowded, its outlying parts lifeless; its one famous street, Unterden Linden, an attempt to combine Oxford Street with the Champs Elysee, singularly unimposing, being much too wide for its size; its theatresdainty and charming, where acting is considered of more importance thanscenery or dress, where long runs are unknown, successful pieces beingplayed again and again, but never consecutively, so that for a weekrunning you may go to the same Berlin theatre, and see a fresh play everynight; its opera house unworthy of it; its two music halls, with anunnecessary suggestion of vulgarity and commonness about them, ill-arranged and much too large for comfort. In the Berlin cafes andrestaurants, the busy time is from midnight on till three. Yet most ofthe people who frequent them are up again at seven. Either the Berlinerhas solved the great problem of modern life, how to do without sleep, or, with Carlyle, he must be looking forward to eternity. 

Personally, I know of no other town where such late hours are the vogue, except St. Petersburg. But your St. Petersburger does not get up earlyin the morning. At St. Petersburg, the music halls, which it is thefashionable thing to attend _after_ the theatre--a drive to them takinghalf an hour in a swift sleigh--do not practically begin till twelve. Through the Neva at four o'clock in the morning you have to literallypush your way; and the favourite trains for travellers are those startingabout five o'clock in the morning. These trains save the Russian thetrouble of getting up early. He wishes his friends "Good-night, " anddrives down to the station comfortably after supper, without putting thehouse to any inconvenience. 

Potsdam, the Versailles to Berlin, is a beautiful little town, situateamong lakes and woods. Here in the shady ways of its quiet, far-stretching park of Sans Souci, it is easy to imagine lean, snuffyFrederick "bummeling" with shrill Voltaire. 

Acting on my advice, George and Harris consented not to stay long inBerlin; but to push on to Dresden. Most that Berlin has to show can beseen better elsewhere, and we decided to be content with a drive throughthe town. The hotel porter introduced us to a droschke driver, underwhose guidance, so he assured us, we should see everything worth seeingin the shortest possible time. The man himself, who called for us atnine o'clock in the morning, was all that could be desired. He wasbright, intelligent, and well-informed; his German was easy tounderstand, and he knew a little English with which to eke it out onoccasion. With the man himself there was no fault to be found, but hishorse was the most unsympathetic brute I have ever sat behind. 

He took a dislike to us the moment he saw us. I was the first to comeout of the hotel. He turned his head, and looked me up and down with acold, glassy eye; and then he looked across at another horse, a friend ofhis that was standing facing him. I knew what he said. He had anexpressive head, and he made no attempt to disguise his thought. 

He said:

"Funny things one does come across in the summer time, don't one?"

George followed me out the next moment, and stood behind me. The horseagain turned his head and looked. I have never known a horse that couldtwist himself as this horse did. I have seen a camelopard do trick'swith his neck that compelled one's attention, but this animal was morelike the thing one dreams of after a dusty days at Ascot, followed by adinner with six old chums. If I had seen his eyes looking at me frombetween his own hind legs, I doubt if I should have been surprised. Heseemed more amused with George if anything, than with myself. He turnedto his friend again. 

"Extraordinary, isn't it?" he remarked; "I suppose there must be someplace where they grow them"; and then he commenced licking flies off hisown left shoulder. I began to wonder whether he had lost his mother whenyoung, and had been brought up by a cat. 

George and I climbed in, and sat waiting for Harris. He came a momentlater. Myself, I thought he looked rather neat. He wore a white flannelknickerbocker suit, which he had had made specially for bicycling in hotweather; his hat may have been a trifle out of the common, but it didkeep the sun off. 

The horse gave one look at him, said "Gott in Himmel!" as plainly as everhorse spoke, and started off down Friedrich Strasse at a brisk walk, leaving Harris and the driver standing on the pavement. His owner calledto him to stop, but he took no notice. They ran after us, and overtookus at the corner of the Dorotheen Strasse. I could not catch what theman said to the horse, he spoke quickly and excitedly; but I gathered afew phrases, such as:

"Got to earn my living somehow, haven't I? Who asked for your opinion?Aye, little you care so long as you can guzzle. "

The horse cut the conversation short by turning up the Dorotheen Strasseon his own account. I think what he said was:

"Come on then; don't talk so much. Let's get the job over, and, wherepossible, let's keep to the back streets. "

Opposite the Brandenburger Thor our driver hitched the reins to the whip, climbed down, and came round to explain things to us. He pointed out theThiergarten, and then descanted to us of the Reichstag House. Heinformed us of its exact height, length, and breadth, after the manner ofguides. Then he turned his attention to the Gate. He said it wasconstructed of sandstone, in imitation of the "Properleer" in Athens. 

At this point the horse, which had been occupying its leisure licking itsown legs, turned round its head. It did not say anything, it justlooked. 

The man began again nervously. This time he said it was an imitation ofthe "Propeyedliar. "

Here the horse proceeded up the Linden, and nothing would persuade himnot to proceed up the Linden. His owner expostulated with him, but hecontinued to trot on. From the way he hitched his shoulders as he moved, I somehow felt he was saying:

"They've seen the Gate, haven't they? Very well, that's enough. As forthe rest, you don't know what you are talking about, and they wouldn'tunderstand you if you did. You talk German. "

It was the same throughout the length of the Linden. The horse consentedto stand still sufficiently long to enable us to have a good look at eachsight, and to hear the name of it. All explanation and description hecut short by the simple process of moving on. 

"What these fellows want, " he seemed to say to himself, "is to go homeand tell people they have seen these things. If I am doing them aninjustice, if they are more intelligent than they look, they can getbetter information than this old fool of mine is giving them from theguide book. Who wants to know how high a steeple is? You don't rememberit the next five minutes when you are told, and if you do it is becauseyou have got nothing else in your head. He just tires me with his talk. Why doesn't he hurry up, and let us all get home to lunch?"

Upon reflection, I am not sure that wall-eyed old brute had not sense onits side. Anyhow, I know there have been occasions, with a guide, when Iwould have been glad of its interference. 

But one is apt to "sin one's mercies, " as the Scotch say, and at the timewe cursed that horse instead of blessing it. 

CHAPTER VII

George wonders--German love of order--"The Band of the SchwarzwaldBlackbirds will perform at seven"--The china dog--Its superiority overall other dogs--The German and the solar system--A tidy country--Themountain valley as it ought to be, according to the German idea--How thewaters come down in Germany--The scandal of Dresden--Harris gives anentertainment--It is unappreciated--George and the aunt of him--George, acushion, and three damsels. 

At a point between Berlin and Dresden, George, who had, for the lastquarter of an hour or so, been looking very attentively out of thewindow, said:

"Why, in Germany, is it the custom to put the letter-box up a tree? Whydo they not fix it to the front door as we do? I should hate having toclimb up a tree to get my letters. Besides, it is not fair to thepostman. In addition to being most exhausting, the delivery of lettersmust to a heavy man, on windy nights, be positively dangerous work. Ifthey will fix it to a tree, why not fix it lower down, why always amongthe topmost branches? But, maybe, I am misjudging the country, " hecontinued, a new idea occurring to him. "Possibly the Germans, who arein many matters ahead of us, have perfected a pigeon post. Even so, Icannot help thinking they would have been wiser to train the birds, whilethey were about it, to deliver the letters nearer the ground. Gettingyour letters out of those boxes must be tricky work even to the averagemiddle-aged German. "

I followed his gaze out of window. I said:

"Those are not letter-boxes, they are birds' nests. You must understandthis nation. The German loves birds, but he likes tidy birds. A birdleft to himself builds his nest just anywhere. It is not a prettyobject, according to the German notion of prettiness. There is not a bitof paint on it anywhere, not a plaster image all round, not even a flag. The nest finished, the bird proceeds to live outside it. He drops thingson the grass; twigs, ends of worms, all sorts of things. He isindelicate. He makes love, quarrels with his wife, and feeds thechildren quite in public. The German householder is shocked. He says tothe bird:

"'For many things I like you. I like to look at you. I like to hear yousing. But I don't like your ways. Take this little box, and put yourrubbish inside where I can't see it. Come out when you want to sing; butlet your domestic arrangements be confined to the interior. Keep to thebox, and don't make the garden untidy. '"

In Germany one breathes in love of order with the air, in Germany thebabies beat time with their rattles, and the German bird has come toprefer the box, and to regard with contempt the few uncivilised outcastswho continue to build their nests in trees and hedges. In course of timeevery German bird, one is confident, will have his proper place in a fullchorus. This promiscuous and desultory warbling of his must, one feels, be irritating to the precise German mind; there is no method in it. Themusic-loving German will organise him. Some stout bird with a speciallywell-developed crop will be trained to conduct him, and, instead ofwasting himself in a wood at four o'clock in the morning, he will, at theadvertised time, sing in a beer garden, accompanied by a piano. Thingsare drifting that way. 

Your German likes nature, but his idea of nature is a glorified WelshHarp. He takes great interest in his garden. He plants seven rose treeson the north side and seven on the south, and if they do not grow up allthe same size and shape it worries him so that he cannot sleep of nights. Every flower he ties to a stick. This interferes with his view of theflower, but he has the satisfaction of knowing it is there, and that itis behaving itself. The lake is lined with zinc, and once a week hetakes it up, carries it into the kitchen, and scours it. In thegeometrical centre of the grass plot, which is sometimes as large as atablecloth and is generally railed round, he places a china dog. TheGermans are very fond of dogs, but as a rule they prefer them of china. The china dog never digs holes in the lawn to bury bones, and neverscatters a flower-bed to the winds with his hind legs. From the Germanpoint of view, he is the ideal dog. He stops where you put him, and heis never where you do not want him. You can have him perfect in allpoints, according to the latest requirements of the Kennel Club; or youcan indulge your own fancy and have something unique. You are not, aswith other dogs, limited to breed. In china, you can have a blue dog ora pink dog. For a little extra, you can have a double-headed dog. 

On a certain fixed date in the autumn the German stakes his flowers andbushes to the earth, and covers them with Chinese matting; and on acertain fixed date in the spring he uncovers them, and stands them upagain. If it happens to be an exceptionally fine autumn, or anexceptionally late spring, so much the worse for the unfortunatevegetable. No true German would allow his arrangements to be interferedwith by so unruly a thing as the solar system. Unable to regulate theweather, he ignores it. 

Among trees, your German's favourite is the poplar. Other disorderlynations may sing the charms of the rugged oak, the spreading chestnut, orthe waving elm. To the German all such, with their wilful, untidy ways, are eyesores. The poplar grows where it is planted, and how it isplanted. It has no improper rugged ideas of its own. It does not wantto wave or to spread itself. It just grows straight and upright as aGerman tree should grow; and so gradually the German is rooting out allother trees, and replacing them with poplars. 

Your German likes the country, but he prefers it as the lady thought shewould the noble savage--more dressed. He likes his walk through thewood--to a restaurant. But the pathway must not be too steep, it musthave a brick gutter running down one side of it to drain it, and everytwenty yards or so it must have its seat on which he can rest and mop hisbrow; for your German would no more think of sitting on the grass thanwould an English bishop dream of rolling down One Tree Hill. He likeshis view from the summit of the hill, but he likes to find there a stonetablet telling him what to look at, find a table and bench at which hecan sit to partake of the frugal beer and "belegte Semmel" he has beencareful to bring with him. If, in addition, he can find a police noticeposted on a tree, forbidding him to do something or other, that gives himan extra sense of comfort and security. 

Your German is not averse even to wild scenery, provided it be not toowild. But if he consider it too savage, he sets to work to tame it. Iremember, in the neighbourhood of Dresden, discovering a picturesque andnarrow valley leading down towards the Elbe. The winding roadway ranbeside a mountain torrent, which for a mile or so fretted and foamed overrocks and boulders between wood-covered banks. I followed it enchanteduntil, turning a corner, I suddenly came across a gang of eighty or ahundred workmen. They were busy tidying up that valley, and making thatstream respectable. All the stones that were impeding the course of thewater they were carefully picking out and carting away. The bank oneither side they were bricking up and cementing. The overhanging treesand bushes, the tangled vines and creepers they were rooting up andtrimming down. A little further I came upon the finished work--themountain valley as it ought to be, according to German ideas. The water, now a broad, sluggish stream, flowed over a level, gravelly bed, betweentwo walls crowned with stone coping. At every hundred yards it gentlydescended down three shallow wooden platforms. For a space on eitherside the ground had been cleared, and at regular intervals young poplarsplanted. Each sapling was protected by a shield of wickerwork and bossedby an iron rod. In the course of a couple of years it is the hope of thelocal council to have "finished" that valley throughout its entirelength, and made it fit for a tidy-minded lover of German nature to walkin. There will be a seat every fifty yards, a police notice everyhundred, and a restaurant every half-mile. 

They are doing the same from the Memel to the Rhine. They are justtidying up the country. I remember well the Wehrthal. It was once themost romantic ravine to be found in the Black Forest. The last time Iwalked down it some hundreds of Italian workmen were encamped there hardat work, training the wild little Wehr the way it should go, bricking thebanks for it here, blasting the rocks for it there, making cement stepsfor it down which it can travel soberly and without fuss. 

For in Germany there is no nonsense talked about untrammelled nature. InGermany nature has got to behave herself, and not set a bad example tothe children. A German poet, noticing waters coming down as Southeydescribes, somewhat inexactly, the waters coming down at Lodore, would betoo shocked to stop and write alliterative verse about them. He wouldhurry away, and at once report them to the police. Then their foamingand their shrieking would be of short duration. 

"Now then, now then, what's all this about?" the voice of Germanauthority would say severely to the waters. "We can't have this sort ofthing, you know. Come down quietly, can't you? Where do you think youare?"

And the local German council would provide those waters with zinc pipesand wooden troughs, and a corkscrew staircase, and show them how to comedown sensibly, in the German manner. 

It is a tidy land is Germany. 

We reached Dresden on the Wednesday evening, and stayed there over theSunday. 

Taking one consideration with another, Dresden, perhaps, is the mostattractive town in Germany; but it is a place to be lived in for a whilerather than visited. Its museums and galleries, its palaces and gardens, its beautiful and historically rich environment, provide pleasure for awinter, but bewilder for a week. It has not the gaiety of Paris orVienna, which quickly palls; its charms are more solidly German, and morelasting. It is the Mecca of the musician. For five shillings, inDresden, you can purchase a stall at the opera house, together, unfortunately, with a strong disinclination ever again to take thetrouble of sitting out a performance in any English, French, or, Americanopera house. 

The chief scandal of Dresden still centres round August the Strong, "theMan of Sin, " as Carlyle always called him, who is popularly reputed tohave cursed Europe with over a thousand children. Castles where heimprisoned this discarded mistress or that--one of them, who persisted inher claim to a better title, for forty years, it is said, poor lady! Thenarrow rooms where she ate her heart out and died are still shown. Chateaux, shameful for this deed of infamy or that, lie scattered roundthe neighbourhood like bones about a battlefield; and most of yourguide's stories are such as the "young person" educated in Germany hadbest not hear. His life-sized portrait hangs in the fine Zwinger, whichhe built as an arena for his wild beast fights when the people grew tiredof them in the market-place; a beetle-browed, frankly animal man, butwith the culture and taste that so often wait upon animalism. ModernDresden undoubtedly owes much to him. 

But what the stranger in Dresden stares at most is, perhaps, its electrictrams. These huge vehicles flash through the streets at from ten totwenty miles an hour, taking curves and corners after the manner of anIrish car driver. Everybody travels by them, excepting only officers inuniform, who must not. Ladies in evening dress, going to ball or opera, porters with their baskets, sit side by side. They are all-important inthe streets, and everything and everybody makes haste to get out of theirway. If you do not get out of their way, and you still happen to bealive when picked up, then on your recovery you are fined for having beenin their way. This teaches you to be wary of them. 

One afternoon Harris took a "bummel" by himself. In the evening, as wesat listening to the band at the Belvedere, Harris said, _a propos_ ofnothing in particular, "These Germans have no sense of humour. "

"What makes you think that?" I asked. 

"Why, this afternoon, " he answered, "I jumped on one of those electrictramcars. I wanted to see the town, so I stood outside on the littleplatform--what do you call it?"

"The Stehplatz, " I suggested. 

"That's it, " said Harris. "Well, you know the way they shake you about, and how you have to look out for the corners, and mind yourself when theystop and when they start?"

I nodded. 

"There were about half a dozen of us standing there, " he continued, "and, of course, I am not experienced. The thing started suddenly, and thatjerked me backwards. I fell against a stout gentleman, just behind me. He could not have been standing very firmly himself, and he, in his turn, fell back against a boy who was carrying a trumpet in a green baize case. They never smiled, neither the man nor the boy with the trumpet; theyjust stood there and looked sulky. I was going to say I was sorry, butbefore I could get the words out the tram eased up, for some reason orother, and that, of course, shot me forward again, and I butted into awhite-haired old chap, who looked to me like a professor. Well, _he_never smiled, never moved a muscle. "

"Maybe, he was thinking of something else, " I suggested. 

"That could not have been the case with them all, " replied Harris, "andin the course of that journey, I must have fallen against every one ofthem at least three times. You see, " explained Harris, "they knew whenthe corners were coming, and in which direction to brace themselves. I, as a stranger, was naturally at a disadvantage. The way I rolled andstaggered about that platform, clutching wildly now at this man and nowat that, must have been really comic. I don't say it was high-classhumour, but it would have amused most people. Those Germans seemed tosee no fun in it whatever--just seemed anxious, that was all. There wasone man, a little man, who stood with his back against the brake; I fellagainst him five times, I counted them. You would have expected thefifth time would have dragged a laugh out of him, but it didn't; hemerely looked tired. They are a dull lot. "

George also had an adventure at Dresden. There was a shop near theAltmarkt, in the window of which were exhibited some cushions for sale. The proper business of the shop was handling of glass and china; thecushions appeared to be in the nature of an experiment. They were verybeautiful cushions, hand-embroidered on satin. We often passed the shop, and every time George paused and examined those cushions. He said hethought his aunt would like one. 

George has been very attentive to this aunt of his during the journey. Hehas written her quite a long letter every day, and from every town westop at he sends her off a present. To my mind, he is overdoing thebusiness, and more than once I have expostulated with him. His aunt willbe meeting other aunts, and talking to them; the whole class will becomedisorganised and unruly. As a nephew, I object to the impossiblestandard that George is setting up. But he will not listen. 

Therefore it was that on the Saturday he left us after lunch, saying hewould go round to that shop and get one of those cushions for his aunt. He said he would not be long, and suggested our waiting for him. 

We waited for what seemed to me rather a long time. When he rejoined ushe was empty handed, and looked worried. We asked him where his cushionwas. He said he hadn't got a cushion, said he had changed his mind, saidhe didn't think his aunt would care for a cushion. Evidently somethingwas amiss. We tried to get at the bottom of it, but he was notcommunicative. Indeed, his answers after our twentieth question orthereabouts became quite short. 

In the evening, however, when he and I happened to be alone, he broachedthe subject himself. He said:

"They are somewhat peculiar in some things, these Germans. "

I said: "What has happened?"

"Well, " he answered, "there was that cushion I wanted. "

"For your aunt, " I remarked. 

"Why not?" he returned. He was huffy in a moment; I never knew a man sotouchy about an aunt. "Why shouldn't I send a cushion to my aunt?"

"Don't get excited, " I replied. "I am not objecting; I respect you forit. "

He recovered his temper, and went on:

"There were four in the window, if you remember, all very much alike, andeach one labelled in plain figures twenty marks. I don't pretend tospeak German fluently, but I can generally make myself understood with alittle effort, and gather the sense of what is said to me, provided theydon't gabble. I went into the shop. A young girl came up to me; she wasa pretty, quiet little soul, one might almost say, demure; not at all thesort of girl from whom you would have expected such a thing. I was nevermore surprised in all my life. "

"Surprised about what?" I said. 

George always assumes you know the end of the story while he is tellingyou the beginning; it is an annoying method. 

"At what happened, " replied George; "at what I am telling you. Shesmiled and asked me what I wanted. I understood that all right; therecould have been no mistake about that. I put down a twenty mark piece onthe counter and said:

"Please give me a cushion. "

"She stared at me as if I had asked for a feather bed. I thought, maybe, she had not heard, so I repeated it louder. If I had chucked her underthe chin she could not have looked more surprised or indignant. 

"She said she thought I must be making a mistake. 

"I did not want to begin a long conversation and find myself stranded. Isaid there was no mistake. I pointed to my twenty mark piece, andrepeated for the third time that I wanted a cushion, 'a twenty markcushion. '

"Another girl came up, an elder girl; and the first girl repeated to herwhat I had just said: she seemed quite excited about it. The second girldid not believe her--did not think I looked the sort of man who wouldwant a cushion. To make sure, she put the question to me herself. 

"'Did you say you wanted a cushion?' she asked. 

"'I have said it three times, ' I answered. 'I will say it again--I wanta cushion. '

"She said: 'Then you can't have one. '

"I was getting angry by this time. If I hadn't really wanted the thing Ishould have walked out of the shop; but there the cushions were in thewindow, evidently for sale. I didn't see _why_ I couldn't have one. 

"I said: 'I will have one!' It is a simple sentence. I said it withdetermination. 

"A third girl came up at this point, the three representing, I fancy, thewhole force of the shop. She was a bright-eyed, saucy-looking littlewench, this last one. On any other occasion I might have been pleased tosee her; now, her coming only irritated me. I didn't see the need ofthree girls for this business. 

"The first two girls started explaining the thing to the third girl, andbefore they were half-way through the third girl began to giggle--she wasthe sort of girl who would giggle at anything. That done, they fell tochattering like Jenny Wrens, all three together; and between every half-dozen words they looked across at me; and the more they looked at me themore the third girl giggled; and before they had finished they were allthree giggling, the little idiots; you might have thought I was a clown, giving a private performance. 

"When she was steady enough to move, the third girl came up to me; shewas still giggling. She said:

"'If you get it, will you go?'

"I did not quite understand her at first, and she repeated it. 

"'This cushion. When you've got it, will you go--away--at once?'

"I was only too anxious to go. I told her so. But, I added I was notgoing without it. I had made up my mind to have that cushion now if Istopped in the shop all night for it. 

"She rejoined the other two girls. I thought they were going to get methe cushion and have done with the business. Instead of that, thestrangest thing possible happened. The two other girls got behind thefirst girl, all three still giggling, Heaven knows what about, and pushedher towards me. They pushed her close up to me, and then, before I knewwhat was happening, she put her hands on my shoulders, stood up ontiptoe, and kissed me. After which, burying her face in her apron, sheran off, followed by the second girl. The third girl opened the door forme, and so evidently expected me to go, that in my confusion I went, leaving my twenty marks behind me. I don't say I minded the kiss, thoughI did not particularly want it, while I did want the cushion. I don'tlike to go back to the shop. I cannot understand the thing at all. "

I said: "What did you ask for?"

He said: "A cushion"

I said: "That is what you wanted, I know. What I mean is, what was theactual German word you said. "

He replied: "A kuss. "

I said: "You have nothing to complain of. It is somewhat confusing. A'kuss' sounds as if it ought to be a cushion, but it is not; it is akiss, while a 'kissen' is a cushion. You muddled up the two words--peoplehave done it before. I don't know much about this sort of thing myself;but you asked for a twenty mark kiss, and from your description of thegirl some people might consider the price reasonable. Anyhow, I shouldnot tell Harris. If I remember rightly, he also has an aunt. "

George agreed with me it would be better not. 

CHAPTER VIII

Mr. And Miss Jones, of Manchester--The benefits of cocoa--A hint to thePeace Society--The window as a mediaeval argument--The favouriteChristian recreation--The language of the guide--How to repair theravages of time--George tries a bottle--The fate of the German beerdrinker--Harris and I resolve to do a good action--The usual sort ofstatue--Harris and his friends--A pepperless Paradise--Women and towns. 

We were on our way to Prague, and were waiting in the great hall of theDresden Station until such time as the powers-that-be should permit us onto the platform. George, who had wandered to the bookstall, returned tous with a wild look in his eyes. He said:

"I've seen it. "

I said, "Seen what?"

He was too excited to answer intelligently. He said

"It's here. It's coming this way, both of them. If you wait, you'll seeit for yourselves. I'm not joking; it's the real thing. "

As is usual about this period, some paragraphs, more or less serious, hadbeen appearing in the papers concerning the sea-serpent, and I thoughtfor the moment he must be referring to this. A moment's reflection, however, told me that here, in the middle of Europe, three hundred milesfrom the coast, such a thing was impossible. Before I could question himfurther, he seized me by the arm. 

"Look!" he said; "now am I exaggerating?"

I turned my head and saw what, I suppose, few living Englishmen have everseen before--the travelling Britisher according to the Continental idea, accompanied by his daughter. They were coming towards us in the fleshand blood, unless we were dreaming, alive and concrete--the English"Milor" and the English "Mees, " as for generations they have beenportrayed in the Continental comic press and upon the Continental stage. They were perfect in every detail. The man was tall and thin, with sandyhair, a huge nose, and long Dundreary whiskers. Over a pepper-and-saltsuit he wore a light overcoat, reaching almost to his heels. His whitehelmet was ornamented with a green veil; a pair of opera-glasses hung athis side, and in his lavender-gloved hand he carried an alpenstock alittle taller than himself. His daughter was long and angular. Herdress I cannot describe: my grandfather, poor gentleman, might have beenable to do so; it would have been more familiar to him. I can only saythat it appeared to me unnecessarily short, exhibiting a pair ofankles--if I may be permitted to refer to such points--that, from anartistic point of view, called rather for concealment. Her hat made methink of Mrs. Hemans; but why I cannot explain. She wore side-springboots--"prunella, " I believe, used to be the trade name--mittens, andpince-nez. She also carried an alpenstock (there is not a mountainwithin a hundred miles of Dresden) and a black bag strapped to her waist. Her teeth stuck out like a rabbit's, and her figure was that of a bolsteron stilts. 

Harris rushed for his camera, and of course could not find it; he nevercan when he wants it. Whenever we see Harris scuttling up and down likea lost dog, shouting, "Where's my camera? What the dickens have I donewith my camera? Don't either of you remember where I put mycamera?"--then we know that for the first time that day he has comeacross something worth photographing. Later on, he remembered it was inhis bag; that is where it would be on an occasion like this. 

They were not content with appearance; they acted the thing to theletter. They walked gaping round them at every step. The gentleman hadan open Baedeker in his hand, and the lady carried a phrase book. Theytalked French that nobody could understand, and German that they couldnot translate themselves! The man poked at officials with his alpenstockto attract their attention, and the lady, her eye catching sight of anadvertisement of somebody's cocoa, said "Shocking!" and turned the otherway. 

Really, there was some excuse for her. One notices, even in England, thehome of the proprieties, that the lady who drinks cocoa appears, according to the poster, to require very little else in this world; ayard or so of art muslin at the most. On the Continent she dispenses, sofar as one can judge, with every other necessity of life. Not only iscocoa food and drink to her, it should be clothes also, according to theidea of the cocoa manufacturer. But this by the way. 

Of course, they immediately became the centre of attraction. By beingable to render them some slight assistance, I gained the advantage offive minutes' conversation with them. They were very affable. Thegentleman told me his name was Jones, and that he came from Manchester, but he did not seem to know what part of Manchester, or where Manchesterwas. I asked him where he was going to, but he evidently did not know. He said it depended. I asked him if he did not find an alpenstock aclumsy thing to walk about with through a crowded town; he admitted thatoccasionally it did get in the way. I asked him if he did not find aveil interfere with his view of things; he explained that you only woreit when the flies became troublesome. I enquired of the lady if she didnot find the wind blow cold; she said she had noticed it, especially atthe corners. I did not ask these questions one after another as I havehere put them down; I mixed them up with general conversation, and weparted on good terms. 

I have pondered much upon the apparition, and have come to a definiteopinion. A man I met later at Frankfort, and to whom I described thepair, said he had seen them himself in Paris, three weeks after thetermination of the Fashoda incident; while a traveller for some Englishsteel works whom we met in Strassburg remembered having seen them inBerlin during the excitement caused by the Transvaal question. Myconclusion is that they were actors out of work, hired to do this thingin the interest of international peace. The French Foreign Office, wishful to allay the anger of the Parisian mob clamouring for war withEngland, secured this admirable couple and sent them round the town. Youcannot be amused at a thing, and at the same time want to kill it. TheFrench nation saw the English citizen and citizeness--no caricature, butthe living reality--and their indignation exploded in laughter. Thesuccess of the stratagem prompted them later on to offer their servicesto the German Government, with the beneficial results that we all know. 

Our own Government might learn the lesson. It might be as well to keepnear Downing Street a few small, fat Frenchmen, to be sent round thecountry when occasion called for it, shrugging their shoulders and eatingfrog sandwiches; or a file of untidy, lank-haired Germans might beretained, to walk about, smoking long pipes, saying "So. " The publicwould laugh and exclaim, "War with such? It would be too absurd. "Failing the Government, I recommend the scheme to the Peace Society. 

Our visit to Prague we were compelled to lengthen somewhat. Prague isone of the most interesting towns in Europe. Its stones are saturatedwith history and romance; its every suburb must have been a battlefield. It is the town that conceived the Reformation and hatched the ThirtyYears' War. But half Prague's troubles, one imagines, might have beensaved to it, had it possessed windows less large and temptinglyconvenient. The first of these mighty catastrophes it set rolling bythrowing the seven Catholic councillors from the windows of its Rathhauson to the pikes of the Hussites below. Later, it gave the signal for thesecond by again throwing the Imperial councillors from the windows of theold Burg in the Hradschin--Prague's second "Fenstersturz. " Since, otherfateful questions have been decide in Prague, one assumes from theirhaving been concluded without violence that such must have been discussedin cellars. The window, as an argument, one feels, would always haveproved too strong a temptation to any true-born Praguer. 

In the Teynkirche stands the worm-eaten pulpit from which preached JohnHuss. One may hear from the selfsame desk to-day the voice of a Papistpriest, while in far-off Constance a rude block of stone, half ivyhidden, marks the spot where Huss and Jerome died burning at the stake. History is fond of her little ironies. In this same Teynkirche liesburied Tycho Brahe, the astronomer, who made the common mistake ofthinking the earth, with its eleven hundred creeds and one humanity, thecentre of the universe; but who otherwise observed the stars clearly. 

Through Prague's dirty, palace-bordered alleys must have pressed often inhot haste blind Ziska and open-minded Wallenstein--they have dubbed him"The Hero" in Prague; and the town is honestly proud of having owned himfor citizen. In his gloomy palace in the Waldstein-Platz they show as asacred spot the cabinet where he prayed, and seem to have persuadedthemselves he really had a soul. Its steep, winding ways must have beenchoked a dozen times, now by Sigismund's flying legions, followed byfierce-killing Tarborites, and now by pale Protestants pursued by thevictorious Catholics of Maximilian. Now Saxons, now Bavarians, and nowFrench; now the saints of Gustavus Adolphus, and now the steel fightingmachines of Frederick the Great, have thundered at its gates and foughtupon its bridges. 

The Jews have always been an important feature of Prague. Occasionallythey have assisted the Christians in their favourite occupation ofslaughtering one another, and the great flag suspended from the vaultingof the Altneuschule testifies to the courage with which they helpedCatholic Ferdinand to resist the Protestant Swedes. The Prague Ghettowas one of the first to be established in Europe, and in the tinysynagogue, still standing, the Jew of Prague has worshipped for eighthundred years, his women folk devoutly listening, without, at the earholes provided for them in the massive walls. A Jewish cemeteryadjacent, "Bethchajim, or the House of Life, " seems as though it werebursting with its dead. Within its narrow acre it was the law ofcenturies that here or nowhere must the bones of Israel rest. So theworn and broken tombstones lie piled in close confusion, as though tossedand tumbled by the struggling host beneath. 

The Ghetto walls have long been levelled, but the living Jews of Praguestill cling to their foetid lanes, though these are being rapidlyreplaced by fine new streets that promise to eventually transform thisquarter into the handsomest part of the town. 

At Dresden they advised us not to talk German in Prague. For yearsracial animosity between the German minority and the Czech majority hasraged throughout Bohemia, and to be mistaken for a German in certainstreets of Prague is inconvenient to a man whose staying powers in a raceare not what once they were. However, we did talk German in certainstreets in Prague; it was a case of talking German or nothing. The Czechdialect is said to be of great antiquity and of highly scientificcultivation. Its alphabet contains forty-two letters, suggestive to astranger of Chinese. It is not a language to be picked up in a hurry. Wedecided that on the whole there would be less risk to our constitution inkeeping to German, and as a matter of fact no harm came to us. Theexplanation I can only surmise. The Praguer is an exceedingly acuteperson; some subtle falsity of accent, some slight grammaticalinaccuracy, may have crept into our German, revealing to him the factthat, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, we were no true-bornDeutscher. I do not assert this; I put it forward as a possibility. 

To avoid unnecessary danger, however, we did our sight-seeing with theaid of a guide. No guide I have ever come across is perfect. This onehad two distinct failings. His English was decidedly weak. Indeed, itwas not English at all. I do not know what you would call it. It wasnot altogether his fault; he had learnt English from a Scotch lady. Iunderstand Scotch fairly well--to keep abreast of modern Englishliterature this is necessary, --but to understand broad Scotch talked witha Sclavonic accent, occasionally relieved by German modifications, taxesthe intelligence. For the first hour it was difficult to rid one's selfof the conviction that the man was choking. Every moment we expected himto die on our hands. In the course of the morning we grew accustomed tohim, and rid ourselves of the instinct to throw him on his back everytime he opened his mouth, and tear his clothes from him. Later, we cameto understand a part of what he said, and this led to the discovery ofhis second failing. 

It would seem he had lately invented a hair-restorer, which he hadpersuaded a local chemist to take up and advertise. Half his time he hadbeen pointing out to us, not the beauties of Prague, but the benefitslikely to accrue to the human race from the use of this concoction; andthe conventional agreement with which, under the impression he was waxingeloquent concerning views and architecture, we had met his enthusiasm hehad attributed to sympathetic interest in this wretched wash of his. 

The result was that now there was no keeping him away from the subject. Ruined palaces and crumbling churches he dismissed with curt reference asmere frivolities, encouraging a morbid taste for the decadent. His duty, as he saw it, was not to lead us to dwell upon the ravages of time, butrather to direct our attention to the means of repairing them. What hadwe to do with broken-headed heroes, or bald-headed saints? Our interestshould be surely in the living world; in the maidens with their flowingtresses, or the flowing tresses they might have, by judicious use of"Kophkeo, " in the young men with their fierce moustaches--as pictured onthe label. 

Unconsciously, in his own mind, he had divided the world into twosections. The Past ("Before Use"), a sickly, disagreeable-looking, uninteresting world. The Future ("After Use") a fat, jolly, God-bless-everybody sort of world; and this unfitted him as a guide to scenes ofmediaeval history. 

He sent us each a bottle of the stuff to our hotel. It appeared that inthe early part of our converse with him we had, unwittingly, clamouredfor it. Personally, I can neither praise it nor condemn it. A longseries of disappointments has disheartened me; added to which a permanentatmosphere of paraffin, however faint, is apt to cause remark, especiallyin the case of a married man. Now, I never try even the sample. 

I gave my bottle to George. He asked for it to send to a man he knew inLeeds. I learnt later that Harris had given him his bottle also, to sendto the same man. 

A suggestion of onions has clung to this tour since we left Prague. George has noticed it himself. He attributes it to the prevalence ofgarlic in European cooking. 

It was in Prague that Harris and I did a kind and friendly thing toGeorge. We had noticed for some time past that George was getting toofond of Pilsener beer. This German beer is an insidious drink, especially in hot weather; but it does not do to imbibe too freely of it. It does not get into your head, but after a time it spoils your waist. Ialways say to myself on entering Germany:

"Now, I will drink no German beer. The white wine of the country, with alittle soda-water; perhaps occasionally a glass of Ems or potash. Butbeer, never--or, at all events, hardly ever. "

It is a good and useful resolution, which I recommend to all travellers. I only wish I could keep to it myself. George, although I urged him, refused to bind himself by any such hard and fast limit. He said that inmoderation German beer was good. 

"One glass in the morning, " said George, "one in the evening, or eventwo. That will do no harm to anyone. "

Maybe he was right. It was his half-dozen glasses that troubled Harrisand myself. 

"We ought to do something to stop it, " said Harris; "it is becomingserious. "

"It's hereditary, so he has explained to me, " I answered. "It seems hisfamily have always been thirsty. "

"There is Apollinaris water, " replied Harris, "which, I believe, with alittle lemon squeezed into it, is practically harmless. What I amthinking about is his figure. He will lose all his natural elegance. "

We talked the matter over, and, Providence aiding us, we fixed upon aplan. For the ornamentation of the town a new statue had just been cast. I forget of whom it was a statue. I only remember that in the essentialsit was the usual sort of street statue, representing the usual sort ofgentleman, with the usual stiff neck, riding the usual sort of horse--thehorse that always walks on its hind legs, keeping its front paws forbeating time. But in detail it possessed individuality. Instead of theusual sword or baton, the man was holding, stretched out in his hand, hisown plumed hat; and the horse, instead of the usual waterfall for a tail, possessed a somewhat attenuated appendage that somehow appeared out ofkeeping with his ostentatious behaviour. One felt that a horse with atail like that would not have pranced so much. 

It stood in a small square not far from the further end of theKarlsbrucke, but it stood there only temporarily. Before decidingfinally where to fix it, the town authorities had resolved, verysensibly, to judge by practical test where it would look best. Accordingly, they had made three rough copies of the statue--mere woodenprofiles, things that would not bear looking at closely, but which, viewed from a little distance, produced all the effect that wasnecessary. One of these they had set up at the approach to the Franz-Josefsbrucke, a second stood in the open space behind the theatre, andthe third in the centre of the Wenzelsplatz. 

"If George is not in the secret of this thing, " said Harris--we werewalking by ourselves for an hour, he having remained behind in the hotelto write a letter to his aunt, --"if he has not observed these statues, then by their aid we will make a better and a thinner man of him, andthat this very evening. "

So during dinner we sounded him, judiciously; and finding him ignorant ofthe matter, we took him out, and led him by side-streets to the placewhere stood the real statue. George was for looking at it and passingon, as is his way with statues, but we insisted on his pulling up andviewing the thing conscientiously. We walked him round that statue fourtimes, and showed it to him from every possible point of view. I think, on the whole, we rather bored him with the thing, but our object was toimpress it upon him. We told him the history of the man who rode uponthe horse, the name of the artist who had made the statue, how much itweighed, how much it measured. We worked that statue into his system. Bythe time we had done with him he knew more about that statue, for thetime being, than he knew about anything else. We soaked him in thatstatue, and only let him go at last on the condition that he would comeagain with us in the morning, when we could all see it better, and forsuch purpose we saw to it that he made a note in his pocket-book of theplace where the statue stood. 

Then we accompanied him to his favourite beer hall, and sat beside him, telling him anecdotes of men who, unaccustomed to German beer, anddrinking too much of it, had gone mad and developed homicidal mania; ofmen who had died young through drinking German beer; of lovers thatGerman beer had been the means of parting for ever from beautiful girls. 

At ten o'clock we started to walk back to the hotel. It was a stormy-looking night, with heavy clouds drifting over a light moon. Harrissaid:

"We won't go back the same way we came; we'll walk back by the river. Itis lovely in the moonlight. "

Harris told a sad history, as we walked, about a man he once knew, who isnow in a home for harmless imbeciles. He said he recalled the storybecause it was on just such another night as this that he was walkingwith that man the very last time he ever saw the poor fellow. They werestrolling down the Thames Embankment, Harris said, and the man frightenedhim then by persisting that he saw the statue of the Duke of Wellingtonat the corner of Westminster Bridge, when, as everybody knows, it standsin Piccadilly. 

It was at this exact instant that we came in sight of the first of thesewooden copies. It occupied the centre of a small, railed-in square alittle above us on the opposite side of the way. George suddenly stoodstill and leant against the wall of the quay. 

"What's the matter?" I said; "feeling giddy?"

He said: "I do, a little. Let's rest here a moment. "

He stood there with his eyes glued to the thing. 

He said, speaking huskily:

"Talking of statues, what always strikes me is how very much one statueis like another statue. "

Harris said: "I cannot agree with you there--pictures, if you like. Somepictures are very like other pictures, but with a statue there is alwayssomething distinctive. Take that statue we saw early in the evening, "continued Harris, "before we went into the concert hall. It representeda man sitting on a horse. In Prague you will see other statues of men onhorses, but nothing at all like that one. "

"Yes they are, " said George; "they are all alike. It's always the samehorse, and it's always the same man. They are all exactly alike. It'sidiotic nonsense to say they are not. "

He appeared to be angry with Harris. 

"What makes you think so?" I asked. 

"What makes me think so?" retorted George, now turning upon me. "Why, look at that damned thing over there!"

I said: "What damned thing?"

"Why, that thing, " said George; "look at it! There is the same horsewith half a tail, standing on its hind legs; the same man without hishat; the same--"

Harris said: "You are talking now about the statue we saw in theRingplatz. "

"No, I'm not, " replied George; "I'm talking about the statue over there. "

"What statue?" said Harris. 

George looked at Harris; but Harris is a man who might, with care, havebeen a fair amateur actor. His face merely expressed friendly sorrow, mingled with alarm. Next, George turned his gaze on me. I endeavoured, so far as lay with me, to copy Harris's expression, adding to it on myown account a touch of reproof. 

"Will you have a cab?" I said as kindly as I could to George. "I'll runand get one. "

"What the devil do I want with a cab?" he answered, ungraciously. "Can'tyou fellows understand a joke? It's like being out with a couple ofconfounded old women, " saying which, he started off across the bridge, leaving us to follow. 

"I am so glad that was only a joke of yours, " said Harris, on ourovertaking him. "I knew a case of softening of the brain that began--"

"Oh, you're a silly ass!" said George, cutting him short; "you knoweverything. "

He was really most unpleasant in his manner. 

We took him round by the riverside of the theatre. We told him it wasthe shortest way, and, as a matter of fact, it was. In the open spacebehind the theatre stood the second of these wooden apparitions. Georgelooked at it, and again stood still. 

"What's the matter?" said Harris, kindly. "You are not ill, are you?"

"I don't believe this is the shortest way, " said George. 

"I assure you it is, " persisted Harris. 

"Well, I'm going the other, " said George; and he turned and went, we, asbefore, following him. 

Along the Ferdinand Strasse Harris and I talked about private lunaticasylums, which, Harris said, were not well managed in England. He said afriend of his, a patient in a lunatic asylum--

George said, interrupting: "You appear to have a large number of friendsin lunatic asylums. "

He said it in a most insulting tone, as though to imply that that iswhere one would look for the majority of Harris's friends. But Harrisdid not get angry; he merely replied, quite mildly:

"Well, it really is extraordinary, when one comes to think of it, howmany of them have gone that way sooner or later. I get quite nervoussometimes, now. "

At the corner of the Wenzelsplatz, Harris, who was a few steps ahead ofus, paused. 

"It's a fine street, isn't it?" he said, sticking his hands in hispockets, and gazing up at it admiringly. 

George and I followed suit. Two hundred yards away from us, in its verycentre, was the third of these ghostly statues. I think it was the bestof the three--the most like, the most deceptive. It stood boldlyoutlined against the wild sky: the horse on its hind legs, with itscuriously attenuated tail; the man bareheaded, pointing with his plumedhat to the now entirely visible moon. 

"I think, if you don't mind, " said George--he spoke with almost apathetic ring in his voice, his aggressiveness had completely fallen fromhim, --"that I will have that cab, if there's one handy. "

"I thought you were looking queer, " said Harris, kindly. "It's yourhead, isn't it?"

"Perhaps it is, " answered George. 

"I have noticed it coining on, " said Harris; "but I didn't like to sayanything to you. You fancy you see things, don't you?"

"No, no; it isn't that, " replied George, rather quickly. "I don't knowwhat it is. "

"I do, " said Harris, solemnly, "and I'll tell you. It's this German beerthat you are drinking. I have known a case where a man--"

"Don't tell me about him just now, " said George. "I dare say it's true, but somehow I don't feel I want to hear about him. "

"You are not used to it, " said Harris. 

"I shall give it up from to-night, " said George. "I think you must beright; it doesn't seem to agree with me. "

We took him home, and saw him to bed. He was very gentle and quitegrateful. 

One evening later on, after a long day's ride, followed by a mostsatisfactory dinner, we started him on a big cigar, and, removing thingsfrom his reach, told him of this stratagem that for his good we hadplanned. 

"How many copies of that statue did you say we saw?" asked George, afterwe had finished. 

"Three, " replied Harris. 

"Only three?" said George. "Are you sure?"

"Positive, " replied Harris. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing!" answered George. 

But I don't think he quite believed Harris. 

From Prague we travelled to Nuremberg, through Carlsbad. Good Germans, when they die, go, they say, to Carlsbad, as good Americans to Paris. This I doubt, seeing that it is a small place with no convenience for acrowd. In Carlsbad, you rise at five, the fashionable hour forpromenade, when the band plays under the Colonnade, and the Sprudel isfilled with a packed throng over a mile long, being from six to eight inthe morning. Here you may hear more languages spoken than the Tower ofBabel could have echoed. Polish Jews and Russian princes, Chinesemandarins and Turkish pashas, Norwegians looking as if they had steppedout of Ibsen's plays, women from the Boulevards, Spanish grandees andEnglish countesses, mountaineers from Montenegro and millionaires fromChicago, you will find every dozen yards. Every luxury in the worldCarlsbad provides for its visitors, with the one exception of pepper. That you cannot get within five miles of the town for money; what you canget there for love is not worth taking away. Pepper, to the liverbrigade that forms four-fifths of Carlsbad's customers, is poison; and, prevention being better than cure, it is carefully kept out of theneighbourhood. "Pepper parties" are formed in Carlsbad to journey tosome place without the boundary, and there indulge in pepper orgies. 

Nuremberg, if one expects a town of mediaeval appearance, disappoints. Quaint corners, picturesque glimpses, there are in plenty; but everywherethey are surrounded and intruded upon by the modern, and even what isancient is not nearly so ancient as one thought it was. After all, atown, like a woman, is only as old as it looks; and Nuremberg is still acomfortable-looking dame, its age somewhat difficult to conceive underits fresh paint and stucco in the blaze of the gas and the electriclight. Still, looking closely, you may see its wrinkled walls and greytowers. 

CHAPTER IX

Harris breaks the law--The helpful man: The dangers that beset him--Georgesets forth upon a career of crime--Those to whom Germany would come as aboon and a blessing--The English Sinner: His disappointments--The GermanSinner: His exceptional advantages--What you may not do with your bed--Aninexpensive vice--The German dog: His simple goodness--The misbehaviourof the beetle--A people that go the way they ought to go--The Germansmall boy: His love of legality--How to go astray with a perambulator--TheGerman student: His chastened wilfulness. 

All three of us, by some means or another, managed, between Nuremberg andthe Black Forest, to get into trouble. 

Harris led off at Stuttgart by insulting an official. Stuttgart is acharming town, clean and bright, a smaller Dresden. It has theadditional attraction of containing little that one need to go out ofone's way to see: a medium-sized picture gallery, a small museum ofantiquities, and half a palace, and you are through with the entire thingand can enjoy yourself. Harris did not know it was an official he wasinsulting. He took it for a fireman (it looked liked a fireman), and hecalled it a "dummer Esel. "

In German you are not permitted to call an official a "silly ass, " butundoubtedly this particular man was one. What had happened was this:Harris in the Stadgarten, anxious to get out, and seeing a gate openbefore him, had stepped over a wire into the street. Harris maintains henever saw it, but undoubtedly there was hanging to the wire a notice, "Durchgang Verboten!" The man, who was standing near the gates stoppedHarris, and pointed out to him this notice. Harris thanked him, andpassed on. The man came after him, and explained that treatment of thematter in such off-hand way could not be allowed; what was necessary toput the business right was that Harris should step back over the wireinto the garden. Harris pointed out to the man that the notice said"going through forbidden, " and that, therefore, by re-entering the gardenthat way he would be infringing the law a second time. The man saw thisfor himself, and suggested that to get over the difficulty Harris shouldgo back into the garden by the proper entrance, which was round thecorner, and afterwards immediately come out again by the same gate. Thenit was that Harris called the man a silly ass. That delayed us a day, and cost Harris forty marks. 

I followed suit at Carlsruhe, by stealing a bicycle. I did not mean tosteal the bicycle; I was merely trying to be useful. The train was onthe point of starting when I noticed, as I thought, Harris's bicyclestill in the goods van. No one was about to help me. I jumped into thevan and hauled it out, only just in time. Wheeling it down the platformin triumph, I came across Harris's bicycle, standing against a wallbehind some milk-cans. The bicycle I had secured was not Harris's, butsome other man's. 

It was an awkward situation. In England, I should have gone to thestationmaster and explained my mistake. But in Germany they are notcontent with your explaining a little matter of this sort to one man:they take you round and get you to explain it to about half a dozen; andif any one of the half dozen happens not to be handy, or not to have timejust then to listen to you, they have a habit of leaving you over for thenight to finish your explanation the next morning. I thought I wouldjust put the thing out of sight, and then, without making any fuss orshow, take a short walk. I found a wood shed, which seemed just the veryplace, and was wheeling the bicycle into it when, unfortunately, a red-hatted railway official, with the airs of a retired field-marshal, caughtsight of me and came up. He said:

"What are you doing with that bicycle?"

I said: "I am going to put it in this wood shed out of the way. " I triedto convey by my tone that I was performing a kind and thoughtful action, for which the railway officials ought to thank me; but he wasunresponsive. 

"Is it your bicycle?" he said. 

"Well, not exactly, " I replied. 

"Whose is it?" he asked, quite sharply. 

"I can't tell you, " I answered. "I don't know whose bicycle it is. "

"Where did you get it from?" was his next question. There was asuspiciousness about his tone that was almost insulting. 

"I got it, " I answered, with as much calm dignity as at the moment Icould assume, "out of the train. "

"The fact is, " I continued, frankly, "I have made a mistake. "

He did not allow me time to finish. He merely said he thought so too, and blew a whistle. 

Recollection of the subsequent proceedings is not, so far as I amconcerned, amusing. By a miracle of good luck--they say Providencewatches over certain of us--the incident happened in Carlsruhe, where Ipossess a German friend, an official of some importance. Upon what wouldhave been my fate had the station not been at Carlsruhe, or had my friendbeen from home, I do not care to dwell; as it was I got off, as thesaying is, by the skin of my teeth. I should like to add that I leftCarlsruhe without a stain upon my character, but that would not be thetruth. My going scot free is regarded in police circles there to thisday as a grave miscarriage of justice. 

But all lesser sin sinks into insignificance beside the lawlessness ofGeorge. The bicycle incident had thrown us all into confusion, with theresult that we lost George altogether. It transpired subsequently thathe was waiting for us outside the police court; but this at the time wedid not know. We thought, maybe, he had gone on to Baden by himself; andanxious to get away from Carlsruhe, and not, perhaps, thinking out thingstoo clearly, we jumped into the next train that came up and proceededthither. When George, tired of waiting, returned to the station, hefound us gone and he found his luggage gone. Harris had his ticket; Iwas acting as banker to the party, so that he had in his pocket only somesmall change. Excusing himself upon these grounds, he thereuponcommenced deliberately a career of crime that, reading it later, as setforth baldly in the official summons, made the hair of Harris and myselfalmost to stand on end. 

German travelling, it may be explained, is somewhat complicated. You buya ticket at the station you start from for the place you want to go to. You might think this would enable you to get there, but it does not. Whenyour train comes up, you attempt to swarm into it; but the guardmagnificently waves you away. Where are your credentials? You show himyour ticket. He explains to you that by itself that is of no servicewhatever; you have only taken the first step towards travelling; you mustgo back to the booking-office and get in addition what is called a"schnellzug ticket. " With this you return, thinking your troubles over. You are allowed to get in, so far so good. But you must not sit downanywhere, and you must not stand still, and you must not wander about. You must take another ticket, this time what is called a "platz ticket, "which entitles you to a place for a certain distance. 

What a man could do who persisted in taking nothing but the one ticket, Ihave often wondered. Would he be entitled to run behind the train on thesix-foot way? Or could he stick a label on himself and get into thegoods van? Again, what could be done with the man who, having taken hisschnellzug ticket, obstinately refused, or had not the money to take aplatz ticket: would they let him lie in the umbrella rack, or allow himto hang himself out of the window?

To return to George, he had just sufficient money to take a third-classslow train ticket to Baden, and that was all. To avoid theinquisitiveness of the guard, he waited till the train was moving, andthen jumped in. 

That was his first sin:

(a) Entering a train in motion;

(b) After being warned not to do so by an official. 

Second sin:

(a) Travelling in train of superior class to that for which ticket washeld. 

(b) Refusing to pay difference when demanded by an official. (Georgesays he did not "refuse"; he simply told the man he had not got it. )

Third sin:

(a) Travelling in carriage of superior class to that for which ticketwas held. 

(b) Refusing to pay difference when demanded by an official. (AgainGeorge disputes the accuracy of the report. He turned his pockets out, and offered the man all he had, which was about eightpence in Germanmoney. He offered to go into a third class, but there was no thirdclass. He offered to go into the goods van, but they would not hear ofit. )

Fourth sin:

(a) Occupying seat, and not paying for same. 

(b) Loitering about corridor. (As they would not let him sit downwithout paying, and as he could not pay, it was difficult to see whatelse he could do. )

But explanations are held as no excuse in Germany; and his journey fromCarlsruhe to Baden was one of the most expensive perhaps on record. 

Reflecting upon the case and frequency with which one gets into troublehere in Germany, one is led to the conclusion that this country wouldcome as a boon and a blessing to the average young Englishman. To themedical student, to the eater of dinners at the Temple, to the subalternon leave, life in London is a wearisome proceeding. The healthy Britontakes his pleasure lawlessly, or it is no pleasure to him. Nothing thathe may do affords to him any genuine satisfaction. To be in trouble ofsome sort is his only idea of bliss. Now, England affords him smallopportunity in this respect; to get himself into a scrape requires a gooddeal of persistence on the part of the young Englishman. 

I spoke on this subject one day with our senior churchwarden. It was themorning of the 10th of November, and we were both of us glancing, somewhat anxiously, through the police reports. The usual batch of youngmen had been summoned for creating the usual disturbance the night beforeat the Criterion. My friend the churchwarden has boys of his own, and anephew of mine, upon whom I am keeping a fatherly eye, is by a fondmother supposed to be in London for the sole purpose of studyingengineering. No names we knew happened, by fortunate chance, to be inthe list of those detained in custody, and, relieved, we fell tomoralising upon the folly and depravity of youth. 

"It is very remarkable, " said my friend the churchwarden, "how theCriterion retains its position in this respect. It was just so when Iwas young; the evening always wound up with a row at the Criterion. "

"So meaningless, " I remarked. 

"So monotonous, " he replied. "You have no idea, " he continued, a dreamyexpression stealing over his furrowed face, "how unutterably tired onecan become of the walk from Piccadilly Circus to the Vine Street PoliceCourt. Yet, what else was there for us to do? Simply nothing. Sometimeswe would put out a street lamp, and a man would come round and light itagain. If one insulted a policeman, he simply took no notice. He didnot even know he was being insulted; or, if he did, he seemed not tocare. You could fight a Covent Garden porter, if you fancied yourself atthat sort of thing. Generally speaking, the porter got the best of it;and when he did it cost you five shillings, and when he did not the pricewas half a sovereign. I could never see much excitement in thatparticular sport. I tried driving a hansom cab once. That has alwaysbeen regarded as the acme of modern Tom and Jerryism. I stole it lateone night from outside a public-house in Dean Street, and the first thingthat happened to me was that I was hailed in Golden Square by an old ladysurrounded by three children, two of them crying and the third one halfasleep. Before I could get away she had shot the brats into the cab, taken my number, paid me, so she said, a shilling over the legal fare, and directed me to an address a little beyond what she called NorthKensington. As a matter of fact, the place turned out to be the otherside of Willesden. The horse was tired, and the journey took us wellover two hours. It was the slowest lark I ever remember being concernedin. I tried one or twice to persuade the children to let me take themback to the old lady: but every time I opened the trap-door to speak tothem the youngest one, a boy, started screaming; and when I offered otherdrivers to transfer the job to them, most of them replied in the words ofa song popular about that period: 'Oh, George, don't you think you'regoing just a bit too far?' One man offered to take home to my wife anylast message I might be thinking of, while another promised to organise aparty to come and dig me out in the spring. When I mounted the dickey Ihad imagined myself driving a peppery old colonel to some lonesome andcabless region, half a dozen miles from where he wanted to go, and thereleaving him upon the kerbstone to swear. About that there might havebeen good sport or there might not, according to circumstances and thecolonel. The idea of a trip to an outlying suburb in charge of a nurseryfull of helpless infants had never occurred to me. No, London, "concluded my friend the churchwarden with a sigh, "affords but limitedopportunity to the lover of the illegal. "

Now, in Germany, on the other hand, trouble is to be had for the asking. There are many things in Germany that you must not do that are quite easyto do. To any young Englishman yearning to get himself into a scrape, and finding himself hampered in his own country, I would advise a singleticket to Germany; a return, lasting as it does only a month, might provea waste. 

In the Police Guide of the Fatherland he will find set forth a list ofthe things the doing of which will bring to him interest and excitement. In Germany you must not hang your bed out of window. He might begin withthat. By waving his bed out of window he could get into trouble beforehe had his breakfast. At home he might hang himself out of window, andnobody would mind much, provided he did not obstruct anybody's ancientlights or break away and injure any passer underneath. 

In Germany you must not wear fancy dress in the streets. A Highlander ofmy acquaintance who came to pass the winter in Dresden spent the firstfew days of his residence there in arguing this question with the SaxonGovernment. They asked him what he was doing in those clothes. He wasnot an amiable man. He answered, he was wearing them. They asked himwhy he was wearing them. He replied, to keep himself warm. They toldhim frankly that they did not believe him, and sent him back to hislodgings in a closed landau. The personal testimony of the EnglishMinister was necessary to assure the authorities that the Highland garbwas the customary dress of many respectable, law-abiding Britishsubjects. They accepted the statement, as diplomatically bound, butretain their private opinion to this day. The English tourist they havegrown accustomed to; but a Leicestershire gentleman, invited to hunt withsome German officers, on appearing outside his hotel, was promptlymarched off, horse and all, to explain his frivolity at the police court. 

Another thing you must not do in the streets of German towns is to feedhorses, mules, or donkeys, whether your own or those belonging to otherpeople. If a passion seizes you to feed somebody else's horse, you mustmake an appointment with the animal, and the meal must take place in someproperly authorised place. You must not break glass or china in thestreet, nor, in fact, in any public resort whatever; and if you do, youmust pick up all the pieces. What you are to do with the pieces when youhave gathered them together I cannot say. The only thing I know forcertain is that you are not permitted to throw them anywhere, to leavethem anywhere, or apparently to part with them in any way whatever. Presumably, you are expected to carry them about with you until you die, and then be buried with them; or, maybe, you are allowed to swallow them. 

In German streets you must not shoot with a crossbow. The German law-maker does not content himself with the misdeeds of the average man--thecrime one feels one wants to do, but must not: he worries himselfimagining all the things a wandering maniac might do. In Germany thereis no law against a man standing on his head in the middle of the road;the idea has not occurred to them. One of these days a German statesman, visiting a circus and seeing acrobats, will reflect upon this omission. Then he will straightway set to work and frame a clause forbidding peoplefrom standing on their heads in the middle of the road, and fixing afine. This is the charm of German law: misdemeanour in Germany has itsfixed price. You are not kept awake all night, as in England, wonderingwhether you will get off with a caution, be fined forty shillings, or, catching the magistrate in an unhappy moment for yourself, get sevendays. You know exactly what your fun is going to cost you. You canspread out your money on the table, open your Police Guide, and plan outyour holiday to a fifty pfennig piece. For a really cheap evening, Iwould recommend walking on the wrong side of the pavement after beingcautioned not to do so. I calculate that by choosing your district andkeeping to the quiet side streets you could walk for a whole evening onthe wrong side of the pavement at a cost of little over three marks. 

In German towns you must not ramble about after dark "in droves. " I amnot quite sure how many constitute a "drove, " and no official to whom Ihave spoken on this subject has felt himself competent to fix the exactnumber. I once put it to a German friend who was starting for thetheatre with his wife, his mother-in-law, five children of his own, hissister and her _fiance_, and two nieces, if he did not think he wasrunning a risk under this by-law. He did not take my suggestion as ajoke. He cast an eye over the group. 

"Oh, I don't think so, " he said; "you see, we are all one family. "

"The paragraph says nothing about its being a family drove or not, " Ireplied; "it simply says 'drove. ' I do not mean it in anyuncomplimentary sense, but, speaking etymologically, I am inclinedpersonally to regard your collection as a 'drove. ' Whether the policewill take the same view or not remains to be seen. I am merely warningyou. "

My friend himself was inclined to pooh-pooh my fears; but his wifethinking it better not to run any risk of having the party broken up bythe police at the very beginning of the evening, they divided, arrangingto come together again in the theatre lobby. 

Another passion you must restrain in Germany is that prompting you tothrow things out of window. Cats are no excuse. During the first weekof my residence in Germany I was awakened incessantly by cats. One nightI got mad. I collected a small arsenal--two or three pieces of coal, afew hard pears, a couple of candle ends, an odd egg I found on thekitchen table, an empty soda-water bottle, and a few articles of thatsort, --and, opening the window, bombarded the spot from where the noiseappeared to come. I do not suppose I hit anything; I never knew a manwho did hit a cat, even when he could see it, except, maybe, by accidentwhen aiming at something else. I have known crack shots, winners ofQueen's prizes--those sort of men, --shoot with shot-guns at cats fiftyyards away, and never hit a hair. I have often thought that, instead ofbull's-eyes, running deer, and that rubbish, the really superior marksmanwould be he who could boast that he had shot the cat. 

But, anyhow, they moved off; maybe the egg annoyed them. I had noticedwhen I picked it up that it did not look a good egg; and I went back tobed again, thinking the incident closed. Ten minutes afterwards therecame a violent ringing of the electric bell. I tried to ignore it, butit was too persistent, and, putting on my dressing gown, I went down tothe gate. A policeman was standing there. He had all the things I hadbeen throwing out of the window in a little heap in front of him, allexcept the egg. He had evidently been collecting them. He said:

"Are these things yours?"

I said: "They were mine, but personally I have done with them. Anybodycan have them--you can have them. "

He ignored my offer. He said:

"You threw these things out of window. "

"You are right, " I admitted; "I did. "

"Why did you throw them out of window?" he asked. A German policeman hashis code of questions arranged for him; he never varies them, and henever omits one. 

"I threw them out of the window at some cats, " I answered. 

"What cats?" he asked. 

It was the sort of question a German policeman would ask. I replied withas much sarcasm as I could put into my accent that I was ashamed to say Icould not tell him what cats. I explained that, personally, they werestrangers to me; but I offered, if the police would call all the cats inthe district together, to come round and see if I could recognise them bytheir yaul. 

The German policeman does not understand a joke, which is perhaps on thewhole just as well, for I believe there is a heavy fine for joking withany German uniform; they call it "treating an official with contumely. "He merely replied that it was not the duty of the police to help merecognise the cats; their duty was merely to fine me for throwing thingsout of window. 

I asked what a man was supposed to do in Germany when woke up night afternight by cats, and he explained that I could lodge an information againstthe owner of the cat, when the police would proceed to caution him, and, if necessary, order the cat to be destroyed. Who was going to destroythe cat, and what the cat would be doing during the process, he did notexplain. 

I asked him how he proposed I should discover the owner of the cat. Hethought for a while, and then suggested that I might follow it home. Idid not feel inclined to argue with him any more after that; I shouldonly have said things that would have made the matter worse. As it was, that night's sport cost me twelve marks; and not a single one of the fourGerman officials who interviewed me on the subject could see anythingridiculous in the proceedings from beginning to end. 

But in Germany most human faults and follies sink into comparativeinsignificance beside the enormity of walking on the grass. Nowhere, andunder no circumstances, may you at any time in Germany walk on the grass. Grass in Germany is quite a fetish. To put your foot on German grasswould be as great a sacrilege as to dance a hornpipe on a Mohammedan'spraying-mat. The very dogs respect German grass; no German dog woulddream of putting a paw on it. If you see a dog scampering across thegrass in Germany, you may know for certain that it is the dog of someunholy foreigner. In England, when we want to keep dogs out of places, we put up wire netting, six feet high, supported by buttresses, anddefended on the top by spikes. In Germany, they put a notice-board inthe middle of the place, "Hunden verboten, " and a dog that has Germanblood in its veins looks at that notice-board and walks away. In aGerman park I have seen a gardener step gingerly with felt boots on tograss-plot, and removing therefrom a beetle, place it gravely but firmlyon the gravel; which done, he stood sternly watching the beetle, to seethat it did not try to get back on the grass; and the beetle, lookingutterly ashamed of itself, walked hurriedly down the gutter, and turnedup the path marked "Ausgang. "

In German parks separate roads are devoted to the different orders of thecommunity, and no one person, at peril of liberty and fortune, may goupon another person's road. There are special paths for "wheel-riders"and special paths for "foot-goers, " avenues for "horse-riders, " roads forpeople in light vehicles, and roads for people in heavy vehicles; waysfor children and for "alone ladies. " That no particular route has yetbeen set aside for bald-headed men or "new women" has always struck me asan omission. 

In the Grosse Garten in Dresden I once came across an old lady, standing, helpless and bewildered, in the centre of seven tracks. Each was guardedby a threatening notice, warning everybody off it but the person for whomit was intended. 

"I am sorry to trouble you, " said the old lady, on learning I could speakEnglish and read German, "but would you mind telling me what I am andwhere I have to go?"

I inspected her carefully. I came to the conclusion that she was a"grown-up" and a "foot-goer, " and pointed out her path. She looked atit, and seemed disappointed. 

"But I don't want to go down there, " she said; "mayn't I go this way?"

"Great heavens, no, madam!" I replied. "That path is reserved forchildren. "

"But I wouldn't do them any harm, " said the old lady, with a smile. Shedid not look the sort of old lady who would have done them any harm. 

"Madam, " I replied, "if it rested with me, I would trust you down thatpath, though my own first-born were at the other end; but I can onlyinform you of the laws of this country. For you, a full-grown woman, toventure down that path is to go to certain fine, if not imprisonment. There is your path, marked plainly--_Nur fur Fussganger_, and if you willfollow my advice, you will hasten down it; you are not allowed to standhere and hesitate. "

"It doesn't lead a bit in the direction I want to go, " said the old lady. 

"It leads in the direction you _ought_ to want to go, " I replied, and weparted. 

In the German parks there are special seats labelled, "Only for grown-ups" (_Nur fur Erwachsene_), and the German small boy, anxious to sitdown, and reading that notice, passes by, and hunts for a seat on whichchildren are permitted to rest; and there he seats himself, careful notto touch the woodwork with his muddy boots. Imagine a seat in Regent'sor St. James's Park labelled "Only for grown-ups!" Every child for fivemiles round would be trying to get on that seat, and hauling otherchildren off who were on. As for any "grown-up, " he would never be ableto get within half a mile of that seat for the crowd. The German smallboy, who has accidentally sat down on such without noticing, rises with astart when his error is pointed out to him, and goes away with down-casthead, brushing to the roots of his hair with shame and regret. 

Not that the German child is neglected by a paternal Government. InGerman parks and public gardens special places (_Spielplatze_) areprovided for him, each one supplied with a heap of sand. There he canplay to his heart's content at making mud pies and building sand castles. To the German child a pie made of any other mud than this would appear animmoral pie. It would give to him no satisfaction: his soul would revoltagainst it. 

"That pie, " he would say to himself, "was not, as it should have been, made of Government mud specially set apart for the purpose; it was normanufactured in the place planned and maintained by the Government forthe making of mud pies. It can bring no real blessing with it; it is alawless pie. " And until his father had paid the proper fine, and he hadreceived his proper licking, his conscience would continue to troublehim. 

Another excellent piece of material for obtaining excitement in Germanyis the simple domestic perambulator. What you may do with a"kinder-wagen, " as it is called, and what you may not, covers pages ofGerman law; after the reading of which, you conclude that the man who canpush a perambulator through a German town without breaking the law wasmeant for a diplomatist. You must not loiter with a perambulator, andyou must not go too fast. You must not get in anybody's way with aperambulator, and if anybody gets in your way you must get out of theirway. If you want to stop with a perambulator, you must go to a placespecially appointed where perambulators may stop; and when you get thereyou _must_ stop. You must not cross the road with a perambulator; if youand the baby happen to live on the other side, that is your fault. Youmust not leave your perambulator anywhere, and only in certain places canyou take it with you. I should say that in Germany you could go out witha perambulator and get into enough trouble in half an hour to last youfor a month. Any young Englishman anxious for a row with the policecould not do better than come over to Germany and bring his perambulatorwith him. 

In Germany you must not leave your front door unlocked after ten o'clockat night, and you must not play the piano in your own house after eleven. In England I have never felt I wanted to play the piano myself, or tohear anyone else play it, after eleven o'clock at night; but that is avery different thing to being told that you must not play it. Here, inGermany, I never feel that I really care for the piano until eleveno'clock, then I could sit and listen to the "Maiden's Prayer, " or theOverture to "Zampa, " with pleasure. To the law-loving German, on theother hand, music after eleven o'clock at night ceases to be music; itbecomes sin, and as such gives him no satisfaction. 

The only individual throughout Germany who ever dreams of takingliberties with the law is the German student, and he only to a certainwell-defined point. By custom, certain privileges are permitted to him, but even these are strictly limited and clearly understood. Forinstance, the German student may get drunk and fall asleep in the gutterwith no other penalty than that of having the next morning to tip thepoliceman who has found him and brought him home. But for this purposehe must choose the gutters of side-streets. The German student, conscious of the rapid approach of oblivion, uses all his remainingenergy to get round the corner, where he may collapse without anxiety. Incertain districts he may ring bells. The rent of flats in theselocalities is lower than in other quarters of the town; while thedifficulty is further met by each family preparing for itself a secretcode of bell-ringing by means of which it is known whether the summons isgenuine or not. When visiting such a household late at night it is wellto be acquainted with this code, or you may, if persistent, get a bucketof water thrown over you. 

Also the German student is allowed to put out lights at night, but thereis a prejudice against his putting out too many. The larky Germanstudent generally keeps count, contenting himself with half a dozenlights per night. Likewise, he may shout and sing as he walks home, uptill half-past two; and at certain restaurants it is permitted to him toput his arm round the Fraulein's waist. To prevent any suggestion ofunseemliness, the waitresses at restaurants frequented by students arealways carefully selected from among a staid and elderly classy of women, by reason of which the German student can enjoy the delights offlirtation without fear and without reproach to anyone. 

They are a law-abiding people, the Germans. 

CHAPTER X

Baden from the visitor's point of view--Beauty of the early morning, asviewed from the preceding afternoon--Distance, as measured by thecompass--Ditto, as measured by the leg--George in account with hisconscience--A lazy machine--Bicycling, according to the poster: itsrestfulness--The poster cyclist: its costume; its method--The griffin asa household pet--A dog with proper self-respect--The horse that wasabused. 

From Baden, about which it need only be said that it is a pleasure resortsingularly like other pleasure resorts of the same description, westarted bicycling in earnest. We planned a ten days' tour, which, whilecompleting the Black Forest, should include a spin down the Donau-Thal, which for the twenty miles from Tuttlingen to Sigmaringen is, perhaps, the finest valley in Germany; the Danube stream here winding its narrowway past old-world unspoilt villages; past ancient monasteries, nestlingin green pastures, where still the bare-footed and bare-headed friar, hisrope girdle tight about his loins, shepherds, with crook in hand, hissheep upon the hill sides; through rocky woods; between sheer walls ofcliff, whose every towering crag stands crowned with ruined fortress, church, or castle; together with a blick at the Vosges mountains, wherehalf the population is bitterly pained if you speak to them in French, the other half being insulted when you address them in German, and thewhole indignantly contemptuous at the first sound of English; a state ofthings that renders conversation with the stranger somewhat nervous work. 

We did not succeed in carrying out our programme in its entirety, for thereason that human performance lags ever behind human intention. It iseasy to say and believe at three o'clock in the afternoon that: "We willrise at five, breakfast lightly at half-past, and start away at six. "

"Then we shall be well on our way before the heat of the day sets in, "remarks one. 

"This time of the year, the early morning is really the best part of theday. Don't you think so?" adds another. 

"Oh, undoubtedly. "

"So cool and fresh. "

"And the half-lights are so exquisite. "

The first morning one maintains one's vows. The party assembles at half-past five. It is very silent; individually, somewhat snappy; inclined togrumble with its food, also with most other things; the atmospherecharged with compressed irritability seeking its vent. In the eveningthe Tempter's voice is heard:

"I think if we got off by half-past six, sharp, that would be timeenough?"

The voice of Virtue protests, faintly: "It will be breaking ourresolution. "

The Tempter replies: "Resolutions were made for man, not man forresolutions. " The devil can paraphrase Scripture for his own purpose. "Besides, it is disturbing the whole hotel; think of the poor servants. "

The voice of Virtue continues, but even feebler: "But everybody gets upearly in these parts. "

"They would not if they were not obliged to, poor things! Say breakfastat half-past six, punctual; that will be disturbing nobody. "

Thus Sin masquerades under the guise of Good, and one sleeps till six, explaining to one's conscience, who, however, doesn't believe it, thatone does this because of unselfish consideration for others. I haveknown such consideration extend until seven of the clock. 

Likewise, distance measured with a pair of compasses is not precisely thesame as when measured by the leg. 

"Ten miles an hour for seven hours, seventy miles. A nice easy day'swork. "

"There are some stiff hills to climb?"

"The other side to come down. Say, eight miles an hour, and call itsixty miles. Gott in Himmel! if we can't average eight miles an hour, wehad better go in bath-chairs. " It does seem somewhat impossible to doless, on paper. 

But at four o'clock in the afternoon the voice of Duty rings less trumpet-toned:

"Well, I suppose we ought to be getting on. "

"Oh, there's no hurry! don't fuss. Lovely view from here, isn't it?"

"Very. Don't forget we are twenty-five miles from St. Blasien. "

"How far?"

"Twenty-five miles, a little over if anything. "

"Do you mean to say we have only come thirty-five miles?"

"That's all. "

"Nonsense. I don't believe that map of yours. "

"It is impossible, you know. We have been riding steadily ever since thefirst thing this morning. "

"No, we haven't. We didn't get away till eight, to begin with. "

"Quarter to eight. "

"Well, quarter to eight; and every half-dozen miles we have stopped. "

"We have only stopped to look at the view. It's no good coming to see acountry, and then not seeing it. "

"And we have had to pull up some stiff hills. "

"Besides, it has been an exceptionally hot day to-day. "

"Well, don't forget St. Blasien is twenty-five miles off, that's all. "

"Any more hills?"

"Yes, two; up and down. "

"I thought you said it was downhill into St. Blasien?"

"So it is for the last ten miles. We are twenty-five miles from St. Blasien here. "

"Isn't there anywhere between here and St. Blasien? What's that littleplace there on the lake?"

"It isn't St. Blasien, or anywhere near it. There's a danger inbeginning that sort of thing. "

"There's a danger in overworking oneself. One should study moderation inall things. Pretty little place, that Titisee, according to the map;looks as if there would be good air there. "

"All right, I'm agreeable. It was you fellows who suggested our makingfor St. Blasien. "

"Oh, I'm not so keen on St. Blasien! poky little place, down in a valley. This Titisee, I should say, was ever so much nicer. "

"Quite near, isn't it?"

"Five miles. "

General chorus: "We'll stop at Titisee. "

George made discovery of this difference between theory and practice onthe very first day of our ride. 

"I thought, " said George--he was riding the single, Harris and I being alittle ahead on the tandem--"that the idea was to train up the hills andride down them. "

"So it is, " answered Harris, "as a general rule. But the trains don't goup _every_ hill in the Black Forest. "

"Somehow, I felt a suspicion that they wouldn't, " growled George; and forawhile silence reigned. 

"Besides, " remarked Harris, who had evidently been ruminating thesubject, "you would not wish to have nothing but downhill, surely. Itwould not be playing the game. One must take a little rough with one'ssmooth. "

Again there returned silence, broken after awhile by George, this time. 

"Don't you two fellows over-exert yourselves merely on my account, " saidGeorge. 

"How do you mean?" asked Harris. 

"I mean, " answered George, "that where a train does happen to be going upthese hills, don't you put aside the idea of taking it for fear ofoutraging my finer feelings. Personally, I am prepared to go up allthese hills in a railway train, even if it's not playing the game. I'llsquare the thing with my conscience; I've been up at seven every day fora week now, and I calculate it owes me a bit. Don't you consider me inthe matter at all. "

We promised to bear this in mind, and again the ride continued in doggeddumbness, until it was again broken by George. 

"What bicycle did you say this was of yours?" asked George. 

Harris told him. I forget of what particular manufacture it happened tobe; it is immaterial. 

"Are you sure?" persisted George. 

"Of course I am sure, " answered Harris. "Why, what's the matter withit?"

"Well, it doesn't come up to the poster, " said George, "that's all. "

"What poster?" asked Harris. 

"The poster advertising this particular brand of cycle, " explainedGeorge. "I was looking at one on a hoarding in Sloane Street only a dayor two before we started. A man was riding this make of machine, a manwith a banner in his hand: he wasn't doing any work, that was clear asdaylight; he was just sitting on the thing and drinking in the air. Thecycle was going of its own accord, and going well. This thing of yoursleaves all the work to me. It is a lazy brute of a machine; if you don'tshove, it simply does nothing: I should complain about it, if I wereyou. "

When one comes to think of it, few bicycles do realise the poster. Ononly one poster that I can recollect have I seen the rider represented asdoing any work. But then this man was being pursued by a bull. Inordinary cases the object of the artist is to convince the hesitatingneophyte that the sport of bicycling consists in sitting on a luxurioussaddle, and being moved rapidly in the direction you wish to go by unseenheavenly powers. 

Generally speaking, the rider is a lady, and then one feels that, forperfect bodily rest combined with entire freedom from mental anxiety, slumber upon a water-bed cannot compare with bicycle-riding upon a hillyroad. No fairy travelling on a summer cloud could take things moreeasily than does the bicycle girl, according to the poster. Her costumefor cycling in hot weather is ideal. Old-fashioned landladies mightrefuse her lunch, it is true; and a narrowminded police force mightdesire to secure her, and wrap her in a rug preliminary to summonsingher. But such she heeds not. Uphill and downhill, through traffic thatmight tax the ingenuity of a cat, over road surfaces calculated to breakthe average steam roller she passes, a vision of idle loveliness; herfair hair streaming to the wind, her sylph-like form poised airily, onefoot upon the saddle, the other resting lightly upon the lamp. Sometimesshe condescends to sit down on the saddle; then she puts her feet on therests, lights a cigarette, and waves above her head a Chinese lantern. 

Less often, it is a mere male thing that rides the machine. He is not soaccomplished an acrobat as is the lady; but simple tricks, such asstanding on the saddle and waving flags, drinking beer or beef-tea whileriding, he can and does perform. Something, one supposes, he must do tooccupy his mind: sitting still hour after hour on this machine, having nowork to do, nothing to think about, must pall upon any man of activetemperament. Thus it is that we see him rising on his pedals as he nearsthe top of some high hill to apostrophise the sun, or address poetry tothe surrounding scenery. 

Occasionally the poster pictures a pair of cyclists; and then one graspsthe fact how much superior for purposes of flirtation is the modernbicycle to the old-fashioned parlour or the played-out garden gate. Heand she mount their bicycles, being careful, of course, that such are ofthe right make. After that they have nothing to think about but the oldsweet tale. Down shady lanes, through busy towns on market days, merrilyroll the wheels of the "Bermondsey Company's Bottom Bracket Britain'sBest, " or of the "Camberwell Company's Jointless Eureka. " They need nopedalling; they require no guiding. Give them their heads, and tell themwhat time you want to get home, and that is all they ask. While Edwinleans from his saddle to whisper the dear old nothings in Angelina's ear, while Angelina's face, to hide its blushes, is turned towards the horizonat the back, the magic bicycles pursue their even course. 

And the sun is always shining and the roads are always dry. No sternparent rides behind, no interfering aunt beside, no demon small boybrother is peeping round the corner, there never comes a skid. Ah me!Why were there no "Britain's Best" nor "Camberwell Eurekas" to be hiredwhen _we_ were young?

Or maybe the "Britain's Best" or the "Camberwell Eureka" stands leaningagainst a gate; maybe it is tired. It has worked hard all the afternoon, carrying these young people. Mercifully minded, they have dismounted, togive the machine a rest. They sit upon the grass beneath the shade ofgraceful boughs; it is long and dry grass. A stream flows by their feet. All is rest and peace. 

That is ever the idea the cycle poster artist sets himself to convey--restand peace. 

But I am wrong in saying that no cyclist, according to the poster, everworks. Now I come to reflect, I have seen posters representing gentlemenon cycles working very hard--over-working themselves, one might almostsay. They are thin and haggard with the toil, the perspiration standsupon their brow in beads; you feel that if there is another hill beyondthe poster they must either get off or die. But this is the result oftheir own folly. This happens because they will persist in riding amachine of an inferior make. Were they riding a "Putney Popular" or"Battersea Bounder, " such as the sensible young man in the centre of theposter rides, then all this unnecessary labour would be saved to them. Then all required of them would be, as in gratitude bound, to look happy;perhaps, occasionally to back-pedal a little when the machine in itsyouthful buoyancy loses its head for a moment and dashes on too swiftly. 

You tired young men, sitting dejectedly on milestones, too spent to heedthe steady rain that soaks you through; you weary maidens, with thestraight, damp hair, anxious about the time, longing to swear, notknowing how; you stout bald men, vanishing visibly as you pant and gruntalong the endless road; you purple, dejected matrons, plying with painthe slow unwilling wheel; why did you not see to it that you bought a"Britain's Best" or a "Camberwell Eureka"? Why are these bicycles ofinferior make so prevalent throughout the land

Or is it with bicycling as with all other things: does Life at no pointrealise the Poster?

The one thing in Germany that never fails to charm and fascinate me isthe German dog. In England one grows tired of the old breeds, one knowsthem all so well: the mastiff, the plum-pudding dog, the terrier (black, white or rough-haired, as the case may be, but always quarrelsome), thecollie, the bulldog; never anything new. Now in Germany you get variety. You come across dogs the like of which you have never seen before: thatuntil you hear them bark you do not know are dogs. It is all so fresh, so interesting. George stopped a dog in Sigmaringen and drew ourattention to it. It suggested a cross between a codfish and a poodle. Iwould not like to be positive it was _not_ a cross between a codfish anda poodle. Harris tried to photograph it, but it ran up a fence anddisappeared through some bushes. 

I do not know what the German breeder's idea is; at present he retainshis secret. George suggests he is aiming at a griffin. There is much tobear out this theory, and indeed in one or two cases I have come acrosssuccess on these lines would seem to have been almost achieved. Yet Icannot bring myself to believe that such are anything more than mereaccidents. The German is practical, and I fail to see the object of agriffin. If mere quaintness of design be desired, is there not alreadythe Dachshund! What more is needed? Besides, about a house, a griffinwould be so inconvenient: people would be continually treading on itstail. My own idea is that what the Germans are trying for is a mermaid, which they will then train to catch fish. 

For your German does not encourage laziness in any living thing. Helikes to see his dogs work, and the German dog loves work; of that therecan be no doubt. The life of the English dog must be a misery to him. Imagine a strong, active, and intelligent being, of exceptionallyenergetic temperament, condemned to spend twenty-four hours a day inabsolute idleness! How would you like it yourself? No wonder he feelsmisunderstood, yearns for the unattainable, and gets himself into troublegenerally. 

Now the German dog, on the other hand, has plenty to occupy his mind. Heis busy and important. Watch him as he walks along harnessed to his milkcart. No churchwarden at collection time could feel or look more pleasedwith himself. He does not do any real work; the human being does thepushing, he does the barking; that is his idea of division of labour. What he says to himself is:

"The old man can't bark, but he can shove. Very well. "

The interest and the pride he takes in the business is quite beautiful tosee. Another dog passing by makes, maybe, some jeering remark, castingdiscredit upon the creaminess of the milk. He stops suddenly, quiteregardless of the traffic. 

"I beg your pardon, what was that you said about our milk?"

"I said nothing about your milk, " retorts the other dog, in a tone ofgentle innocence. "I merely said it was a fine day, and asked the priceof chalk. "

"Oh, you asked the price of chalk, did you? Would you like to know?"

"Yes, thanks; somehow I thought you would be able to tell me. "

"You are quite right, I can. It's worth--"

"Oh, do come along!" says the old lady, who is tired and hot, and anxiousto finish her round. 

"Yes, but hang it all; did you hear what he hinted about our milk?"

"Oh, never mind him! There's a tram coming round the corner: we shallall get run over. "

"Yes, but I do mind him; one has one's proper pride. He asked the priceof chalk, and he's going to know it! It's worth just twenty times asmuch--"

"You'll have the whole thing over, I know you will, " cries the old lady, pathetically, struggling with all her feeble strength to haul him back. "Oh dear, oh dear! I do wish I had left you at home. "

The tram is bearing down upon them; a cab-driver is shouting at them;another huge brute, hoping to be in time to take a hand, is dragging abread cart, followed by a screaming child, across the road from theopposite side; a small crowd is collecting; and a policeman is hasteningto the scene. 

"It's worth, " says the milk dog, "just twenty-times as much as you'll beworth before I've done with you. "

"Oh, you think so, do you?"

"Yes, I do, you grandson of a French poodle, you cabbage-eating--"

"There! I knew you'd have it over, " says the poor milk-woman. "I toldhim he'd have it over. "

But he is busy, and heeds her not. Five minutes later, when the trafficis renewed, when the bread girl has collected her muddy rolls, and thepoliceman has gone off with the name and address of everybody in thestreet, he consents to look behind him. 

"It _is_ a bit of an upset, " he admits. Then shaking himself free ofcare, he adds, cheerfully, "But I guess I taught him the price of chalk. He won't interfere with us again, I'm thinking. "

"I'm sure I hope not, " says the old lady, regarding dejectedly the milkyroad. 

But his favourite sport is to wait at the top of the hill for anotherdog, and then race down. On these occasions the chief occupation of theother fellow is to run about behind, picking up the scattered articles, loaves, cabbages, or shirts, as they are jerked out. At the bottom ofthe hill, he stops and waits for his friend. 

"Good race, wasn't it?" he remarks, panting, as the Human comes up, ladento the chin. "I believe I'd have won it, too, if it hadn't been for thatfool of a small boy. He was right in my way just as I turned the corner. _You noticed him_? Wish I had, beastly brat! What's he yelling likethat for? _Because I knocked him down and ran over him_? Well, whydidn't he get out of the way? It's disgraceful, the way people leavetheir children about for other people to tumble over. Halloa! did allthose things come out? You couldn't have packed them very carefully; youshould see to a thing like that. _You did not dream of my tearing downthe hill twenty miles an hour_? Surely, you knew me better than toexpect I'd let that old Schneider's dog pass me without an effort. Butthere, you never think. You're sure you've got them all? _You believeso_? I shouldn't 'believe' if I were you; I should run back up the hillagain and make sure. _You feel too tired_? Oh, all right! don't blameme if anything is missing, that's all. "

He is so self-willed. He is cock-sure that the correct turning is thesecond on the right, and nothing will persuade him that it is the third. He is positive he can get across the road in time, and will not beconvinced until he sees the cart smashed up. Then he is very apologetic, it is true. But of what use is that? As he is usually of the size andstrength of a young bull, and his human companion is generally a weak-kneed old man or woman, or a small child, he has his way. The greatestpunishment his proprietor can inflict upon him is to leave him at home, and take the cart out alone. But your German is too kind-hearted to dothis often. 

That he is harnessed to the cart for anybody's pleasure but his own it isimpossible to believe; and I am confident that the German peasant plansthe tiny harness and fashions the little cart purely with the hope ofgratifying his dog. In other countries--in Belgium, Holland and France--Ihave seen these draught dogs ill-treated and over-worked; but in Germany, never. Germans abuse animals shockingly. I have seen a German stand infront of his horse and call it every name he could lay his tongue to. Butthe horse did not mind it. I have seen a German, weary with abusing hishorse, call to his wife to come out and assist him. When she came, hetold her what the horse had done. The recital roused the woman's temperto almost equal heat with his own; and standing one each side of the poorbeast, they both abused it. They abused its dead mother, they insultedits father; they made cutting remarks about its personal appearance, itsintelligence, its moral sense, its general ability as a horse. Theanimal bore the torrent with exemplary patience for awhile; then it didthe best thing possible to do under the circumstances. Without losingits own temper, it moved quietly away. The lady returned to her washing, and the man followed it up the street, still abusing it. 

A kinder-hearted people than the Germans there is no need for. Crueltyto animal or child is a thing almost unknown in the land. The whip withthem is a musical instrument; its crack is heard from morning to night, but an Italian coachman that in the streets of Dresden I once saw use itwas very nearly lynched by the indignant crowd. Germany is the onlycountry in Europe where the traveller can settle himself comfortably inhis hired carriage, confident that his gentle, willing friend between theshafts will be neither over-worked nor cruelly treated. 

CHAPTER XI

Black Forest House: and the sociability therein--Its perfume--Georgepositively declines to remain in bed after four o'clock in themorning--The road one cannot miss--My peculiar extra instinct--Anungrateful party--Harris as a scientist--His cheery confidence--Thevillage: where it was, and where it ought to have been--George: hisplan--We promenade a la Francais--The German coachman asleep andawake--The man who spreads the English language abroad. 

There was one night when, tired out and far from town or village, weslept in a Black Forest farmhouse. The great charm about the BlackForest house is its sociability. The cows are in the next room, thehorses are upstairs, the geese and ducks are in the kitchen, while thepigs, the children, and the chickens live all over the place. 

You are dressing, when you hear a grunt behind you. 

"Good-morning! Don't happen to have any potato peelings in here? No, Isee you haven't; good-bye. "

Next there is a cackle, and you see the neck of an old hen stretchedround the corner. 

"Fine morning, isn't it? You don't mind my bringing this worm of mine inhere, do you? It is so difficult in this house to find a room where onecan enjoy one's food with any quietness. From a chicken I have alwaysbeen a slow eater, and when a dozen--there, I thought they wouldn't leaveme alone. Now they'll all want a bit. You don't mind my getting on thebed, do you? Perhaps here they won't notice me. "

While you are dressing various shock heads peer in at the door; theyevidently regard the room as a temporary menagerie. You cannot tellwhether the heads belong to boys or girls; you can only hope they are allmale. It is of no use shutting the door, because there is nothing tofasten it by, and the moment you are gone they push it open again. Youbreakfast as the Prodigal Son is generally represented feeding: a pig ortwo drop in to keep you company; a party of elderly geese criticise youfrom the door; you gather from their whispers, added to their shockedexpression, that they are talking scandal about you. Maybe a cow willcondescend to give a glance in. 

This Noah's Ark arrangement it is, I suppose, that gives to the BlackForest home its distinctive scent. It is not a scent you can liken toany one thing. It is as if you took roses and Limburger cheese and hairoil, some heather and onions, peaches and soapsuds, together with a dashof sea air and a corpse, and mixed them up together. You cannot defineany particular odour, but you feel they are all there--all the odoursthat the world has yet discovered. People who live in these houses arefond of this mixture. They do not open the window and lose any of it;they keep it carefully bottled up. If you want any other scent, you cango outside and smell the wood violets and the pines; inside there is thehouse; and after a while, I am told, you get used to it, so that you missit, and are unable to go to sleep in any other atmosphere. 

We had a long walk before us the next day, and it was our desire, therefore, to get up early, even so early as six o'clock, if that couldbe managed without disturbing the whole household. We put it to ourhostess whether she thought this could be done. She said she thought itcould. She might not be about herself at that time; it was her morningfor going into the town, some eight miles off, and she rarely got backmuch before seven; but, possibly, her husband or one of the boys would bereturning home to lunch about that hour. Anyhow, somebody should be sentback to wake us and get our breakfast. 

As it turned out, we did not need any waking. We got up at four, all byourselves. We got up at four in order to get away from the noise and thedin that was making our heads ache. What time the Black Forest peasantrises in the summer time I am unable to say; to us they appeared to begetting up all night. And the first thing the Black Forester does whenhe gets up is to put on a pair of stout boots with wooden soles, and takea constitutional round the house. Until he has been three times up anddown the stairs, he does not feel he is up. Once fully awake himself, the next thing he does is to go upstairs to the stables, and wake up ahorse. (The Black Forest house being built generally on the side of asteep hill, the ground floor is at the top, and the hay-loft at thebottom. ) Then the horse, it would seem, must also have itsconstitutional round the house; and this seen to, the man goes downstairsinto the kitchen and begins to chop wood, and when he has choppedsufficient wood he feels pleased with himself and begins to sing. Allthings considered, we came to the conclusion we could not do better thanfollow the excellent example set us. Even George was quite eager to getup that morning. 

We had a frugal breakfast at half-past four, and started away at five. Our road lay over a mountain, and from enquiries made in the village itappeared to be one of those roads you cannot possibly miss. I supposeeverybody knows this sort of road. Generally, it leads you back to whereyou started from; and when it doesn't, you wish it did, so that at allevents you might know where you were. I foresaw evil from the veryfirst, and before we had accomplished a couple of miles we came up withit. The road divided into three. A worm-eaten sign-post indicated thatthe path to the left led to a place that we had never heard of--that wason no map. Its other arm, pointing out the direction of the middle road, had disappeared. The road to the right, so we all agreed, clearly ledback again to the village. 

"The old man said distinctly, " so Harris reminded us, "keep straight onround the hill. "

"Which hill?" George asked, pertinently. 

We were confronted by half a dozen, some of them big, some of themlittle. 

"He told us, " continued Harris, "that we should come to a wood. "

"I see no reason to doubt him, " commented George, "whichever road wetake. "

As a matter of fact, a dense wood covered every hill. 

"And he said, " murmured Harris, "that we should reach the top in about anhour and a half. "

"There it is, " said George, "that I begin to disbelieve him. "

"Well, what shall we do?" said Harris. 

Now I happen to possess the bump of locality. It is not a virtue; I makeno boast of it. It is merely an animal instinct that I cannot help. Thatthings occasionally get in my way--mountains, precipices, rivers, andsuch like obstructions--is no fault of mine. My instinct is correctenough; it is the earth that is wrong. I led them by the middle road. That the middle road had not character enough to continue for any quarterof a mile in the same direction; that after three miles up and down hillit ended abruptly in a wasps' nest, was not a thing that should have beenlaid to my door. If the middle road had gone in the direction it oughtto have done, it would have taken us to where we wanted to go, of that Iam convinced. 

Even as it was, I would have continued to use this gift of mine todiscover a fresh way had a proper spirit been displayed towards me. ButI am not an angel--I admit this frankly, --and I decline to exert myselffor the ungrateful and the ribald. Besides, I doubt if George and Harriswould have followed me further in any event. Therefore it was that Iwashed my hands of the whole affair, and that Harris entered upon thevacancy. 

"Well, " said Harris. "I suppose you are satisfied with what you havedone?"

"I am quite satisfied, " I replied from the heap of stones where I wassitting. "So far, I have brought you with safety. I would continue tolead you further, but no artist can work without encouragement. Youappear dissatisfied with me because you do not know where you are. Forall you know, you may be just where you want to be. But I say nothing asto that; I expect no thanks. Go your own way; I have done with youboth. "

I spoke, perhaps, with bitterness, but I could not help it. Not a wordof kindness had I had all the weary way. 

"Do not misunderstand us, " said Harris; "both George and myself feel thatwithout your assistance we should never be where we now are. For that wegive you every credit. But instinct is liable to error. What I proposeto do is to substitute for it Science, which is exact. Now, where's thesun?"

"Don't you think, " said George, "that if we made our way back to thevillage, and hired a boy for a mark to guide us, it would save time inthe end?"

"It would be wasting hours, " said Harris, with decision. "You leave thisto me. I have been reading about this thing, and it has interested me. "He took out his watch, and began turning himself round and round. 

"It's as simple as A B C, " he continued. "You point the short hand atthe sun, then you bisect the segment between the short hand and thetwelve, and thus you get the north. "

He worried up and down for a while, then he fixed it. 

"Now I've got it, " he said; "that's the north, where that wasps' nest is. Now give me the map. "

We handed it to him, and seating himself facing the wasps, he examinedit. 

"Todtmoos from here, " he said, "is south by south-west. "

"How do you mean, from here?" asked George. 

"Why, from here, where we are, " returned Harris. 

"But where are we?" said George. 

This worried Harris for a time, but at length he cheered up. 

"It doesn't matter where we are, " he said. "Wherever we are, Todtmoos issouth by south-west. Come on, we are only wasting time. "

"I don't quite see how you make it out, " said George, as he rose andshouldered his knapsack; "but I suppose it doesn't matter. We are outfor our health, and it's all pretty!"

"We shall be all right, " said Harris, with cheery confidence. "We shallbe in at Todtmoos before ten, don't you worry. And at Todtmoos we willhave something to eat. "

He said that he, himself, fancied a beefsteak, followed by an omelette. George said that, personally, he intended to keep his mind off thesubject until he saw Todtmoos. 

We walked for half an hour, then emerging upon an opening, we saw belowus, about two miles away, the village through which we had passed thatmorning. It had a quaint church with an outside staircase, a somewhatunusual arrangement. 

The sight of it made me sad. We had been walking hard for three hoursand a half, and had accomplished, apparently, about four miles. ButHarris was delighted. 

"Now, at last, " said Harris, "we know where we are. "

"I thought you said it didn't matter, " George reminded him. 

"No more it does, practically, " replied Harris, "but it is just as wellto be certain. Now I feel more confidence in myself. "

"I'm not so sure about that being an advantage, " muttered George. But Ido not think Harris heard him. 

"We are now, " continued Harris, "east of the sun, and Todtmoos is south-west of where we are. So that if--"

He broke off. "By-the-by, " he said, "do you remember whether I said thebisecting line of that segment pointed to the north or to the south?"

"You said it pointed to the north, " replied George. 

"Are you positive?" persisted Harris. 

"Positive, " answered George "but don't let that influence yourcalculations. In all probability you were wrong. "

Harris thought for a while; then his brow cleared. 

"That's all right, " he said; "of course, it's the north. It must be thenorth. How could it be the south? Now we must make for the west. Comeon. "

"I am quite willing to make for the west, " said George; "any point of thecompass is the same to me. I only wish to remark that, at the presentmoment, we are going dead east. "

"No we are not, " returned Harris; "we are going west. "

"We are going east, I tell you, " said George. 

"I wish you wouldn't keep saying that, " said Harris, "you confuse me. "

"I don't mind if I do, " returned George; "I would rather do that than gowrong. I tell you we are going dead east. "

"What nonsense!" retorted Harris; "there's the sun. "

"I can see the sun, " answered George, "quite distinctly. It may be whereit ought to be, according to you and Science, or it may not. All I knowis, that when we were down in the village, that particular hill with thatparticular lump of rock upon it was due north of us. At the presentmoment we are facing due east. "

"You are quite right, " said Harris; "I forgot for the moment that we hadturned round. "

"I should get into the habit of making a note of it, if I were you, "grumbled George; "it's a manoeuvre that will probably occur again morethan once. "

We faced about, and walked in the other direction. At the end of fortyminutes' climbing we again emerged upon an opening, and again the villagelay just under our feet. On this occasion it was south of us. 

"This is very extraordinary, " said Harris. 

"I see nothing remarkable about it, " said George. "If you walk steadilyround a village it is only natural that now and then you get a glimpse ofit. Myself, I am glad to see it. It proves to me that we are notutterly lost. "

"It ought to be the other side of us, " said Harris. 

"It will be in another hour or so, " said George, "if we keep on. "

I said little myself; I was vexed with both of them; but I was glad tonotice George evidently growing cross with Harris. It was absurd ofHarris to fancy he could find the way by the sun. 

"I wish I knew, " said Harris, thoughtfully, "for certain whether thatbisecting line points to the north or to the south. "

"I should make up my mind about it, " said George; "it's an importantpoint. "

"It's impossible it can be the north, " said Harris, "and I'll tell youwhy. "

"You needn't trouble, " said George; "I am quite prepared to believe itisn't. "

"You said just now it was, " said Harris, reproachfully. 

"I said nothing of the sort, " retorted George. "I said you said it was--avery different thing. If you think it isn't, let's go the other way. It'll be a change, at all events. "

So Harris worked things out according to the contrary calculation, andagain we plunged into the wood; and again after half an hour's stiffclimbing we came in view of that same village. True, we were a littlehigher, and this time it lay between us and the sun. 

"I think, " said George, as he stood looking down at it, "this is the bestview we've had of it, as yet. There is only one other point from whichwe can see it. After that, I propose we go down into it and get somerest. "

"I don't believe it's the same village, " said Harris; "it can't be. "

"There's no mistaking that church, " said George. "But maybe it is a caseon all fours with that Prague statue. Possibly, the authoritieshereabout have had made some life-sized models of that village, and havestuck them about the Forest to see where the thing would look best. Anyhow, which way do we go now?"

"I don't know, " said Harris, "and I don't care. I have done my best;you've done nothing but grumble, and confuse me. "

"I may have been critical, " admitted George "but look at the thing frommy point of view. One of you says he's got an instinct, and leads me toa wasps' nest in the middle of a wood. "

"I can't help wasps building in a wood, " I replied. 

"I don't say you can, " answered George. "I am not arguing; I am merelystating incontrovertible facts. The other one, who leads me up and downhill for hours on scientific principles, doesn't know the north from thesouth, and is never quite sure whether he's turned round or whether hehasn't. Personally, I profess to no instincts beyond the ordinary, noram I a scientist. But two fields off I can see a man. I am going tooffer him the worth of the hay he is cutting, which I estimate at onemark fifty pfennig, to leave his work, and lead me to within sight ofTodtmoos. If you two fellows like to follow, you can. If not, you canstart another system and work it out by yourselves. "

George's plan lacked both originality and aplomb, but at the moment itappealed to us. Fortunately, we had worked round to a very shortdistance away from the spot where we had originally gone wrong; with theresult that, aided by the gentleman of the scythe, we recovered the road, and reached Todtmoos four hours later than we had calculated to reach it, with an appetite that took forty-five minutes' steady work in silence toabate. 

From Todtmoos we had intended to walk down to the Rhine; but havingregard to our extra exertions of the morning, we decided to promenade ina carriage, as the French would say: and for this purpose hired apicturesque-looking vehicle, drawn by a horse that I should have calledbarrel-bodied but for contrast with his driver, in comparison with whomhe was angular. In Germany every vehicle is arranged for a pair ofhorses, but drawn generally by one. This gives to the equipage a lop-sided appearance, according to our notions, but it is held here toindicate style. The idea to be conveyed is that you usually drive a pairof horses, but that for the moment you have mislaid the other one. TheGerman driver is not what we should call a first-class whip. He is athis best when he is asleep. Then, at all events, he is harmless; and thehorse being, generally speaking, intelligent and experienced, progressunder these conditions is comparatively safe. If in Germany they couldonly train the horse to collect the money at the end of the journey, there would be no need for a coachman at all. This would be a distinctrelief to the passenger, for when the German coachman is awake and notcracking his whip he is generally occupied in getting himself intotrouble or out of it. He is better at the former. Once I recollectdriving down a steep Black Forest hill with a couple of ladies. It wasone of those roads winding corkscrew-wise down the slope. The hill roseat an angle of seventy-five on the off-side, and fell away at an angle ofseventy-five on the near-side. We were proceeding very comfortably, thedriver, we were happy to notice, with his eyes shut, when suddenlysomething, a bad dream or indigestion, awoke him. He seized the reins, and, by an adroit movement, pulled the near-side horse over the edge, where it clung, half supported by the traces. Our driver did not appearin the least annoyed or surprised; both horses, I also, noticed, seemedequally used to the situation. We got out, and he got down. He tookfrom under the seat a huge clasp-knife, evidently kept there for thepurpose, and deftly cut the traces. The horse, thus released, rolledover and over until he struck the road again some fifty feet below. Therehe regained his feet and stood waiting for us. We re-entered thecarriage and descended with the single horse until we came to him. There, with the help of some bits of string, our driver harnessed him again, andwe continued on our way. What impressed me was the evidentaccustomedness of both driver and horses to this method of working down ahill. 

Evidently to them it appeared a short and convenient cut. I should nothave been surprised had the man suggested our strapping ourselves in, andthen rolling over and over, carriage and all, to the bottom. 

Another peculiarity of the German coachman is that he never attempts topull in or to pull up. He regulates his rate of speed, not by the paceof the horse, but by manipulation of the brake. For eight miles an hourhe puts it on slightly, so that it only scrapes the wheel, producing acontinuous sound as of the sharpening of a saw; for four miles an hour hescrews it down harder, and you travel to an accompaniment of groans andshrieks, suggestive of a symphony of dying pigs. When he desires to cometo a full stop, he puts it on to its full. If his brake be a good one, he calculates he can stop his carriage, unless the horse be an extrapowerful animal, in less than twice its own length. Neither the Germandriver nor the German horse knows, apparently, that you can stop acarriage by any other method. The German horse continues to pull withhis full strength until he finds it impossible to move the vehicleanother inch; then he rests. Horses of other countries are quite willingto stop when the idea is suggested to them. I have known horses contentto go even quite slowly. But your German horse, seemingly, is built forone particular speed, and is unable to depart from it. I am statingnothing but the literal, unadorned truth, when I say I have seen a Germancoachman, with the reins lying loose over the splash-board, working hisbrake with both hands, in terror lest he would not be in time to avoid acollision. 

At Waldshut, one of those little sixteenth-century towns through whichthe Rhine flows during its earlier course, we came across thatexceedingly common object of the Continent: the travelling Briton grievedand surprised at the unacquaintance of the foreigner with the subtletiesof the English language. When we entered the station he was, in veryfair English, though with a slight Somersetshire accent, explaining to aporter for the tenth time, as he informed us, the simple fact that thoughhe himself had a ticket for Donaueschingen, and wanted to go toDonaueschingen, to see the source of the Danube, which is not there, though they tell you it is, he wished his bicycle to be sent on to Engenand his bag to Constance, there to await his arrival. He was hot andangry with the effort of the thing. The porter was a young man in years, but at the moment looked old and miserable. I offered my services. Iwish now I had not--though not so fervently, I expect, as he, thespeechless one, came subsequently to wish this. All three routes, so theporter explained to us, were complicated, necessitating changing and re-changing. There was not much time for calm elucidation, as our own trainwas starting in a few minutes. The man himself was voluble--always amistake when anything entangled has to be made clear; while the porterwas only too eager to get the job done with and so breathe again. Itdawned upon me ten minutes later, when thinking the matter over in thetrain, that though I had agreed with the porter that it would be best forthe bicycle to go by way of Immendingen, and had agreed to his booking itto Immendingen, I had neglected to give instructions for its departurefrom Immendingen. Were I of a despondent temperament I should beworrying myself at the present moment with the reflection that in allprobability that bicycle is still at Immendingen to this day. But Iregard it as good philosophy to endeavour always to see the brighter sideof things. Possibly the porter corrected my omission on his own account, or some simple miracle may have happened to restore that bicycle to itsowner some time before the end of his tour. The bag we sent toRadolfzell: but here I console myself with the recollection that it waslabelled Constance; and no doubt after a while the railway authorities, finding it unclaimed at Radolfzell, forwarded it on to Constance. 

But all this is apart from the moral I wished to draw from the incident. The true inwardness of the situation lay in the indignation of thisBritisher at finding a German railway porter unable to comprehendEnglish. The moment we spoke to him he expressed this indignation in nomeasured terms. 

"Thank you very much indeed, " he said; "it's simple enough. I want to goto Donaueschingen myself by train; from Donaueschingen I am going to walkto Geisengen; from Geisengen I am going to take the train to Engen, andfrom Engen I am going to bicycle to Constance. But I don't want to takemy bag with me; I want to find it at Constance when I get there. I havebeen trying to explain the thing to this fool for the last ten minutes;but I can't get it into him. "

"It is very disgraceful, " I agreed. "Some of these German workmen knowhardly any other language than their own. "

"I have gone over it with him, " continued the man, "on the time table, and explained it by pantomime. Even then I could not knock it into him. "

"I can hardly believe you, " I again remarked; "you would think the thingexplained itself. "

Harris was angry with the man; he wished to reprove him for his folly injourneying through the outlying portions of a foreign clime, and seekingin such to accomplish complicated railway tricks without knowing a wordof the language of the country. But I checked the impulsiveness ofHarris, and pointed out to him the great and good work at which the manwas unconsciously assisting. 

Shakespeare and Milton may have done their little best to spreadacquaintance with the English tongue among the less favoured inhabitantsof Europe. Newton and Darwin may have rendered their language anecessity among educated and thoughtful foreigners. Dickens and Ouida(for your folk who imagine that the literary world is bounded by theprejudices of New Grub Street, would be surprised and grieved at theposition occupied abroad by this at-home-sneered-at lady) may have helpedstill further to popularise it. But the man who has spread the knowledgeof English from Cape St. Vincent to the Ural Mountains is the Englishmanwho, unable or unwilling to learn a single word of any language but hisown, travels purse in hand into every corner of the Continent. One maybe shocked at his ignorance, annoyed at his stupidity, angry at hispresumption. But the practical fact remains; he it is that isanglicising Europe. For him the Swiss peasant tramps through the snow onwinter evenings to attend the English class open in every village. Forhim the coachman and the guard, the chambermaid and the laundress, poreover their English grammars and colloquial phrase books. For him theforeign shopkeeper and merchant send their sons and daughters in theirthousands to study in every English town. For him it is that everyforeign hotel- and restaurant-keeper adds to his advertisement: "Onlythose with fair knowledge of English need apply. "

Did the English-speaking races make it their rule to speak anything elsethan English, the marvellous progress of the English tongue throughoutthe world would stop. The English-speaking man stands amid the strangersand jingles his gold. 

"Here, " cries, "is payment for all such as can speak English. "

He it is who is the great educator. Theoretically we may scold him;practically we should take our hats off to him. He is the missionary ofthe English tongue. 

CHAPTER XII

We are grieved at the earthly instincts of the German--A superb view, butno restaurant--Continental opinion of the Englishman--That he does notknow enough to come in out of the rain--There comes a weary travellerwith a brick--The hurting of the dog--An undesirable family residence--Afruitful region--A merry old soul comes up the hill--George, alarmed atthe lateness of the hour, hastens down the other side--Harris followshim, to show him the way--I hate being alone, and followHarris--Pronunciation specially designed for use of foreigners. 

A thing that vexes much the high-class Anglo-Saxon soul is the earthlyinstinct prompting the German to fix a restaurant at the goal of everyexcursion. On mountain summit, in fairy glen, on lonely pass, bywaterfall or winding stream, stands ever the busy Wirtschaft. How canone rhapsodise over a view when surrounded by beer-stained tables? Howlose one's self in historical reverie amid the odour of roast veal andspinach?

One day, on elevating thoughts intent, we climbed through tangled woods. 

"And at the top, " said Harris, bitterly, as we paused to breathe a spaceand pull our belts a hole tighter, "there will be a gaudy restaurant, where people will be guzzling beefsteaks and plum tarts and drinkingwhite wine. "

"Do you think so?" said George. 

"Sure to be, " answered Harris; "you know their way. Not one grove willthey consent to dedicate to solitude and contemplation; not one heightwill they leave to the lover of nature unpolluted by the gross and thematerial. "

"I calculate, " I remarked, "that we shall be there a little before oneo'clock, provided we don't dawdle. "

"The 'mittagstisch' will be just ready, " groaned Harris, "with possiblysome of those little blue trout they catch about here. In Germany onenever seems able to get away from food and drink. It is maddening!"

We pushed on, and in the beauty of the walk forgot our indignation. Myestimate proved to be correct. 

At a quarter to one, said Harris, who was leading:

"Here we are; I can see the summit. "

"Any sign of that restaurant?" said George. 

"I don't notice it, " replied Harris; "but it's there, you may be sure;confound it!"

Five minutes later we stood upon the top. We looked north, south, eastand west; then we looked at one another. 

"Grand view, isn't it?" said Harris. 

"Magnificent, " I agreed. 

"Superb, " remarked George. 

"They have had the good sense for once, " said Harris, "to put thatrestaurant out of sight. "

"They do seem to have hidden it, " said George. "One doesn't mind thething so much when it is not forced under one's nose, " said Harris. 

"Of course, in its place, " I observed, "a restaurant is right enough. "

"I should like to know where they have put it, " said George. 

"Suppose we look for it?" said Harris, with inspiration. 

It seemed a good idea. I felt curious myself. We agreed to explore indifferent directions, returning to the summit to report progress. Inhalf an hour we stood together once again. There was no need for words. The face of one and all of us announced plainly that at last we haddiscovered a recess of German nature untarnished by the sordid suggestionof food or drink. 

"I should never have believed it possible, " said Harris: "would you?"

"I should say, " I replied, "that this is the only square quarter of amile in the entire Fatherland unprovided with one. "

"And we three strangers have struck it, " said George, "without aneffort. "

"True, " I observed. "By pure good fortune we are now enabled to feastour finer senses undisturbed by appeal to our lower nature. Observe thelight upon those distant peaks; is it not ravishing?"

"Talking of nature, " said George, "which should you say was the nearestway down?"

"The road to the left, " I replied, after consulting the guide book, "takes us to Sonnensteig--where, by-the-by, I observe the 'GoldenerAdler' is well spoken of--in about two hours. The road to the right, though somewhat longer, commands more extensive prospects. "

"One prospect, " said Harris, "is very much like another prospect; don'tyou think so?"

"Personally, " said George, "I am going by the left-hand road. " AndHarris and I went after him. 

But we were not to get down so soon as we had anticipated. Storms comequickly in these regions, and before we had walked for quarter of an hourit became a question of seeking shelter or living for the rest of the dayin soaked clothes. We decided on the former alternative, and selected atree that, under ordinary circumstances, should have been ampleprotection. But a Black Forest thunderstorm is not an ordinarycircumstance. We consoled ourselves at first by telling each other thatat such a rate it could not last long. Next, we endeavoured to comfortourselves with the reflection that if it did we should soon be too wet tofear getting wetter. 

"As it turned out, " said Harris, "I should have been almost glad if therehad been a restaurant up here. "

"I see no advantage in being both wet _and_ hungry, " said George. "Ishall give it another five minutes, then I am going on. "

"These mountain solitudes, " I remarked, "are very attractive in fineweather. On a rainy day, especially if you happen to be past the agewhen--"

At this point there hailed us a voice, proceeding from a stout gentleman, who stood some fifty feet away from us under a big umbrella. 

"Won't you come inside?" asked the stout gentleman. 

"Inside where?" I called back. I thought at first he was one of thosefools that will try to be funny when there is nothing to be funny about. 

"Inside the restaurant, " he answered. 

We left our shelter and made for him. We wished for further informationabout this thing. 

"I did call to you from the window, " said the stout gentleman, as we drewnear to him, "but I suppose you did not hear me. This storm may last foranother hour; you will get _so_ wet. "

He was a kindly old gentleman; he seemed quite anxious about us. 

I said: "It is very kind of you to have come out. We are not lunatics. We have not been standing under that tree for the last half-hour knowingall the time there was a restaurant, hidden by the trees, within twentyyards of us. We had no idea we were anywhere near a restaurant. "

"I thought maybe you hadn't, " said the old gentleman; "that is why Icame. "

It appeared that all the people in the inn had been watching us from thewindows also, wondering why we stood there looking miserable. If it hadnot been for this nice old gentleman the fools would have remainedwatching us, I suppose, for the rest of the afternoon. The landlordexcused himself by saying he thought we looked like English. It is nofigure of speech. On the Continent they do sincerely believe that everyEnglishman is mad. They are as convinced of it as is every Englishpeasant that Frenchmen live on frogs. Even when one makes a directpersonal effort to disabuse them of the impression one is not alwayssuccessful. 

It was a comfortable little restaurant, where they cooked well, while theTischwein was really most passable. We stopped there for a couple ofhours, and dried ourselves and fed ourselves, and talked about the view;and just before we left an incident occurred that shows how much morestirring in this world are the influences of evil compared with those ofgood. 

A traveller entered. He seemed a careworn man. He carried a brick inhis hand, tied to a piece of rope. He entered nervously and hurriedly, closed the door carefully behind him, saw to it that it was fastened, peered out of the window long and earnestly, and then, with a sigh ofrelief, laid his brick upon the bench beside him and called for food anddrink. 

There was something mysterious about the whole affair. One wondered whathe was going to do with the brick, why he had closed the door socarefully, why he had looked so anxiously from the window; but his aspectwas too wretched to invite conversation, and we forbore, therefore, toask him questions. As he ate and drank he grew more cheerful, sighedless often. Later he stretched his legs, lit an evil-smelling cigar, andpuffed in calm contentment. 

Then it happened. It happened too suddenly for any detailed explanationof the thing to be possible. I recollect a Fraulein entering the roomfrom the kitchen with a pan in her hand. I saw her cross to the outerdoor. The next moment the whole room was in an uproar. One was remindedof those pantomime transformation scenes where, from among floatingclouds, slow music, waving flowers, and reclining fairies, one issuddenly transported into the midst of shouting policemen tumblingyelling babies, swells fighting pantaloons, sausages and harlequins, buttered slides and clowns. As the Fraulein of the pan touched the doorit flew open, as though all the spirits of sin had been pressed againstit, waiting. Two pigs and a chicken rushed into the room; a cat that hadbeen sleeping on a beer-barrel spluttered into fiery life. The Frauleinthrew her pan into the air and lay down on the floor. The gentleman withthe brick sprang to his feet, upsetting the table before him witheverything upon it. 

One looked to see the cause of this disaster: one discovered it at oncein the person of a mongrel terrier with pointed ears and a squirrel'stail. The landlord rushed out from another door, and attempted to kickhim out of the room. Instead, he kicked one of the pigs, the fatter ofthe two. It was a vigorous, well-planted kick, and the pig got the wholeof it; none of it was wasted. One felt sorry for the poor animal; but noamount of sorrow anyone else might feel for him could compare with thesorrow he felt for himself. He stopped running about; he sat down in themiddle of the room, and appealed to the solar system generally to observethis unjust thing that had come upon him. They must have heard hiscomplaint in the valleys round about, and have wondered what upheaval ofnature was taking place among the hills. 

As for the hen it scuttled, screaming, every way at once. It was amarvellous bird: it seemed to be able to run up a straight wall quiteeasily; and it and the cat between them fetched down mostly everythingthat was not already on the floor. In less than forty seconds there werenine people in that room, all trying to kick one dog. Possibly, now andagain, one or another may have succeeded, for occasionally the dog wouldstop barking in order to howl. But it did not discourage him. Everythinghas to be paid for, he evidently argued, even a pig and chicken hunt;and, on the whole, the game was worth it. 

Besides, he had the satisfaction of observing that, for every kick hereceived, most other living things in the room got two. As for theunfortunate pig--the stationary one, the one that still sat lamenting inthe centre of the room--he must have averaged a steady four. Trying tokick this dog was like playing football with a ball that was neverthere--not when you went to kick it, but after you had started to kickit, and had gone too far to stop yourself, so that the kick had to go onin any case, your only hope being that your foot would find something oranother solid to stop it, and so save you from sitting down on the floornoisily and completely. When anybody did kick the dog it was by pureaccident, when they were not expecting to kick him; and, generallyspeaking, this took them so unawares that, after kicking him, they fellover him. And everybody, every half-minute, would be certain to fallover the pig the sitting pig, the one incapable of getting out ofanybody's way. 

How long the scrimmage might have lasted it is impossible to say. It wasended by the judgment of George. For a while he had been seeking tocatch, not the dog but the remaining pig, the one still capable ofactivity. Cornering it at last, he persuaded it to cease running roundand round the room, and instead to take a spin outside. It shot throughthe door with one long wail. 

We always desire the thing we have not. One pig, a chicken, nine people, and a cat, were as nothing in that dog's opinion compared with the quarrythat was disappearing. Unwisely, he darted after it, and George closedthe door upon him and shot the bolt. 

Then the landlord stood up, and surveyed all the things that were lyingon the floor. 

"That's a playful dog of yours, " said he to the man who had come in withthe brick. 

"He is not my dog, " replied the man sullenly. 

"Whose dog is it then?" said the landlord. 

"I don't know whose dog it is, " answered the man. 

"That won't do for me, you know, " said the landlord, picking up a pictureof the German Emperor, and wiping beer from it with his sleeve. 

"I know it won't, " replied the man; "I never expected it would. I'mtired of telling people it isn't my dog. They none of them believe me. "

"What do you want to go about with him for, if he's not your dog?" saidthe landlord. "What's the attraction about him?"

"I don't go about with him, " replied the man; "he goes about with me. Hepicked me up this morning at ten o'clock, and he won't leave me. Ithought I had got rid of him when I came in here. I left him busykilling a duck more than a quarter of an hour away. I'll have to pay forthat, I expect, on my way back. "

"Have you tried throwing stones at him?" asked Harris. 

"Have I tried throwing stones at him!" replied the man, contemptuously. "I've been throwing stones at him till my arm aches with throwing stones;and he thinks it's a game, and brings them back to me. I've beencarrying this beastly brick about with me for over an hour, in the hopeof being able to drown him, but he never comes near enough for me to gethold of him. He just sits six inches out of reach with his mouth open, and looks at me. "

"It's the funniest story I've heard for a long while, " said the landlord. 

"Glad it amuses somebody, " said the man. 

We left him helping the landlord to pick up the broken things, and wentour way. A dozen yards outside the door the faithful animal was waitingfor his friend. He looked tired, but contented. He was evidently a dogof strange and sudden fancies, and we feared for the moment lest he mighttake a liking to us. But he let us pass with indifference. His loyaltyto this unresponsive man was touching; and we made no attempt toundermine it. 

Having completed to our satisfaction the Black Forest, we journeyed onour wheels through Alt Breisach and Colmar to Munster; whence we starteda short exploration of the Vosges range, where, according to the presentGerman Emperor, humanity stops. Of old, Alt Breisach, a rocky fortresswith the river now on one side of it and now on the other--for in itsinexperienced youth the Rhine never seems to have been quite sure of itsway, --must, as a place of residence, have appealed exclusively to thelover of change and excitement. Whoever the war was between, andwhatever it was about, Alt Breisach was bound to be in it. Everybodybesieged it, most people captured it; the majority of them lost it again;nobody seemed able to keep it. Whom he belonged to, and what he was, thedweller in Alt Breisach could never have been quite sure. One day hewould be a Frenchman, and then before he could learn enough French to payhis taxes he would be an Austrian. While trying to discover what you didin order to be a good Austrian, he would find he was no longer anAustrian, but a German, though what particular German out of the dozenmust always have been doubtful to him. One day he would discover that hewas a Catholic, the next an ardent Protestant. The only thing that couldhave given any stability to his existence must have been the monotonousnecessity of paying heavily for the privilege of being whatever for themoment he was. But when one begins to think of these things one findsoneself wondering why anybody in the Middle Ages, except kings and taxcollectors, ever took the trouble to live at all. 

For variety and beauty, the Vosges will not compare with the hills of theSchwarzwald. The advantage about them from the tourist's point of viewis their superior poverty. The Vosges peasant has not the unromantic airof contented prosperity that spoils his _vis-a-vis_ across the Rhine. Thevillages and farms possess more the charm of decay. Another pointwherein the Vosges district excels is its ruins. Many of its numerouscastles are perched where you might think only eagles would care tobuild. In others, commenced by the Romans and finished by theTroubadours, covering acres with the maze of their still standing walls, one may wander for hours. 

The fruiterer and greengrocer is a person unknown in the Vosges. Mostthings of that kind grow wild, and are to be had for the picking. It isdifficult to keep to any programme when walking through the Vosges, thetemptation on a hot day to stop and eat fruit generally being too strongfor resistance. Raspberries, the most delicious I have ever tasted, wildstrawberries, currants, and gooseberries, grow upon the hill-sides asblack-berries by English lanes. The Vosges small boy is not called uponto rob an orchard; he can make himself ill without sin. Orchards existin the Vosges mountains in plenty; but to trespass into one for thepurpose of stealing fruit would be as foolish as for a fish to try andget into a swimming bath without paying. Still, of course, mistakes dooccur. 

One afternoon in the course of a climb we emerged upon a plateau, wherewe lingered perhaps too long, eating more fruit than may have been goodfor us; it was so plentiful around us, so varied. We commenced with afew late strawberries, and from those we passed to raspberries. ThenHarris found a greengage-tree with some early fruit upon it, justperfect. 

"This is about the best thing we have struck, " said George; "we hadbetter make the most of this. " Which was good advice, on the face of it. 

"It is a pity, " said Harris, "that the pears are still so hard. "

He grieved about this for a while, but later on came across someremarkably fine yellow plums and these consoled him somewhat. 

"I suppose we are still a bit too far north for pineapples, " said George. "I feel I could just enjoy a fresh pineapple. This commonplace fruitpalls upon one after a while. "

"Too much bush fruit and not enough tree, is the fault I find, " saidHarris. "Myself, I should have liked a few more greengages. "

"Here is a man coming up the hill, " I observed, "who looks like a native. Maybe, he will know where we can find some more greengages. "

"He walks well for an old chap, " remarked Harris. 

He certainly was climbing the hill at a remarkable pace. Also, so far aswe were able to judge at that distance, he appeared to be in a remarkablycheerful mood, singing and shouting at the top of his voice, gesticulating, and waving his arms. 

"What a merry old soul it is, " said Harris; "it does one good to watchhim. But why does he carry his stick over his shoulder? Why doesn't heuse it to help him up the hill?"

"Do you know, I don't think it is a stick, " said George. 

"What can it be, then?" asked Harris. 

"Well, it looks to me, " said George, "more like a gun. "

"You don't think we can have made a mistake?" suggested Harris. "Youdon't think this can be anything in the nature of a private orchard?"

I said: "Do you remember the sad thing that happened in the South ofFrance some two years ago? A soldier picked some cherries as he passed ahouse, and the French peasant to whom the cherries belonged came out, andwithout a word of warning shot him dead. "

"But surely you are not allowed to shoot a man dead for picking fruit, even in France?" said George. 

"Of course not, " I answered. "It was quite illegal. The only excuseoffered by his counsel was that he was of a highly excitable disposition, and especially keen about these particular cherries. "

"I recollect something about the case, " said Harris, "now you mention it. I believe the district in which it happened--the 'Commune, ' as I think itis called--had to pay heavy compensation to the relatives of the deceasedsoldier; which was only fair. "

George said: "I am tired of this place. Besides, it's getting late. "

Harris said: "If he goes at that rate he will fall and hurt himself. Besides, I don't believe he knows the way. "

I felt lonesome up there all by myself, with nobody to speak to. Besides, not since I was a boy, I reflected, had I enjoyed a run down a reallysteep hill. I thought I would see if I could revive the sensation. Itis a jerky exercise, but good, I should say, for the liver. 

We slept that night at Barr, a pleasant little town on the way to St. Ottilienberg, an interesting old convent among the mountains, where youare waited upon by real nuns, and your bill made out by a priest. AtBarr, just before supper a tourist entered. He looked English, but spokea language the like of which I have never heard before. Yet it was anelegant and fine-sounding language. The landlord stared at him blankly;the landlady shook her head. He sighed, and tried another, which somehowrecalled to me forgotten memories, though, at the time, I could not fixit. But again nobody understood him. 

"This is damnable, " he said aloud to himself. 

"Ah, you are English!" exclaimed the landlord, brightening up. 

"And Monsieur looks tired, " added the bright little landlady. "Monsieurwill have supper. "

They both spoke English excellently, nearly as well as they spoke Frenchand German; and they bustled about and made him comfortable. At supperhe sat next to me, and I talked to him. 

"Tell me, " I said--I was curious on the subject--"what language was ityou spoke when you first came in?"

"German, " he explained. 

"Oh, " I replied, "I beg your pardon. "

"You did not understand it?" he continued. 

"It must have been my fault, " I answered; "my knowledge is extremelylimited. One picks up a little here and there as one goes about, but ofcourse that is a different thing. "

"But _they_ did not understand it, " he replied, "the landlord and hiswife; and it is their own language. "

"I do not think so, " I said. "The children hereabout speak German, it istrue, and our landlord and landlady know German to a certain point. Butthroughout Alsace and Lorraine the old people still talk French. "

"And I spoke to them in French also, " he added, "and they understood thatno better. "

"It is certainly very curious, " I agreed. 

"It is more than curious, " he replied; "in my case it isincomprehensible. I possess a diploma for modern languages. I won myscholarship purely on the strength of my French and German. Thecorrectness of my construction, the purity of my pronunciation, wasconsidered at my college to be quite remarkable. Yet, when I come abroadhardly anybody understands a word I say. Can you explain it?"

"I think I can, " I replied. "Your pronunciation is too faultless. Youremember what the Scotsman said when for the first time in his life hetasted real whisky: 'It may be puir, but I canna drink it'; so it is withyour German. It strikes one less as a language than as an exhibition. IfI might offer advice, I should say: Mispronounce as much as possible, andthrow in as many mistakes as you can think of. "

It is the same everywhere. Each country keeps a special pronunciationexclusively for the use of foreigners--a pronunciation they never dreamof using themselves, that they cannot understand when it is used. I onceheard an English lady explaining to a Frenchman how to pronounce the wordHave. 

"You will pronounce it, " said the lady reproachfully, "as if it werespelt H-a-v. It isn't. There is an 'e' at the end. "

"But I thought, " said the pupil, "that you did not sound the 'e' at theend of h-a-v-e. "

"No more you do, " explained his teacher. "It is what we call a mute 'e';but it exercises a modifying influence on the preceding vowel. "

Before that, he used to say "have" quite intelligently. Afterwards, whenhe came to the word he would stop dead, collect his thoughts, and giveexpression to a sound that only the context could explain. 

Putting aside the sufferings of the early martyrs, few men, I suppose, have gone through more than I myself went through in trying to I attainthe correct pronunciation of the German word for church--"Kirche. " Longbefore I had done with it I had determined never to go to church inGermany, rather than be bothered with it. 

"No, no, " my teacher would explain--he was a painstaking gentleman; "yousay it as if it were spelt K-i-r-c-h-k-e. There is no k. It is--. " Andhe would illustrate to me again, for the twentieth time that morning, howit should be pronounced; the sad thing being that I could never for thelife of me detect any difference between the way he said it and the way Isaid it. So he would try a new method. 

"You say it from your throat, " he would explain. He was quite right; Idid. "I want you to say it from down here, " and with a fat forefinger hewould indicate the region from where I was to start. After painfulefforts, resulting in sounds suggestive of anything rather than a placeof worship, I would excuse myself. 

"I really fear it is impossible, " I would say. "You see, for years Ihave always talked with my mouth, as it were; I never knew a man couldtalk with his stomach. I doubt if it is not too late now for me tolearn. "

By spending hours in dark corners, and practising in silent streets, tothe terror of chance passers-by, I came at last to pronounce this wordcorrectly. My teacher was delighted with me, and until I came to GermanyI was pleased with myself. In Germany I found that nobody understoodwhat I meant by it. I never got near a church with it. I had to dropthe correct pronunciation, and painstakingly go back to my first wrongpronunciation. Then they would brighten up, and tell me it was round thecorner, or down the next street, as the case might be. 

I also think pronunciation of a foreign tongue could be better taughtthan by demanding from the pupil those internal acrobatic feats that aregenerally impossible and always useless. This is the sort of instructionone receives:

"Press your tonsils against the underside of your larynx. Then with theconvex part of the septum curved upwards so as almost--but not quite--totouch the uvula, try with the tip of your tongue to reach your thyroid. Take a deep breath, and compress your glottis. Now, without opening yourlips, say 'Garoo. '"

And when you have done it they are not satisfied. 

CHAPTER XIII

An examination into the character and behaviour of the German student--TheGerman Mensur--Uses and abuses of use--Views of an impressionist--Thehumour of the thing--Recipe for making savages--The Jungfrau: herpeculiar taste in laces--The Kneipe--How to rub a Salamander--Advice tothe stranger--A story that might have ended sadly--Of two men and twowives--Together with a bachelor. 

On our way home we included a German University town, being wishful toobtain an insight into the ways of student life, a curiosity that thecourtesy of German friends enabled us to gratify. 

The English boy plays till he is fifteen, and works thence till twenty. In Germany it is the child that works; the young man that plays. TheGerman boy goes to school at seven o'clock in the summer, at eight in thewinter, and at school he studies. The result is that at sixteen he has athorough knowledge of the classics and mathematics, knows as much historyas any man compelled to belong to a political party is wise in knowing, together with a thorough grounding in modern languages. Therefore hiseight College Semesters, extending over four years, are, except for theyoung man aiming at a professorship, unnecessarily ample. He is not asportsman, which is a pity, for he should make good one. He playsfootball a little, bicycles still less; plays French billiards in stuffycafes more. But generally speaking he, or the majority of him, lays outhis time bummeling, beer drinking, and fighting. If he be the son of awealthy father he joins a Korps--to belong to a crack Korps costs aboutfour hundred pounds a year. If he be a middle-class young man, he enrolshimself in a Burschenschaft, or a Landsmannschaft, which is a littlecheaper. These companies are again broken up into smaller circles, inwhich attempt is made to keep to nationality. There are the Swabians, from Swabia; the Frankonians, descendants of the Franks; the Thuringians, and so forth. In practice, of course, this results as all such attemptsdo result--I believe half our Gordon Highlanders are Cockneys--but thepicturesque object is obtained of dividing each University into somedozen or so separate companies of students, each one with its distinctivecap and colours, and, quite as important, its own particular beer hall, into which no other student wearing his colours may come. 

The chief work of these student companies is to fight among themselves, or with some rival Korps or Schaft, the celebrated German Mensur. 

The Mensur has been described so often and so thoroughly that I do notintend to bore my readers with any detailed account of it. I merely comeforward as an impressionist, and I write purposely the impression of myfirst Mensur, because I believe that first impressions are more true anduseful than opinions blunted by intercourse, or shaped by influence. 

A Frenchman or a Spaniard will seek to persuade you that the bull-ring isan institution got up chiefly for the benefit of the bull. The horsewhich you imagined to be screaming with pain was only laughing at thecomical appearance presented by its own inside. Your French or Spanishfriend contrasts its glorious and exciting death in the ring with thecold-blooded brutality of the knacker's yard. If you do not keep a tighthold of your head, you come away with the desire to start an agitationfor the inception of the bull-ring in England as an aid to chivalry. Nodoubt Torquemada was convinced of the humanity of the Inquisition. To astout gentleman, suffering, perhaps, from cramp or rheumatism, an hour orso on the rack was really a physical benefit. He would rise feeling morefree in his joints--more elastic, as one might say, than he had felt foryears. English huntsmen regard the fox as an animal to be envied. Aday's excellent sport is provided for him free of charge, during which heis the centre of attraction. 

Use blinds one to everything one does not wish to see. Every thirdGerman gentleman you meet in the street still bears, and will bear to hisgrave, marks of the twenty to a hundred duels he has fought in hisstudent days. The German children play at the Mensur in the nursery, rehearse it in the gymnasium. The Germans have come to persuadethemselves there is no brutality in it--nothing offensive, nothingdegrading. Their argument is that it schools the German youth tocoolness and courage. If this could be proved, the argument, particularly in a country where every man is a soldier, would besufficiently one-sided. But is the virtue of the prize-fighter thevirtue of the soldier? One doubts it. Nerve and dash are surely of moreservice in the field than a temperament of unreasoning indifference as towhat is happening to one. As a matter of fact, the German student wouldhave to be possessed of much more courage not to fight. He fights not toplease himself, but to satisfy a public opinion that is two hundred yearsbehind the times. 

All the Mensur does is to brutalise him. There may be skill displayed--Iam told there is, --but it is not apparent. The mere fighting is likenothing so much as a broadsword combat at a Richardson's show; thedisplay as a whole a successful attempt to combine the ludicrous with theunpleasant. In aristocratic Bonn, where style is considered, and inHeidelberg, where visitors from other nations are more common, the affairis perhaps more formal. I am told that there the contests take place inhandsome rooms; that grey-haired doctors wait upon the wounded, andliveried servants upon the hungry, and that the affair is conductedthroughout with a certain amount of picturesque ceremony. In the moreessentially German Universities, where strangers are rare and not muchencouraged, the simple essentials are the only things kept in view, andthese are not of an inviting nature. 

Indeed, so distinctly uninviting are they, that I strongly advise thesensitive reader to avoid even this description of them. The subjectcannot be made pretty, and I do not intend to try. 

The room is bare and sordid; its walls splashed with mixed stains ofbeer, blood, and candle-grease; its ceiling, smoky; its floor, sawdustcovered. A crowd of students, laughing, smoking, talking, some sittingon the floor, others perched upon chairs and benches form the framework. 

In the centre, facing one another, stand the combatants, resemblingJapanese warriors, as made familiar to us by the Japanese tea-tray. Quaint and rigid, with their goggle-covered eyes, their necks tied up incomforters, their bodies smothered in what looks like dirty bed quilts, their padded arms stretched straight above their heads, they might be apair of ungainly clockwork figures. The seconds, also more or lesspadded--their heads and faces protected by huge leather-peaked caps, --dragthem out into their proper position. One almost listens to hear thesound of the castors. The umpire takes his place, the word is given, andimmediately there follow five rapid clashes of the long straight swords. There is no interest in watching the fight: there is no movement, noskill, no grace (I am speaking of my own impressions. ) The strongest manwins; the man who, with his heavily-padded arm, always in an unnaturalposition, can hold his huge clumsy sword longest without growing too weakto be able either to guard or to strike. 

The whole interest is centred in watching the wounds. They come alwaysin one of two places--on the top of the head or the left side of theface. Sometimes a portion of hairy scalp or section of cheek flies upinto the air, to be carefully preserved in an envelope by its proudpossessor, or, strictly speaking, its proud former possessor, and shownround on convivial evenings; and from every wound, of course, flows aplentiful stream of blood. It splashes doctors, seconds, and spectators;it sprinkles ceiling and walls; it saturates the fighters, and makespools for itself in the sawdust. At the end of each round the doctorsrush up, and with hands already dripping with blood press together thegaping wounds, dabbing them with little balls of wet cotton wool, whichan attendant carries ready on a plate. Naturally, the moment the menstand up again and commence work, the blood gushes out again, halfblinding them, and rendering the ground beneath them slippery. Now andthen you see a man's teeth laid bare almost to the ear, so that for therest of the duel he appears to be grinning at one half of the spectators, his other side, remaining serious; and sometimes a man's nose gets slit, which gives to him as he fights a singularly supercilious air. 

As the object of each student is to go away from the University bearingas many scars as possible, I doubt if any particular pains are taken toguard, even to the small extent such method of fighting can allow. Thereal victor is he who comes out with the greatest number of wounds; hewho then, stitched and patched almost to unrecognition as a human being, can promenade for the next month, the envy of the German youth, theadmiration of the German maiden. He who obtains only a few unimportantwounds retires sulky and disappointed. 

But the actual fighting is only the beginning of the fun. The second actof the spectacle takes place in the dressing-room. The doctors aregenerally mere medical students--young fellows who, having taken theirdegree, are anxious for practice. Truth compels me to say that thosewith whom I came in contact were coarse-looking men who seemed rather torelish their work. Perhaps they are not to be blamed for this. It ispart of the system that as much further punishment as possible must beinflicted by the doctor, and the ideal medical man might hardly care forsuch job. How the student bears the dressing of his wounds is asimportant as how he receives them. Every operation has to be performedas brutally as may be, and his companions carefully watch him during theprocess to see that he goes through it with an appearance of peace andenjoyment. A clean-cut wound that gapes wide is most desired by allparties. On purpose it is sewn up clumsily, with the hope that by thismeans the scar will last a lifetime. Such a wound, judiciously mauledand interfered with during the week afterwards, can generally be reckonedon to secure its fortunate possessor a wife with a dowry of five figuresat the least. 

These are the general bi-weekly Mensurs, of which the average studentfights some dozen a year. There are others to which visitors are notadmitted. When a student is considered to have disgraced himself by someslight involuntary movement of the head or body while fighting, then hecan only regain his position by standing up to the best swordsman in hisKorps. He demands and is accorded, not a contest, but a punishment. Hisopponent then proceeds to inflict as many and as bloody wounds as can betaken. The object of the victim is to show his comrades that he canstand still while his head is half sliced from his skull. 

Whether anything can properly be said in favour of the German Mensur I amdoubtful; but if so it concerns only the two combatants. Upon thespectators it can and does, I am convinced, exercise nothing but evil. Iknow myself sufficiently well to be sure I am not of an unusuallybloodthirsty disposition. The effect it had upon me can only be theusual effect. At first, before the actual work commenced, my sensationwas curiosity mingled with anxiety as to how the sight would trouble me, though some slight acquaintance with dissecting-rooms and operatingtables left me less doubt on that point than I might otherwise have felt. As the blood began to flow, and nerves and muscles to be laid bare, Iexperienced a mingling of disgust and pity. But with the second duel, Imust confess, my finer feelings began to disappear; and by the time thethird was well upon its way, and the room heavy with the curious hotodour of blood, I began, as the American expression is, to see thingsred. 

I wanted more. I looked from face to face surrounding me, and in most ofthem I found reflected undoubtedly my own sensations. If it be a goodthing to excite this blood thirst in the modern man, then the Mensur is auseful institution. But is it a good thing? We prate about ourcivilisation and humanity, but those of us who do not carry hypocrisy tothe length of self-deception know that underneath our starched shirtsthere lurks the savage, with all his savage instincts untouched. Occasionally he may be wanted, but we never need fear his dying out. Onthe other hand, it seems unwise to over-nourish him. 

In favour of the duel, seriously considered, there are many points to beurged. But the Mensur serves no good purpose whatever. It ischildishness, and the fact of its being a cruel and brutal game makes itnone the less childish. Wounds have no intrinsic value of their own; itis the cause that dignifies them, not their size. William Tell isrightly one of the heroes of the world; but what should we think of themembers of a club of fathers, formed with the object of meeting twice aweek to shoot apples from their sons' heads with cross-bows? These youngGerman gentlemen could obtain all the results of which they are so proudby teasing a wild cat! To join a society for the mere purpose of gettingyourself hacked about reduces a man to the intellectual level of adancing Dervish. Travellers tell us of savages in Central Africa whoexpress their feelings on festive occasions by jumping about and slashingthemselves. But there is no need for Europe to imitate them. The Mensuris, in fact, the _reductio ad absurdum_ of the duel; and if the Germansthemselves cannot see that it is funny, one can only regret their lack ofhumour. 

But though one may be unable to agree with the public opinion thatsupports and commands the Mensur, it at least is possible to understand. The University code that, if it does not encourage it, at least condonesdrunkenness, is more difficult to treat argumentatively. All Germanstudents do not get drunk; in fact, the majority are sober, if notindustrious. But the minority, whose claim to be representative isfreely admitted, are only saved from perpetual inebriety by ability, acquired at some cost, to swill half the day and all the night, whileretaining to some extent their five senses. It does not affect allalike, but it is common in any University town to see a young man not yettwenty with the figure of a Falstaff and the complexion of a RubensBacchus. That the German maiden can be fascinated with a face, cut andgashed till it suggests having been made out of odd materials that nevercould have fitted, is a proved fact. But surely there can be noattraction about a blotched and bloated skin and a "bay window" thrownout to an extent threatening to overbalance the whole structure. Yetwhat else can be expected, when the youngster starts his beer-drinkingwith a "Fruhschoppen" at 10 a. M. , and closes it with a "Kneipe" at fourin the morning?

The Kneipe is what we should call a stag party, and can be very harmlessor very rowdy, according to its composition. One man invites his fellow-students, a dozen or a hundred, to a cafe, and provides them with as muchbeer and as many cheap cigars as their own sense of health and comfortmay dictate, or the host may be the Korps itself. Here, as everywhere, you observe the German sense of discipline and order. As each new comerenters all those sitting round the table rise, and with heels closetogether salute. When the table is complete, a chairman is chosen, whoseduty it is to give out the number of the songs. Printed books of thesesongs, one to each two men, lie round the table. The chairman gives outnumber twenty-nine. "First verse, " he cries, and away all go, each twomen holding a book between them exactly as two people might hold a hymn-book in church. There is a pause at the end of each verse until thechairman starts the company on the next. As every German is a trainedsinger, and as most of them have fair voices, the general effect isstriking. 

Although the manner may be suggestive of the singing of hymns in church, the words of the songs are occasionally such as to correct thisimpression. But whether it be a patriotic song, a sentimental ballad, ora ditty of a nature that would shock the average young Englishman, allare sung through with stern earnestness, without a laugh, without a falsenote. At the end, the chairman calls "Prosit!" Everyone answers"Prosit!" and the next moment every glass is empty. The pianist risesand bows, and is bowed to in return; and then the Fraulein enters torefill the glasses. 

Between the songs, toasts are proposed and responded to; but there islittle cheering, and less laughter. Smiles and grave nods of approvalare considered as more seeming among German students. 

A particular toast, called a Salamander, accorded to some guest as aspecial distinction, is drunk with exceptional solemnity. 

"We will now, " says the chairman, "a Salamander rub" ("Einen Salamanderreiben"). We all rise, and stand like a regiment at attention. 

"Is the stuff prepared?" ("Sind die stoffe parat?") demands thechairman. 

"Sunt, " we answer, with one voice. 

"Ad exercitium Salamandri, " says the chairman, and we are ready. 

"Eins!" We rub our glasses with a circular motion on the table. 

"Zwei!" Again the glasses growl; also at "Drei!"

"Drink!" ("Bibite!")

And with mechanical unison every glass is emptied and held on high. 

"Eins!" says the chairman. The foot of every empty glass twirls upon thetable, producing a sound as of the dragging back of a stony beach by areceding wave. 

"Zwei!" The roll swells and sinks again. 

"Drei!" The glasses strike the table with a single crash, and we are inour seats again. 

The sport at the Kneipe is for two students to insult each other (inplay, of course), and to then challenge each other to a drinking duel. Anumpire is appointed, two huge glasses are filled, and the men sitopposite each other with their hands upon the handles, all eyes fixedupon them. The umpire gives the word to go, and in an instant the beeris gurgling down their throats. The man who bangs his perfectly finishedglass upon the table first is victor. 

Strangers who are going through a Kneipe, and who wish to do the thing inGerman style, will do well, before commencing proceedings, to pin theirname and address upon their coats. The German student is courtesyitself, and whatever his own state may be, he will see to it that, bysome means or another, his guest gets safely home before the morning. But, of course, he cannot be expected to remember addresses. 

A story was told me of three guests to a Berlin Kneipe which might havehad tragic results. The strangers determined to do the thing thoroughly. They explained their intention, and were applauded, and each proceeded towrite his address upon his card, and pin it to the tablecloth in front ofhim. That was the mistake they made. They should, as I have advised, have pinned it carefully to their coats. A man may change his place at atable, quite unconsciously he may come out the other side of it; butwherever he goes he takes his coat with him. 

Some time in the small hours, the chairman suggested that to make thingsmore comfortable for those still upright, all the gentlemen unable tokeep their heads off the table should be sent home. Among those to whomthe proceedings had become uninteresting were the three Englishmen. Itwas decided to put them into a cab in charge of a comparatively speakingsober student, and return them. Had they retained their original seatsthroughout the evening all would have been well; but, unfortunately, theyhad gone walking about, and which gentleman belonged to which card nobodyknew--least of all the guests themselves. In the then state of generalcheerfulness, this did not to anybody appear to much matter. There werethree gentlemen and three addresses. I suppose the idea was that even ifa mistake were made, the parties could be sorted out in the morning. Anyhow, the three gentlemen were put into a cab, the comparativelyspeaking sober student took the three cards in his hand, and the partystarted amid the cheers and good wishes of the company. 

There is this advantage about German beer: it does not make a man drunkas the word drunk is understood in England. There is nothingobjectionable about him; he is simply tired. He does not want to talk;he wants to be let alone, to go to sleep; it does not matterwhere--anywhere. 

The conductor of the party stopped his cab at the nearest address. Hetook out his worst case; it was a natural instinct to get rid of thatfirst. He and the cabman carried it upstairs, and rang the bell of thePension. A sleepy porter answered it. They carried their burden in, andlooked for a place to drop it. A bedroom door happened to be open; theroom was empty; could anything be better?--they took it in there. Theyrelieved it of such things as came off easily, and laid it in the bed. This done, both men, pleased with themselves, returned to the cab. 

At the next address they stopped again. This time, in answer to theirsummons, a lady appeared, dressed in a tea gown, with a book in her hand. The German student looked at the top one of two cards remaining in hishand, and enquired if he had the pleasure of addressing Frau Y. Ithappened that he had, though so far as any pleasure was concerned thatappeared to be entirely on his side. He explained to Frau Y. That thegentleman at that moment asleep against the wall was her husband. Thereunion moved her to no enthusiasm; she simply opened the bedroom door, and then walked away. The cabman and the student took him in, and laidhim on the bed. They did not trouble to undress him, they were feelingtired! They did not see the lady of the house again, and retiredtherefore without adieus. 

The last card was that of a bachelor stopping at an hotel. They tooktheir last man, therefore, to that hotel, passed him over to the nightporter, and left him. 

To return to the address at which the first delivery was made, what hadhappened there was this. Some eight hours previously had said Mr. X. ToMrs. X. : "I think I told you, my dear, that I had an invitation for thisevening to what, I believe, is called a Kneipe?"

"You did mention something of the sort, " replied Mrs. X. "What is aKneipe?"

"Well, it's a sort of bachelor party, my dear, where the students meet tosing and talk and--and smoke, and all that sort of thing, you know. "

"Oh, well, I hope you will enjoy yourself!" said Mrs. X. , who was a nicewoman and sensible. 

"It will be interesting, " observed Mr. X. "I have often had a curiosityto see one. I may, " continued Mr. X. , --"I mean it is possible, that Imay be home a little late. "

"What do you call late?" asked Mrs. X. 

"It is somewhat difficult to say, " returned Mr. X. "You see thesestudents, they are a wild lot, and when they get together--And then, Ibelieve, a good many toasts are drunk. I don't know how it will affectme. If I can see an opportunity I shall come away early, that is if Ican do so without giving offence; but if not--"

Said Mrs. X. , who, as I remarked before, was a sensible woman: "You hadbetter get the people here to lend you a latchkey. I shall sleep withDolly, and then you won't disturb me whatever time it may be. "

"I think that an excellent idea of yours, " agreed Mr. X. "I should hatedisturbing you. I shall just come in quietly, and slip into bed. "

Some time in the middle of the night, or maybe towards the early morning, Dolly, who was Mrs. X. 's sister, sat up in bed and listened. 

"Jenny, " said Dolly, "are you awake?"

"Yes, dear, " answered Mrs. X. "It's all right. You go to sleep again. "

"But whatever is it?" asked Dolly. "Do you think it's fire?"

"I expect, " replied Mrs. X. , "that it's Percy. Very possibly he hasstumbled over something in the dark. Don't you worry, dear; you go tosleep. "

But so soon as Dolly had dozed off again, Mrs. X. , who was a good wife, thought she would steal off softly and see to it that Percy was allright. So, putting on a dressing-gown and slippers, she crept along thepassage and into her own room. To awake the gentleman on the bed wouldhave required an earthquake. She lit a candle and stole over to thebedside. 

It was not Percy; it was not anyone like Percy. She felt it was not theman that ever could have been her husband, under any circumstances. Inhis present condition her sentiment towards him was that of positivedislike. Her only desire was to get rid of him. 

But something there was about him which seemed familiar to her. She wentnearer, and took a closer view. Then she remembered. Surely it was Mr. Y. , a gentleman at whose flat she and Percy had dined the day they firstarrived in Berlin. 

But what was he doing here? She put the candle on the table, and takingher head between her hands sat down to think. The explanation of thething came to her with a rush. It was with this Mr. Y. That Percy hadgone to the Kneipe. A mistake had been made. Mr. Y. Had been broughtback to Percy's address. Percy at this very moment--

The terrible possibilities of the situation swam before her. Returningto Dolly's room, she dressed herself hastily, and silently creptdownstairs. Finding, fortunately, a passing night-cab, she drove to theaddress of Mrs. Y. Telling the man to wait, she flew upstairs and rangpersistently at the bell. It was opened as before by Mrs. Y. , still inher tea-gown, and with her book still in her hand. 

"Mrs. X. !" exclaimed Mrs. Y. "Whatever brings you here?"

"My husband!" was all poor Mrs. X. Could think to say at the moment, "ishe here?"

"Mrs. X. , " returned Mrs. Y. , drawing herself up to her full height, "howdare you?"

"Oh, please don't misunderstand me!" pleaded Mrs. X. "It's all aterrible mistake. They must have brought poor Percy here instead of toour place, I'm sure they must. Do please look and see. "

"My dear, " said Mrs. Y. , who was a much older woman, and more motherly, "don't excite yourself. They brought him here about half an hour ago, and, to tell you the truth, I never looked at him. He is in here. Idon't think they troubled to take off even his boots. If you keep cool, we will get him downstairs and home without a soul beyond ourselves beingany the wiser. 

Indeed, Mrs. Y. Seemed quite eager to help Mrs. X. 

She pushed open the door, and Mrs. X, went in. The next moment she cameout with a white, scared face. 

"It isn't Percy, " she said. "Whatever am I to do?"

"I wish you wouldn't make these mistakes, " said Mrs. Y. , moving to enterthe room herself. 

Mrs. X. Stopped her. "And it isn't your husband either. "

"Nonsense, " said Mrs. Y. 

"It isn't really, " persisted Mrs. X. "I know, because I have just lefthim, asleep on Percy's bed. "

"What's he doing there?" thundered Mrs. Y. 

"They brought him there, and put him there, " explained Mrs. X. , beginningto cry. "That's what made me think Percy must be here. "

The two women stood and looked at one another; and there was silence forawhile, broken only by the snoring of the gentleman the other side of thehalf-open door. 

"Then who is that, in there?" demanded Mrs. Y. , who was the first torecover herself. 

"I don't know, " answered Mrs. X. , "I have never seen him before. Do youthink it is anybody you know?"

But Mrs. Y. Only banged to the door. 

"What are we to do?" said Mrs. X. 

"I know what _I_ am going to do, " said Mrs. Y. "I'm coming back with youto fetch my husband. "

"He's very sleepy, " explained Mrs. X. 

"I've known him to be that before, " replied Mrs. Y. , as she fastened onher cloak. 

"But where's Percy?" sobbed poor little Mrs. X. , as they descended thestairs together. 

"That my dear, " said Mrs. Y. , "will be a question for you to ask _him_. "

"If they go about making mistakes like this, " said Mrs. X. , "it isimpossible to say what they may not have done with him. "

"We will make enquiries in the morning, my dear, " said Mrs. Y. , consolingly. 

"I think these Kneipes are disgraceful affairs, " said Mrs. X. "I shallnever let Percy go to another, never--so long as I live. "

"My dear, " remarked Mrs. Y. , "if you know your duty, he will never wantto. " And rumour has it that he never did. 

But, as I have said, the mistake was in pinning the card to thetablecloth instead of to the coat. And error in this world is alwaysseverely punished. 

CHAPTER XIV

Which is serious: as becomes a parting chapter--The German from the Anglo-Saxon's point of view--Providence in buttons and a helmet--Paradise ofthe helpless idiot--German conscience: its aggressiveness--How they hangin Germany, very possibly--What happens to good Germans when theydie?--The military instinct: is it all-sufficient?--The German as ashopkeeper--How he supports life--The New Woman, here as everywhere--Whatcan be said against the Germans, as a people--The Bummel is over anddone. 

"Anybody could rule this country, " said George; "_I_ could rule it. "

We were seated in the garden of the Kaiser Hof at Bonn, looking down uponthe Rhine. It was the last evening of our Bummel; the early morningtrain would be the beginning of the end. 

"I should write down all I wanted the people to do on a piece of paper, "continued George; "get a good firm to print off so many copies, have themposted about the towns and villages; and the thing would be done. "

In the placid, docile German of to-day, whose only ambition appears to beto pay his taxes, and do what he is told to do by those whom it haspleased Providence to place in authority over him, it is difficult, onemust confess, to detect any trace of his wild ancestor, to whomindividual liberty was as the breath of his nostrils; who appointed hismagistrates to advise, but retained the right of execution for the tribe;who followed his chief, but would have scorned to obey him. In Germanyto-day one hears a good deal concerning Socialism, but it is a Socialismthat would only be despotism under another name. Individualism makes noappeal to the German voter. He is willing, nay, anxious, to becontrolled and regulated in all things. He disputes, not government, butthe form of it. The policeman is to him a religion, and, one feels, willalways remain so. In England we regard our man in blue as a harmlessnecessity. By the average citizen he is employed chiefly as a signpost, though in busy quarters of the town he is considered useful for takingold ladies across the road. Beyond feeling thankful to him for theseservices, I doubt if we take much thought of him. In Germany, on theother hand, he is worshipped as a little god and loved as a guardianangel. To the German child he is a combination of Santa Clans and theBogie Man. All good things come from him: Spielplatze to play in, furnished with swings and giant-strides, sand heaps to fight around, swimming baths, and fairs. All misbehaviour is punished by him. It isthe hope of every well-meaning German boy and girl to please the police. To be smiled at by a policeman makes it conceited. A German child thathas been patted on the head by a policeman is not fit to live with; itsself-importance is unbearable. 

The German citizen is a soldier, and the policeman is his officer. Thepoliceman directs him where in the street to walk, and how fast to walk. At the end of each bridge stands a policeman to tell the German how tocross it. Were there no policeman there, he would probably sit down andwait till the river had passed by. At the railway station the policemanlocks him up in the waiting-room, where he can do no harm to himself. When the proper time arrives, he fetches him out and hands him over tothe guard of the train, who is only a policeman in another uniform. Theguard tells him where to sit in the train, and when to get out, and seesthat he does get out. In Germany you take no responsibility uponyourself whatever. Everything is done for you, and done well. You arenot supposed to look after yourself; you are not blamed for beingincapable of looking after yourself; it is the duty of the Germanpoliceman to look after you. That you may be a helpless idiot does notexcuse him should anything happen to you. Wherever you are and whateveryou are doing you are in his charge, and he takes care of you--good careof you; there is no denying this. 

If you lose yourself, he finds you; and if you lose anything belonging toyou, he recovers it for you. If you don't know what you want, he tellsyou. If you want anything that is good for you to have, he gets it foryou. Private lawyers are not needed in Germany. If you want to buy orsell a house or field, the State makes out the conveyance. If you havebeen swindled, the State takes up the case for you. The State marriesyou, insures you, will even gamble with you for a trifle. 

"You get yourself born, " says the German Government to the Germancitizen, "we do the rest. Indoors and out of doors, in sickness and inhealth, in pleasure and in work, we will tell you what to do, and we willsee to it that you do it. Don't you worry yourself about anything. "

And the German doesn't. Where there is no policeman to be found, hewanders about till he comes to a police notice posted on a wall. This hereads; then he goes and does what it says. 

I remember in one German town--I forget which; it is immaterial; theincident could have happened in any--noticing an open gate leading to agarden in which a concert was being given. There was nothing to preventanyone who chose from walking through that gate, and thus gainingadmittance to the concert without paying. In fact, of the two gatesquarter of a mile apart it was the more convenient. Yet of the crowdsthat passed, not one attempted to enter by that gate. They ploddedsteadily on under a blazing sun to the other gate, at which a man stoodto collect the entrance money. I have seen German youngsters standlongingly by the margin of a lonely sheet of ice. They could have skatedon that ice for hours, and nobody have been the wiser. The crowd and thepolice were at the other end, more than half a mile away, and round thecorner. Nothing stopped their going on but the knowledge that they oughtnot. Things such as these make one pause to seriously wonder whether theTeuton be a member of the sinful human family or not. Is it not possiblethat these placid, gentle folk may in reality be angels, come down toearth for the sake of a glass of beer, which, as they must know, can onlyin Germany be obtained worth the drinking?

In Germany the country roads are lined with fruit trees. There is novoice to stay man or boy from picking and eating the fruit, exceptconscience. In England such a state of things would cause publicindignation. Children would die of cholera by the hundred. The medicalprofession would be worked off its legs trying to cope with the naturalresults of over-indulgence in sour apples and unripe walnuts. Publicopinion would demand that these fruit trees should be fenced about, andthus rendered harmless. Fruit growers, to save themselves the expense ofwalls and palings, would not be allowed in this manner to spread sicknessand death throughout the community. 

But in Germany a boy will walk for miles down a lonely road, hedged withfruit trees, to buy a pennyworth of pears in the village at the otherend. To pass these unprotected fruit trees, drooping under their burdenof ripe fruit, strikes the Anglo-Saxon mind as a wicked waste ofopportunity, a flouting of the blessed gifts of Providence. 

I do not know if it be so, but from what I have observed of the Germancharacter I should not be surprised to hear that when a man in Germany iscondemned to death he is given a piece of rope, and told to go and hanghimself. It would save the State much trouble and expense, and I can seethat German criminal taking that piece of rope home with him, reading upcarefully the police instructions, and proceeding to carry them out inhis own back kitchen. 

The Germans are a good people. On the whole, the best people perhaps inthe world; an amiable, unselfish, kindly people. I am positive that thevast majority of them go to Heaven. Indeed, comparing them with theother Christian nations of the earth, one is forced to the conclusionthat Heaven will be chiefly of German manufacture. But I cannotunderstand how they get there. That the soul of any single individualGerman has sufficient initiative to fly up by itself and knock at St. Peter's door, I cannot believe. My own opinion is that they are takenthere in small companies, and passed in under the charge of a deadpoliceman. 

Carlyle said of the Prussians, and it is true of the whole German nation, that one of their chief virtues was their power of being drilled. Of theGermans you might say they are a people who will go anywhere, and doanything, they are told. Drill him for the work and send him out toAfrica or Asia under charge of somebody in uniform, and he is bound tomake an excellent colonist, facing difficulties as he would face thedevil himself, if ordered. But it is not easy to conceive of him as apioneer. Left to run himself, one feels he would soon fade away and die, not from any lack of intelligence, but from sheer want of presumption. 

The German has so long been the soldier of Europe, that the militaryinstinct has entered into his blood. The military virtues he possessesin abundance; but he also suffers from the drawbacks of the militarytraining. It was told me of a German servant, lately released from thebarracks, that he was instructed by his master to deliver a letter to acertain house, and to wait there for the answer. The hours passed by, and the man did not return. His master, anxious and surprised, followed. He found the man where he had been sent, the answer in his hand. He waswaiting for further orders. The story sounds exaggerated, but personallyI can credit it. 

The curious thing is that the same man, who as an individual is ashelpless as a child, becomes, the moment he puts on the uniform, anintelligent being, capable of responsibility and initiative. The Germancan rule others, and be ruled by others, but he cannot rule himself. Thecure would appear to be to train every German for an officer, and thenput him under himself. It is certain he would order himself about withdiscretion and judgment, and see to it that he himself obeyed himselfwith smartness and precision. 

For the direction of German character into these channels, the schools, of course, are chiefly responsible. Their everlasting teaching is duty. It is a fine ideal for any people; but before buckling to it, one wouldwish to have a clear understanding as to what this "duty" is. The Germanidea of it would appear to be: "blind obedience to everything inbuttons. " It is the antithesis of the Anglo-Saxon scheme; but as boththe Anglo-Saxon and the Teuton are prospering, there must be good in bothmethods. Hitherto, the German has had the blessed fortune to beexceptionally well governed; if this continue, it will go well with him. When his troubles will begin will be when by any chance something goeswrong with the governing machine. But maybe his method has the advantageof producing a continuous supply of good governors; it would certainlyseem so. 

As a trader, I am inclined to think the German will, unless histemperament considerably change, remain always a long way behind hisAnglo-Saxon competitor; and this by reason of his virtues. To him lifeis something more important than a mere race for wealth. A country thatcloses its banks and post-offices for two hours in the middle of the day, while it goes home and enjoys a comfortable meal in the bosom of itsfamily, with, perhaps, forty winks by way of dessert, cannot hope, andpossibly has no wish, to compete with a people that takes its mealsstanding, and sleeps with a telephone over its bed. In Germany there isnot, at all events as yet, sufficient distinction between the classes tomake the struggle for position the life and death affair it is inEngland. Beyond the landed aristocracy, whose boundaries areimpregnable, grade hardly counts. Frau Professor and FrauCandlestickmaker meet at the Weekly Kaffee-Klatsch and exchange scandalon terms of mutual equality. The livery-stable keeper and the doctorhobnob together at their favourite beer hall. The wealthy masterbuilder, when he prepares his roomy waggon for an excursion into thecountry, invites his foreman and his tailor to join him with theirfamilies. Each brings his share of drink and provisions, and returninghome they sing in chorus the same songs. So long as this state of thingsendures, a man is not induced to sacrifice the best years of his life towin a fortune for his dotage. His tastes, and, more to the point still, his wife's, remain inexpensive. He likes to see his flat or villafurnished with much red plush upholstery and a profusion of gilt andlacquer. But that is his idea; and maybe it is in no worse taste than isa mixture of bastard Elizabethan with imitation Louis XV, the whole litby electric light, and smothered with photographs. Possibly, he willhave his outer walls painted by the local artist: a sanguinary battle, agood deal interfered with by the front door, taking place below, whileBismarck, as an angel, flutters vaguely about the bedroom windows. Butfor his Old Masters he is quite content to go to the public galleries;and "the Celebrity at Home" not having as yet taken its place amongst theinstitutions of the Fatherland, he is not impelled to waste his, moneyturning his house into an old curiosity shop. 

The German is a gourmand. There are still English farmers who, whiletelling you that farming spells starvation, enjoy their seven solid mealsa day. Once a year there comes a week's feast throughout Russia, duringwhich many deaths occur from the over-eating of pancakes; but this is areligious festival, and an exception. Taking him all round, the Germanas a trencherman stands pre-eminent among the nations of the earth. Herises early, and while dressing tosses off a few cups of coffee, togetherwith half a dozen hot buttered rolls. But it is not until ten o'clockthat he sits down to anything that can properly be called a meal. At oneor half-past takes place his chief dinner. Of this he makes a business, sitting at it for a couple of hours. At four o'clock he goes to thecafe, and eats cakes and drinks chocolate. The evening he devotes toeating generally--not a set meal, or rarely, but a series of snacks, --abottle of beer and a Belegete-semmel or two at seven, say; another bottleof beer and an Aufschnitt at the theatre between the acts; a small bottleof white wine and a Spiegeleier before going home; then a piece of cheeseor sausage, washed down by more beer, previous to turning in for thenight. 

But he is no gourmet. French cooks and French prices are not the rule athis restaurant. His beer or his inexpensive native white wine he prefersto the most costly clarets or champagnes. And, indeed, it is well forhim he does; for one is inclined to think that every time a French growersells a bottle of wine to a German hotel- or shop-keeper, Sedan isrankling in his mind. It is a foolish revenge, seeing that it is not theGerman who as a rule drinks it; the punishment falls upon some innocenttravelling Englishman. Maybe, however, the French dealer remembers alsoWaterloo, and feels that in any event he scores. 

In Germany expensive entertainments are neither offered nor expected. Everything throughout the Fatherland is homely and friendly. The Germanhas no costly sports to pay for, no showy establishment to maintain, nopurse-proud circle to dress for. His chief pleasure, a seat at the operaor concert, can be had for a few marks; and his wife and daughters walkthere in home-made dresses, with shawls over their heads. Indeed, throughout the country the absence of all ostentation is to English eyesquite refreshing. Private carriages are few and far between, and eventhe droschke is made use of only when the quicker and cleaner electriccar is not available. 

By such means the German retains his independence. The shopkeeper inGermany does not fawn upon his customers. I accompanied an English ladyonce on a shopping excursion in Munich. She had been accustomed toshopping in London and New York, and she grumbled at everything the manshowed her. It was not that she was really dissatisfied; this was hermethod. She explained that she could get most things cheaper and betterelsewhere; not that she really thought she could, merely she held it goodfor the shopkeeper to say this. She told him that his stock lackedtaste--she did not mean to be offensive; as I have explained, it was hermethod;--that there was no variety about it; that it was not up to date;that it was commonplace; that it looked as if it would not wear. He didnot argue with her; he did not contradict her. He put the things backinto their respective boxes, replaced the boxes on their respectiveshelves, walked into the little parlour behind the shop, and closed thedoor. 

"Isn't he ever coming back?" asked the lady, after a couple of minuteshad elapsed. 

Her tone did not imply a question, so much as an exclamation of mereimpatience. 

"I doubt it, " I replied. 

"Why not?" she asked, much astonished. 

"I expect, " I answered, "you have bored him. In all probability he is atthis moment behind that door smoking a pipe and reading the paper. "

"What an extraordinary shopkeeper!" said my friend, as she gathered herparcels together and indignantly walked out. 

"It is their way, " I explained. "There are the goods; if you want them, you can have them. If you do not want them, they would almost ratherthat you did not come and talk about them. "

On another occasion I listened in the smoke-room of a German hotel to asmall Englishman telling a tale which, had I been in his place, I shouldhave kept to myself. 

"It doesn't do, " said the little Englishman, "to try and beat a Germandown. They don't seem to understand it. I saw a first edition of _TheRobbers_ in a shop in the Georg Platz. I went in and asked the price. Itwas a rum old chap behind the counter. He said: 'Twenty-five marks, ' andwent on reading. I told him I had seen a better copy only a few daysbefore for twenty--one talks like that when one is bargaining; it isunderstood. He asked me 'Where?' I told him in a shop at Leipsig. Hesuggested my returning there and getting it; he did not seem to carewhether I bought the book or whether I didn't. I said:

"'What's the least you will take for it?'

"'I have told you once, ' he answered; 'twenty-five marks. ' He was anirritable old chap. 

"I said: 'It's not worth it. '

"'I never said it was, did I?' he snapped. 

"I said: 'I'll give you ten marks for it. ' I thought, maybe, he wouldend by taking twenty. 

"He rose. I took it he was coming round the counter to get the book out. Instead, he came straight up to me. He was a biggish sort of man. Hetook me by the two shoulders, walked me out into the street, and closedthe door behind me with a bang. I was never more surprised in all mylife. 

"Maybe the book was worth twenty-five marks, " I suggested. 

"Of course it was, " he replied; "well worth it. But what a notion ofbusiness!"

If anything change the German character, it will be the German woman. Sheherself is changing rapidly--advancing, as we call it. Ten years ago noGerman woman caring for her reputation, hoping for a husband, would havedared to ride a bicycle: to-day they spin about the country in theirthousands. The old folks shake their heads at them; but the young men, Inotice, overtake them and ride beside them. Not long ago it wasconsidered unwomanly in Germany for a lady to be able to do the outsideedge. Her proper skating attitude was thought to be that of clinginglimpness to some male relative. Now she practises eights in a corner byherself, until some young man comes along to help her. She plays tennis, and, from a point of safety, I have even noticed her driving a dog-cart. 

Brilliantly educated she always has been. At eighteen she speaks two orthree languages, and has forgotten more than the average Englishwoman hasever read. Hitherto, this education has been utterly useless to her. Onmarriage she has retired into the kitchen, and made haste to clear herbrain of everything else, in order to leave room for bad cooking. Butsuppose it begins to dawn upon her that a woman need not sacrifice herwhole existence to household drudgery any more than a man need makehimself nothing else than a business machine. Suppose she develop anambition to take part in the social and national life. Then theinfluence of such a partner, healthy in body and therefore vigorous inmind, is bound to be both lasting and far-reaching. 

For it must be borne in mind that the German man is exceptionallysentimental, and most easily influenced by his women folk. It is said ofhim, he is the best of lovers, the worst of husbands. This has been thewoman's fault. Once married, the German woman has done more than putromance behind her; she has taken a carpet-beater and driven it out ofthe house. As a girl, she never understood dressing; as a wife, shetakes off such clothes even as she had, and proceeds to wrap herself upin any odd articles she may happen to find about the house; at allevents, this is the impression she produces. The figure that might oftenbe that of a Juno, the complexion that would sometimes do credit to ahealthy angel, she proceeds of malice and intent to spoil. She sells herbirth-right of admiration and devotion for a mess of sweets. Everyafternoon you may see her at the cafe, loading herself with rich cream-covered cakes, washed down by copious draughts of chocolate. In a shorttime she becomes fat, pasty, placid, and utterly uninteresting. 

When the German woman gives up her afternoon coffee and her evening beer, takes sufficient exercise to retain her shape, and continues to readafter marriage something else than the cookery-book, the GermanGovernment will find it has a new and unknown force to deal with. Andeverywhere throughout Germany one is confronted by unmistakable signsthat the old German Frauen are giving place to the newer Damen. 

Concerning what will then happen one feels curious. For the Germannation is still young, and its maturity is of importance to the world. They are a good people, a lovable people, who should help much to makethe world better. 

The worst that can be said against them is that they have their failings. They themselves do not know this; they consider themselves perfect, whichis foolish of them. They even go so far as to think themselves superiorto the Anglo-Saxon: this is incomprehensible. One feels they must bepretending. 

"They have their points, " said George; "but their tobacco is a nationalsin. I'm going to bed. "

We rose, and leaning over the low stone parapet, watched the dancinglights upon the soft, dark river. 

"It has been a pleasant Bummel, on the whole, " said Harris; "I shall beglad to get back, and yet I am sorry it is over, if you understand me. "

"What is a 'Bummel'?" said George. "How would you translate it?"

"A 'Bummel', " I explained, "I should describe as a journey, long orshort, without an end; the only thing regulating it being the necessityof getting back within a given time to the point from which one started. Sometimes it is through busy streets, and sometimes through the fieldsand lanes; sometimes we can be spared for a few hours, and sometimes fora few days. But long or short, but here or there, our thoughts are everon the running of the sand. We nod and smile to many as we pass; withsome we stop and talk awhile; and with a few we walk a little way. Wehave been much interested, and often a little tired. But on the whole wehave had a pleasant time, and are sorry when 'tis over. "