A Tramp Abroad

Fourthly, I would reorganizes the sexes, and distribute them accordingly to the will of the creator. This as a tribute of respect, if nothing else.

Fifthly, I would do away with those great long compounded words; or require the speaker to deliver them in sections, with intermissions for refreshments. To wholly do away with them would be best, for ideas are more easily received and digested when they come one at a time than when they come in bulk. Intellectual food is like any other; it is pleasanter and more beneficial to take it with a spoon than with a shovel.

Sixthly, I would require a speaker to stop when he is done, and not hang a string of those useless “haven sind gewesen gehabt haben geworden seins” to the end of his oration. This sort of gewgaws undignify a speech, instead of adding a grace. They are, therefore, an offense, and should be discarded.

Seventhly, I would discard the Parenthesis. Also the reparenthesis, the re-reparenthesis, and the re-re-re-re-re-reparentheses, and likewise the final wide-reaching all-enclosing king-parenthesis. I would require every individual, be he high or low, to unfold a plain straightforward tale, or else coil it and sit on it and hold his peace. Infractions of this law should be punishable with death.

And eighthly, and last, I would retain Zug and Schlag, with their pendants, and discard the rest of the vocabulary. This would simplify the language.

I have now named what I regard as the most necessary and important changes. These are perhaps all I could be expected to name for nothing; but there are other suggestions which I can and will make in case my proposed application shall result in my being formally employed by the government in the work of reforming the language.

My philological studies have satisfied me that a gifted person ought to learn English (barring spelling and pronouncing) in thirty hours, French in thirty days, and German in thirty years. It seems manifest, then, that the latter tongue ought to be trimmed down and repaired. If it is to remain as it is, it ought to be gently and reverently set aside among the dead languages, for only the dead have time to learn it.

A fourth of July oration in the German tongue, delivered at A banquet of the Anglo-American club of students by the author of this book:

Gentlemen: Since I arrived, a month ago, in this old wonderland, this vast garden of Germany, my English tongue has so often proved a useless piece of baggage to me, and so troublesome to carry around, in a country where they haven’t the checking system for luggage, that I finally set to work, and learned the German language. Also! Es freut mich dass dies so ist, denn es muss, in ein hauptsächlich degree, höflich sein, dass man auf ein occasion like this, sein Rede in die Sprache des Landes worin he boards, aussprechen soll. Dafuer habe ich, aus reinische Verlegenheit – no, Vergangenheit – no, I mean Höflichkeit – aus reinishe Höflichkeit habe ich resolved to tackle this business in the German language, um Gottes willen! Also! Sie muessen so freundlich sein, und verzeih mich die interlarding von ein oder zwei Englischer Worte, hie und da, denn ich finde dass die deutsche is not a very copious language, and so when you’ve really got anything to say, you’ve got to draw on a language that can stand the strain.

Wenn háber man kann nicht meinem Rede Verstehen, so werde ich ihm später dasselbe uebersetz, wenn er solche Dienst verlangen wollen haben werden sollen sein hätte. (I don’t know what wollen haben werden sollen sein hätte means, but I notice they always put it at the end of a German sentence – merely for general literary gorgeousness, I suppose.)

This is a great and justly honored day – a day which is worthy of the veneration in which it is held by the true patriots of all climes and nationalities – a day which offers a fruitful theme for thought and speech; und meinem Freunde – no, meinen freunden – meines freundes – well, take your choice, they’re all the same price; i don’t know which one is right – also! ich habe gehabt haben worden gewesen sein, as Goethe says in his Paradise Lost—ich – ich—that is to say—ich—but let us change cars.

Also! Die Anblich so viele Grossbrittanischer und Amerikanischer hier zusammengetroffen in Bruderliche concord, ist zwar a welcome and inspiriting spectacle. And what has moved you to it? Can the terse German tongue rise to the expression of this impulse? Is it Freundschaftsbezeigungenstadtverordnetenversammlungenfamilieneigenthümlichkeiten? Nein, O nein! This is a crisp and noble word, but it fails to pierce the marrow of the impulse which has gathered this friendly meeting and produced dièse Anblick—eine Anblich welche ist gut zu sehen – gut fuer die Äugen in a foreign land and a far country – eine Anblick solche als in die gewöhnliche Heidelberger phrase nennt man ein “schönes Aussicht!” Ja, freilich natürlich wahrscheinlich ebensowohl! Also! Die Aussicht auf dem Koenigsstuhl mehr grösser ist, aber geistlische sprechend nicht so schön, lob’ Gott! Because sie sind hier zusammengetroffen, in Bruderlichem concord, ein grossen Tag zu feirn, whose high benefits were not for one land and one locality, but have conferred a measure of good upon all lands that know liberty today, and love it. Hundert Jahre vorueber, waren die Engländer und die Amerikaner Feinde; aber heut sind sie herzlichen Freunde, Gott sei Dank! May this good-fellowship endure; may these banners here blended in amity so remain; may they never any more wave over opposing hosts, or be stained with blood which was kindred, is kindred, and always will be kindred, until a line drawn upon a map shall be able to say: “This bars the ancestral blood from flowing in the veins of the descendant!”

Appendix E

Legend of the Castles

Called the “Swallow’s Nest” and “The Brothers,” as Condensed from the Captain’s Tale.

In the neighborhood of three hundred years ago the Swallow’s Nest and the larger castle between it and Neckarsteinach were owned and occupied by two old knights who were twin brothers, and bachelors. They had no relatives. They were very rich. They had fought through the wars and retired to private life – covered with honorable scars. They were honest, honorable men in their dealings, but the people had given them a couple of nicknames which were very suggestive – Herr Givenaught and Herr Heartless. The old knights were so proud of these names that if a burgher called them by their right ones they would correct them.

The most renowned scholar in Europe, at the time, was the Herr Doctor Franz Reikmann, who lived in Heidelberg. All Germany was proud of the venerable scholar, who lived in the simplest way, for great scholars are always poor. He was poor, as to money, but very rich in his sweet young daughter Hildegarde and his library. He had been all his life collecting his library, book and book, and he lived it as a miser loves his hoarded gold. He said the two strings of his heart were rooted, the one in his daughter, the other in his books; and that if either were severed he must die. Now in an evil hour, hoping to win a marriage portion for his child, this simple old man had intrusted his small savings to a sharper to be ventured in a glittering speculation. But that was not the worst of it: he signed a paper – without reading it. That is the way with poets and scholars; they always sign without reading. This cunning paper made him responsible for heaps of things. The rest was that one night he found himself in debt to the sharper eight thousand pieces of gold! – an amount so prodigious that it simply stupefied him to think of it. It was a night of woe in that house.

“I must part with my library – I have nothing else. So perishes one heartstring,” said the old man.

“What will it bring, father?” asked the girl.

“Nothing! It is worth seven hundred pieces of gold; but by auction it will go for little or nothing.”

“Then you will have parted with the half of your heart and the joy of your life to no purpose, since so mighty a burden of debt will remain behind.”

“There is no help for it, my child. Our darlings must pass under the hammer. We must pay what we can.”

“My father, I have a feeling that the dear Virgin will come to our help. Let us not lose heart.”

“She cannot devise a miracle that will turn nothing into eight thousand gold pieces, and lesser help will bring us little peace.”

“She can do even greater things, my father. She will save us, I know she will.”

Toward morning, while the old man sat exhausted and asleep in his chair where he had been sitting before his books as one who watches by his beloved dead and prints the features on his memory for a solace in the aftertime of empty desolation, his daughter sprang into the room and gently woke him, saying—

“My presentiment was true! She will save us. Three times has she appeared to me in my dreams, and said, ’Go to the Herr Givenaught, go to the Herr Heartless, ask them to come and bid.’ There, did I not tell you she would save us, the thrice blessed Virgin!”

Sad as the old man was, he was obliged to laugh.

“Thou mightest as well appeal to the rocks their castles stand upon as to the harder ones that lie in those men’s breasts, my child. They bid on books writ in the learned tongues! – they can scarce read their own.”

But Hildegarde’s faith was in no wise shaken. Bright and early she was on her way up the Neckar road, as joyous as a bird.

Meantime Herr Givenaught and Herr Heartless were having an early breakfast in the former’s castle – the Sparrow’s Nest – and flavoring it with a quarrel; for although these twins bore a love for each other which almost amounted to worship, there was one subject upon which they could not touch without calling each other hard names – and yet it was the subject which they oftenest touched upon.

“I tell you,” said Givenaught, “you will beggar yourself yet with your insane squanderings of money upon what you choose to consider poor and worthy objects. All these years I have implored you to stop this foolish custom and husband your means, but all in vain. You are always lying to me about these secret benevolences, but you never have managed to deceive me yet. Every time a poor devil has been set upon his feet I have detected your hand in it – incorrigible ass!”

“Every time you didn’t set him on his feet yourself, you mean. Where I give one unfortunate a little private lift, you do the same for a dozen. The idea of your swelling around the country and petting yourself with the nickname of Givenaught – intolerable humbug! Before I would be such a fraud as that, I would cut my right hand off. Your life is a continual lie. But go on, I have tried my best to save you from beggaring yourself by your riotous charities – now for the thousandth time I wash my hands of the consequences. A maundering old fool! that’s what you are.”

“And you a blethering old idiot!” roared Givenaught, springing up.

“I won’t stay in the presence of a man who has no more delicacy than to call me such names. Mannerless swine!”

So saying, Herr Heartless sprang up in a passion. But some lucky accident intervened, as usual, to change the subject, and the daily quarrel ended in the customary daily living reconciliation. The gray-headed old eccentrics parted, and Herr Heartless walked off to his own castle.

Half an hour later, Hildegarde was standing in the presence of Herr Givenaught. He heard her story, and said—

“I am sorry for you, my child, but I am very poor, I care nothing for bookish rubbish, I shall not be there.”

He said the hard words kindly, but they nearly broke poor Hildegarde’s heart, nevertheless. When she was gone the old heartbreaker muttered, rubbing his hands—

“It was a good stroke. I have saved my brother’s pocket this time, in spite of him. Nothing else would have prevented his rushing off to rescue the old scholar, the pride of Germany, from his trouble. The poor child won’t venture near him after the rebuff she has received from his brother the Givenaught.”

But he was mistaken. The Virgin had commanded, and Hildegarde would obey. She went to Herr Heartless and told her story. But he said coldly—

“I am very poor, my child, and books are nothing to me. I wish you well, but I shall not come.”

When Hildegarde was gone, he chuckled and said—

“How my fool of a soft-headed soft-hearted brother would rage if he knew how cunningly I have saved his pocket. How he would have flown to the old man’s rescue! But the girl won’t venture near him now.”

When Hildegarde reached home, her father asked her how she had prospered. She said—

“The Virgin has promised, and she will keep her word; but not in the way I thought. She knows her own ways, and they are best.”

The old man patted her on the head, and smiled a doubting smile, but he honored her for her brave faith, nevertheless.

II

Next day the people assembled in the great hall of the Ritter tavern, to witness the auction – for the proprietor had said the treasure of Germany’s most honored son should be bartered away in no meaner place. Hildegarde and her father sat close to the books, silent and sorrowful, and holding each other’s hands. There was a great crowd of people present. The bidding began—

“How much for this precious library, just as it stands, all complete?” called the auctioneer.

“Fifty pieces of gold!”

“A hundred!”

“Two hundred.”

“Three!”

“Four!”

“Five hundred!”

“Five twenty-five.”

A brief pause.

“Five forty!”

A longer pause, while the auctioneer redoubled his persuasions.

“Five-forty-five!”

A heavy drag – the auctioneer persuaded, pleaded, implored – it was useless, everybody remained silent—

“Well, then – going, going – one – two—”

“Five hundred and fifty!”

This in a shrill voice, from a bent old man, all hung with rags, and with a green patch over his left eye. Everybody in his vicinity turned and gazed at him. It was Givenaught in disguise. He was using a disguised voice, too.

“Good!” cried the auctioneer. “Going, going – one – two—”

“Five hundred and sixty!”

This, in a deep, harsh voice, from the midst of the crowd at the other end of the room. The people near by turned, and saw an old man, in a strange costume, supporting himself on crutches. He wore a long white beard, and blue spectacles. It was Herr Heartless, in disguise, and using a disguised voice.

“Good again! Going, going – one—”

“Six hundred!”

Sensation. The crowd raised a cheer, and some one cried out, “Go it, Green-patch!” This tickled the audience and a score of voices shouted, “Go it, Green-patch!”

“Going – going – going – third and last call – one – two—”

“Seven hundred!”

“Huzzah! – well done, Crutches!” cried a voice. The crowd took it up, and shouted altogether, “Well done, Crutches!”

“Splendid, gentlemen! you are doing magnificently. Going, going—”

“A thousand!”

“Three cheers for Green-patch! Up and at him, Crutches!”

“Going – going—”

“Two thousand!”

And while the people cheered and shouted, “Crutches” muttered, “Who can this devil be that is fighting so to get these useless books? – But no matter, he sha’n’t have them. The pride of Germany shall have his books if it beggars me to buy them for him.”

“Going, going, going—”

“Three thousand!”

“Come, everybody – give a rouser for Green-patch!”

And while they did it, “Green-patch” muttered, “This cripple is plainly a lunatic; but the old scholar shall have his books, nevertheless, though my pocket sweat for it.”

“Going – going—”

“Four thousand!”

“Huzza!”

“Five thousand!”

“Huzza!”

“Six thousand!”

“Huzza!”

“Seven thousand!”

“Huzza!”

“Eight thousand!”

“We are saved, father! I told you the Holy Virgin would keep her word!” “Blessed be her sacred name!” said the old scholar, with emotion. The crowd roared, “Huzza, huzza, huzza – at him again, Green-patch!”

“Going – going—”

“Ten thousand!” As Givenaught shouted this, his excitement was so great that he forgot himself and used his natural voice. His brother recognized it, and muttered, under cover of the storm of cheers—

“Aha, you are there, are you, besotted old fool? Take the books, I know what you’ll do with them!”

So saying, he slipped out of the place and the auction was at an end. Givenaught shouldered his way to Hildegarde, whispered a word in her ear, and then he also vanished. The old scholar and his daughter embraced, and the former said, “Truly the Holy Mother has done more than she promised, child, for she has given you a splendid marriage portion – think of it, two thousand pieces of gold!”

“And more still,” cried Hildegarde, “for she has given you back your books; the stranger whispered me that he would none of them—’the honored son of Germany must keep them,’ so he said. I would I might have asked his name and kissed his hand and begged his blessing; but he was Our Lady’s angel, and it is not meet that we of earth should venture speech with them that dwell above.”

Appendix F

German Journals

The daily journals of Hamburg, Frankfort, Baden, Munich, and Augsburg are all constructed on the same general plan. I speak of these because I am more familiar with them than with any other German papers. They contain no “editorials” whatever; no “personals”—and this is rather a merit than a demerit, perhaps; no funny-paragraph column; no police-court reports; no reports of proceedings of higher courts; no information about prize-fights or other dog-fights, horse-races, walking-machines, yachting-contents, rifle-matches, or other sporting matters of any sort; no reports of banquet speeches; no department of curious odds and ends of floating fact and gossip; no “rumors” about anything or anybody; no prognostications or prophecies about anything or anybody; no lists of patents granted or sought, or any reference to such things; no abuse of public officials, big or little, or complaints against them, or praises of them; no religious columns Saturdays, no rehash of cold sermons Mondays; no “weather indications”; no “local item” unveiling of what is happening in town – nothing of a local nature, indeed, is mentioned, beyond the movements of some prince, or the proposed meeting of some deliberative body.

After so formidable a list of what one can’t find in a German daily, the question may well be asked, What can be found in it? It is easily answered: A child’s handful of telegrams, mainly about European national and international political movements; letter-correspondence about the same things; market reports. There you have it. That is what a German daily is made of. A German daily is the slowest and saddest and dreariest of the inventions of man. Our own dailies infuriate the reader, pretty often; the German daily only stupefies him. Once a week the German daily of the highest class lightens up its heavy columns – that is, it thinks it lightens them up – with a profound, an abysmal, book criticism; a criticism which carries you down, down, down into the scientific bowels of the subject – for the German critic is nothing if not scientific – and when you come up at last and scent the fresh air and see the bonny daylight once more, you resolve without a dissenting voice that a book criticism is a mistaken way to lighten up a German daily. Sometimes, in place of the criticism, the first-class daily gives you what it thinks is a gay and chipper essay – about ancient Grecian funeral customs, or the ancient Egyptian method of tarring a mummy, or the reasons for believing that some of the peoples who existed before the flood did not approve of cats. These are not unpleasant subjects; they are not uninteresting subjects; they are even exciting subjects – until one of these massive scientists gets hold of them. He soon convinces you that even these matters can be handled in such a way as to make a person low-spirited.

As I have said, the average German daily is made up solely of correspondences – a trifle of it by telegraph, the rest of it by mail. Every paragraph has the side-head, “London,” “Vienna,” or some other town, and a date. And always, before the name of the town, is placed a letter or a sign, to indicate who the correspondent is, so that the authorities can find him when they want to hang him. Stars, crosses, triangles, squares, half-moons, suns – such are some of the signs used by correspondents.

Some of the dailies move too fast, others too slowly. For instance, my Heidelberg daily was always twenty-four hours old when it arrived at the hotel; but one of my Munich evening papers used to come a full twenty-four hours before it was due.

Some of the less important dailies give one a tablespoonful of a continued story every day; it is strung across the bottom of the page, in the French fashion. By subscribing for the paper for five years I judge that a man might succeed in getting pretty much all of the story.

If you ask a citizen of Munich which is the best Munich daily journal, he will always tell you that there is only one good Munich daily, and that it is published in Augsburg, forty or fifty miles away. It is like saying that the best daily paper in New York is published out in New Jersey somewhere. Yes, the Augsburg ALLGEMEINE ZEITUNG is “the best Munich paper,” and it is the one I had in my mind when I was describing a “first-class German daily” above. The entire paper, opened out, is not quite as large as a single page of the New York Herald. It is printed on both sides, of course; but in such large type that its entire contents could be put, in Herald type, upon a single page of the Herald—and there would still be room enough on the page for the ZEITUNG’s “supplement” and some portion of the ZEITUNG’s next day’s contents.

Such is the first-class daily. The dailies actually printed in Munich are all called second-class by the public. If you ask which is the best of these second-class papers they say there is no difference; one is as good as another. I have preserved a copy of one of them; it is called the Münchener TAGES-Anzeiger, and bears date January 25, 1879. Comparisons are odious, but they need not be malicious; and without any malice I wish to compare this journal, published in a German city of 170,000 inhabitants, with journals of other countries. I know of no other way to enable the reader to “size” the thing.

A column of an average daily paper in America contains from 1,800 to 2,500 words; the reading-matter in a single issue consists of from 25,000 to 50,000 words. The reading-matter in my copy of the Munich journal consists of a total of 1,654 words – for I counted them. That would be nearly a column of one of our dailies. A single issue of the bulkiest daily newspaper in the world – the London times—often contains 100,000 words of reading-matter. Considering that the daily Anzeiger issues the usual twenty-six numbers per month, the reading matter in a single number of the London times would keep it in “copy” two months and a half.

The Anzeiger is an eight-page paper; its page is one inch wider and one inch longer than a foolscap page; that is to say, the dimensions of its page are somewhere between those of a schoolboy’s slate and a lady’s pocket handkerchief. One-fourth of the first page is taken up with the heading of the journal; this gives it a rather top-heavy appearance; the rest of the first page is reading-matter; all of the second page is reading-matter; the other six pages are devoted to advertisements.

The reading-matter is compressed into two hundred and five small-pica lines, and is lighted up with eight pica headlines. The bill of fare is as follows: First, under a pica headline, to enforce attention and respect, is a four-line sermon urging mankind to remember that, although they are pilgrims here below, they are yet heirs of heaven; and that “When they depart from earth they soar to heaven.” Perhaps a four-line sermon in a Saturday paper is the sufficient German equivalent of the eight or ten columns of sermons which the New-Yorkers get in their Monday morning papers. The latest news (two days old) follows the four-line sermon, under the pica headline “Telegrams”—these are “telegraphed” with a pair of scissors out of the Augsburger ZEITUNG of the day before. These telegrams consist of fourteen and two-thirds lines from Berlin, fifteen lines from Vienna, and two and five-eights lines from Calcutta. Thirty-three small-pica lines of telegraphic news in a daily journal in a King’s Capital of one hundred and seventy thousand inhabitants is surely not an overdose. Next we have the pica heading, “News of the Day,” under which the following facts are set forth: Prince Leopold is going on a visit to Vienna, six lines; Prince Arnulph is coming back from Russia, two lines; the Landtag will meet at ten o’clock in the morning and consider an election law, three lines and one word over; a city government item, five and one-half lines; prices of tickets to the proposed grand Charity Ball, twenty-three lines – for this one item occupies almost one-fourth of the entire first page; there is to be a wonderful Wagner concert in Frankfurt-on-the-Main, with an orchestra of one hundred and eight instruments, seven and one-half lines. That concludes the first page. Eighty-five lines, altogether, on that page, including three headlines. About fifty of those lines, as one perceives, deal with local matters; so the reporters are not overworked.