18 The Kindly Courtesy of Germans In the morning we took our breakfast in the garden, under the trees, in the delightful German summer fashion. The air was filled with the fragrance of flowers and wild animals. The living portion of the menagerie of the naturalist tavern was all about us. There were great cages populous with fluttering and chattering foreign birds, and other great cages and greater wire pens populous with quadrupeds, both native and foreign. There were some free creatures too, and quite sociable ones they were. White rabbits went loping about the place and occasionally came and sniffed at our shoes and shins. A fawn with a red ribbon on its neck walked up and examined us fearlessly. Rare breeds of chickens and doves begged for crumbs, and a poor old tailless raven hopped about with a humble, shame-faced mien, which said, "'Please do not notice my exposure. Think how you would feel in my circumstances and be charitable.' If he was observed too much he would retire behind something and stay there until he judged the party's interest had found another object.  Bayard Taylor, who could interpret the dim reasonings of animals and understood their moral nature is better than most men, would have found some way to make this poor old chap forget his troubles for a while. But we have not his kindly art, and so had to leave the raven to his griefs. After breakfast we climbed the hill and visited the ancient castle of Hirshhorn and the ruined church near it. There were some curious old barreliefs leaning against the inner walls of the church, sculptured lords of Hirshhorn in complete armor, and ladies of Hirshhorn in the picturesque court costumes of the Middle Ages. These things are suffering damage and passing to decay, for the last Hirshhorn has been dead two hundred years, and there is nobody now who cares to preserve the family relics. In the chancel was a twisted stone column, and the captain told us a legend about it, of course, for in the matter of legends he could not seem to restrain himself. But I do not repeat his tale, because there was nothing plausible about it except that the hero wrenched this column into its present screw shape with his hands, just one single wrench. All the rest of the legend was doubtful. But Hirshhorn is best seen from a distance down the river. Then the clustered brown towers perched on the green hilltop and the old battlement stone wall stretching up and over the grassy ridge and disappearing in the leafy sea beyond make a picture whose grace and beauty entirely satisfy the eye. We descended from the church by steep stone stairways which curved this way and that down narrow alleys between the packed and dirty tenements of the village.  The people of the quarter were not all idiots, of course, but all that begged seemed to be and were said to be. I was thinking of going by skiff to the next town, Neckarsteinach, so I ran to the riverside in advance of the party and asked a man there if he had a boat to hire. I suppose I must have spoken high German, court German. I intended it for that, anyway, so he did not understand me. I turned and twisted my question around and about trying to strike that man's average, but failed. He could not make out what I wanted. Now Mr. X arrived, faced this same man, looked him in the eye, and emptied this sentence on him in the most glib and confident way. Can man boat get here? The mariner promptly understood and promptly answered. I can comprehend why he was able to understand that particular sentence, because by mere accident all the words in it except get have the same sound and the same meaning in German that they have in English. But how he managed to understand Mr. X's next remark puzzled me. I will insert it presently. X turned away a moment, and I asked the mariner if he could not find a board, and so construct an additional seat. I spoke in the purest German, but I might as well have spoken in the purest Choctaw for all the good it did. The man tried his best to understand me. He tried, and kept on trying harder and harder until I saw it was really of no use, and said, There, don't strain yourself. It is of no consequence. Then X turned to him and crisply said, Machen sie a flat board. I wish my epitaph may tell the truth about me, if the man did not answer up at once, and say he would go and borrow a board as soon as he had lit the pipe which he was filling. We changed our mind about taking the boat, so we did not have to go. I have given Mr. X's two remarks just as he made them. Four of the five words and the first one were English, and that they were also German was only accidental, not intentional. Three out of the five words in the second remark were English, and English only, and the two German ones did not mean anything in particular in such a connection. X always spoke English to Germans, but his plan was to turn the sentence wrong and first and upside down, according to German construction, and sprinkle in a German word without any essential meaning to it, here and there, by way of flavor, yet he always made himself understood. He could make those dialect-speaking raftsmen understand him sometimes, when even Young Z had failed with them, and Young Z was a pretty good German scholar. For one thing X always spoke with such confidence, perhaps that helped, and possibly the raftsmen's dialect was what is called Plattdeutsch, and so they found his English more familiar to their ears than another man's German. Quite indifferent students of German can read Fritz Reuters' charming Plattdeutsch tales with some little facility because many of the words are English. I suppose this is the tongue which our Saxon ancestors carried to England with them. By and by I will inquire of some other philologist. However in the meantime it had transpired that the men employed to caulk the raft had found that the leak was not a leak at all, but only a crack between the logs, a crack that belonged there and was not dangerous, but had been magnified into a leak by the disordered imagination of the mate. Therefore we went aboard again with a good degree of confidence and presently got to sea without accident. As we swam smoothly along between the enchanting shores we fell to swapping notes about the manners and customs in Germany and elsewhere. As I write now, many months later, I perceive that each of us, by observing and noting and inquiring diligently and day by day, had managed to lay in a most varied and opulent stock of misinformation. But this is not surprising. It is very difficult to get accurate details in any country. For example, I had the idea once, in Heidelberg, to find out all about those five student corps. I started with the White Cap Corps. I began to inquire of this and that and the other citizen and here is what I found out. One, it is called the Prussian Corps, because none but Prussians are admitted to it. Two, it is called the Prussian Corps for no particular reason. It has simply pleased each corps to name itself after some German state. Three, it is not named the Prussian Corps at all, but only the White Cap Corps. Four, any student can belong to it who is a German by birth. Five, any student can belong to it who is European by birth. Six, any European born student can belong to it except he be a Frenchman. Seven, any student can belong to it no matter where he is born. Eight, no student can belong to it who is not of noble blood. Nine, no student can belong to it who cannot show three full generations of noble descent. Ten, nobility is not a necessary qualification. Eleven, no moneyless student can belong to it. Twelve, money qualification is nonsense, such a thing has never been thought of. I got some of this information from students themselves, students who did not belong to the corps. I finally went to headquarters, to the White Caps, where I would have gone in the first place if I had been acquainted, but even at headquarters I found difficulties. I perceived that there were things about the White Cap Corps which one member knew and another one didn't. It was natural, for very few members of any organization know all that can be known about it. I doubt there is a man or a woman in Heidelberg who would not answer promptly and confidently three out of every five questions about the White Cap Corps which a stranger might ask, yet it is a very safe bet that two of the three answers would be incorrect every time. There is one German custom which is universal, bowing courteously to strangers when sitting down at table or rising up from it. This bow startles a stranger out of his self-possession the first time it occurs and he is likely to fall over a chair or something in his embarrassment, but it pleases him nevertheless. One soon learns to expect this bow and be on the lookout and ready to return it, but to learn to lead off and make the initial bow oneself is a difficult matter for a diffident man. One thinks, if I rise and go and tender my bow and these ladies and gentlemen take it into their heads to ignore the custom of their nation and not return it, how shall I feel in case I survive to feel anything? Therefore he is afraid to venture. He sits out the dinner and makes the stranger's rise first and originate the bowing. A tabledot dinner is a tedious affair for a man who seldom touches anything after the three first courses. Therefore I used to do some pretty dreary waiting because of my fears. It took me months to assure myself that those fears were groundless, but I did assure myself at last by experimenting diligently through my agent. I made Harris get up and bow and leave. Invariably his bow was returned. Then I got up and bowed myself and retired. Thus my education proceeded easily and comfortably for me, but not for Harris. Three courses of a tabledot dinner were enough for me, but Harris preferred thirteen. Even after I had acquired full confidence and no longer needed the agent's help I sometimes encountered difficulties. Once at Baden-Baden I nearly lost a train because I could not be sure that three young ladies opposite me at table were Germans, since I had not heard them speak. They might be American, they might be English. It was not safe to venture a bow, but just as I had got that far with my thought one of them began a German remark to my great relief and gratitude, and before she got out her third word our bows had been delivered and graciously returned and we were off. There is a friendly something about the German character which is very winning. When Harris and I were making a pedestrian tour through the Black Forest we stopped at a little country inn for dinner one day. Two young ladies and a young gentleman entered and sat down opposite us. They were pedestrians, too. Our knapsacks were strapped upon our backs, but they had a sturdy youth along to carry theirs for them. All parties were hungry, so there was no talking. By and by the usual bows were exchanged and we separated. As we sat at a late breakfast in the hotel at Allerheiligen next morning these young people entered and took places near us without observing us, but presently they saw us and at once bowed and smiled. Not ceremoniously, but with the gratified look of people who have found acquaintances where they were expecting strangers. Then they spoke of the weather and the roads. We also spoke of the weather and the roads. Next they said they had had an enjoyable walk notwithstanding the weather. We said that that had been our case too. Then they said they had walked thirty English miles the day before and asked how many we had walked. I could not lie, so I told Harris to do it. Harris told them we had made thirty English miles too. That was true. We had made them, though we had had a little assistance here and there. After breakfast they found us trying to blast some information out of the dumb hotel clerk about routes and observing that we were not succeeding pretty well, they went and got their maps and things and pointed out and explained our course so clearly that even a New York detective could have followed it. And when we started they spoke out a hearty good-bye and wished us a pleasant journey. Perhaps they were more generous with us than they might have been with native wayfarers because we were a forlorn lot and in a strange land. I don't know. I only know it was lovely to be treated so. Very well. I took an American young lady to one of the fine balls in Badden-Baden one night and at the entrance door upstairs we were halted by an official. Something about Miss Joan's dress was not according to rule. I don't remember what it was. Now something was wanting her back hair or a shawl or a fan or a shovel or something. The official was ever so polite and ever so sorry, but the rule was strict and he could not let us in. It was very embarrassing for many eyes were on us, but now a richly dressed girl stepped out of the ballroom, inquired into the trouble, and said she could fix it in a moment. She took Miss Joan's to the robing room and soon brought her back in regulation trim. And then we entered the ballroom with this benefactress unchallenged. Being safe now, I began to puzzle through my sincere but ungrammatical thanks when there was a sudden mutual recognition. The benefactress and I had met at Allerheiligen. Two weeks had not altered her good face, and plainly her heart was in the right place yet. But there was such a difference between these clothes and the clothes I had seen her in before, when she was walking thirty miles a day in the black forest, that it was quite natural that I had failed to recognize her sooner. I had on my other suit too, but my German would betray me to a person who had heard it once anyway. She brought her brother and sister, and they made our way smooth for that evening. Well, months afterward I was driving through the streets of Munich in a cab with a German lady one day when she said, There! that is Prince Ludwig and his wife walking along there. Everybody was bowing to them, cab men, little children, and everybody else, and they were returning all the bows and overlooking nobody when a young lady met them and made a deep courtesy. That is probably one of the ladies of the court, said my German friend. I said, She is an honour to it, then. I know her. I don't know her name, but I know her. I have known her at Allerheiligen and Baden-Baden. She ought to be an empress, but she may be only a duchess. It is the way things go in this way. If one asks a German a civil question, he will be quite sure to get a civil answer. If you stop a German in the street and ask him to direct you to a certain place, he shows no sign of feeling offended. If the place be difficult to find, tend to one the man will drop his own matters and go with you and show you. In London too, many a time, strangers have walked several blocks with me to show me my way. There is something very real about this sort of politeness. Quite often in Germany shopkeepers, who could not furnish me the article I wanted, have sent one of their employees with me to show me a place where it could be had. End of Chapter 18 This is Chapter 19 of A Tramp Abroad. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A Tramp Abroad, by Mark Twain, Chapter 19. The deadly jest of Dillsburg. However, I wander from the raft. We made the port of Neckar-Steinach in good season, and went to the hotel and ordered a trout dinner, the same to be ready against our return from a two-hour pedestrian excursion to the village and castle of Dillsburg, a mile distant, on the other side of the river. I do not mean that we proposed to be two hours making two miles. No, we meant to employ most of the time in inspecting Dillsburg. For Dillsburg is a quaint place. It is most quaintly and picturesquely situated too. Imagine the beautiful river before you. Then a few rods of brilliant greenswored on its opposite shore, then a sudden hill, no preparatory gently rising slopes but a sort of instantaneous hill, a hill two hundred and fifty or three hundred feet high, as round as a bowl, with the same taper upward that an inverted bowl has, and with about the same relation of height to diameter that distinguishes a bowl of good honest depth, a hill which is thickly closed with green bushes, a comely, shapely hill, rising abruptly out of the dead level of the surrounding green plains, visible from a great distance down the bends of the river, and with just exactly room on the top of its head, for its steepled and turreted and roof-clustered cap of architecture, which same is tightly jammed and compacted within the perfectly round hoop of the ancient village wall. There is no house outside the wall on the whole hill, or any vestige of a former house. All the houses are inside the wall, but there isn't room for another one. It is really a finished town, and has been finished a very long time. There is no space between the wall and the first circle of buildings. No, the village wall is itself the rear wall of the first circle of buildings, and the roofs jut a little over the wall and thus furnish it with eaves. The general level of the massed roofs is gracefully broken and relieved by the dominating towers of the ruined castle and the tall spires of a couple of churches. So from a distance Dillsburg has rather more the look of a king's crown than a cap. That lofty green eminence and its quaint coronet form quite a striking picture, you may be sure, in the flush of the evening sun. We crossed over in a boat and began the ascent by a narrow steep path which plunged us at once into the leafy deeps of the bushes. But they were not cool deeps by any means, for the sun's rays were weltering hot, and there was little or no breeze to temper them. As we panted up the sharp ascent we met brown, bare-headed and barefooted boys and girls occasionally, and sometimes men. They came upon us without warning. They gave us good day, flashed out of sight in the bushes, and were gone as subtly and mysteriously as they had come. They were bound for the other side of the river to work. This path had been traveled by many generations of these people. They have always gone down to the valley to earn their bread, but they have always climbed their hill again to eat it and to sleep in their snug town. It is said that the Dillsburgers do not emigrate much. They find that living up there above the world in their peaceful nest is pleasanter than living down in the troublesome world. The seven hundred inhabitants are all bloodkin to each other, too. They have always been bloodkin to each other for fifteen hundred years. They are simply one large family, and they like the home folks better than they like strangers, hence they persistently stay at home.  I saw no idiots there, but the captain said, because of late years the government has taken to lugging them off to asylums and other wares, and government wants to cripple the factory, too, and is trying to get these Dillsburgers to marry out of the family, but they don't like to. The captain probably imagined all this as modern science denies that the intermarrying of relatives deteriorates the stock. Arrived within the wall, we found the usual village sites and life. We moved along a narrow crooked lane which had been paved in the Middle Ages. A strapping, ruddy girl was beating flacks or some such stuff, in a little bit of a good box of a barn, and she swung her flail with a will—if it was a flail, I was not farmer enough to know what she was at. A frowsy, bare-legged girl was herding half a dozen geese with a stick, driving them along the lane and keeping them out of the dwellings. A cooper was at work in a shop which I know he did not make so large a thing as a hog's head in, for there was not room. In the front rooms of dwellings girls and women were cooking or spinning, and ducks and chickens were waddling in and out over the threshold, picking up chants crumbs and holding pleasant converse.  Soiled children were playing in the dirt everywhere along the lane, unmindful of the sun. Except the sleeping old man everybody was at work, but the place was very still and peaceful nevertheless, so still that the distant cackle of the successful hen smote upon the ear but little dulled by intervening sounds. That commonest of village sites was lacking here, the public pump, with its great stone tank or trough of limpid water and its group of gossiping pitcher-bearers, for there is no well or fountain or spring on this tall hill. Sisterns of rainwater are used. Our Alpenstocks and Muslim tales compelled attention, and as we moved through the village we gathered a considerable procession of little boys and girls, and so went in some state to the castle. It proved to be an extensive pile of crumbling walls, arches and towers, massive, properly grouped for picturesque effect, weedy, grass-grown and satisfactory. The children acted as guides. They walked us along the top of the highest walls, then took us up into a high tower and showed us a wide and beautiful landscape made up of wavy distances of woody hills, and a nearer prospect of undulating expanses of green lowlands on the one hand, and castle-graced crags and ridges on the other, with the shining curves of the neck are flowing between. But the principal show, the chief pride of the children, was the ancient and empty well in the grass-grown court of the castle. Its massive stone curb stands up three or four feet above ground, and is whole and uninjured. The children said that in the Middle Ages this well was four hundred feet deep, and furnished all the village with an abundant supply of water in war and peace. They said that in the old day its bottom was below the level of the neck are, hence the water supply was inexhaustible. But there were some who believed it had never been a well at all, and was never deeper than it is now, eighty feet, that at that depth a subterranean passage branched from it and descended gradually to a remote place in the valley where it opened into somebody's cellar or other hidden recess, and that the secret of this locality is now lost. Those who hold this belief say that herein lies the explanation that Dilsburg, besieged by Tilly and many a soldier before him, was never taken. After the longest and closest sieges the besiegers were astonished to perceive that the besieged were as fat and hearty as ever, and were well furnished with munitions of war, therefore it must be that the Dilsburgers had been bringing these things in through the subterranean passage all the time. The children said that there was in truth a subterranean outlet down there, and they would prove it. So they set a great truss of straw and fire, and threw it down the well, while we leaned on the curb and watched the glowing mass descend. It struck bottom and gradually burned out. No smoke came up. The children clapped their hands and said, You see, nothing makes so much smoke as burning straw. Now where did the smoke go to, if there is no subterranean outlet? So it seemed quite evident that the subterranean outlet indeed existed. But the finest thing within the ruins limits was a noble linden which the children said was four hundred years old and no doubt it was. It had a mighty trunk and a mighty spread of limb and foliage. The limbs near the ground were nearly the thickness of a barrel. That tree had witnessed the assaults of men in mail, how remote such a time seems, and how ungraspable is the fact that real men ever did fight in real armour. And it had seen the time when these broken arches and crumbling battlements were a trim and strong and stately fortress, fluttering its gay banners in the sun and peopled with vigorous humanity. How impossibly long ago that seems! And here it stands yet, and possibly may still be standing here sunning itself and dreaming its historical dreams, when to-day shall have been joined to the days called ancient. Well, we sat down under the tree to smoke, and the captain delivered himself of his legend. The legend of Dilsburg Castle. It was to this effect. In the old times there was once a great company assembled at the castle and festivity ran high. Of course there was a haunted chamber in the castle, and one day the talk fell upon that. It was said that whoever slept in it would not wake again for fifty years. Now, when a young knight named Conrad von Geisberg heard this, he said that if the castle were his he would destroy that chamber so that no foolish person might have the chance to bring so dreadful a misfortune upon himself and afflict such as loved him with the memory of it. Straightway the company privately laid their heads together to contrive some way to get this superstitious young man to sleep in that chamber. And they succeeded in this way. They persuaded his betrothed, a lovely mischievous young creature, niece of the lord of the castle, to help them in their plot. She presently took him aside and had speech with him. She used all her persuasions, but could not shake him. He said his belief was firm, that if he should sleep there he would wake no more for fifty years, and it made him shudder to think of it. Katharina began to weep. This was a better argument. Conrad could not hold out against it. He yielded and said she should have her wish if she would only smile and be happy again. She flung her arms about his neck and the kisses she gave him showed that her thankfulness and her pleasure were very real. Then she flew to tell the company her success, and the applause she received made her glad and proud she had undertaken her mission. Since all alone she had accomplished what the multitude had failed in. At midnight that night, after the usual feasting, Conrad was taken to the haunted chamber and left there. He fell asleep by and by. When he awoke again and looked about him his heart stood still with horror. The whole aspect of the chamber was changed. The walls were moldy and hung with ancient cobwebs. The curtains and beddings were rotten. The furniture was rickety and ready to fall to pieces. He sprang out of bed, but his quaking knees sunk under him and he fell to the floor. This is the weakness of age, he said. He rose and sought his clothing. It was clothing no longer. The colours were gone. The garments gave way in many places while he was putting them on. He fled, shuddering, into the corridor and along it to the great hall. Here he was met by a middle-aged stranger of a kind countenance who stopped and gazed at him with surprise. Conrad said, Good sir, will you send hither the Lord Ulrich?" The stranger looked puzzled a moment, then said, The Lord Ulrich? Yes, if you will be so good. The stranger called him Wilhelm. A young serving man came and the stranger said to him, Is there a Lord Ulrich among the guests? I know none of the names, so please your honour. Conrad said hesitatingly, I did not mean a guest, but the Lord of the Castle, sir. The stranger and the servant exchanged wondering glances, then the former said, I am the Lord of the Castle. Since when, sir? Since the death of my father, the good Lord Ulrich more than forty years ago. Conrad sank upon a chest and covered his face with his hands while he rocked his body to and fro and moaned. The stranger said in a low voice to the servant, I fear me this poor old creature is mad. Call some one. In a moment several people came and grouped themselves about talking in whispers. Conrad looked up and scanned the faces about him wistfully. Then he shook his head and said in a grieved voice, No, there is none among ye that I know. I am old and alone in the world. They are dead and gone these many years that cared for me. But sure some of these aged ones I see about me can tell me some little word or two concerning them. Several bent and tottering men and women came nearer and answered his questions about each former friend as he mentioned the names. This one, they said, had been dead ten years, that one twenty, another thirty. Each succeeding blow struck heavier and heavier. At last the sufferer said, There is one more, but I have not the courage to—oh, my lost Katarina. One of the old dames said, I knew her well, poor soul. A misfortune overtook her lover and she died of sorrow nearly fifty years ago. She lieth under the linden tree without the court. Conrad bowed his head and said, Ah, why did I ever wake? And so she died of grief for me, poor child, so young, so sweet, so good. She never wittingly did a hurtful thing in all the little summer of her life.  His head drooped upon his breast. In the moment there was a wild burst of joyous laughter.  The farce shall go no further. Look up and laugh with us, to us all adjust. And he did look up and gazed in the gazed wonderment, for the disguises were stripped away, and the aged men and women were bright and young and gay again. Katharina's happy tongue ran on. It was a marvellous jest and bravely carried out.  And all we, your friends, in our disguises, were close at hand to see and hear, you may be sure. Ah, it was a gallant jest. Come now and make thee ready for the pleasures of the day.  Look up and have thy laugh now!" He looked up, searched the merry faces about him in a dreamy way, then sighed and said, I am a weary good-strangers, I pray you lead me to her grave. All the smile vanished away, every cheek blanched, Katharina sunk to the ground in a swoon. All day the people went about the castle with troubled faces and communed together in undertones.  Each in his turn tried to arouse Conrad out of his hallucination and bring him to himself. But all the answer any got was amique, the wildered stare, and then the words, Good stranger, I have no friends, all are at rest these many years. Ye speak me fair, ye mean me well, but I know ye not. I am alone and forlorn in the world. Prithi, lead me to her grave. In two years Conrad spent his days, from the early morning till the night, under the linden tree, mourning over the imaginary grave of his Katharina. Katharina was the only company of the harmless madman. He was very friendly toward her because, as he said, in some ways she reminded him of his Katharina whom he had lost fifty years ago. He often said, he was so gay, so happy-hearted, but you never smile, and always when you think I am not looking you cry. When Conrad died they buried him under the linden, according to his directions, so that he might rest near his poor Katharina. Then Katharina sat under the linden alone every day and all day long, a great many years, speaking to no one, and never smiling, and at last her long repentance was rewarded with death, and she was buried by Conrad's side. Harris pleased the captain by saying it was a good legend, and pleased him further by adding, Now that I have seen this mighty tree, vigorous, with its four hundred years, I feel a desire to believe the legend for its sake, so I will humor the desire and consider that the tree really watches over those poor hearts and feels a sort of human tenderness for them. We returned to Neckar-Steinach, plunged our hot heads into the trough at the town-pump, and then went to the hotel and ate our trout dinner in leisurely comfort, in the garden, with the beautiful Neckar flowing at our feet, the quaint Dillsburg looming beyond, and the graceful towers and battlements of a couple of medieval castles called the Swallows' Nest and the Brothers, note one, the seeker after information is referred to Appendix E. for our captain's legend of the Swallows' Nest and the Brothers, assisting the rugged scenery of a bend of the river down to our right. We got to see, in season, to make the eight mile run to Heidelberg before the night shut down. We sailed by the hotel in the mellow glow of sunset, and came splashing down with the mad current into the narrow passage between the dykes. I believed I could shoot the bridge myself, and I went to the forward triplet of logs, and relieved the pilot of his pole and his responsibility. We went tearing along in the most exhilarating way, and I performed the delicate duties of my office very well indeed for a first attempt, but perceiving presently that I really was going to shoot the bridge itself instead of the archway under it, I judiciously stepped ashore. The next moment I had my long coveted desire. I saw a raft, wrecked. It hit the pier in the center, and went all to smash and scatteration like a box of matches struck by lightning. I was the only one of our party who saw this grand sight. The others were attitudinizing for the benefit of the long rank of young ladies who were promenading on the bank, and so they lost it. But I helped to fish them out of the water down below the bridge, and then described it to them as well as I could. They were not interested, though. They said they were wet and felt ridiculous, and did not care anything for descriptions of scenery. The young ladies and other people crowded around and showed a great deal of sympathy, but that did not help matters. For my friends said they did not want sympathy. They wanted a back alley, and solitude. End of chapter 19 This is chapter 20 of A Tramp Abroad. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A Trap Abroad by Mark Twain, chapter 20. My Precious Priceless Tierjug. Next morning brought good news. Our trunks had arrived from Hamburg at last. Let this be a warning to the reader. The Germans are very conscientious, and this trait makes them very particular.  He thinks you mean what you say. So he does that thing immediately, according to his idea of immediately, which is about a week. That is, it is a week if it refers to the building of a garment, or it is an hour and a half if it refers to the cooking of a trout. Very well. If you tell a German to send your trunk to you by slow freight, he takes you at your word. He sends it by slow freight. And you cannot imagine how long you will go on enlarging your admiration of the expressiveness of that phrase in the German tongue before you get that trunk. The hair on my trunk was soft and thick and youthful when I got it ready for shipment in Hamburg. It was bald-headed when it reached Heidelberg. However, it was still sound. That was a comfort. It was not battered in the least. The baggage-men seemed to be conscientiously careful in Germany of the baggage entrusted to their hands. There was nothing now in the way of our departure therefore we set about our preparations. Naturally my chief solicitude was about my collection of ceramics. Of course I could not take it with me. That would be inconvenient and dangerous besides. I took advice, but the best brick-a-brackers were divided us to the wisest course to pursue. Some said pack the collection and warehouse it. Others said try to get it into the Grand Ducal Museum at Mannheim for safekeeping. So I divided the collection and followed the advice of both parties. I set aside for the museum those articles which were the most frail and precious. Among these was my Etruscan tear-jug. I have made a little sketch of it here. Figure six. That thing creeping up the side is not a bug. It is a hole. I bought this tear-jug of a dealer in antiquities for four hundred and fifty dollars. It is very rare. The man said the Etruscans used to keep tears or something in these things, and that it was very hard to get hold of a broken one now. I also set aside my Henry II plate. See sketch from my pencil. Figure seven. It is in the main correct, though I think I have foreshortened one end of it a little too much, perhaps. This is very fine and rare. The shape is exceedingly beautiful and unusual. It has wonderful decorations on it, but I am not able to reproduce them. It cost more than the tear-jug, as the dealer said there was not another plate just like it in the world. He said there was much false Henry II way around, but that the genuineness of this piece was unquestionable. He showed me its pedigree or its history, if you please. It was a document which traced this plate's movements all the way down from its birth, showed who bought it, from whom, and what he paid for it, from the first buyer down to me, whereby I saw that it had gone steadily up from thirty-five cents to seven hundred dollars. He said that the whole ceramic world would be informed that it was now in my possession and would make note of it with the price paid. FIGURE VIII There were masters in those days, but alas it is not so now. Of course the main preciousness of this piece lies in its color. It is that old, sensuous, pervading, ramifying, interpolating, transboreal blue which is the despair of modern art. The little sketch which I have made of this gem cannot and does not do it justice since I have been obliged to leave out the color. But I've got the expression, though. However, I must not be frittering away the reader's time with these details. I did not intend to go into any detail at all at first, but it is the failing of the true ceramiker, or the true devotee in any department of Brick of Brackery, that once he gets his tongue or his pen started on his darling theme, he cannot well stop until he drops from exhaustion. He has no more sense of the flight of time than has any other lover when talking of his sweetheart. The very marks on the bottom of a piece of rare crockery are able to throw me into a gibbering ecstasy, and I could forsake a drowning relative to help dispute about whether the stoppul of a departed Buen Retiro scent-bottle was genuine or spurious. Many people say that for a male person Brick of Brack hunting is about as robust a business as making doll clothes or decorating Japanese pots with decalcomania butterflies would be, and these people fling mud at the elegant Englishman Bing, who wrote a book called The Brick of Brack Hunter, and make fun of him for chasing around after what they choose to call his despicable trifles, and for gushing over these trifles, and for exhibiting his deep infantile delight in what they call his tuppany collection of beggarly trivialities, and for beginning his book with a picture of himself seated in a happy self-complacent attitude in the midst of his poor little ridiculous Brick of Brack junk-shop. It is easy to say these things, it is easy to revile us, easy to despise us. Therefore, let these people rail on, they cannot feel as Bing and I feel, it is their loss not ours. For my part I am content to be a Brick of Bracker and a Ceramiker, more I am proud to be so named. I am proud to know that I lose my reason as immediately in the presence of a rare jug with an illustrious mark on the bottom of it as if I had just emptied that jug. Very well. I packed and stored a part of my collection, and the rest of it I placed in the care of the Grand Ducal Museum in Mannheim by permission. My old blue china-cat remains there yet. I presented it to that excellent institution. I had but one misfortune with my things. An egg which I had kept back from breakfast that morning was broken in packing. It was a great pity. I had shown it to the best connoisseurs in Heidelberg, and they all said it was an antique. We spent a day or two in farewell visits and then left for Baden-Baden. We had a pleasant trip to it, for the Rhine Valley is always lovely. The only trouble was that the trip was too short. If I remember rightly it only occupied a couple of hours, therefore I judged that the distance was very little, if any, over fifty miles. We quitted the train at Us, and walked the entire remaining distance to Baden-Baden with the exception of a lift of less than an hour, which we got on a passing wagon, the weather being exhaustingly warm. We came into town on foot. One of the first persons we encountered as we walked up the street was the Reverend Mr.—an old friend from America—a lucky encounter indeed for his as a most gentle, refined and sensitive nature, and his company and companionship are a genuine refreshment. We knew he had been in Europe some time, but were not at all expecting to run across him. Both parties burst forth into loving enthousiasms, and Reverend Mr.—um—said, I have got a brimful reservoir of talk to pour out on you, and an empty one ready and thirsting to receive what you have got. We will sit up till midnight and have a good satisfying interchange, for I leave here early in the morning. We agreed to that, of course. I had been vaguely conscious for a while of a person who was walking in the street abreast of us. I had glanced furtively at him once or twice, and noticed that he was a fine, large, vigorous young fellow with an open, independent countenance, faintly shaded with a pale and even almost imperceptible crop of early down, and that he was clothed from head to heel in cool and enviable snow-white linen. I thought I had also noticed that his head had a sort of listening tilt to it. Now about this time the Reverend Mr.—um—said, the sidewalkers hardly wide enough for three, so I will walk behind. But keep the talk going, keep the talk going, there's no time to lose, and you may be sure I will do my share. He ranged himself behind us, and straightway that stately snow-white young fellow closed up to the sidewalk alongside him, fetched him a cordial slap on the shoulder with his broad palm, and sung out with a hearty cheeriness, "'Americans, for two-and-a-half, and the money up, hey!' Reverend winced, but said mildly, "'Yes, we are Americans. Lord, love you, you can just bet that's what I am every time. Put it there!' He held out his Sahara of his palm, and the Reverend laid his diminutive hand in it, and got so cordial a shake that we heard his glove burst under it. "'Say, didn't I put you up right?' "'Oh, yes. So I spotted you for my kind, the minute I heard your clack. You been over here long?' "'About four months. Have you been here long?' "'Long?' "'Well, I should say so. Going on two years by, Jiminy.  This with immense enthusiasm. The Reverend shrunk a little in his clothes, and we were aware, rather by the instinct than otherwise, that he was throwing out signals of distress to us. But we did not interfere or try to sucker him, for we were quite happy. The young fellow hooked his arm into the reverence now, with the confiding and grateful air of a wave who has been longing for a friend and a sympathetic ear, and a chance to lisp once more the sweet accents of the mother tongue.  Some of his words were not Sunday school words, so I'm obliged to put blanks where they occur. "'Yes, indeedy, if I ain't an American there ain't any Americans, that's all. And when I heard you fellows gassing away in the good old American language, I'm, if it wasn't all I could do to keep from hugging you. My tongue's all warped with trying to curl it around these forsaken, wing-gulled, nine-jointed German words here. Now I tell you, it's awful good to lay it over a Christian word once more and kind of let the old taste soak it. I'm from Western New York. My name is Charlie Adams. I'm a student, you know. I've been here going on two years. I'm learning to be a horse doctor. I like that part of it, you know, but these people, they won't learn a fellow in his own language. They make him learn in German. So before I could tackle a horse doctoring, I had to tackle this miserable language. First off, I thought it would certainly give me the bots. But I don't mind now. I've got it where the hair's short, I think. And don't you know, they made me learn Latin too. Now, between you and me, I wouldn't give up for all the Latin that was ever jabbered. And the first thing I calculate to do when I get through is to just sit down and forget it. It won't take me long, and I don't mind the time anyway. And I tell you what, the difference between school teaching over yonder and school teaching over here, we don't know anything about it. Here you've got to peg and peg and peg, and there just ain't any let up.  I've been here long enough, and I'm getting blessed tired of it, mind I tell you. The old man wrote me that he was coming over in June and said he'd take me home in August, whether I was done with my education or not. But during him he didn't come. Never said why, just sent me a hamper of Sunday school books, and told me to be good and hold on a while. I don't take to Sunday school books, don't you know? I don't hanker after them when I get pibe. But I read them, anyway, because whatever the old man tells me to do, that's the thing that I'm going to do, or tear something, you know. I buckled in and read all those books, because he wanted me to. But that kind of thing don't excite me. I like something hearty. But I'm awful homesick. I'm homesick from ear-socket to cropper, and from cropper to huck-joint. But it ain't any use. I've got to stay here till the old man drops the rag and gives the word. Yes, sir, right here in this country I've got to linger till the old man says come, and you bet your bottom dollar, Johnny, it ain't just as easy as it is for a cat to have twins. At the end of this profane and cordial explosion he fetched a prodigious whoosh to relieve his lungs and make recognition of the heat, and then he straightway dived into his narrative again for Johnny's benefit, beginning with, well, it ain't any use talking. Some of those old American words do have a kind of bully swing to them. A man can express himself with him. A man can get at what he wants to say, don't you know? When we reached our hotel it seemed that he was about to lose the reverend. He showed so much sorrow and begged so hard and so earnestly that the reverend's heart was not hard enough to hold out against the pleadings. So he went away with the parent honoring student, like a right Christian, and took supper with him in his lodgings, and sat in the surfbeat of his slang and profanity till near midnight, and then left him. Left him pretty well talked out, but grateful, clear down to his frogs, as he expressed it. The reverend said it had transpired during the interview that Chole Adams' father was an extensive dealer in horses in western New York. This accounted for Chole's choice of a profession. The reverend brought away a pretty high opinion of Chole as a manly young fellow with stuff in him for a useful citizen. He considered him rather a rough gem, but a gem nevertheless. CHAPTER XXI Bodden-bodden sits in the lap of the hills, and the natural and artificial beauties of the surroundings are combined effectively and charmingly. The level strip of ground which stretches through and beyond the town is laid out in handsome pleasure-grounds, shaded by noble trees, and adorned at intervals with lofty and sparkling fountain-jets. Thrice a day a fine band makes music in the public promenade before the conversation-house, and in the afternoon and evening that locality is populous with fashionably dressed people of both sexes, who march back and forth past the great music-stand, and look very much bored, though they make a show of feeling otherwise.  A good many of these people are there for a real purpose, however, they are wracked with rheumatism, and they are there to stew it out in the hot baths. These invalids looked melancholy enough, limping about on their canes and crutches, and apparently brooding over all sorts of cheerless things. People say that Germany, with her damp stone houses, is the home of rheumatism. If that is so, Providence must have foreseen that it would be so, and therefore fill the land with healing baths. Perhaps no other country is so generously supplied with medicinal springs as Germany. Some of these baths are good for one ailment, some for another, and again peculiar ailments are conquered by combining the individual virtues of several different baths. For instance, for some forms of disease the patient drinks the native hot water of Baden-Baden with a spoon full of salt from the Carlsbad springs dissolved in it. That is not a dose to be forgotten right away. They don't sell this hot water. No, you go into the great Trinkala and stand around, first on one foot and then on the other, while two or three young girls sit pottering at some sort of ladylike sewing work in your neighborhood, and can't seem to see you, polite as three-dollar clerks in government offices. By and by one of these rises painfully and stretches, stretches fists and body heavenward, till she raises her heels from the floor, at the same time refreshing herself with a yawn of such comprehensiveness that the bulk of her face disappears behind her upper lip, and one is able to see how she is constructed inside. Then she slowly closes her cavern, brings down her fists and her heels, comes languidly forward, contemplates you contemptuously, draws you a glass of hot water, and sets it down where you can get it by reaching for it. You take it and say, How much, and she returns you, with elaborate indifference, a beggar's answer. Ngah, beliba! What you please. This thing of using the common beggar's trick and the common beggar's shibboleth to put you on your liberality when you were expecting a simple straightforward commercial transaction adds a little to your prospering sense of irritation. You ignore her reply and ask again, How much, and she calmly indifferently repeats, Ngah, beliba! You are getting angry, but you are trying not to show it. You resolve to keep on asking your question till she changes her answer, or at least her annoyingly in different manner.  How much, Ngah, beliba! How much, Ngah, beliba! How much, Ngah, beliba! How much, Ngah, beliba! How much, Ngah, beliba! I do not know what another person would have done, but at this point I gave up. That cast iron indifference, that tranquil contemptuousness conquered me and I struck my colors. Now I knew she was used to receiving about a penny from manly people who care nothing about the opinions of scullery-maids and about tuppence from moral cowards, but I laid a silver twenty-five cent piece within her reach and tried to shrivel her up with this sarcastic speech. If it isn't enough, will you stoop sufficiently from your official dignity to say so? She did not shrivel. Without daining to look at me at all, she languidly lifted the coin and bit it, to see if it was good. Then she turned her back and placidly waddled to her former roost again, tossing the money into an open till as she went along. She was victor to the last, you see. I have enlarged upon the ways of this girl because they are typical. Her manners are the manners of a goodly number of the Baden-Baden shopkeepers. The shopkeeper there swindles you, if he can, and insults you whether he succeeds in swindling you or not. The keepers of Baths also take great and patient pains to insult you. The frowsy woman, who sat at the desk in the lobby of the great Friedrichsbad and sold Bath tickets, not only insulted me twice every day with rigid fidelity to her great trust, but she took trouble enough to cheat me out of a shilling one day to have fairly entitled her to ten. Baden-Baden's splendid gamblers are gone, only her microscopic knaves remain. An English gentleman who had been living there several years said, "'If you could disguise your nationality, you would not find any insolence here. These shopkeepers detest the English and despise the Americans. They are rude to both—more especially to ladies of your nationality and mine. If these go shopping without a gentleman or a man-servant, they are tolerably sure to be subjected to petty insolences—insolences of manner and tone rather than word, though words that are hard to bear are not always wanting. I know of an instance where a shopkeeper tossed a coin back to an American lady with the remark snappishly uttered, We don't take French money here." And I know of a case where an English lady said to one of these shopkeepers, "'Don't you think you ask too much for this article?' and he replied with the question, Do you think you are obliged to buy it? However, these people are not impolite to Russians or Germans, and as to rank, they worship that, for they have long been used to generals and nobles. If you wish to see what abysses civility can descend, present yourself before a Baden-Baden shopkeeper in the character of a Russian prince. It is an inane town filled with sham and petty fraud and snobbery, but the baths are good. I spoke with many people and they were all agreed in that. I had the twinges of rheumatism unceasingly during three years, but the last one departed after a fortnight's bathing there, and I have never had one since. I fully believe I left my rheumatism in Baden-Baden. Baden-Baden is welcome to it. It was little, but it was all I had to give. I would have preferred to leave something that was catching, but it was not in my power. There are several hot springs there, and during two thousand years they have poured forth a never diminishing abundance of the healing water. This water is conducted in pipe to the numerous bathhouses, and is reduced to an indurable temperature by the addition of cold water. The new Friedrichsbad is a very large and beautiful building, and in it one may have any sort of bath that has ever been invented, and with all the additions of herbs and drugs that his ailment may need, or that the physician of the establishment may consider a useful thing to put into the water.   The room is divided by a great curtain. You draw this curtain aside and find a large white marble bathtub, with its rim sunk to the level of the floor, and with three white marble steps leading down to it. This tub is full of water which is as clear as crystal, and is tempered to twenty-eight degrees C, about ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit. Sunk into the floor by the tub is a covered copper box which contains some warm towels and a sheet. You look fully as white as an angel when you are stretched out in that limpid bath. You remain in it ten minutes the first time, and afterward increase the duration from day to day, till you reach twenty-five or thirty minutes. There you stop. The appointments of the place are so luxurious, the benefits so marked, the price so moderate, and the insults so sure, that you very soon find yourself adoring the Friedrichbad and infesting it. We had a plain, simple, unpretending good hotel in Baden-Baden, the Hotel de France, and alongside my room I had a giggling, cackling, chattering family who always went to bed just two hours after me and always got up two hours ahead of me. But this is common in German hotels. The people generally go to bed long after eleven and get up long before eight. The partitions convey sound like a drum-head, and everybody knows it. But no matter. A German family who are all kindness and consideration in the daytime make apparently no effort to moderate their noises for your benefit at night. They will sing, laugh, and talk loudly, and bang furniture around in a most pitiless way. If you knock on your wall appealingly, they will quiet down and discuss the matter softly among themselves for a moment, then like the mice they fall to persecuting you again, and as vigorously as before. They keep cruelly late and early hours for such noisy folk. Of course, when one begins to find fault with foreign people's days, he is very likely to get a reminder to look nearer home before he gets far with it. I open my notebook to see if I can find some more information of a valuable nature about Baden-Baden, and the first thing I fall upon is this. Baden-Baden, no date. A lot of vociferous Americans at breakfast this morning, talking at everybody while pretending to talk among themselves, on their first travels manifestly, showing off the usual signs, airy, easy-going references to grand distances and foreign places. Well, good-bye, old fellow!  The next item, which I find in my notebook, is this one. The fact that a band of six thousand Indians are now murdering our frontiersmen at their impudent leisure, and that we are only able to send one thousand two hundred soldiers against them, is utilized here to discourage emigration to America. The common people think the Indians are in New Jersey. This is a new and peculiar argument against keeping our army down to a ridiculous figure in the matter of numbers. It is rather a striking one, too. I have not distorted the truth in saying that the facts in the above item about the army and the Indians are made use of to discourage emigration to America. That the common people should be rather foggy in their geography, and foggy as to the location of the Indians, is a matter for amusement, maybe, but not a surprise. There is an interesting old cemetery in Badden-Baden, and we spent several pleasant hours in wandering through it and spelling out the inscriptions on the aged tombstones. Apparently after a man has laid there a century or two, and has had a good many people buried on top of him, it is considered that his tombstone is not needed by him any longer. I judge so from the fact that hundreds of old gravestones have been removed from the graves and placed against the inner walls of the cemetery. What artists they had in the old times! They chiseled angels and cherubs and devils and skeletons on the tombstones in the most lavish and generous way as to supply, but curiously grotesque and outlandish as to form. It is not always easy to tell which of the figures belong among the blessed, and which of them among the opposite party. But there was an inscription in French on one of those old stones, which was quaint and pretty, and was plainly not the work of any other than a poet. It was to this effect. Here reposes, in God, Caroline de Clérée, a religieuse of Saint Denis, aged 83 years, and blind. The light was restored to her in Baden the 5th of January, 1839. We made several excursions on foot to the neighbouring villages, over winding and beautiful roads, and through enchanting woodland scenery. The woods and roads were similar to those at Heidelberg, but not so bewitching. I suppose that roads and woods which are up to the Heidelberg mark are rare in the world. Once we wandered clear a way to La Favorita Palace, which is several miles from Baden Baden. The grounds about the palace were fine. The palace was a curiosity. It was built by a margraveen in 1725, and remains as she left it at her death. We wandered through a great many of its rooms, and they all had striking peculiarities of decoration. For instance, the walls of one room were pretty completely covered with small pictures of the margraveen in all conceivable varieties of fanciful costumes, some of them male. The walls of another room were covered with grotesquely and elaborately figured hand-wrought tapestry. The musty ancient beds remained in the chambers, and their quilts and curtains and canopies were decorated with curious handwork, and the walls and ceilings frescoed with historical and mythological scenes in glaring colours. There was enough crazy and rotten rubbish in the building to make a true brick-a-bracker green with envy. A painting in the dining-hall verged upon the indelicate, but then the margraveen was herself a trifle indelicate. It is in every way a wildly and picturesquely decorated house, and brimful of interest as a reflection of the character and tastes of that rude bygone time. In the grounds, a few rods from the palace stands the margraveen's chapel, just as she left it, a coarse wooden structure, wholly barren of ornament. It is said that the margraveen would give herself up to debauchery and exceedingly fast living for several months at a time, and then retire to this miserable wooden den, and spend a few months in repenting and getting ready for another good time. She was a devoted Catholic, and was perhaps quite a model sort of a Christian, as Christians went then, in high life. Tradition says she spent the last two years of her life in the strange den I have been speaking of, after having indulged herself in one final triumphant and satisfying spree. She shut herself up there without company, and without even a servant, and so abjured and forsook the world. In her little bit of a kitchen she did her own cooking. She wore a hair-shirt next to the skin, and castigated herself with whips. These aids to grace are exhibited there yet.  She bedded herself like a slave. In another small room is an unpainted wooden table, and behind it sit half life-size waxen figures of the Holy Family, made by the very worst artist that ever lived, perhaps, and clothed in gaudy, flimsy drapery. Number one. The Saviour was represented as a lad of about fifteen years of age. This figure had lost one eye. End of note. The Margraveen used to bring her meals to this table and dine with the Holy Family. What an idea that was! What a grisly spectacle it must have been! Imagine it! Those rigid, shock-headed figures, with corp-seep complexions and fish-glass eyes occupying one side of the table in the constrained attitudes and dead fixedness that distinguish all men that are born of wax, and this wrinkled, smoldering old fire-eater occupying the other side, mumbling her prayers and munching her sausages in the ghostly stillness and shadowy indistinctness of a winter twilight. It makes one feel crawly even to think of it. In this sordid place, and closed, bedded, and fed like a pauper, this strange princess lived and worshiped during two years, and in it she died. Two or three hundred years ago this would have made the poor den holy ground, and the church would have set up a miracle factory there and made plenty of money out of it. The den could be moved into some portions of France and made a good property even now. End of Chapter 21 This is Chapter 22 of A Tramp Abroad. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A Tramp Abroad by Mark Twain, Chapter 22, The Black Forest and Its Treasures From bottom bottom we made the customary trip into the Black Forest. We were on foot most of the time. One cannot describe those noble woods nor the feeling with which they inspire him. A feature of the feeling, however, is a deep sense of contentment. Another feature of it is a buoyant, boyish gladness, and a third and very conspicuous feature of it is one sense of the remoteness of the workday world and his entire emancipation from it and its affairs. Those woods stretch unbroken over a vast region, and everywhere they are such dense woods and so still and so piney and fragrant. The stems of the trees are trim and straight, and in many places all the ground is hidden for miles under a thick cushion of moss of a vivid green color, with not a decayed or ragged spot in its surface and not a fallen leaf or twig to mar its immaculate tidiness. A rich cathedral gloom pervades the pillared aisles. So the stray flecks of sunlight that strike a trunk here and a bow yonder are strongly accented, and when they strike the moss they fairly seem to burn. But the weirdest effect, and the most enchanting, is that produced by the diffused light of the low afternoon sun. No single ray is able to pierce its way in then, but the diffused light takes color from moss and foliage, and pervades the place like a faint, green-tinted mist, the theatrical fire of fairyland. The suggestion of mystery and the supernatural, which haunts the forest at all times, is intensified by this unearthly glow. We found the Black Forest farmhouses and villages all that the Black Forest stories have pictured them. The first genuine specimen which we came upon was the mansion of a rich farmer and member of the Common Council of the Parish or District. He was an important personage in the land, and so was his wife also, of course. His daughter was the catch of the region, and she may be already entering into immortality as the heroine of one of Arbach's novels, for all I know.  The house was big enough for a hotel. It was a hundred feet long and fifty wide and ten feet high from ground to eaves. But from the eaves to the comb of the mighty roof was as much as forty feet, or maybe even more. This roof was of ancient, mud-colored straw thatch, a foot thick, and was covered all over except in a few trifling spots, with a thriving and a luxurious growth of green vegetation, mainly moss. The mossless spots were places where repairs had been made by the insertion of bright new masses of yellow straw. The eaves projected far down, like sheltering hospitable wings. Across the gable that fronted the road and about ten feet above the ground ran a narrow porch, with a wooden railing.  Above were two or three other little windows, one clear up under the sharp apex of the roof. Before the ground floor door was a huge pile of manure. The door of the second-story room on the side of the house was open and occupied by the rear elevation of a cow. Was this probably the drawing room? All of the front half of the house from the ground up seemed to be occupied by the people, the cows, and the chickens, and all the rear half by draft animals and hay. But the chief feature all around this house was the big heaps of manure. We became very familiar with the fertilizer in the forest. We fell unconsciously into the habit of judging of a man's station in life by this outward and eloquent sign. Sometimes we said, Here is a poor devil, this is manifest. When we saw a stately accumulation we said, Here is a banker. When we encountered a country seat surrounded by an alpine pump of manure we said, Doubtless, a duke lives here. The importance of this feature has not been properly magnified in the Black Forest stories. Maneuver is evidently the Black Forester's main treasure, his coin, his jewel, his pride, his old master, his ceramics, his brick-a-brack, his darling, his title to public consideration, envy, veneration, and his first solicitude when he gets ready to make his will. The true Black Forest novel, if it is ever written, will be skeletoned somewhat in this way. Skeleton for a Black Forest novel. Rich old farmer named Hus has inherited great wealth of manure and by diligence has added to it. It is double-starred in Bedaker, note one. When Bedaker's guidebooks mention a thing and put two stars after it, it means well worth visiting. Mark Twain, end note one. The Black Forest artist paints it, his masterpiece. The king comes to see it. Gretchenhus, daughter and heiress, Paul Hawke, young neighbor, suitor for Gretchen's hand ostensibly. He really wants the manure. Hawke has a good many cartloads of the Black Forest currency himself and therefore is a good catch, but he is sordid, meme, and without sentiment, whereas Gretchen is all sentiment and poetry.  Gretchen loves him, but he has no manure. Old Hus forbids him in the house. His heart breaks, he goes away to die in the woods, far from the cruel world, for he says bitterly, what is man without manure? Interval of six months. Paul Hawke comes to Old Hus and says, I am at last as rich as you required. Come and view the pile. Old Hus views it and says, It is sufficient. Take her and be happy. Meaning Gretchen. Interval of two weeks. Wedding party assembled in Old Hus's drawing-room. Hawke, placid and content, Gretchen weeping over her hard fate. Enter Old Hus' head bookkeeper. Hus says fiercely, I gave you three weeks to find out why your books don't balance, and to prove that you are not a defaulter. The time is up. Find me the missing property or you go to prison as a thief. Bookkeeper. I have found it. Where? Bookkeeper, sternly, tragically. In the bridegroom's pile. Behold the thief. See him blench and tremble. Sensation. Paul Hawke. Lost, lost, falls over the cow in a swoon and his handcuffed. Gretchen, saved, falls over the calf in a swoon of joy, but is caught in the arms of Hans Schmidt, who springs in at that moment. Old Hus. What, you hear? Violet? Unhand the maid and quit the place. Hans, still supporting the insensible girl. Never, cruel old man. Know that I come with claims which even you cannot despise. Hus. What, you? Name them. Hans. Listen, then. The world has forsaken me. I forsook the world. I wandered in the solitude of the forest, longing for death, but finding none. I fed upon roots, and in my bitterness I dug for the bitterest loathing the sweeter kind. Digging, three days agon, I struck a manure mine. A Golgonda, a limitless bonanza of solid manure. I can buy you all and have mountain ranges of manure left. Now thou smilest a smile. Immense sensation. Exhibition of specimens from the mine. Old Hus enthusiastically. Wake her up! Shake her up! Noble young man, she is yours. Wedding takes place on the spot. Bookkeeper restored to his office and emoluments. Paul Hawke led off to jail. The bonanza king of the Black Forest lives to a good old age, blessed with the love of his wife and of his twenty-seven children, and the still sweeter envy of everybody around. We took our noon meal of fried trout one day at the Plough Inn, in a very pretty village, Ottenhurfen, and then went into the public room to rest and smoke. There we found nine or ten Black Forest grandees assembled around a table. They were the Common Council of the Parish. They had gathered there at eight o'clock that morning to elect a new member, and they had now been drinking beer four hours at the new member's expense. They were men of fifty or sixty years of age, with grave, good-natured faces, and were all dressed in the costume made familiar to us by the Black Forest stories. Broad, round-topped black felt hats with the brims curled up all around. Long red waist-cuts with large metal buttons. Black alpaca coats with the waists up between the shoulders. There were no speeches, there was but little talk, there were no frivolities. The Council filled themselves gradually, steadily, but surely with beer, and conducted themselves with sedate decorum as became men of position, men of influence, men of manure. We had a hot afternoon tramp up the valley along the grassy bank of a rushing stream of clear water, past farmhouses, water-mills, and no end of wayside crucifixes and saints and virgins. These crucifixes, etc., are set up in memory of departed friends, by survivors, and are almost as frequent as telegraph poles are in other lands. We followed the carriage-road, and had our usual luck, we travelled under a beating sun, and always saw the shade leave the shady places before we could get to them. In all our wanderings we seldom managed to strike a piece of road at its time for being shady. We had a particularly hot time of it on that particular afternoon, and with no comfort but what we could get out of the fact that the peasants at work, away up on the steep mountain-sides above our heads, were even worse off than we were. By and by it became impossible to endure the intolerable glare and heat any longer, so we struck across the ravine, and entered the deep cool twilight of the forest, to hunt for what the guide-book called The Old Road. We found an old road, and it proved eventually to be the right one, though we followed it at the time with the conviction that it was the wrong one. If it was the wrong one there could be no use in hurrying, therefore we did not hurry, but sat down frequently on the soft moss, and enjoyed the restful quiet and shade of the forest solitudes. There had been distractions in the carriage-road, school children, peasants, wagons, troops of pedestrianizing students from all over Germany, but we had the old road to ourselves. Now and then while we rested we watched the laborious ant at his work. I found nothing new in him, certainly nothing to change my opinion of him. It seems to me that in the matter of intellect the ant must be a strangely overrated bird. During my summers now I have watched him when I ought to have been in better business, and I have not yet come across a living ant that seemed to have any more sense than a dead one. I refer to the ordinary ant, of course. I've had no experience of those wonderful Swiss and African ones which vote, keep drilled armies, hold slaves, and dispute about religion. Those particular ants may be all that the naturalist paints them, but I am persuaded that the average ant is a sham. I admit his industry, of course. He is the hardest working creature in the world when anybody is looking. But his leather-headedness is the point I make against him. He goes out foraging. He makes a capture. And then what does he do? Go home? No. He goes anywhere but home. He doesn't know where home is. His home may be only three feet away, no matter he can't find it. He makes his capture, as I have said. It is generally something which can be of no sort of use to himself or anybody else. It is usually seven times bigger than it ought to be. He hunts out the awkwardest place to take hold of it. He lifts it bodily up in the air by main force and starts, not toward home, but in the opposite direction. Not calmly and wisely, but with a frantic haste which is wasteful of his strength. He fetches up against a pebble, and instead of going around it, he climbs over it backward, dragging his booty after him, tumbles down on the other side, jumps up in a passion, kicks the dust off his clothes, moistened his hands, grabs his property viciously, yanks it this way, then that, shoves it ahead of him a moment, turns tail and lugs it after him another moment, gets madder and madder, then presently hoists it into the air and goes tearing away in an entirely new direction. Comes to a weed, it never occurs to him to go around it. No, he must climb it, and he does climb it, dragging his worthless property to the top, which is as bright a thing to do as it would be for me to carry a sack of flour from Heidelberg to Paris by way of Strasbourg's steeple. When he gets up there he finds that that is not the place. He takes a cursory glance at the scenery and either climbs down again or tumbles down, and starts off once more, as usual, in a new direction. At the end of half an hour he fetches up within six inches of the place he started from, and lays his burden down. Meantime he has been over all the ground for two yards around and climbed all the weeds and pebbles he came across. Now he wipes the sweat from his brow, strokes his limbs, and then marches aimlessly off in as violently a hurry as ever. He does not remember to have ever seen it before. He looks around to see which is not the way home, grabs his bundle, and starts. He goes through the same adventures he had before, finally stops to rest, and a friend comes along. Evidently the friend remarks that a last year's grasshopper leg is a very noble acquisition, and inquires where he got it. Evidently the proprietor does not remember exactly where he did get it, but thinks he got it around here somewhere. Evidently the friend contracts to help him freight it home. Then, with a judgment peculiarly antic, upon not intended, they take hold of opposite ends of that grasshopper leg and begin to tug with all their might in opposite directions. Presently they take a rest and confer together. They decide that something is wrong. They can't make out what. Then they go at it again, just as before. Same result. Mutual recriminations follow. Evidently each accuses the other of being an obstructionist. They lock themselves together and chew each other's jaws for a while. Then they roll and tumble on the ground till one loses a horn or a leg and has to haul off for repairs. They make up and go to work again in the same old insane way, but the crippled ant is at a disadvantage. Tug as he may, the other one drags off the booty and him at the end of it. Instead of giving up, he hangs on and gets his shins bruised against every obstruction that comes in the way. By and by, when the grasshopper leg has been dragged all over the same old ground once more, it is finally dumped at about the spot where it originally lay. The two perspiring ants inspect it thoughtfully and decide that dried grasshopper legs are a poor sort of property, after all, and then each starts off in a different direction to see if he can't find an old nail or something else that is heavy enough to afford entertainment, and at the same time valueless enough to make an ant want to own it. There in the black forest, on the mountain side, I saw an ant go through with such a performance as this with a dead spider of fully ten times his own weight. The spider was not quite dead, but too far gone to resist. He had a round body the size of a pea. The little ant, observing that I was noticing, turned him on his back, sunk his fangs into his throat, lifted him into the air, and started vigorously off with him, stumbling over little pebbles, stepping on the spider's legs and tripping himself up, dragging him backwards, shoving him bodily ahead, dragging him up stone six inches high instead of going around them.   Science has recently discovered that the ant does not lay up anything for winter use. This will knock him out of literature, to some extent. He does not work, except when people are looking, and only then when the observer has a green, naturalistic look, and seems to be taking notes. This amounts to deception, and will injure him for the Sunday schools. He has not judgment enough to know what is good to eat from what isn't. This amounts to ignorance, and will impair the world's respect for him. He cannot stroll around a stump and find his way home again. This amounts to idiocy, and once the damaging fact is established, thoughtful people will cease to look up to him, the sentimental will cease to fondle him. His vaunted industry is but a vanity, and of no effect, since he never gets home with anything he starts with. This disposes of the last remnant of his reputation, and wholly destroys his main usefulness as a moral agent, since it will make the sluggard hesitate to go to him any more. It is strange beyond comprehension that so manifest a humbug as the ant has been able to fool so many nations and keep it up so many ages without being found out. The ant is strong, but we saw another strong thing, where we had not suspected the presence of much muscular power before—a toadstool. That vegetable, which springs to full growth in a single night, had torn loose and lifted a matted mass of pine needles and dirt of twice its own bulk into the air, and supported it there like a column supporting a shed. Ten thousand toadstools with a right purchase could lift a man, I suppose. But what good would it do? All our afternoon's progress had been uphill. About five or half past we reached the summit, and all of a sudden the dense curtain of the forest parted, and we looked down into a deep and beautiful gorge, and out over a wide panorama of wooded mountains, with their summits shining in the sun, and their glade furrowed sides dimmed with purple shade. The gorge under our feet, called Aller Heiligen, afforded room in the grassy level at its head for a cosy and delightful human nest. Shut away from the world and its botherations, and consequently the monks of the old times had not failed to spy it out, and here were the brown and comely ruins of their church, and convent, to prove that priests had as fine an instinct seven hundred years ago in ferreting out the choicest nooks and corners in the land as priests have today. A big hotel crowds the ruins a little, now, and drives a brisk trade with summer tourists. We descended into the gorge and had a supper which would have been very satisfactory if the trout had not been boiled. The Germans are pretty sure to boil a trout or anything else if left to their own devices. This is an argument of some value in support of the theory that they were the original colonists of the wild islands of the coast of Scotland. A schooner laden with oranges was wrecked upon one of those islands a few years ago, and the gentle savages rendered the captain such willing assistance that he gave them as many oranges as they wanted. Next day he asked them how they liked them. They shook their heads and said, baked, they were tough, and even boiled. They weren't things for a hungry man to hunker after. We went down the glen after supper. It is beautiful. A mixture of silver loveliness and craggy wildness. A limpid torrent goes whistling down the glen and toward the foot of it winds through a narrow cleft between lofty precipices and hurls itself over a succession of falls. After one passes the last of these he has a backward glimpse at the falls which is very pleasing. They rise in a seven-stepped stairway of foamy and glittering cascades and make a picture which is as charming as it is unusual. End of Chapter 22 This is Chapter 23 of A Tramp Abroad. This Liebervox recording is in the public domain. A Tramp Abroad by Mark Twain, Chapter 23, Nicodemus Dodge and the Skeleton. We were satisfied that we could walk to Openow in one day now that we were in practice, so we set out the next morning after breakfast, determined to do it. It was all the way downhill and we had the loveliest summer weather for it. So we set the pedometer and then stretched away on an easy regular stride down through the cloven forest, drawing in the fragrant breath of the morning in deep refreshing draughts, and wishing we might never have anything to do for ever but walk to Openow and keep on doing it, and then doing it over again. Now the true charm of pedestrianism does not lie in the walking or in the scenery, but in the talking. The walking is good to time the movement of the tongue by, and to keep the blood and the brain stirred up and active. The scenery and the woodsy smells are good to bear in upon a man, an unconscious and unobtrusive charm and solace to eye and soul and sense. But the supreme pleasure comes from the talk. It is no matter whether one talks wisdom or nonsense, the case is the same. The bulk of the enjoyment lies in the wagging of the gladsome jaw and the flapping of the sympathetic ear. And what motley variety of subjects a couple of people will casually rake over in the course of a day's tramp. There being no constraint, a change of subject is always in order, and so a body is not likely to keep pegging at a single topic until it grows tiresome. We discussed everything we knew during the first fifteen or twenty minutes that morning and then branched out into a glad, free, boundless realm of the things we were not certain about. Harris said that if the best writer in the world once got the slovenly habit of doubling up his halves, he could never get rid of it while he lived. That is to say, if a man gets the habit of saying, I should have liked to have known more about it, instead of saying simply and sensibly, I should have liked to know more about it, that man's disease is incurable. Harris said that his sort of lapse is to be found in every copy of every newspaper that has ever been printed in English and in almost all of our books. He said he had observed it in Kierkems Grammar and in Macaulay. Harris believed that milk teeth are commoner in men's mouths than those doubled up halves. I do not know that there have not been moments in the course of the present session when I should have been very glad to have accepted the proposal of my noble friend and to have exchanged parts in some of our evenings of work—from a speech of the English Chancellor of the Exchequer, August 1879. That changed the subject to dentistry. I said I believed the average man dreaded tooth-pulling more than amputation, and that he would yell quicker under the former operation than he would under the latter. The philosopher Harris said that the average man would not yell in either case if he had an audience. Then he continued, When our brigade first went into camp on the Potomac, we used to be brought up standing occasionally by an ear-splitting howl of anguish. That meant that a soldier was getting a tooth pulled in a tent. But the surgeons soon changed that. They instituted open-air dentistry. There never was a howl afterward—that is, from the man who was having the tooth pulled. At the daily dental hour there would always be about five hundred soldiers gathered together in the neighborhood of that dental chair, waiting to see the performance and help. And the moment the surgeon took a grip on the candidate's tooth and began to lift, every one of those five hundred rascals would clap his hand to his jaw and begin to hop around on one leg and howl with all the lungs he had. It was enough to raise your hair to hear that very gated and enormous, unanimous catter-wall burst out.  The surgeon said that pretty often a patient was compelled to laugh in the midst of his pangs, but that they had never caught one crying out after the open-air exhibition was instituted. Dental surgeons suggested doctors—doctors suggested death. Death suggested skeletons, and so by a logical process the conversation melted out of one of these subjects and into the next, until the topic of skeletons raised up Nicodemus Dodge, out of the deep grave in my memory, where he had lain buried and forgotten for twenty-five years. When I was a boy in a printing-office in Missouri, a loose-jointed long-legged toe headed jeans-clad, contriphied cub of about sixteen, lounged in one day, and without removing his hands from the depths of his trousers, pockets, or taking off his faded ruin of a slouch hat, whose broken rim-hung limp and ragged about his eyes and ears, like a bug-eaten cabbage-leaf, stared indifferently around, then leaned his hip against the editor's table, crossed his mighty brogons, aimed at a distant fly from a crevice in his upper teeth, laid him low, and said with composure, "'Where's the boss?' "'I am the boss,' said the editor, following this curious bit of architecture, wonderingly, along up to its clock-face with his eye. "'Don't want anybody for to learn the business, Tint Likely?' "'Well, I don't know. Would you like to learn it?' "'Perhaps so, poor he can't run me no more. So I want to get a show-summer as if I can. Taint no diffus what. I'm strong and hardy, and I don't turn my back on no kind of work, hard and or soft.' "'Do you think you would like to learn the printing business?' "'Well, I don't really care a darn what I do learn, so as I get a chance for it to make my way, I just assume to learn printings anything.' "'Can you read?' "'Yes, and middling?' "'Right.' "'Well, I've seen people could lay over me thar.' "'Cypher?' "'Not good enough to keep store, I don't reckon, but up as fur as twelve times twelve, I ain't no slouch.  What's his religious denomination?' "'Oh, I didn't understand you before. He's a free mason.' "'No, no, you don't get my meaning yet. What I mean is, does he belong to any church? Now you're talking. Couldn't make out what you was trying to get through your head. No way. Blong to a church. Why, boss, he's been the pisonous kind of free-will Baptist for forty years. Ain't no pisoner one, and what he is. Might a good man, Pap is. Everybody says that. If they said any different, they wouldn't say it where I was. Not much, they wouldn't. What is your own religion?' "'Well, boss, you kind of got me there.  I think, if a feller helps another feller when he's in trouble, and don't cuss and don't do no mean things, there are nothing he ain't no business to do, and don't spell the Savior's name with a little G. He ain't running no risks. He's about as safe as he belonged to a church.' But suppose he did spell it with a little G. What then? "'Well, if he'd done it a purpose, I reckon he wouldn't stand no chance. He oughtn't to have no chance, anyway. I'm most rotten certain about that.' "'What is your name?' "'Nicodemus Dodge.' "'I think maybe you'll do, Nicodemus. We'll give you a trial, anyway.' "'All right.' "'When would you like to begin?' "'Now!' "'So within ten minutes after we had first glimps this nondescript, he was one of us, and with his coat off and hard at it. Beyond that end of our establishment, which was furthest from the street, was a deserted garden, pathless and thickly grown with the bloomy and villainous gymson weed and its common friend the stately sunflower. In the midst of this mournful spot was a decayed and aged little frame-house with but one room, one window, no ceiling. It had been a smoke-house a generation before. Nicodemus was given this lonely and ghostly den as a bed-chamber.  It was easy to see that he was inconceivably green and confiding. George Jones had the glory of perpetrating the first joke on him. He gave him a cigar with a firecracker in it and winked to the crowd to come. The thing exploded presently and swept away the bulk of Nicodemus's eyebrows and eyelashes. He simply said, I consider them kind of cigars dangerous and seemed to suspect nothing. The next evening Nicodemus way-laid George and poured a bucket of ice-water over him. One day, while Nicodemus was in swimming, Tom McElroy tied his clothes. Nicodemus made a bonfire of Tom's by way of retaliation. A third joke was played upon Nicodemus a day or two later. He walked up the middle aisle of the village church Sunday night with a staring hand-bill pinned between his shoulders. The joker spent the remainder of the night after church in the cellar of a deserted house, and Nicodemus sat on the cellar door till toward breakfast time to make sure that the prisoner remembered that if any noise was made some rough treatment would be the consequence. The cellar had two feet of stagnant water in it and was bottomed with six inches of soft mud. But I wonder from the point. It was the subject of skeletons that brought this boy back to my recollection. Before a very long time had elapsed, the village smarties began to feel an uncomfortable consciousness of not having made a very shining success out of their attempts on the simpleton from Old Shelby. Experimenters grew scarce and charry. Now the young doctor came to the rescue. There was delight and applause when he proposed to scare Nicodemus to death and explained how he was going to do it. He had a noble new skeleton, the skeleton of the late and only local celebrity Jimmy Finn, the village drunkard. A grisly piece of property which he had bought of Jimmy Finn himself at auction for fifty dollars under great competition when Jimmy lay very sick in the tanyard of fortnight before his death. The fifty dollars had gone promptly for whiskey and had considerably hurried up the change of ownership in the skeleton. The doctor would put Jimmy Finn's skeleton in Nicodemus's bed. This was done about half past ten in the evening. About Nicodemus's usual bedtime, midnight, the village jokers came creeping stealthily through the gyms and weeds and sunflowers toward the lonely framed den. They reached the window and peeped in. There sat the long-legged pauper on his bed in a very short shirt and nothing more. He was dangling his legs contentedly back and forth and wheezing the music of camp-town races out of a paper-overlaid comb which he was pressing against his mouth. By him lay a new Jews harp, a new top, and solid India rubber ball, a handful of painted marbles, five pounds of store candy, and a well-nod slab of ginger bread as big and as thick as the volume of sheet music. He had sold the skeleton to a traveling quack for three dollars and was enjoying the result. Just as we had finished talking about skeletons and were drifting into the subject of fossils, Harris and I heard a shout and glanced up the steep hillside. We saw men and women standing away up there looking frightened and there was a bulky object tumbling and floundering down the steep slope toward us. We got out of the way and when the object landed in the road it proved to be a boy. He had tripped and fallen and there was nothing for him to do but trust to luck and take what might come. When one starts to roll down a place like that there is no stopping till the bottom is reached. Think of people farming on a slant which is so steep that the best you can say of it, if you want to be fastidiously accurate, is that it is a little steeper than a ladder and not quite so steep as a mansard roof. But that is what they do. Some of the little farms on the hillside opposite Heidelberg were stood up edgewise. The boy was wonderfully jolted up and his head was bleeding from cuts which he had got from small stones on the way. Harris and I gathered him up and set him on a stone and by that time the men and women had scampered down and brought his cap. Men, women, and children flocked out from neighbouring cottages and joined the crowd. The pale boy was petted and stared at and commiserated and water was brought for him to drink and bathe his bruises in and such another clatter of tongues. All who had seen the catastrophe were describing it at once and each trying to talk louder than his neighbour. And one youth of a superior genius ran a little way up the hill, called attention, tripped, fell, and rolled down among us, and thus triumphantly showed exactly how the thing had been done. Harris and I were included in all the descriptions, how we were coming along, how Hans Gross shouted, how we looked up startled, how we saw Peter coming like a cannon shot, how judiciously we got out of the way and let him come, and with what presence of mind we picked him up and brushed him off and set him on a rock when the performance was over. We were as much heroes as anybody else except Peter and were so recognised. We were taken with Peter and the populace to Peter's mother's cottage, and there we ate bread and cheese and drank milk and beer with everybody, and had a most sociable good time. And when we left we had a handshake all around and were receiving and shouting back, «Lieb vorz!» until a turn in the road separated us from our cordial and kindly new friends forever. We accomplished our undertaking. At half-past eight in the evening we stepped into Oppenau, just eleven hours and a half out of Allerheiligen, one hundred and forty-six miles. This is the distance by a pedometer. The guidebook and the imperial ordnance maps make it only ten and a quarter, a surprising blunder, for these two authorities are usually singularly accurate in the matter of distances.


Alright guys, so I don't even know what the title of this video is, it's probably something along the lines of like, we might have to take a break from YouTube. Don't really know. I'm going to try to keep this video like short and to the point because I really don't feel like talking about this situation. Basically to say the least, the past two days we haven't uploaded a video because we're dealing with me personally, a family emergency. To summarize it, it basically has to do with my grandma. She had an accident where she basically fell. Like I said, I don't want to get too in depth with the details and what's going on and stuff like that but as of right now, she's okay for the most part but she might be in hospital for a while so most of the time that's where I'm going to be spending my time. It was pretty scary to say the least. The first day was very hectic, didn't really know how to deal with it but I dealt with the situation the best way I could have. I really don't know what else to say. It's just been two days or three days rather and it's probably been the toughest thing that we've had to deal with and encounter. This is probably the darkest point of my life so that's probably why I don't want to really get into it. Janice can tell you I haven't been normal. I guess the past couple of days since it happened, I haven't been eating right. I've been extremely tired. I just told her a couple of minutes ago I'm freaking freezing and that's probably because I'm not eating right. Mind you, it's like 75 degrees in this house. Is there anything else you want to say? I really don't know what to say about this topic, I really don't want to get into it. The only reason we're making this video and I agreed to make this video is because I feel like you guys deserve to know if we do go absent or if we're taking a break like two or three days without dropping a video, you guys deserve to know why because you guys are a part of us but as of right now, I don't feel comfortable talking about the situation in detail. When it gets to a point where I feel comfortable, I would definitely let you guys know all the details about what happened but like I said, as of right now, she's okay. I don't want to explain what happened and stuff like that but you got anything else you want to say? All I have to say really is I hope you guys can understand if we do take this break. It's not easy for either of us, you guys and us. This is something that we love to do, this is our life. To take a break from it is kind of very tough especially right now during the holiday season. This is not something that we were expecting to happen and it threw a big curveball at us and we're dealing with it the best way that we can. So we're just going to leave it at this. We love you guys, we love your endless support and we love that you guys love us and want to know so much about us but it's too soon to talk about everything and I'm trying to be here for Isaiah as much as I can and his family and that's what I'm going to do and that is all that we have for today's video. We love you guys and we just wanted to let you guys know what we're dealing with right now and like he said already if we take a break this is why. Just know that when we come back you know hopefully we'll be on a better note and you know we're trying to keep our heads like high and our thoughts good. I don't know how long of a break we're taking or whatever, could be two days, could be three, could be a week. I don't know, I do want to make content for you guys and stuff like that but there is obviously more important things I have going on. So like I said we might post a video tomorrow, we might post a video five days from now. I don't know I wouldn't be able to tell you guys but I just wanted to let you guys know if you guys do see like a pause or like a break in videos this is why. I just want to make sure that his mental health is okay before we jump into work and before we jump into just like making content because if we're not ourselves then the content isn't going to be up to par but I think this is it right? Yeah I guess like I said I don't know when the next video will be but as soon as I feel okay to film another video and I feel comfortable we'll definitely give you guys an update but as of right now that's where it lays. One thing I do ask is friends and family if you have my phone number please do not hit me up asking if I'm okay and stuff like that. I don't deal well with that type of stuff I don't like being asked if I'm okay so please like just don't do it please and that's really it. So we'll see you guys in the next video.