A TRAMP ABROAD By Mark Twain

and you confess, without reserve, that Titian WAS a Master.

The doll-faces of other painted babes may mean one thing,

they may mean another, but with the “Moses” the case

is different. The most famous of all the art-critics

has said, “There is no room for doubt, here–plainly this

child is in trouble.”

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

of the Old Masters, except it be the divine Hair Trunk

of Bassano. I feel sure that if all the other Old Masters

were lost and only these two preserved, the world would

be the gainer by it.

My sole purpose in going to Florence was to see this

immortal “Moses,” and by good fortune I was just in time,

for they were already preparing to remove it to a more

private and better-protected place because a fashion

of robbing the great galleries was prevailing in Europe

at the time.

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

the engraver of Dor’e’s books, engraved it for me,

and I have the pleasure of laying it before the reader

in this volume.

We took a turn to Rome and some other Italian cities–

then to Munich, and thence to Paris–partly for exercise,

but mainly because these things were in our projected program,

and it was only right that we should be faithful to it.

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

procuring an occasional lift by rail or canal when tired,

and I had a tolerably good time of it “by and large.”

I worked Spain and other regions through agents to save

time and shoe-leather.

We crossed to England, and then made the homeward

passage in the Cunarder GALLIA, a very fine ship.

I was glad to get home–immeasurably glad; so glad,

in fact, that it did not seem possible that anything

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

enjoyed a pleasure abroad which seemed to me to compare

with the pleasure I felt in seeing New York harbor again.

Europe has many advantages which we have not, but they

do not compensate for a good many still more valuable

ones which exist nowhere but in our own country.

Then we are such a homeless lot when we are over

there! So are Europeans themselves, for the matter.

They live in dark and chilly vast tombs–costly enough,

maybe, but without conveniences. To be condemned to live

as the average European family lives would make life

a pretty heavy burden to the average American family.

On the whole, I think that short visits to Europe are

better for us than long ones. The former preserve us from

becoming Europeanized; they keep our pride of country intact,

and at the same time they intensify our affection for our

country and our people; whereas long visits have the effect

of dulling those feelings–at least in the majority

of cases. I think that one who mixes much with Americans

long resident abroad must arrive at this conclusion.

APPENDIX ———-

Nothing gives such weight and dignity to a book

as an Appendix. HERODOTUS

APPENDIX A

The Portier

Omar Khay’am, the poet-prophet of Persia, writing more

than eight hundred years ago, has said:

“In the four parts of the earth are many that are able

to write learned books, many that are able to lead armies,

and many also that are able to govern kingdoms and empires;

but few there be that can keep a hotel.”

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

admirable invention, a most valuable convenience.

He always wears a conspicuous uniform; he can always

be found when he is wanted, for he sticks closely to

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

he speaks from four to ten languages; he is your surest

help and refuge in time of trouble or perplexity.

He is not the clerk, he is not the landlord; he ranks above

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

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

you go to the portier. It is the pride of our average