A TRAMP ABROAD By Mark Twain

accomplished in art. We had had the best instructors in

drawing and painting in Germany–Ha”mmerling, Vogel, Mu”ller,

Dietz, and Schumann. Ha”mmerling taught us landscape-painting.

Vogel taught us figure-drawing, Mu”ller taught us to do

still-life, and Dietz and Schumann gave us a finishing

course in two specialties–battle-pieces and shipwrecks.

Whatever I am in Art I owe to these men. I have something

of the manner of each and all of them; but they all said that I

had also a manner of my own, and that it was conspicuous.

They said there was a marked individuality about my

style–insomuch that if I ever painted the commonest

type of a dog, I should be sure to throw a something

into the aspect of that dog which would keep him from

being mistaken for the creation of any other artist.

Secretly I wanted to believe all these kind sayings,

but I could not; I was afraid that my masters’

partiality for me, and pride in me, biased their judgment.

So I resolved to make a test. Privately, and unknown

to any one, I painted my great picture, “Heidelberg Castle

Illuminated”–my first really important work in oils–and

had it hung up in the midst of a wilderness of oil-pictures

in the Art Exhibition, with no name attached to it. To my

great gratification it was instantly recognized as mine.

All the town flocked to see it, and people even came from

neighboring localities to visit it. It made more stir than

any other work in the Exhibition. But the most gratifying

thing of all was, that chance strangers, passing through,

who had not heard of my picture, were not only drawn to it,

as by a lodestone, the moment they entered the gallery,

but always took it for a “Turner.”

Apparently nobody had ever done that. There were ruined

castles on the overhanging cliffs and crags all the way;

these were said to have their legends, like those on the Rhine,

and what was better still, they had never been in print.

There was nothing in the books about that lovely region;

it had been neglected by the tourist, it was virgin soil for

the literary pioneer.

Meantime the knapsacks, the rough walking-suits and the stout

walking-shoes which we had ordered, were finished and brought

to us. A Mr. X and a young Mr. Z had agreed to go with us.

We went around one evening and bade good-by to our friends,

and afterward had a little farewell banquet at the hotel.

We got to bed early, for we wanted to make an early start,

so as to take advantage of the cool of the morning.

We were out of bed at break of day, feeling fresh

and vigorous, and took a hearty breakfast, then plunged

down through the leafy arcades of the Castle grounds,

toward the town. What a glorious summer morning it was,

and how the flowers did pour out their fragrance,

and how the birds did sing! It was just the time for a

tramp through the woods and mountains.

We were all dressed alike: broad slouch hats, to keep the

sun off; gray knapsacks; blue army shirts; blue overalls;

leathern gaiters buttoned tight from knee down to ankle;

high-quarter coarse shoes snugly laced. Each man had

an opera-glass, a canteen, and a guide-book case slung

over his shoulder, and carried an alpenstock in one hand

and a sun-umbrella in the other. Around our hats were

wound many folds of soft white muslin, with the ends

hanging and flapping down our backs–an idea brought

from the Orient and used by tourists all over Europe.

Harris carried the little watch-like machine called

a “pedometer,” whose office is to keep count of a man’s

steps and tell how far he has walked. Everybody stopped

to admire our costumes and give us a hearty “Pleasant march

to you!”

When we got downtown I found that we could go by rail to

within five miles of Heilbronn. The train was just starting,

so we jumped aboard and went tearing away in splendid spirits.

It was agreed all around that we had done wisely,

because it would be just as enjoyable to walk DOWN the Neckar

as up it, and it could not be needful to walk both ways.