A TRAMP ABROAD By Mark Twain

Many people say that for a male person, bric-a-brac hunting

is about as robust a business as making doll-clothes,

or decorating Japanese pots with decalcomanie butterflies

would be, and these people fling mud at the elegant Englishman,

Byng, who wrote a book called THE BRIC-A-BRAC 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 “tuppenny collection of beggarly

trivialities”; and for beginning his book with a picture

of himself seated, in a “sappy, self-complacent attitude,

in the midst of his poor little ridiculous bric-a-brac 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 Byng and I feel–it is their loss,

not ours. For my part I am content to be a brick-a-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 i n 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 judge that the distance was very little,

if any, over fifty miles. We quitted the train at Oos,

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 Rev. Mr. ——, an old friend

from America–a lucky encounter, indeed, for his is

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 enthusiasms, and Rev. Mr. ——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 Rev. Mr. ——said:

“The sidewalk is 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: