ot now, understand why the top boy's summary was not sufficient. With
all due deference to the poet, whoever he may have been, one cannot but
acknowledge that his wood was, and could not be otherwise than, "the
usual sort of a wood."

I could describe the Black Forest to you at great length. I could
translate to you Hebel, the poet of the Black Forest. I could write
pages concerning its rocky gorges and its smiling valleys, its pine-clad
slopes, its rock-crowned summits, its foaming rivulets (where the tidy
German has not condemned them to flow respectably through wooden troughs
or drainpipes), its white villages, its lonely farmsteads.

But I am haunted by the suspicion you might skip all this. Were you
sufficiently conscientious--or weak-minded enough--not to do so, I
should, all said and done, succeed in conveying to you only an impression
much better summed up in the simple words of the unpretentious guide
book:

"A picturesque, mountainous district, bounded on the south and the west
by the plain of the Rhine, towards which its spurs descend precipitately.
Its geological formation consists chiefly of variegated sandstone and
granite; its lower heights being covered with extensive pine forests. It
is well watered with numerous streams, while its populous valleys are
fertile and well cultivated. The inns are good; but the local wines
should be partaken of by the stranger with discretion."

CHAPTER VI

Why we went to Hanover--Something they do better abroad--The art of
polite foreign conversation, as taught in English schools--A true
history, now told for the first time--The French joke, as provided for
the amusement of British youth--Fatherly instincts of Harris--The road-
waterer, considered as an artist--Patriotism of George--What Harris ought
to have done--What he did--We save Harris's life--A sleepless city--The
cab-horse as a critic.

We arrived in Hamburg on Friday after a smooth and uneventful voyage; and
from Hamburg we travelled to Berlin by way of Hanover. It is not the
most direct route. I can only account for our visit to Hanover as the
nigger accounted to the magistrate for his appearance in the Deacon's
poultry-yard.

"Well?"

"Yes, sar, what the constable sez is quite true, sar; I was dar, sar."

"Oh, so you admit it? And what were you doing with a sack, pray, in
Deacon Abraham's poultry-yard at twelve o'clock at night?"

"I'se gwine ter tell yer, sar; yes, sar. I'd been to