imitation of the Herr Papa--if German
children could ever, by any possibility, be irreverent? Or why does the
Fraulein Marie, his sister, pink as Aurora, round as Hebe, suddenly
veil her blue eyes with a golden lorgnette in the midst of our polyglot
conversation? Is it to evade the direct, admiring glance of the
impulsive American? Dare I say NO? Dare I say that that frank, clear,
honest, earnest return of the eye, which has on the Continent most
unfairly brought my fair countrywomen under criticism, is quite as
common to her more carefully-guarded, tradition-hedged German sisters?
No, it is not that. Is it any thing in these emerald and opal tinted
skies, which seem so unreal to the American eye, and for the first time
explain what seemed the unreality of German art? in these mysterious yet
restful Rhine fogs, which prolong the twilight, and hang the curtain
of romance even over mid-day? Surely not. Is it not rather, O Herr
Professor profound in analogy and philosophy!--is it not rather
this abominable black-letter, this elsewhere-discarded, uncouth,
slowly-decaying text known as the German Alphabet, that plucks out the
bright eyes of youth, and bristles the gateways of your language with a
chevaux de frise of splintered rubbish? Why must I hesitate whether it
is an accident of the printer's press, or the poor quality of the paper,
that makes this letter a "k" or a "t"? Why must I halt in an emotion or
a thought because "s" and "f" are so nearly alike? Is it not enough that
I, an impulsive American, accustomed to do a thing first, and reflect
upon it afterwards, must grope my way through a blind alley of
substantives and adjectives, only to find the verb of action in an
obscure corner, without ruining my eyesight in the groping?

But I dismiss these abstract reflections for a fresh and active
resentment. This is the fifth or sixth dog that has passed my Spion,
harnessed to a small barrow-like cart, and tugging painfully at a
burden so ludicrously disproportionate to his size, that it would seem a
burlesque, but for the poor dog's sad sincerity. Perhaps it is because
I have the barbarian's fondness for dogs, and for their lawless, gentle,
loving uselessness, that I rebel against this unnatural servitude. It
seems as monstrous as if a child were put between the shafts, and made
to carry burdens; and I have come to regard those men and women, who in
the weakest perfunctory way affect to aid the poor brute by laying
idle