When he at last became a free man again, he said he believed he would hunt up a brisker seat of learning; the Heidelberg lectures might be good, but the opportunities of attending them were too rare, the educational process too slow; he said he had come to Europe with the idea that the acquirement of an education was only a matter of time, but if he had averaged the Heidelberg system correctly, it was rather a matter of eternity.

APPENDIX D The Awful German Language

A little learning makes the whole world kin. 
        —­Proverbs xxxii, 7.

I went often to look at the collection of curiosities in Heidelberg Castle, and one day I surprised the keeper of it with my German.  I spoke entirely in that language.  He was greatly interested; and after I had talked a while he said my German was very rare, possibly a “unique”; and wanted to add it to his museum.

If he had known what it had cost me to acquire my art, he would also have known that it would break any collector to buy it.  Harris and I had been hard at work on our German during several weeks at that time, and although we had made good progress, it had been accomplished under great difficulty and annoyance, for three of our teachers had died in the mean time.  A person who has not studied German can form no idea of what a perplexing language it is.

Surely there is not another language that is so slipshod and systemless, and so slippery and elusive to the grasp.  One is washed about in it, hither and thither, in the most helpless way; and when at last he thinks he has captured a rule which offers firm ground to take a rest on amid the general rage and turmoil of the ten parts of speech, he turns over the page and reads, “Let the pupil make careful note of the following exceptions.”  He runs his eye down and finds that there are more exceptions to the rule than instances of it.  So overboard he goes again, to hunt for another Ararat and find another quicksand.  Such has been, and continues to be, my experience.  Every time I think I have got one of these four confusing “cases” where I am master of it, a seemingly insignificant preposition intrudes itself into my sentence, clothed with an awful and unsuspected power, and crumbles the ground from under me.  For instance, my book inquires after a certain bird—­(it is always inquiring after things which are of no sort of no consequence to anybody):  “Where is the bird?” Now the answer to this question—­according to the book—­is that the bird is waiting in the blacksmith shop on account of the rain.  Of course no bird would do that, but then you must stick to the book.  Very well, I begin to cipher out the German for that answer.  I begin at the wrong end, necessarily, for that is the German idea.  I say to myself, “Regen (rain) is masculine—­or maybe it is feminine—­or possibly neuter—­it is too much trouble to look now.  Therefore,