We are mightily enjoying it here, of course; but Livy & Clraara Spaulding do slave so, night & day, over their German study, that they look pale, jaded, & fagged out. They sleep poorly & are permanently tired. The thing that distresses Livy is that the more she learns of the language the less she understands of it when spoken; but the other morning as we sat at table, waiting for our breakfast & admiring the fine display of fruits & flowers on another table, an old gGerman gentleman & lady stepped in & the former hauled down the window curtain at the same moment that his wife threw up her hands in presence of the fruits & flowers & ejaculated “Won “Wundercschön!” Livy said, gratefully, “There—Gott sei dank, I understood that, anyway—window-shade!” It has not been safe to refer to this incident since, but Clara Spaulding & I are not going to forget it, nevertheless. P. S. This incident is several weeks old; it is only fair to say that Livy is making the most excellent progress now. She is far beyond me in the grammar.

Dear Mr Warner—I am glad to know that you will make allowance for the medium through which this joke passes—
                                     affectionately
                                         Livy.

Miss Clara speaks German very well & with good confidence, already; she will talk f it fluently, 3 months hence. I shan’t ever be able to talk it; there are devilishnesses about the grammar of it which will always remain inaccessibles to me & tie my tongue through diffidence. I know plenty words, but only God knows how they terminate. I mean I know them in their root form; but their adjectivorous & jungular form, after they get above form ground & begin to stick on sprout inflections & participles & things is a matter outside of my present or possible attainment. I talked fast enough until I found out that a German is really particular about the sex of a noun m , & lets on that he does not undest rstand you when you misapply your tenses & cases. Since then I bother no more with speech, except to say to the little boys who infest my way that I do not wish to buy any flowers today. That is all the use I have for the language, since all the rest of the German nation speak English.

Twelve days ago I moved again. I had had my writing-den down yonder opposite here on the other side of the Neckar; but it was no exercise to trot down there, & the exercise of climbing up here again was valueless because I got it at the wrong end of the day. It was lonesome, too, & far removed from beer. So I have moved my den clear up on the very pinnacle of the Kaiserstuhl 1400 or 1500 feet up in the air above the Schloss Hotel, & 1700 above the Rhine valley—which it overlooks. I have the only room in the little Wirthshaft there not lived in by the family. I start to climb the mountain every morning about 10 or a little after; I loaf along its steep sides, cogitating & smoking; rest occasionally & peer out through ragged windows in the dense foliage upon the fair world far below; then trudge further, to another resting-place, shared with by the always with an attentive ear to the pleasant woodland sounds, the manifold music of the birds—& finally I reach my den about noon, feeling pretty gorgeous & at peace with the world. I treat myself to a fiv blast of the summit-breeze & a five minutes’ contemplation of the great Rhine-plain’s slumbering sea of mottled tints & shades, & then shut myself up tight & fast in my noiseless den & go to work. About 4 p.m. I take beer & listen to the family’s domestic news, or get one of the young girls to pilot me through some conjugations & declensions, or hold the book while I curse the Dative Case—then, about 5 or 5.15 I go loafing down the mountain again, find Livy & Clara in the Castle park, & listen to the band in the shadow of the ruin.

I haven’t every had a workshop before that was situated just to my liking; & I never shall have again, I suppose.

My landlord’s name is Müller. My room opens into what may be called the parlor,—with a sewing machine in it. Day before yesterday I wrote a long chapter on curious accidents, coin correspondences & coincidences—then stepped in there & happened to notice the manufacturer’s name, stamped in gilt letters on that machine: “Clemens Müller.” The odd thing was By I must add that to my chapter—never thought of it before.

I dreadfully wanted to go to the Paris Literary Congress & see Victor Hugo, but I declined because it would break into my work—which would be bad, now that I am just getting into the swing of my book on Germany.

We have heard from Millet, who is in Paris & well.

We have enjoyed, without stint or alloy, your Atlantic A articles. How true that night-scene in camp is! I have experienced it. With Livy’s love & mine to you both,