I found the Swiss note-book, some time ago.  When it was first lost I was glad of it, for I was getting an idea that I had lost my faculty of writing sketches of travel; therefore the loss of that note-book would render the writing of this one simply impossible, and let me gracefully out; I was about to write to Bliss and propose some other book, when the confounded thing turned up, and down went my heart into my boots.  But there was now no excuse, so I went solidly to work—­tore up a great part of the Ms written in Heidelberg,—­wrote and tore up,—­continued to write and tear up,—­and at last, reward of patient and noble persistence, my pen got the old swing again!

Since then I’m glad Providence knew better what to do with the Swiss note-book than I did, for I like my work, now, exceedingly, and often turn out over 30 Ms pages a day and then quit sorry that Heaven makes the days so short.

One of my discouragements had been the belief that my interest in this tour had been so slender that I couldn’t gouge matter enough out of it to make a book.  What a mistake.  I’ve got 900 pages written (not a word in it about the sea voyage) yet I stepped my foot out of Heidelberg for the first time yesterday,—­and then only to take our party of four on our first pedestrian tour—­to Heilbronn.  I’ve got them dressed elaborately in walking costume—­knapsacks, canteens, field-glasses, leather leggings, patent walking shoes, muslin folds around their hats, with long tails hanging down behind, sun umbrellas, and Alpenstocks.  They go all the way to Wimpfen by rail-thence to Heilbronn in a chance vegetable cart drawn by a donkey and a cow; I shall fetch them home on a raft; and if other people shall perceive that that was no pedestrian excursion, they themselves shall not be conscious of it.—­This trip will take 100 pages or more,—­oh, goodness knows how many! for the mood is everything, not the material, and I already seem to see 300 pages rising before me on that trip.  Then, I propose to leave Heidelberg for good.  Don’t you see, the book (1800 Ms pages,) may really be finished before I ever get to Switzerland?

But there’s one thing; I want to tell Frank Bliss and his father to be charitable toward me in,—­that is, let me tear up all the Ms I want to, and give me time to write more.  I shan’t waste the time—­I haven’t the slightest desire to loaf, but a consuming desire to work, ever since I got back my swing.  And you see this book is either going to be compared with the Innocents Abroad, or contrasted with it, to my disadvantage.  I think I can make a book that will be no dead corpse of a thing and I mean to do my level best to accomplish that.

My crude plans are crystalizing.  As the thing stands now, I went to Europe for three purposes.  The first you know, and must keep secret, even from the Blisses; the second is to study Art; and the third to acquire a critical knowledge of the German language.  My Ms already shows that the two latter objects are accomplished.  It shows that I am moving about as an Artist and a Philologist, and unaware that there is any immodesty in assuming these titles.  Having three definite objects has had the effect of seeming to enlarge my domain and give me the freedom of a loose costume.  It is three strings to my bow, too.