the "Propeyedliar."

Here the horse proceeded up the Linden, and nothing would persuade him
not to proceed up the Linden. His owner expostulated with him, but he
continued to trot on. From the way he hitched his shoulders as he moved,
I somehow felt he was saying:

"They've seen the Gate, haven't they? Very well, that's enough. As for
the rest, you don't know what you are talking about, and they wouldn't
understand you if you did. You talk German."

It was the same throughout the length of the Linden. The horse consented
to stand still sufficiently long to enable us to have a good look at each
sight, and to hear the name of it. All explanation and description he
cut short by the simple process of moving on.

"What these fellows want," he seemed to say to himself, "is to go home
and tell people they have seen these things. If I am doing them an
injustice, if they are more intelligent than they look, they can get
better information than this old fool of mine is giving them from the
guide book. Who wants to know how high a steeple is? You don't remember
it the next five minutes when you are told, and if you do it is because
you have got nothing else in your head. He just tires me with his talk.
Why doesn't he hurry up, and let us all get home to lunch?"

Upon reflection, I am not sure that wall-eyed old brute had not sense on
its side. Anyhow, I know there have been occasions, with a guide, when I
would have been glad of its interference.

But one is apt to "sin one's mercies," as the Scotch say, and at the time