[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of thefile for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making anentire meal of them. D. W. ]

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF GEORG EBERS

THE STORY OF MY LIFE FROM CHILDHOOD TO MANHOOD

Volume 1. 

Translated from the German by Mary J. Safford

 TO MY SONS. 

 When I began the incidents of yore, Still in my soul's depths treasured, to record, A voice within said: Soon, life's journey o'er, Thy portrait sole remembrance will afford. 

 And, ere the last hour also strikes for thee, Search thou the harvest of the vanished years. Not futile was thy toil, if thou canst see That for thy sons fruit from one seed appears. 

 Upon the course of thine own life look back, Follow thy struggles upwards to the light; Methinks thy errors will not seem so black, If they thy loved ones serve to guide aright. 

 And should they see the star which 'mid the dark Illumed thy pathway to thy distant goal, Thither they'll turn the prow of their life bark; Its radiance their course also will control. 

 Ay, when the ivy on my grave doth grow, When my dead hand the helm no more obeys, This book to them the twofold light will show, To which I ne'er forget to turn my gaze. 

 One heavenward draws, with rays so mild and clear, Eyes dim with tears, when the world darkness veils, Showing 'mid desert wastes the spring anear, If, spent with wandering, your courage fails. 

 Since first your lips could syllable a prayer, Its mercy you have proved a thousandfold; I too received it, though unto my share Fell what I pray life ne'er for you may hold. 

 The other light, whose power full well you know, E'en though in words I nor describe nor name, Alike for me and you its rays aye glow-- Maternal love, by day and night the same. 

 This light within your youthful hearts has beamed, Ripening the germs of all things good and fair; I also fostered them, and joyous dreamed Of future progress to repay our care. 

 Thus guarded, unto manhood you have grown; Still upward, step by step, you steadfast rise The oldest, healing's noble art has won; The second, to his country's call replies;

 The third, his mind to form is toiling still; And as this book to you I dedicate, I see the highest wish life could fulfil In you, my trinity, now incarnate. 

 To pay it homage meet, my sons I'll guide As I revere it, 'mid the world's turmoil, Love for mankind, which putteth self aside, In love for native land and blessed toil. 

 GEORG EBERS. 

 TOTZING ON THE STARNBERGER SEE, October 1, 1892. 

INTRODUCTION. 

In this volume, which has all the literary charm and deftness ofcharacter drawing that distinguish his novels, Dr. Ebers has told thestory of his growth from childhood to maturity, when the loss of hishealth forced the turbulent student to lead a quieter life, andinclination led him to begin his Egyptian studies, which resulted, firstof all, in the writing of An Egyptian Princess, then in his travels inthe land of the Pharaohs and the discovery of the Ebers Papyrus (thetreatise on medicine dating from the second century B. C. ), and finally inthe series of brilliant historical novels that has borne his name to thecorners of the earth and promises to keep it green forever. 

This autobiography carries the reader from 1837, the year of Dr. Ebers'sbirth in Berlin, to 1863, when An Egyptian Princess was finished. The subsequent events of his life were outwardly calm, as befits theexistence of a great scientist and busy romancer, whose fecund fancywas based upon a groundwork of minute historical research. 

Dr. Ebers attracted the attention of the learned world by his treatiseon Egypt and the Book of Moses, which brought him a professorship at hisuniversity, Gottingen, in 1864, the year following the close of thisautobiography. His marriage to the daughter of a burgomaster of Rigatook place soon afterward. During the long years of their union Mrs. Ebers was his active helpmate, many of the business details relating tohis works and their American and English editions being transacted byher. 

After his first visit to Egypt, Ebers was called to the University ofLeipsic to fill the chair of Egyptology. He went again to Egypt in 1872, and in the course of his excavations at Thebes unearthed the EbersPapyrus already referred to, which established his name among the leadersof what was then still a new science, whose foundations had been laid byChampollion in 1821. 

Ebers continued to occupy his chair at the Leipsic University, but, whilefulfilling admirably the many duties of a German professorship, he foundtime to write several of his novels. Uarda was published in 1876, twelveyears after the appearance of An Egyptian Princess, to be followed inquick succession by Homo Sum, The Sisters, The Emperor, and all that longline of brilliant pictures of antiquity. He began his series of tales ofthe middle ages and the dawn of the modern era in 1881 with TheBurgomaster's Wife. In 1889 the precarious state of his health forcedhim to resign his chair at the university. 

Notwithstanding his sufferings and the obstacles they placed in his path, he continued his wonderful intellectual activity until the end. His lastnovel, Arachne, was issued but a short time before his death, which tookplace on August 7, 1898, at the Villa Ebers, in Tutzing, on theStarenberg Lake, near Munich, where most of his later life was spent. The monument erected to his memory by his own indefatigable activityconsists of sixteen novels, all of them of perennial value to historicalstudents, as well as of ever-fresh charm to lovers of fiction, manytreatises on his chosen branch of learning, two great works of referenceon Egypt and Palestine, and short stories, fairy tales, and biographies. 

The Story of my Life is characterized by a captivating freshness. Eberswas born under a lucky star, and the pictures of his early home life, hisrestless student days at that romantic old seat of learning, Gottingen, are bright, vivacious, and full of colour. The biographer, historian, and educator shows himself in places, especially in the sketches of thebrothers Grimm, and of Froebel, at whose institute, Keilhau, Ebersreceived the foundation of his education. His discussion of Froebel'smethod and of that of his predecessor, Pestalozzi, is full of interest, because written with enthusiasm and understanding. He was a good German, in the largest sense of the word, and this trait, too, is brought forwardin his reminiscences of the turbulent days of 1848 in Berlin. 

The story of Dr. Ebers's early life was worth the telling, and he hastold it himself, as no one else could tell it, with all the consummateskill of his perfected craftsmanship, with all the reverent love of anadmiring son, and with all the happy exuberance of a careless youthremembered in all its brightness in the years of his maturity. Finally, the book teaches a beautiful lesson of fortitude in adversity, ofsuffering patiently borne and valiantly overcome by a spirit that, greatly gifted by Nature, exercised its strength until the thin silverlining illuminated the apparently impenetrable blackness of the cloudthat overhung Georg Moritz Ebers's useful and successful life. 

THE STORY OF MY LIFE. 

By Georg Ebers

CONTENTS. 

BOOK 1. I. -GLANCING BACKWARD. II. -MY EARLIEST CHILDHOODIII. -ON FESTAL DAYSIV. -THE JOURNEY TO HOLLAND TO ATTEND THE GOLDEN WEDDINGV. -LENNESTRASSE. --LENNE--EARLY IMPRESSIONS

BOOK 2. VI. -MY INTRODUCTION TO ART, AND ACQUAINTANCESVII. -WHAT A BERLIN CHILD ENJOYED ON THE SPREE AND GRANDMOTHER'SVIII. -THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIODIX. -THE EIGHTEENTH OF MARCH

BOOK3. X. -AFTER THE NIGHT OF REVOLUTIONXI. -IN KEILHAUXII -FRIEDRICH FROEBEL'S IDEAL OF EDUCATION

BOOK 4. XIII. -THE FOUNDERS OF THE KEILHAU INSTITUTEXIV. -IN THE FOREST AND ON THE MOOR. XV. -SUMMER PLEASURES AND RAMBLESXVI. -AUTUMN, WINTER, EASTER, AND DEPARTURE

BOOK 5. XVII. -THE GYMNASIUM AND THE FIRST PERIOD OF UNIVERSITY LIFEXVIII. -THE TIME OF EFFERVESCENCE AND MY SCHOOLMATESXIX. -A ROMANCE WHICH REALLY HAPPENEDXX. -AT THE QUEDLINBURG GYMNASIUM

BOOK 6. XXI. -AT THE UNIVERSITYXXII. -THE SHIPWRECKXXIII. -THE HARDEST TIME IN THE SCHOOL OF LIFEXXIV. -THE APPRENTICESHIPXXV. -THE SUMMERS OF MY CONVALESCENCEXXVI. -CONTINUANCE OF CONVALESCENCE AND THE FIRST NOVEL

THE STORY OF MY LIFE. 

BOOK 1. 

CHAPTER I. 

GLANCING BACKWARD. 

Though I was born in Berlin, it was also in the country. True, it wasfifty-five years ago; for my birthday was March 1, 1837, and at that timethe house--[No. 4 Thiergartenstrasse]--where I slept and played duringthe first years of my childhood possessed, besides a field and a meadow, an orchard and dense shrubbery, even a hill and a pond. Three bighorses, the property of the owner of our residence, stood in the stable, and the lowing of a cow, usually an unfamiliar sound to Berlin children, blended with my earliest recollections. 

The Thiergartenstrasse--along which in those days on sunny mornings, athrong of people on foot, on horseback, and in carriages constantly movedto and fro--ran past the front of these spacious grounds, whose rear wasbounded by a piece of water then called the "Schafgraben, " and which, spite of the duckweed that covered it with a dark-green network ofleafage, was used for boating in light skiffs. 

Now a strongly built wall of masonry lines the banks of this ditch, whichhas been transformed into a deep canal bordered by the handsome houses ofthe Konigin Augustastrasse, and along which pass countless heavily ladenbarges called by the Berliners "Zillen. "

The land where I played in my childhood has long been occupied by theMatthaikirche, the pretty street which bears the same name, and a portionof Konigin Augustastrasse, but the house which we occupied and its largerneighbour are still surrounded by a fine garden. 

This was an Eden for city children, and my mother had chosen it becauseshe beheld it in imagination flowing with the true Garden of Paradiserivers of health and freedom for her little ones. 

My father died on the 14th of February, 1837, and on the 1st of March ofthe same year I was born, a fortnight after the death of the man in whommy mother was bereft of both husband and lover. So I am what is termed a"posthumous" child. This is certainly a sorrowful fate; but though therewere many hours, especially in the later years of my life, in which Ilonged for a father, it often seemed to me a noble destiny and one worthyof the deepest gratitude to have been appointed, from the first moment ofmy existence, to one of the happiest tasks, that of consolation andcheer. 

It was to soothe a mother's heartbreak that I came in the saddest hoursof her life, and, though my locks are now grey, I have not forgotten thejoyful moments in which that dear mother hugged her fatherless littleone, and among other pet names called him her "comfort child. "

She told me also that posthumous children were always Fortune'sfavorites, and in her wise, loving way strove to make me early familiarwith the thought that God always held in his special keeping thosechildren whose fathers he had taken before their birth. This confidenceaccompanied me through all my after life. 

As I have said, it was long before I became aware that I lacked anything, especially any blessing so great as a father's faithful love and care;and when life showed to me also a stern face and imposed heavy burdens, my courage was strengthened by my happy confidence that I was one ofFortune's favorites, as others are buoyed up by their firm faith in their"star. "

When the time at last came that I longed to express the emotions of mysoul in verse, I embodied my mother's prediction in the lines:

 The child who first beholds the light of day After his father's eyes are closed for aye, Fortune will guard from every threatening ill, For God himself a father's place will fill. 

People often told me that as the youngest, the nestling, I was mymother's "spoiled child"; but if anything spoiled me it certainly was notthat. No child ever yet received too many tokens of love from a sensiblemother; and, thank Heaven, the word applied to mine. Fate had summonedher to be both father and mother to me and my four brothers and sisters-one little brother, her second child, had died in infancy--and she provedequal to the task. Everything good which was and is ours we owe to her, and her influence over us all, and especially over me, who was afterwardpermitted to live longest in close relations with her, was so great andso decisive, that strangers would only half understand these stories ofmy childhood unless I gave a fuller description of her. 

These details are intended particularly for my children, my brothers andsisters, and the dear ones connected with our family by ties of blood andfriendship, but I see no reason for not making them also accessible towider circles. There has been no lack of requests from friends that Ishould write them, and many of those who listen willingly when I tellromances will doubtless also be glad to learn something concerning thelife of the fabulist, who, however, in these records intends to silenceimagination and adhere rigidly to the motto of his later life, "To betruthful in love. "

My mother's likeness as a young woman accompanies these pages, and mustspare me the task of describing her appearance. It was copied from thelife-size portrait completed for the young husband by Schadow just priorto his appointment as head of the Dusseldorf Academy of Art, and now inthe possession of my brother, Dr. Martin Ebers of Berlin. Unfortunately, our copy lacks the colouring; and the dress of the original, which showsthe whole figure, confirms the experience of the error committed infaithfully reproducing the fashion of the day in portraits intended forfuture generations. It never fully satisfied me; for it veryinadequately reproduces what was especially precious to us in our motherand lent her so great a charm--her feminine grace, and the tenderness ofheart so winningly expressed in her soft blue eyes. 

No one could help pronouncing her beautiful; but to me she was at oncethe fairest and the best of women, and if I make the suffering Stephanusin Homo Sum say, "For every child his own mother is the best mother, "mine certainly was to me. My heart rejoiced when I perceived that everyone shared this appreciation. At the time of my birth she was thirty-five, and, as I have heard from many old acquaintances, in the full glowof her beauty. 

My father had been one of the Berlin gentlemen to whose spirit of self-sacrifice and taste for art the Konigstadt Theater owed its prosperity, and was thus brought into intimate relations with Carl von Holtei, whoworked for its stage both as dramatist and actor. When, as a youngprofessor, I told the grey-haired author in my mother's name somethingwhich could not fail to afford him pleasure, I received the most eagerassent to my query whether he still remembered her. "How I thank youradmirable mother for inducing you to write!" ran the letter. "Only Imust enter a protest against your first lines, suggesting that I mighthave forgotten her. I forget the beautiful, gentle, clever, steadfastwoman who (to quote Shakespeare's words) 'came adorned hither like sweetMay, ' and, stricken by the hardest blows so soon after her entrance intoher new life, gloriously endured every trial of fate to become thefairest bride, the noblest wife, most admirable widow, and most faithfulmother! No, my young unknown friend, I have far too much with which toreproach myself, have brought from the conflicts of a changeful life alacerated heart, but I have never reached the point where that heartceased to cherish Fanny Ebers among the most sacred memories of mychequered career. How often her loved image appears before me when, inlonely twilight hours, I recall the past!"

Yes, Fate early afforded my mother an opportunity to test her character. The city where shortly before my birth she became a widow was not hernative place. My father had met her in Holland, when he was scarcelymore than a beardless youth. The letter informing his relatives thathe had determined not to give up the girl his heart had chosen was notregarded seriously in Berlin; but when the lover, with rare pertinacity, clung to his resolve, they began to feel anxious. The eldest son of oneof the richest families in the city, a youth of nineteen, wished to bindhimself for life--and to a foreigner--a total stranger. 

My mother often told us that her father, too, refused to listen to theyoung suitor, and how, during that time of conflict, while she was withher family at Scheveningen, a travelling carriage drawn by four horsesstopped one day before her parents' unpretending house. From this coachdescended the future mother-in-law. She had come to see the paragon ofwhom her son had written so enthusiastically, and to learn whether itwould be possible to yield to the youth's urgent desire to establish ahousehold of his own. And she did find it possible; for the girl's rarebeauty and grace speedily won the heart of the anxious woman who hadreally come to separate the lovers. True, they were required to wait afew years to test the sincerity of their affection. But it withstood theproof, and the young man, who had been sent to Bordeaux to acquire in acommercial house the ability to manage his father's banking business, didnot hesitate an instant when his beautiful fiancee caught the smallpoxand wrote that her smooth face would probably be disfigured by themalignant disease, but answered that what he loved was not only herbeauty but the purity and goodness of her tender heart. 

This had been a severe test, and it was to be rewarded: not the smallestscar remained to recall the illness. When my father at last made mymother his wife, the burgomaster of her native city told him that he gaveto his keeping the pearl of Rotterdam. Post-horses took the young couplein the most magnificent weather to the distant Prussian capital. It musthave been a delightful journey, but when the horses were changed inPotsdam the bride and groom received news that the latter's father wasdead. 

So my parents entered a house of mourning. My mother at that time hadonly the slight mastery of German acquired during hours of industriousstudy for her future husband's sake. She did not possess in all Berlin asingle friend or relative of her own family, yet she soon felt at home inthe capital. She loved my father. Heaven gave her children, and herrare beauty, her winning charm, and the receptivity of her mind quicklyopened all hearts to her in circles even wider than her husband's largefamily connection. The latter included many households whose guestsnumbered every one whose achievements in science or art, or possession oflarge wealth, had rendered them prominent in Berlin, and the "beautifulHollander, " as my mother was then called, became one of the most courtedwomen in society. 

Holtei had made her acquaintance at this time, and it was a delight tohear her speak of those gay, brilliant days. How often Baron vonHumboldt, Rauch, or Schleiermacher had escorted her to dinner! Hegelhad kept a blackened coin won from her at whist. Whenever he sat downto play cards with her he liked to draw it out, and, showing it to hispartner, say, "My thaler, fair lady. "

My mother, admired and petted, had thoroughly enjoyed the happy period ofmy father's lifetime, entertaining as a hospitable hostess or visitingfriends, and she gladly recalled it. But this brilliant life, filled tooverflowing with all sorts of amusements, had been interrupted justbefore my birth. 

The beloved husband had died, and the great wealth of our family, thoughenough remained for comfortable maintenance, had been much diminished. 

Such changes of outward circumstances are termed reverses of fortune, and the phrase is fitting, for by them life gains a new form. Yet realhappiness is more frequently increased than lessened, if only they do notentail anxiety concerning daily bread. My mother's position was farremoved from this point; but she possessed qualities which would haveundoubtedly enabled her, even in far more modest circumstances, to retainher cheerfulness and fight her way bravely with her children throughlife. 

The widow resolved that her sons should make their way by their ownindustry, like her brothers, who had almost all become able officials inthe Dutch colonial service. Besides, the change in her circumstancesbrought her into closer relations with persons with whom by inclinationand choice she became even more intimately associated than with themembers of my father's family--I mean the clique of scholars andgovernment officials amid whose circle her children grew up, and whomI shall mention later. 

Our relatives, however, even after my father's death, showed the sameregard for my mother--who on her side was sincerely attached to many ofthem--and urged her to accept the hospitality of their homes. I, too, when a child, still more in later years, owe to the Beer family many ahappy hour. My father's cousin, Moritz von Oppenfeld, whose wife was anEbers, was also warmly attached to us. He lived in a house which heowned on the Pariser Platz, now occupied by the French embassy, and inwhose spacious apartments and elsewhere his kind heart and tender loveprepared countless pleasures for our young lives. 

CHAPTER II. 

MY EARLIEST CHILDHOOD

My father died in Leipzigerstrasse, where, two weeks after, I was born. It is reported that I was an unusually sturdy, merry little fellow. Oneof my father's relatives, Frau Mosson, said that I actually laughed onthe third day of my life, and several other proofs of my precociouscheerfulness were related by this lady. 

So I must believe that--less wise than Lessing's son, who looked at lifeand thought it would be more prudent to turn his back upon it--I greetedwith a laugh the existence which, amid beautiful days of sunshine, was tobring me so many hours of suffering. 

Spring was close at hand; the house in noisy Leipzigerstrasse wasdistasteful to my mother, her soul longed for rest, and at that time sheformed the resolutions according to which she afterward strove to trainher boys to be able men. Her first object was to obtain pure air for thelittle children, and room for the larger ones to exercise. So she lookedfor a residence outside the gate, and succeeded in renting for a term ofyears No. 4 Thiergartenstrasse, which I have already mentioned. 

The owner, Frau Kommissionsrath Reichert, had also lost her husband ashort time before, and had determined to let the house, which stood nearher own, stand empty rather than rent it to a large family of children. 

Alone herself, she shrank from the noise of growing boys and girls. Butshe had a warm, kind heart, and--she told me this herself--the sight ofthe beautiful young mother in her deep mourning made her quickly forgether prejudice. "If she had brought ten bawlers instead of five, " sheremarked, "I would not have refused the house to that angel face. "

We all cherish a kindly memory of the vigorous, alert woman, with herround, bright countenance and laughing eyes. She soon became veryintimate with my mother, and my second sister, Paula, was her specialfavorite, on whom she lavished every indulgence. Her horses were thefirst ones on which I was lifted, and she often took us with her in thecarriage or sent us to ride in it. 

I still remember distinctly some parts of our garden, especially theshady avenue leading from our balcony on the ground floor to theSchafgraben, the pond, the beautiful flower-beds in front of FrauReichert's stately house, and the field of potatoes where I--the gardenerwas the huntsman--saw my first partridge shot. This was probably on thevery spot where for many years the notes of the organ have pealedthrough the Matthaikirche, and the Word of God has been expounded to acongregation whose residences stand on the playground of my childhood. 

The house which sheltered us was only two stories high, but pretty andspacious. We needed abundant room, for, besides my mother, the fivechildren, and the female servants, accommodation was required for thegoverness, and a man who held a position midway between porter and butlerand deserved the title of factotum if any one ever did. His name wasKurschner; he was a big-boned, square-built fellow about thirty yearsold, who always wore in his buttonhole the little ribbon of the order hehad gained as a soldier at the siege of Antwerp, and who had been takeninto the house by our mother for our protection, for in winter our home, surrounded by its spacious grounds, was very lonely. 

As for us five children, first came my oldest sister Martha--now, alas!dead--the wife of Lieutenant-Colonel Baron Curt von Brandenstein, and mybrother Martin, who were seven and five years older than I. 

They were, of course, treated differently from us younger ones. 

Paula was my senior by three years; Ludwig, or Ludo--he was called by hisnickname all his life--by a year and a half. 

Paula, a fresh, pretty, bright, daring child, was often the leader in ourgames and undertakings. Ludo, who afterward became a soldier and as aPrussian officer did good service in the war, was a gentle boy, somewhatdelicate in health--the broad-shouldered man shows no trace of it--andthe best of playfellows. We were always together, and were frequentlymistaken for twins. We shared everything, and on my birthday, giftswere bestowed on him too; on his, upon me. 

Each had forgotten the first person singular of the personal pronoun, andnot until comparatively late in life did I learn to use "I" and "me" inthe place of "we" and "us. "

The sequence of events in this quiet country home has, of course, vanished from my mind, and perhaps many which I mention here occurred inLennestrasse, where we moved later, but the memories of the time we spentin the Thiergarten overlooked by our second home--are among the brightestof my life. How often the lofty trees and dense shrubbery of our owngrounds and the beautiful Berlin Thiergarten rise before my mentalvision, when my thoughts turn backward and I see merry children playingamong them, and hear their joyous laughter!

 FAIRY TALES AND FACT. 

What happened in the holy of holies, my mother's chamber, has remained, down to the smallest details, permanently engraved upon my soul. 

A mother's heart is like the sun--no matter how much light it diffuses, its warmth and brilliancy never lessen; and though so lavish a flood oftenderness was poured forth on me, the other children were no losers. But I was the youngest, the comforter, the nestling; and never was thefact of so much benefit to me as at that time. 

My parents' bed stood in the green room with the bright carpet. It hadbeen brought from Holland, and was far larger and wider than bedsteads ofthe present day. My mother had kept it. A quilted silk coverlet wasspread over it, which felt exquisitely soft, and beneath which one couldrest delightfully. When the time for rising came, my mother called me. I climbed joyfully into her warm bed, and she drew her darling into herarms, played all sorts of pranks with him, and never did I listen to morebeautiful fairy tales than at those hours. They became instinct withlife to me, and have always remained so; for my mother gave them the formof dramas, in which I was permitted to be an actor. 

The best one of all was Little Red Riding Hood. I played the little girlwho goes into the wood, and she was the wolf. When the wicked beast haddisguised itself in the grandmother's cap I not only asked the regulationquestions: "Grandmother, what makes you have such big eyes? Grandmother, why is your skin so rough?" etc. , but invented new ones to defer thegrand final effect, which followed the words, "Grandmother, why do youhave such big, sharp teeth?" and the answer, "So that I can eat you, "whereupon the wolf sprang on me and devoured me--with kisses. 

Another time I was Snow-White and she the wicked step-mother, and alsothe hunter, the dwarf, and the handsome prince who married her. 

How real this merry sport made the distress of persecuted innocence, theterrors and charm of the forest, the joys and splendours of the fairyrealm! If the flowers in the garden had raised their voices in song, ifthe birds on the boughs had called and spoken to me--nay, if a tree hadchanged into a beautiful fairy, or the toad in the damp path of ourshaded avenue into a witch--it would have seemed only natural. 

It is a singular thing that actual events which happened in those earlydays have largely vanished from my memory; but the fairy tales I heardand secretly experienced became firmly impressed on my mind. Educationand life provided for my familiarity with reality in all its harshnessand angles, its strains and hurts; but who in later years could haveflung wide the gates of the kingdom where everything is beautiful andgood, and where ugliness is as surely doomed to destruction as evil topunishment? Even poesy in our times turns from the Castalian fount whosecrystal-clear water becomes an unclean pool and, though reluctantly, obeys the impulse to make its abode in the dust of reality. Therefore Iplead with voice and pen in behalf of fairy tales; therefore I tell themto my children and grandchildren, and have even written a volume of themmyself. 

How perverse and unjust it is to banish the fairy tale from the life ofthe child, because devotion to its charm might prove detrimental to thegrown person! Has not the former the same claim to consideration as thelatter?

Every child is entitled to expect a different treatment and judgment, and to receive what is his due undiminished. Therefore it is unjust toinjure and rob the child for the benefit of the man. Are we even surethat the boy is destined to attain the second and third stages--youth andmanhood?

True, there are some apostles of caution who deny themselves every joy ofexistence while in their prime, in order, when their locks are grey, topossess wealth which frequently benefits only their heirs. 

All sensible mothers will doubtless, like ours, take care that theirchildren do not believe the stories which they tell them to be true. Ido not remember any time when, if my mind had been called upon to decide, I should have thought that anything I invented myself had reallyhappened; but I know that we were often unable to distinguish whether theplausible tale related by some one else belonged to the realm of fact orfiction. On such occasions we appealed to my mother, and her answerinstantly set all doubts at rest; for we thought she could never bemistaken, and knew that she always told the truth. 

As to the stories invented by myself, I fared like other imaginativechildren. I could imagine the most marvellous things about every memberof the household, and while telling them--but only during that time--Ioften fancied that they were true; yet the moment I was asked whetherthese things had actually occurred, it seemed as if I woke from a dream. I at once separated what I had imagined from what I had actuallyexperienced, and it would never have occurred to me to persist against mybetter knowledge. So the vividly awakened power of imagination ledneither me, my brothers and sisters, nor my children and grandchildreninto falsehood. 

In after years I abhorred it, not only because my mother would ratherhave permitted any other offence to pass unpunished, but because I had anopportunity of perceiving its ugliness very early in life. When onlyseven or eight years old I heard a boy--I still remember his name--tellhis mother a shameless lie about some prank in which I had shared. I didnot interrupt him to vindicate the truth, but I shrank in horror with thefeeling of having witnessed a crime. 

If Ludo and I, even in the most critical situations, adhered to the truthmore rigidly than other boys, we "little ones" owe it especially to oursister Paula, who was always a fanatic in its cause, and even now enduresmany an annoyance because she scorns the trivial "necessary fibs" deemedallowable by society. 

True, the interesting question of how far necessary fibs are justifiableamong children, is yet to be considered; but what did we know of suchnecessity in our sports in the Thiergarten? From what could a lie havesaved us except a blow from a beloved mother's little hand, which, it istrue, when any special misdeed was punished by a box on the ear, couldinflict a tolerable amount of pain by means of the rings which adornedit. 

There is a tradition that once when she had slapped Paula's pretty face, the odd child rubbed her cheek and said, with the droll calmness thatrarely deserted her, "When you want to strike me again, mother, pleasetake off your rings first. "

 THE GOVERNESS--THE CEMETERY. 

During the time we lived in the Thiergarten my mother's hand scarcelyever touched my face except in a caress. Every memory of her is brightand beautiful. I distinctly remember how merrily she jested and playedwith us, and from my earliest recollections her beloved face alwaysgreets me cheerily. Yet she had moved to the Thiergarten with a heartoppressed by the deepest sorrow. 

I know from the woman who accompanied her there as the governess of thetwo eldest children, and became a faithful friend, how deeply she neededconsolation, how completely her feelings harmonized with the widow'sweeds she wore, and in which she is said to have been so beautiful. 

The name of this rare woman was Bernhardine Kron. A native ofMecklenburg, she united to rich and wide culture the sterling character, warmth of feeling, and fidelity of this sturdy and sympathetic branch ofthe German nation. She soon became deeply attached to the young widow, to whose children she was to devote her best powers, and, in after years, her eyes often grew dim when she spoke of the time during which sheshared our mother's grief and helped her in her work of education. 

Both liked to recall in later days the quiet evenings when, after therest of the household had retired, they read alone or discussed whatstirred their hearts. Each gave the other what she could. The Germangoverness went through our classic authors with her employer, and mymother read to her the works of Racine and Corneille, and urged her tospeak French and English with her; for, like many natives of Holland, hermastery of both languages was as thorough as if she had grown up in Parisor London. The necessity of studying and sharing her own richintellectual possessions continued to be a marked trait in my mother'scharacter until late in life, and how much cause for gratitude we allhave for the share she gave us of her own knowledge and experience!

Fraulein Kron always deeply appreciated the intellectual development sheowed to her employer, while the latter never forgot the comfort andsupport bestowed by the faithful governess in the most sorrowful days ofher life. When I first became conscious of my surroundings, these dayswere over; but in saying that my first recollections of my mother werebright and cheerful, I forgot the hours devoted to my father's memory. She rarely brought them to our notice; a certain chaste reserve, evenlater in life, prevented her showing her deepest grief to others. Shealways strove to cope with her sorest trials alone. Her sunny natureshrank from diffusing shadow and darkness around her. 

On the 14th of February, the anniversary of my father's death, wherevershe might be, she always withdrew from the members of the household, andeven her own children. A second occasion of sharing her sorrowfulemotion was repeated several times every summer. This was the visit tothe cemetery, which she rarely made alone. 

The visits impressed us all strongly, and the one I first remember couldnot have occurred later than my fifth year, for I distinctly recollectthat Frau Rapp's horses took us to the churchyard. My father was buriedin the Dreifaltigkeitskirchhof, --[Trinity churchyard]--just outside theHalle Gate. I found it so little changed when I entered it again, twoyears ago, that I could walk without a guide directly to the Ebers familyvault. But what a transformation had taken place in the way!

When we visited it with my mother, which was always in carriages, for itwas a long distance from our home, we drove quickly through the city, thegate, and as far as the spot where I found the stately pile of the brickKreuzkirche; then we turned to the right, and if we had come in cabs wechildren got out, it was so hard for the horses to drag the vehicles overthe sandy road which led to the cemetery. 

During this walk we gathered blue cornflowers and scarlet poppies fromthe fields, bluebells, daisies, ranunculus, and snapdragon from thenarrow border of turf along the roadside, and tied them into bouquets forthe graves. My mother moved silently with us between the rows of grassymounds, tombstones, and crosses, while we carried the pots of flowers andwreaths, which, to afford every one the pleasure of helping, she haddistributed among us at the gravedigger's house, just back of thecemetery. 

Our family burial place--my mother's stone cross now stands there besidemy father's--was one of those bounded in the rear by the church yardwall; a marble slab set in the masonry bears the owner's name. It islarge enough for us all, and lies at the right of the path between CountKalckreuth's and the stately mausoleum which contains the earthly remainsof Moritz von Oppenfeld--who was by far the dearest of our father'srelatives--and his family. 

My mother led the way into the small enclosure, which was surrounded byan iron railing, and prayed or thought silently of the beloved dead whorested there. 

Is there any way for us Protestants, when love for the dead longs to findexpression in action, except to adorn with flowers the places whichcontain their earthly remains? Their bright hues and a child's beamingface are the only cheerful things which a mourner whose wounds are stillbleeding freshly beside a coffin can endure to see, and I might compareflowers to the sound of bells. Both are in place and welcome in thesupreme moments of life. 

Therefore my mother, besides a heart full of love, always brought to myfather's grave children and flowers. When she had satisfied the needs ofher own soul, she turned to us, and with cheerful composure directed thedecoration of the mound. Then she spoke of our father, and if any of ushad recently incurred punishment--one instance of this kind is indeliblyimpressed on my memory--she passed her arms around the child, and inwhispered words, which no one else could hear, entreated the son ordaughter not to grieve her so again, but to remember the dead. Such anadmonition on this spot could not fail to produce its effect, and broughtforgiveness with it. 

On our return our hands and hearts were free again, and we were atliberty to use our tongues. During these visits my interest inSchleiermacher was awakened, for his grave--he died in 1834, three yearsbefore I was born--lay near our lot, and we often stopped before thestone erected by his friends, grateful pupils, and admirers. It wasadorned with his likeness in marble; and my mother, who had frequentlymet him, pausing in front of it, told us about the keen-sightedtheologian, philosopher, and pulpit orator, whose teachings, as I was tolearn later, had exerted the most powerful influence upon my principalinstructors at Keilhau. She also knew his best enigmas; and thefollowing one, whose terse brevity is unsurpassed:

 "Parted I am sacred, United abominable"--

she had heard him propound himself. The answer, "Mein eid" (my oath), and "Meineid" (perjury), every one knows. 

Nothing was further from my mother's intention than to make these visitsto the cemetery special memorial days; on the contrary, they were inter-woven into our lives, not set at regular intervals or on certain dates, but when her heart prompted and the weather was favourable for out-of-door excursions. Therefore they became associated in our minds withhappy and sacred memories. 

CHAPTER III. 

ON FESTAL DAYS

The celebration of a memorial day by outward forms was one of my mother'scustoms; for, spite of her sincerity of feeling, she favoured externalceremonies, and tried when we were very young to awaken a sense of theirmeaning in our minds. 

On all festal occasions we children were freshly dressed from top to toe, and all of us, including the servants, had cakes at breakfast, and theolder ones wine at dinner. 

On the birthdays these cakes were surrounded by as many candles as wenumbered years, and provision was always made for a dainty arrangement ofgifts. While we were young, my mother distinguished the "birthday child"--probably in accordance with some custom of her native country--by asilk scarf. She liked to celebrate her own birthday, too, and ever sinceI can remember--it was on the 25th of July--we had a picnic at that time. 

We knew that it was a pleasure to her to see us at her table on that day, and, up to the last years of her life, all whose vocations permitted metat her house on the anniversary. 

She went to church on Sunday, and on Good Friday she insisted that mysisters as well as her self should wear black, not only during theservice, but throughout the rest of the day. 

Few children enjoyed a more beautiful Christmas than ours, for under thetree adorned with special love each found the desire of his or her heartgratified, while behind the family gift-table there always stood another, on which several poorer people whom I might call "clients" of thehousehold, discovered presents which suited their needs. Among them, upto the time I went as a boy of eleven to Keilhau, I never failed to seemy oldest sister's nurse with her worthy husband, the shoemaker Grossman, and their well-behaved children. She gladly permitted us to share in thedistribution of the alms liberally bestowed on the needy. The seemingparadox, "No one ever grew poor by giving, " I first heard from her lips, and she more than once found an opportunity to repeat it. 

We, however, never valued her gifts of money so highly as the trouble andinconveniences she cheerfully encountered to aid or add to the happinessof others by means of the numerous relations formed in her social lifeand the influence gained mainly by her own gracious nature. Many who arenow occupying influential positions owe their first start or have had thepath smoothed for them by her kindness. 

As in many Berlin families, the Christmas Man came to us--an old mandisguised by a big beard and provided with a bag filled with nuts andbonbons and sometimes trifling gifts. He addressed us in a feignedvoice, saying that the Christ Child had sent him, but the dainties he hadwere intended only for the good children who could recite some thing forhim. Of course, provision for doing this had been made. Everybodypressed forward, but the Christmas Man kept order, and only when each hadrepeated a little verse did he open the bag and distribute its contentsamong us. 

Usually the Christmas Man brought a companion, who followed him in theguise of Knecht Ruprecht with his own bag of presents, and mingled withhis jests threats against naughty children. 

The carp served on Christmas eve in every Berlin family, after thedistribution of gifts, and which were never absent from my mother'stable, I have always had on my own in Jena, Leipsic, and Munich, orwherever the evening of December 24th might find us. On the whole, weremain faithful to the Christmas customs of my own home, which varylittle from those of the Germans in Riga, where my wife's family belong;nay, it is so hard for me to relinquish such childish habits, that, whenunable to procure a Christmas tree for the two "Eves" I spent on theNile, I decked a young palm and fastened candles on it. My mother'spermission that Knecht Ruprecht should visit us was contrary to herprinciple never to allow us to be frightened by images of horror. Nay, if she heard that the servants threatened us with the Black Man and otherhobgoblins of Berlin nursery tales, she was always very angry. Thearguments by which my wife induced me to banish the Christmas Man andKnecht Ruprecht seem still more cogent, now that I think I understand thehearts of children. It is certainly far more beautiful and just as easy-if we desire to utilize Christmas gifts for educational purposes--tostimulate children to goodness by telling them of the pleasure it willgive the little Christ Child, rather than by filling them with dread ofKnecht Ruprecht. 

True, my mother did not fail to endeavor to inspire us with love for theChrist Child and the Saviour, and to draw us near to him. She saw inhim, above all else, the embodiment of love, and loved him because herloving heart understood his. In after years my own investigation andthought brought me to the same conviction which she had reached throughthe relation of her feminine nature to the person and teachings of herSaviour. I perceived that the world as Jesus Christ found it owes himnothing grander, more beautiful, loftier, or more pregnant withimportance than that he widened the circle of love which embraced onlythe individual, the family, the city, or, at the utmost, the country ofwhich a person was a citizen, till it included all mankind, and thishuman love, of which my mother's life gave us practical proof, is thebanner under which all the genuine progress of mankind in later yearshas been made. 

Nineteen centuries have passed since the one that gave us Him who died onthe cross, and how far we are still from a perfect realization of thisnoblest of all the emotions of the heart and spirit! And yet, on the daywhen this human love has full sway, the social problems which now disturbso many minds and will permit the brains of our best citizens to take norest, will be solved. 

 OTHER OBLIGATIONS TO MY MOTHER, AND A SUMMARY OF THE NEW AND GREAT EVENTS WHICH BEFELL THE GERMANS DURING MY LIFE. 

I omit saying more of my mother's religious feelings and relations toGod, because I know that it would be contrary to her wishes to informstrangers of the glimpse she afterward afforded me of the inmost depthsof her soul. 

That, like every other mother, she clasped our little hands in prayer isa matter of course. I could not fall asleep until she had done this andgiven me my good-night kiss. How often I have dreamed of her when, before going to some entertainment, she came in full evening dress tohear me repeat my little prayer and bid us good-bye!

But she also provided most carefully for the outward life; nay, perhapsshe laid a little too much stress upon our manners in greeting strangers, at table, and elsewhere. 

Among these forms I might number the fluent use of the French language, which my mother early bestowed upon us as if its acquisition was meresport-bestowed; for, unhappily, I know of no German grammar school wherepupils can learn to speak French with facility; and how many never-to-be-forgotten memories of travel, what great benefits during my period ofstudy in Paris I owe to this capacity! We obtained it by the help ofbonnes, who found it easier to speak French to us because our motheralways did the same in their presence. 

My mother considered it of the first importance to make us familiar withFrench at a very early age, because, when she reached Berlin with ascanty knowledge of German, her mastery of French secured numerouspleasant things. She often told us how highly French was valued in thecapital, and we must believe that the language possesses an imperishablecharm for Germans when we remember that this was the case so shortlyafter the glorious uprising against the terrible despotism of France. True, French, in addition to its melody and ambiguity, possesses moresubtle turns and apt phrases than most other languages; and even the mostGerman of Germans, our Bismarck, must recognize the fitness of itsphrases, because he likes to avail himself of them. He has a perfectknowledge of French, and I have noticed that, whenever he mingles it withGerman, the former has some sentence which enables him to communicate inbetter and briefer language whatever he may desire to express. WhatGerman form of speech, for instance, can convey the idea of fulness whichwill permit no addition so well as the French popular saying, "Full as anegg, " which pleased me in its native land, and which first greeted me inGermany as an expression used by the great chancellor?

My mother's solicitude concerning good manners and perfection in speakingFrench, which so easily renders children mere dolls, fortunately couldnot deprive us of our natural freshness and freedom from constraint. But if any peril to the character does lurk in being unduly mindful ofexternal forms, we three brothers were destined to spend a large portionof our boyhood amid surroundings which, as it were, led us back toNature. Besides, even in Berlin we were not forbidden to play likegenuine boys. We had no lack of playmates of both sexes, and with themwe certainly talked and shouted no French, but sturdy Berlin German. 

In winter, too, we were permitted to enjoy ourselves out of doors, andfew boys made handsomer snow-men than those our worthy Kurschner--alwayswith the order in his buttonhole--helped us build in Thiergartenstrasse. 

In the house we were obliged to behave courteously, and when I recall theappearance of things there I become vividly aware that no series of yearswitnessed more decisive changes in every department of life in Germanythan those of my boyhood. The furnishing of the rooms differed littlefrom that of the present day, except that the chairs and tables weresomewhat more angular and the cushions less comfortable. Instead of thelittle knobs of the electric bells, a so-called "bell-rope, " about thewidth of one's hand, provided with a brass or metal handle, hung besidethe doors. 

The first introduction of gas into the city was made by an Englishcompany about ten years before my birth; but how many oil lamps I stillsaw burning, and in my school days the manufacturing city of Kottbus, which at that time contained about ten thousand inhabitants, was lightedby them! In my childhood gas was not used in the houses and theatres ofBerlin, and kerosene had not found its way to Germany. The rooms werelighted by oil lamps and candles, while the servants burned tallow-dips. The latter were also used in our nursery, and during the years which Ispent at school in Keilhau all our studying was done by them. 

Matches were not known. I still remember the tinder box in the kitchen, the steel, the flint, and the threads dipped in sulphur. The sparks madeby striking fell on the tinder and caught it on fire here and there. Soon after the long, rough lucifer matches appeared, which were dippedinto a little bottle filled, I believe, with asbestos wet with sulphuricacid. 

We never saw the gardener light his pipe except with flint, steel, andtinder. The gun he used had a firelock, and when he had put firstpowder, then a wad, then shot, and lastly another wad into the barrel, hewas obliged to shake some powder into the pan, which was lighted by thesparks from the flint striking the steel, if the rain did not make it toodamp. 

For writing we used exclusively goose-quills, for though steel pens wereinvented soon after I was born, they were probably very imperfect; and, moreover, had to combat a violent prejudice, for at the first school weattended we were strictly forbidden to use them. So the penknife playedan important part on every writing-desk, and it was impossible to imaginea good penman who did not possess skill in the art of shaping the quills. 

What has been accomplished between 1837 and the present date in the wayof means of communication I need not recapitulate. I only know how longa time was required for a letter from my mother's brothers--one was aresident of Java and the other lived as "Opperhoofd" in Japan--to reachBerlin, and how often an opportunity was used, generally through thecourtesy of the Netherland embassy, for sending letters or little giftsto Holland. A letter forwarded by express was the swiftest way ofreceiving or giving news; but there was the signal telegraph, whose armswe often saw moving up and down, but exclusively in the service of theGovernment. When, a few years ago, my mother was ill in Holland, a replyto a telegram marked "urgent" was received in Leipsic in eighteenminutes. What would our grandparents have said to such a miracle?

We were soon to learn by experience the number of days required to reachmy mother's home from Berlin, for there was then no railroad to Holland. 

The remarkable changes wrought during my lifetime in the politicalaffairs of Germany I can merely indicate here. I was born in despoticPrussia, which was united to Austria and the German states and smallcountries by a loosely formed league. As guardians of this wretchedunity the various courts sent diplomats to Frankfort, who interruptedtheir careless mode of life only to sharpen distrust of other courts orsuppress some democratic movement. 

The Prussian nation first obtained in 1848 the liberties which had beensecured at an earlier date by the other German states, and nothing givesme more cause for gratitude than the boon of being permitted to see therealization and fulfilment of the dream of so many former generations, and my dismembered native land united into one grand, beautiful whole. Ideem it a great happiness to have been a contemporary of Emperor WilliamI, Bismarck, and Von Moltke, witnessed their great deeds as a man ofmature years, and shared the enthusiasm they evoked and which enabledthese men to make our German Fatherland the powerful, united empire itis to-day. 

The journey to Holland closes the first part of my childhood. I lookback upon it as a beautiful, unshadowed dream out of doors or in apleasant house where everybody loved me. But I could not single out theyears, months, or days of this retrospect. It is only a smooth streamwhich bears us easily along. There is no series of events, onlydisconnected images--a faithful dog, a picture on the wall, above all thelove and caresses of the mother lavished specially on me as the youngest, and the most blissful of all sounds in the life of a German child, theringing of the little bell announcing that the Christmas tree is ready. 

Only in after days, when the world of fairyland and legend is leftbehind, does the child have any idea of consecutive events and humandestinies. The stories told by mother and grandmother about Snow-White, the Sleeping Beauty, the giants and the dwarfs, Cinderella, the stable atBethlehem where the Christ-Child lay in the manger beside the oxen andasses, the angels who appeared to the shepherds singing "Glory to God inthe Highest, " the three kings and the star which led them to the Christ-Child, are firmly impressed on his memory. I don't know how young I waswhen I saw the first picture of the kings in their purple robes kneelingbefore the babe in its mother's lap, but its forms and hues wereindelibly stamped upon my mental vision, and I never forgot its meaning. True, I had no special thoughts concerning it; nay, I scarcely wonderedto see kings in the dust before a child, and now, when I hear the summonsof the purest and noblest of Beings, "Suffer little children to come untome, " and understand the sacred simplicity of a child's heart, it nolonger awakens surprise. 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE JOURNEY TO HOLLAND TO ATTEND THE GOLDEN WEDDING. 

The rattle of wheels and the blast of the postilion's horn closed thefirst period of my childhood. When I was four years old we went to mymother's home to attend my grandparents' golden wedding. If I wished todescribe the journey in its regular order I should be forced to dependupon the statements of others. So little of all which grown peopledeem worth seeing and noting in Belgium, Holland, and on the Rhine hasremained in my memory, that I cannot help smiling when I hear people saythat they intend to take children travelling for their amusement andinstruction. In our case we were put in the carriage because my motherwould not leave us behind, and wanted to give our grandparents pleasureby our presence. She was right, but in spite of my inborn love of travelthe month we spent on the journey seemed a period of very uncomfortablerestlessness. A child realizes only a single detail of beauty--a flower, a radiant star, a human face. Any individual recollection of the journeyto Holland, aside from what has been told me, is getting into thetravelling carriage, a little green leather Bajazzo dressed in red andwhite given to me by a relative, and the box of candies bestowed to takeon the trip by a friend of my mother. 

Of our reception in the Belgian capital at the house of Adolphe Jones, the husband of my aunt Henriette, a sister of my mother, I retain manyrecollections. 

Our pleasant host was a painter of animals, whom I afterward saw sharinghis friend Verboeckhoven's studio, and whose flocks of sheep were veryhighly praised. At that time his studio was in his own house, and itseems as if I could still hear the call in my aunt's shrill voice, repeated countless times a day, "Adolphe!" and the answer, followingpromptly in the deepest bass tones, "Henriette!" This singular freak, which greatly amused us, was due, as I learned afterward, to my aunt'sjealousy, which almost bordered on insanity. 

In later years I learned to know him as a jovial artist, who in the daysof his youth very possibly might have given the strait-laced lady causefor anxiety. Even when his locks were white he was ready for anypleasure; but he devoted himself earnestly to art, and I am underobligation to him for being the means of my mother's possessing thefriendship of the animal painter, Verboeckhoven, and that greatest ofmore modern Belgian artists, Louis Gallait and his family, in whosesociety and home I have passed many delightful hours. 

In recalling our arrival at the Jones house I first see the merry, smiling face--somewhat faunlike in its expression--of my six-foot uncle, and the plump figure of his wonderfully good and when undisturbed byjealousy--no less cheery wife. There was something specially winning andlovable about her, and I have heard that this lady, my mother's oldestsister, possessed in her youth the same dazzling beauty. At the famousball in Brussels this so captivated the Duke of Wellington that heoffered her his arm to escort her back to her seat. My mother alsoremembered the Napoleonic days, and I thought she had been speciallyfavoured in seeing this great man when he entered Rotterdam, and alsoGoethe. 

I remember my grandfather as a stately old gentleman. He, as well asthe other members of the family, called me Georg Krullebol, which meanscurly-head, to distinguish me from a cousin called Georg von Gent. Ialso remember that when, on the morning of December 5th, St. Nicholasday, we children took our shoes to put on, we found them, to our delight, stuffed with gifts; and lastly that on Christmas Eve the tree which hadbeen prepared for us in a room on the ground floor attracted such a crowdof curious spectators in front of the Jones house that we were obliged toclose the shutters. Of my grandparents' day of honor I remember nothingexcept a large room filled with people, and the minutes during whichI repeated my little verse. I can still see myself in a short pinkskirt, with a wreath of roses on my fair curls, wings on my shoulders, aquiver on my back, and a bow in my hand, standing before the mirror verymuch pleased with my appearance. Our governess had composed littleCupid's speech, my mother had drilled me thoroughly in it, so I do notremember a moment of anxiety and embarrassment, but merely that itafforded me the purest, deepest pleasure to be permitted to do something. 

I must have behaved with the utmost ease before the spectators, many ofwhom I knew, for I can still hear the loud applause which greeted me, andsee myself passed from one to another till I fled from the kisses and petnames of grandparents, aunts, and cousins to my mother's lap. Of thebride and groom of this golden wedding I remember only that mygrandfather wore short trousers called 'escarpins' and stockings reachingto the knee. My grandmother, spite of her sixty-six years--she marriedbefore she was seventeen--was said to look remarkably pretty. Later Ioften saw the heavy white silk dress strewn with tiny bouquets which shewore as a bride and again remodelled at her silver wedding; for after herdeath it was left to my mother. Modern wedding gowns are not treasuredso long. I have often wondered why I recollect my grandfather sodistinctly and my grandmother so dimly. I have a clear idea of herpersonal appearance, but this I believe I owe much more to her portraitwhich hung in my mother's room beside her husband's, and is now one of myown most cherished possessions. Bradley, one of the best Englishportrait painters, executed it, and all connoisseurs pronounce it amasterpiece. 

This festival lives in my memory like the fresh spring morning of a daywhose noon is darkened by clouds, and which ends in a heavy thunderstorm. 

Black clouds had gathered over the house adorned with garlands andflowers, echoing for days with the gay conversations, jests, andcongratulations of the relatives united after long separation and themirth of children and grandchildren. Not a loud word was permitted to beuttered. We felt that something terrible was impending, and peoplecalled it grandfather's illness. Never had I seen my mother's sunny faceso anxious and sad. She rarely came to us, and when she did for a shorttime her thoughts were far away, for she was nursing her father. 

Then the day which had been dreaded came. Wherever we looked the womenwere weeping and the eyes of the men were reddened by tears. My mother, pale and sorrowful, told us that our dear grandfather was dead. 

Children cannot understand the terrible solemnity of death. This is agift bestowed by their guardian angels, that no gloomy shadows may darkenthe sunny brightness of their souls. 

I saw only that cheerful faces were changed to sad ones, that the figuresabout us moved silently in sable robes and scarcely noticed us. On thetables in the nursery, where our holiday garments were made, blackclothes were being cut for us also, and I remember having my mourningdress fitted. I was pleased because it was a new one. I tried tomanufacture a suit for my Berlin Jack-in-the-box from the scraps thatfell from the dressmaker's table. Nothing amuses a child so much as toimitate what older people are doing. We were forbidden to laugh, butafter a few days our mother no longer checked our mirth. Of our stay atScheveningen I recollect nothing except that the paths in the littlegarden of the house we occupied were strewn with shells. We dug a bighole in the sand on the downs, but I retained no remembrance of the seaand its majesty, and when I beheld it in later years it seemed as if Iwere greeting for the first time the eternal Thalassa which was to becomeso dear and familiar to me. 

My grandmother, I learned, passed away scarcely a year after the death ofher faithful companion, at the home of her son, a lawyer in The Hague. 

Two incidents of the journey back are vividly impressed on my mind. Wewent by steamer up the Rhine, and stopped at Ehrenbreitstein to visit oldFrau Mendelssohn, our guardian's mother, at her estate of Horchheim. Thecarriage had been sent for us, and on the drive the spirited horses ranaway and would have dashed into the Rhine had not my brother Martin, atthat time eleven years old, who was sitting on the box by the coachman, saved us. 

The other incident is of a less serious nature. I had seen many a salmonin the kitchen, and resolved to fish for one from the steamer; so I tieda bit of candy to a string and dropped it from the deck. The fish wereso wanting in taste as to disdain the sweet bait, but my early awakenedlove of sport kept me patiently a long time in the same spot, which wasundoubtedly more agreeable to my mother than the bait was to the salmon. As, protected by the guards, and probably watched by the governess and mybrothers and sisters, I devoted myself to this amusement, my mother wentdown into the cabin to rest. Suddenly there was a loud uproar on theship. People shouted and screamed, everybody rushed on deck and lookedinto the river. Whether I, too, heard the fall and saw the life-boatmanned I don't remember; but I recollect all the more clearly my mother'srushing frantically from the cabin and clasping me tenderly to her heartas her rescued child. So the drama ended happily, but there had been aterrible scene. 

Among the steamer's passengers was a crazy Englishman who was beingtaken, under the charge of a keeper, to an insane asylum. While mymother was asleep the lunatic succeeded in eluding this man's vigilanceand plunged into the river. Of course, there was a tumult on board, andmy mother heard cries of "Fallen into the river!"

"Save!" "He'll drown!" Maternal anxiety instantly applied them to thechild-angler, and she darted up the cabin stairs. I need not describethe state of mind in which she reached the deck, and her emotion when shefound her nestling in his place, still holding the line in his hand. 

As the luckless son of Albion was rescued unharmed, we could look backupon the incident gaily, but neither of us forgot this anxiety--the firstI was to cause my mother. 

I have forgotten everything else that happened on our way home; but whenI think of this first journey, a long one for so young a child, and themany little trips--usually to Dresden, where my grandmother Ebers lived--which I was permitted to take, I wonder whether they inspired the love oftravel which moved me so strongly later, or whether it was an inborninstinct. If a popular superstition is correct, I was predestined tojourney. No less a personage than Friedrich Froebel, the founder of thekindergarten system, called my attention to it; for when I met him forthe first time in the Institute at Keilhau, he seized my curly hair, bentmy head back, gazed at me with his kind yet penetrating eyes, and said:"You will wander far through the world, my boy; your teeth are wideapart. "

CHAPTER V. 

LENNESTRASSE. --LENNE. --EARLY IMPRESSIONS. 

Lennestrasse is the scene of the period of my life which began with myreturn from Holland. If, coming from the Brandenburg Gate, you followthe Thiergarten and pass the superb statue of Goethe, you will reach acorner formed by two blocks of houses. The one on the left, opposite tothe city wall, now called Koniggratz, was then known asSchulgartenstrasse. The other, on the right, whose windows overlookedthe Thiergarten, bore the name in my childhood of Lennestrasse, which itowed to Lenne, the park superintendent, a man of great talent, but wholives in my memory only as a particularly jovial old gentleman. Heoccupied No. 1, and was one of my mother's friends. Next to PrincePackler, he may certainly be regarded as one of the most inventive andtasteful landscape gardeners of his time. He transformed the gardens ofSans-Souci and the Pfaueninsel at Potsdam, and laid out the magnificentpark on Babelsberg for Emperor William I, when he was only "Prince ofPrussia. " The magnificent Zoological Garden in Berlin is also his work;but he prided himself most on rendering the Thiergarten a "lung" for thepeople, and, spite of many obstacles, materially enlarging it. Everymoment of the tireless man's time was claimed, and besides King FrederickWilliam IV, who himself uttered many a tolerably good joke, found muchpleasure in the society of the gay, clever Rhinelander, whom he oftensummoned to dine with him at Potsdam. Lenne undoubtedly appreciated thishonour, yet I remember the doleful tone in which he sometimes greeted mymother with, "Called to court again!"

Like every one who loves Nature and flowers, he was fond of children. We called him "Uncle Lenne, " and often walked down our street hand inhand with him. 

It is well known that the part of the city on the other side of thePotsdam Gate was called the "Geheimerath-Quarter. " Our street, it istrue, lay nearer to the Brandenburg Gate, yet it really belonged to thatsection; for there was not a single house without at least oneGeheimerath (Privy Councillor). 

Yet this superabundance of men in "secret" positions lent no touch ofmystery to our cheerful street, shaded by the green of the forest. Franker, gayer, sometimes noisier children than its residents could notbe found in Berlin. I was only a little fellow when we lived there, andmerely tolerated in the "big boys'" sports, but it was a festival when, with Ludo, I could carry their provisions for them or even help them makefireworks. The old Rechnungsrath, who lived in the house owned byGeheimerath Crede, the father of my Leipsic colleague, was theirinstructor in this art, which was to prove disastrous to my oldestbrother and bright Paul Seiffart; for--may they pardon me the treachery--they took one of the fireworks to school, where--I hope accidentally--itwent off. At first this caused much amusement, but strict judgmentfollowed, and led to my mother's resolution to send her oldest son awayfrom home to some educational institution. 

The well-known teacher, Adolph Diesterweg, whose acquaintance she hadmade at the house of a friend, recommended Keilhau, and so our littleband was deprived of the leader to whom Ludo and I had looked up with acertain degree of reverence on account of his superior strength, his boldspirit of enterprise, and his kindly condescension to us younger ones. 

After his departure the house was much quieter, but we did not forgethim; his letters from Keilhau were read aloud to us, and his descriptionsof the merry school days, the pedestrian tours, and sleigh-rides awakenedan ardent longing in Ludo and myself to follow him. 

Yet it was so delightful with my mother, the sun around which our littlelives revolved! I had no thought, performed no act, without wonderingwhat would be her opinion of it; and this intimate relation, though in analtered form, continued until her death. In looking backward I mayregard it as a law of my whole development that my conduct was regulatedaccording to the more or less close mental and outward connection inwhich I stood with her. The storm and stress period, during which myeffervescent youthful spirits led me into all sorts of follies, was theonly time in my life in which this close connection threatened to beloosened. Yet Fate provided that it should soon be welded more firmlythan ever. When she died, a beloved wife stood by my side, but she waspart of myself; and in my mother Fate seemed to have robbed me of thesupreme arbitrator, the high court of justice, which alone could judge myacts. 

In Lennestrasse it was still she who waked me, prepared us to go toschool, took us to walk, and--how could I ever forget it?--gathered usaround her "when the lamps were lighted, " to read aloud or tell us somestory. But nobody was allowed to be perfectly idle. While my sisterssewed, I sketched; and, as Ludo found no pleasure in that, she sometimeshad him cut figures out; sometimes--an odd fancy--execute a masterpieceof crocheting, which usually shared the fate of Penelope's web. 

We listened with glowing cheeks to Robinson Crusoe and the ArabianNights, Gulliver's Travels and Don Quixote, both arranged for children, the pretty, stories of Nieritz and others, descriptions of Nature andtravel, and Grimm's fairy tales. 

On other winter evenings my mother--this will surprise many in the caseof so sensible a woman--took us to the theatre. Two of our relatives, Frau Amalie Beer and our beloved Moritz von Oppenfeld, subscribed forboxes in the opera-house, and when they did not use them, which oftenhappened, sent us the key. 

So as a boy I heard most of the operas produced at that time, and I sawthe ballets, of which Frederick William IV was especially fond, and whichTaglioni understood how to arrange so admirably. 

Of course, to us children the comic "Robert and Bertram, " by LudwigSchneider, and similar plays, were far more delightful than the grandoperas; yet even now I wonder that Don Giovanni's scene with the statueand the conspiracy in the Huguenots stirred me, when a boy of nine orten, so deeply, and that, though possessing barely the average amount ofmusical talent, Orpheus's yearning cry, "Eurydice!" rang in my ears solong. 

That these frequently repeated pleasures were harmful to us children Iwillingly admit. And yet--when in after years I was told that Isucceeded admirably in describing large bodies of men seized by somestrong excitement, and that my novels did not lack dramatic movement ortheir scenes vividness, and, where it was requisite, splendour--I perhapsowe this to the superb pictures, interwoven with thrilling bursts ofmelody, which impressed themselves upon my soul when a child. 

Fortunately, the outdoor life at Keilhau counteracted the perils whichmight have arisen from attending theatrical performances too young. WhatI beheld there, in field and forest, enabled me in after life, when Idesired a background for my stories, not to paint stage scenes, but takeNature herself for a model. 

I must also record another influence which had its share in my creativetoil--my early intercourse with artists and the opportunity of seeingtheir work. 

The statement has been made often enough, but I should like to repeat ithere from my own experience, that the most numerous and best impulseswhich urge the author to artistic development come from his childhood. This law, which results from observing the life and works of the greatestwriters, has shown itself very distinctly in a minor one like myself. 

There was certainly no lack of varied stimulus during this early periodof my existence; but when I look back upon it, I become vividly aware ofthe serious perils which threaten not only the external but the internaldevelopment of the children who grow up in large cities. 

Careful watching can guard them from the transgressions to which thereare many temptations, but not from the strong and varying impressionswhich life is constantly forcing upon them. They are thrust too earlyfrom the paradise of childhood into the arena of life. There are manythings to be seen which enrich the imagination, but where could the youngheart find the calmness it needs? The sighing of the wind sweeping overthe cornfields and stirring the tree-tops in the forest, the singing ofthe birds in the boughs, the chirping of the cricket, the vesper-bellssummoning the world to rest, all the voices which, in the country, inviteto meditation and finally to the formation of a world of one's own, aresilenced by the noise of the capital. So it happens that the latterproduces active, practical men, and, under favorable circumstances, greatscholars, but few artists and poets. If, nevertheless, the capitals arethe centers where the poets, artists, sculptors, and architects of thecountry gather, there is a good reason for it. But I can make no furtherdigression. The sapling requires different soil and care from the tree. I am grateful to my mother for removing us in time from the unrest ofBerlin life. 

 FIRST STUDIES. --MY SISTERS AND THEIR FRIENDS. 

My mother told me I was never really taught to read. Ludo, who was ayear and a half older, was instructed in the art. I sat by playing, andone day took up Speckter's Fables and read a few words. Trial was thenmade of my capability, and, finding that I only needed practice to beable to read things I did not know already by heart, my brother and Iwere thenceforth taught together. 

At first the governess had charge of us, afterward we were sent to alittle school kept by Herr Liebe in the neighbouring Schulgarten (nowKoniggratz) Strasse. It was attended almost entirely by childrenbelonging to the circle of our acquaintances, and the master was apleasant little man of middle age, who let us do more digging in hisgarden and playing or singing than actual study. 

His only child, a pretty little girl named Clara, was taught with us, andI believe I have Herr Liebe to thank for learning to write. In summer hetook us on long walks, frequently to the country seat of Herr Korte, whostood high in the estimation of farmers. 

From such excursions, which were followed by others made with the son andtutor of a family among our circle of friends, we always brought ourmother great bunches of flowers, and often beautiful stories, too; forthe tutor, Candidate Woltmann, was an excellent story-teller, and I earlyfelt a desire to share with those whom I loved whatever charmed me. 

It was from this man, who was as fond of the beautiful as he was ofchildren, that I first heard the names of the Greek heroes; and Iremember that, after returning from one of these walks, I begged mymother to give us Schwab's Tales of Classic Antiquity, which was owned byone of our companions. We received it on Ludo's birthday, in September, and how we listened when it was read to us--how often we ourselvesdevoured its delightful contents!

I think the story of the Trojan War made a deeper impression upon me thaneven the Arabian Nights. Homer's heroes seemed like giant oaks, whichfar overtopped the little trees of the human wood. They towered likeglorious snow mountains above the little hills with which my childishimagination was already filled; and how often we played the Trojan War, and aspired to the honor of acting Hector, Achilles, or Ajax!

Of Herr Liebe, our teacher, I remember only three things. On hisdaughter's birthday he treated us to cake and wine, and we had to sing afestal song composed by himself, the refrain of which changed every year:

 "Clara, with her fair hair thick, Clara, with her eyes like heaven, Can no more be called a chick, For to-day she's really seven. "

I remember, too, how when she was eight years old we had to transpose thewords a little to make the measure right. Karl von Holtei had a moredifficult task when, after the death of the Emperor Francis (KaiserFranz), he had to fit the name of his successor, Ferdinand, into thebeautiful "Gotterhalte Franz den Kaiser, " but he got cleverly out of theaffair by making it "Gott erhalte Ferdinandum. "--[God save the EmperorFrancis. ]

My second recollection is, that we assisted Herr Liebe, who was achurchwarden and had the honour of taking up the collection, to sort themoney, and how it delighted us to hear him scold--with good reason, too--when we found among the silver and copper pieces--as, alas! we almostalways did--counters and buttons from various articles of clothing. 

In the third place, I must accuse Herr Liebe of having paid very littleattention to our behaviour out of school. Had he kept his eyes open, wemight have been spared many a bruise and our garments many a rent; for, as often as we could manage it, instead of going directly home from theSchulgartenstrasse, we passed through the Potsdam Gate to the squarebeyond. There lurked the enemy, and we sought them out. The enemy werethe pupils of a humbler grade of school who called us Privy Councillor'syoungsters, which most of us were; and we called them, in return, 'Knoten, ' which in its original meaning was anything but an insult, coming as it does by a natural philological process from "Genote, " theolder form of "Genosse" or comrade. 

But to accuse us of arrogance on this account would be doing us wrong. Children don't fight regularly with those whom they despise. Our"Knoten" was only a smart answer to their "Geheimrathsjoren. " If theyhad called us boobies we should probably have called them blockheads, orsomething of that sort. 

This troop, which was not over-well-dressed even before the beginning ofthe conflict, was led by some boys whose father kept a so-called flowercellar--that is, a basement shop for plants, wreaths, etc. --at the headof Leipzigerstrasse. They often sought us out, but when they did not weenticed them from their cellar by a particular sort of call, and as soonas they appeared we all slipped into some courtyard, where a battlespeedily raged, in which our school knapsacks served as weapons ofoffence and defence. When I got into a passion I was as wild as afighting cock, and even quiet Ludo could deal hard blows; and I can saythe same of most of the "Geheimrathsjoren" and "Knoten. " It was notoften that any decided success attended the fight, for the janitor orsome inhabitant of the house usually interfered and brought it all to anuntimely end. I remember still how a fat woman, probably a cook, seizedme by the collar and pushed me out into the street, crying: "Fie! fie!such young gentlemen ought to be ashamed of themselves. "

Hegel, however, whose influence at that time was still great in thelearned circles of Berlin, had called shame "anger against what isnatural, " and we liked what was natural. So the battles with the"Knoten" were continued until the Berlin revolution called forth moreserious struggles, and our mother sent us away to Keilhau. 

Our sisters went to school also, a school kept by Fraulein Sollmann inthe Dorotheenstrasse. And yet we had a tutor, I do not really know why. Whether our mother had heard of the fights, and recognized theimpossibility of following us about everywhere, or whether the candidatewas to teach us the rudiments of Latin after we went to the Schmidtschool in the Leipziger Platz, at the beginning of my tenth year, Ineglected to inquire. 

The Easter holidays always brought Brother Martin home. Then he told usabout Keilhau, and we longed to accompany him there; and yet we had somany good schoolmates and friends at home, such spacious playgrounds andbeautiful toys! I recall with especial pleasure the army of tin soldierswith which we fought battles, and the brass cannon that mowed down theirranks. We could build castles and cathedrals with our blocks, andcooking was a pleasure, too, when our sisters allowed us to act asscullions and waiters in white aprons and caps. 

Martha, the eldest, was already a grown young lady, but so sweet and kindthat we never feared a rebuff from her; and her friends, too, liked uslittle ones. 

Martha's contemporaries formed a peculiarly charming circle. There wasthe beautiful Emma Baeyer, the daughter of General Baeyer, who afterwardconducted the measuring of the meridian for central Europe; pretty, lively Anna Bisting; and Gretchen Bugler, a handsome, merry girl, whoafterward married Paul Heyse and died young; Clara and AgnesMitscherlich, the daughters of the celebrated chemist, the younger ofwhom was especially dear to my childish heart. Gustel Grimm, too, thedaughter of Wilhelm Grimm, was often at our house. The queen of myheart, however, was the sister of our playmate, Max Geppert, and at thistime the most intimate friend of my sister Paula. The two took dancinglessons together, and there was no greater joy than when the lesson wasat our house, for then the young ladies occasionally did us the favour ofdancing with us, to Herr Guichard's tiny violin. 

Warm as was my love for the beautiful Annchen, my adored one came neargetting a cold from it, for, rogue that I was, I hid her overshoes duringthe lesson on one rainy Saturday evening, that I might have the pleasureof taking them to her the next morning. 

She looked at that time like the woman with whom I celebrated my silverwedding two years ago, and certainly belonged to the same feminine genre, which I value and place as high above all others as Simonides von Amorgospreferred the beelike woman to every other of her sex: I mean the kindwhose womanliness and gentle charm touch the heart before one ever thinksof intellect or beauty. 

Our mother smiled at these affairs, and her daughters, as girls, gave herno great trouble in guarding their not too impressionable hearts. 

There was only one boy for whom Paula showed a preference, and that waspretty blond Paul, our Martin's friend, comrade, and contemporary, theson of our neighbour, the Privy-Councillor Seiffart; and we lived a gooddeal together, for his mother and ours were bosom friends, and our housewas as open to him as his to us. 

Paul was born on the same November day as my sister, though several yearsearlier, and their common birthday was celebrated, while we were little, by a puppet-show at the neighbour's, conducted by some master in thebusiness, on a pretty little stage in the great hall at the Seiffarts'residence. 

I have never forgotten those performances, and laugh now when I think ofthe knight who shouted to his servant Kasperle, "Fear my thread!"(Zwirn), when what he intended to say was, "Fear my anger!" (Zorn). Or of that same Kasperle, when he gave his wife a tremendous drubbingwith a stake, and then inquired, "Want another ounce of unburned wood-ashes, my darling?"

Paula was very fond of these farces. She was, however, from a childrather a singular young creature, who did not by any means enjoy all theamusements of her age. When grown, it was often with difficulty that ourmother persuaded her to attend a ball, while Martha's eyes sparkledjoyously when there was a dance in prospect; and yet the tall and slenderPaula looked extremely pretty in a ball dress. 

Gay and active, indeed bold as a boy sometimes, so that she would lead intaking the rather dangerous leap from a balcony of our high ground floorinto the garden, clever, and full of droll fancies, she dwelt much in herown thoughts. Several volumes of her journal came to me after ourmother's death, and it is odd enough to find the thirteen-year-old girlconfessing that she likes no worldly pleasures, and yet, being a verytruthful child, she was only expressing a perfectly sincere feeling. 

It was touching to read in the same confessions: "I was in a dreamy mood, and they said I must be longing for something--Paul, no doubt. I did notdispute it, for I really was longing for some one, though it was not aboy, but our dead father. " And Paula was only three years old when heleft us!

No one would have thought, who saw her delight when there were fireworksin the Seiffarts' garden, or when in our own, with her curls and her gownflying, her cheeks glowing, and her eyes flashing, she played with allher heart at "catch" or "robber and princess, " or, all animation andinterest, conducted a performance of our puppet-show, that she wouldsometimes shun all noisy pleasure, that she longed with enthusiasticpiety for the Sunday churchgoing, and could plunge into meditation onsubjects that usually lie far from childish thoughts and feelings. 

Yet who would fancy her thoughtless when she wrote in her journal: "Fie, Paula! You have taken no trouble. Mother had a right to expect a betterreport. However, to be happy, one must forget what cannot be altered. "

In reality, she was not in the least "featherheaded. " Her life provedthat, and it is apparent, too, in the words I found on another page ofher journal, at thirteen: "Mother and Martha are at the Drakes; I willlearn my hymn, and then read in the Bible about the sufferings of Jesus. Oh, what anguish that must have been! And I? What do I do that is good, in making others happy or consoling their trouble? This must bedifferent, Paula! I will begin a new life. Mother always says we arehappy when we deny self in order to do good. Ah, if we always could!But I will try; for He did, though He might have escaped, for our sinsand to make us happy. "

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

Full as an eggI plead with voice and pen in behalf of fairy talesNobody was allowed to be perfectly idleThe carp served on Christmas eve in every Berlin familyTo be happy, one must forget what cannot be alteredUnjust to injure and rob the child for the benefit of the man