Mecklenburg, she united to rich and wide culture the sterling character,
warmth of feeling, and fidelity of this sturdy and sympathetic branch of
the 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 she
shared our mother's grief and helped her in her work of education.

Both liked to recall in later days the quiet evenings when, after the
rest of the household had retired, they read alone or discussed what
stirred their hearts. Each gave the other what she could. The German
governess went through our classic authors with her employer, and my
mother read to her the works of Racine and Corneille, and urged her to
speak French and English with her; for, like many natives of Holland, her
mastery of both languages was as thorough as if she had grown up in Paris
or London. The necessity of studying and sharing her own rich
intellectual possessions continued to be a marked trait in my mother's
character until late in life, and how much cause for gratitude we all
have for the share she gave us of her own knowledge and experience!

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

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

The visits impressed us all strongly, and the one I first remember could
not have occurred later than my fifth year, for I distinctly recollect
that Frau Rapp's horses took us to the churchyard. My father was buried
in the Dreifaltigkeitskirchhof,--[Trinity churchyard]--just outside the
Halle Gate. I found it so little changed when I entered it again, two
years ago, that I could walk without a guide directly to the Ebers family
vault. But what a transformation had taken place in the way!

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

During this walk we gathered blue cornflowers and scarlet poppies from
the fields, bluebells, daisies, ranunculus, and snapdragon from the
narrow border of turf along the roadside, and tied them into bouquets for
the graves. My mother moved silently with us between the rows of grassy
mounds, tombstones, and crosses, while we carried the pots of flowers and
wreaths, which, to afford every one the pleasure of helping, she had
distributed among us at the gravedigger's house, just back of the
cemetery.

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

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

Is there any way for us Protestants, when love for the dead longs to find
expression in action, except to adorn with flowers the places which
contain their earthly remains? Their bright hues and a child's beaming
face are the only cheerful things which a mourner whose wounds are still
bleeding freshly beside a coffin can endure to see, and I might compare
flowers to the sound of bells. Both are in place and welcome in the
supreme moments of life.

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

On our return our hands and hearts were free again, and we were at
liberty to use our tongues. During these visits my interest in
Schleiermacher was awakened, for his grave--he died in 1834, three years
before I was born--lay near our lot, and we often stopped before the
stone erected by his friends, grateful pupils, and admirers. It was
adorned with his likeness in marble; and my mother, who had frequently
met him, pausing in front of it, told us about the keen-sighted
theologian, philosopher, and pulpit orator, whose teachings, as I was to
learn later, had exerted the most powerful influence upon my principal
instructors at Keilhau. She also knew his best enigmas; and the following
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 visits
to 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
with happy and sacred memories.




CHAPTER III.

ON FESTAL DAYS

The celebration of a memorial day by outward forms was one of my mother's
customs; for, spite of her sincerity of feeling, she favoured external
ceremonies, and tried when we were very young to awaken a sense of their
meaning 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 the
older ones wine at dinner.

On the birthdays these cakes were surrounded by as many candles as we
numbered years, and provision was always made for a dainty arrangement of
gifts. While we were young, my mother distinguished the "birthday
child"--probably in accordance with some custom of her native country--by
a silk scarf. She liked to celebrate her own birthday, too, and ever
since I 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 met
at her house on the anniversary.

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

Few children enjoyed a more beautiful Christmas than ours, for under the
tree adorned with special love each found the desire of his or her heart
gratified, while behind the family gift-table there always stood another,
on which several poorer people whom I might call "clients" of the
household, discovered presents which suited their needs. Among them, up
to the time I went as a boy of eleven to Keilhau, I never failed to see
my oldest sister's nurse with her worthy husband, the shoemaker Grossman,
and their well-behaved children. She gladly permitted us to share in the
distribution of the alms liberally bestowed on the needy. The seeming
paradox, "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 and
inconveniences she cheerfully encountered to aid or add to the happiness
of others by means of the numerous relations formed in her social life
and the influence gained mainly by her own gracious nature. Many who are
now occupying influential positions owe their first start or have had the
path smoothed for them by her kindness.

As in many Berlin families, the Christmas Man came to us--an old man
disguised by a big beard and provided with a bag filled with nuts and
bonbons and sometimes trifling gifts. He addressed us in a feigned voice,
saying that the Christ Child had sent him, but the dainties he had were
intended only for the good children who could recite some thing for him.
Of course, provision for doing this had been made. Everybody pressed
forward, but the Christmas Man kept order, and only when each had
repeated a little verse did he open the bag and distribute its contents
among us.

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

The carp served on Christmas eve in every Berlin family, after the
distribution of gifts, and which were never absent from my mother's
table, I have always had on my own in Jena, Leipsic, and Munich, or
wherever the evening of December 24th might find us. On the whole, we
remain faithful to the Christmas customs of my own home, which vary
little 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, when
unable to procure a Christmas tree for the two "Eves" I spent on the
Nile, I decked a young palm and fastened candles on it. My mother's
permission that Knecht Ruprecht should visit us was contrary to her
principle 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 other
hobgoblins of Berlin nursery tales, she was always very angry. The
arguments by which my wife induced me to banish the Christmas Man and
Knecht Ruprecht seem still more cogent, now that I think I understand the
hearts of children. It is certainly far more beautiful and just as
easy-if we desire to utilize Christmas gifts for educational purposes--to
stimulate children to goodness by telling them of the pleasure it will
give the little Christ Child, rather than by filling them with dread of
Knecht Ruprecht.

True, my mother did not fail to endeavor to inspire us with love for the
Christ Child and the Saviour, and to draw us near to him. She saw in him,
above all else, the embodiment of love, and loved him because her loving
heart understood his. In after years my own investigation and thought
brought me to the same conviction which she had reached through the
relation of her feminine nature to the person and teachings of her
Saviour. I perceived that the world as Jesus Christ found it owes him
nothing grander, more beautiful, loftier, or more pregnant with
importance than that he widened the circle of love which embraced only
the individual, the family, the city, or, at the utmost, the country of
which a person was a citizen, till it included all mankind, and this
human love, of which my mother's life gave us practical proof, is the
banner under which all the genuine progress of mankind in later years has
been made.

Nineteen centuries have passed since the one that gave us Him who died on
the cross, and how far we are still from a perfect realization of this
noblest of all the emotions of the heart and spirit! And yet, on the day
when this human love has full sway, the social problems which now disturb
so many minds and will permit the brains of our best citizens to take no
rest, 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 to
God, because I know that it would be contrary to her wishes to inform
strangers of the glimpse she afterward afforded me of the inmost depths
of her soul.

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

But she also provided most carefully for the outward life; nay, perhaps
she 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 mere
sport-bestowed; for, unhappily, I know of no German grammar school where
pupils can learn to speak French with facility; and how many
never-to-be-forgotten memories of travel, what great benefits during my
period of study in Paris I owe to this capacity! We obtained it by the
help of bonnes, who found it easier to speak French to us because our
mother always did the same in their presence.

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

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

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

In the house we were obliged to behave courteously, and when I recall the
appearance of things there I become vividly aware that no series of years
witnessed more decisive changes in every department of life in Germany
than those of my boyhood. The furnishing of the rooms differed little
from that of the present day, except that the chairs and tables were
somewhat more angular and the cushions less comfortable. Instead of the
little knobs of the electric bells, a so-called "bell-rope," about the
width of one's hand, provided with a brass or metal handle, hung beside
the doors.

The first introduction of gas into the city was made by an English
company about ten years before my birth; but how many oil lamps I still
saw burning, and in my school days the manufacturing city of Kottbus,
which at that time contained about ten thousand inhabitants, was lighted
by them! In my childhood gas was not used in the houses and theatres of
Berlin, and kerosene had not found its way to Germany. The rooms were
lighted by oil lamps and candles, while the servants burned tallow-dips.
The latter were also used in our nursery, and during the years which I
spent 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 made
by striking fell on the tinder and caught it on fire here and there. Soon
after the long, rough lucifer matches appeared, which were dipped into a
little bottle filled, I believe, with asbestos wet with sulphuric acid.

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

For writing we used exclusively goose-quills, for though steel pens were
invented soon after I was born, they were probably very imperfect; and,
moreover, had to combat a violent prejudice, for at the first school we
attended we were strictly forbidden to use them. So the penknife played
an important part on every writing-desk, and it was impossible to imagine
a 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 way
of means of communication I need not recapitulate. I only know how long a
time was required for a letter from my mother's brothers--one was a
resident of Java and the other lived as "Opperhoofd" in Japan--to reach
Berlin, and how often an opportunity was used, generally through the
courtesy of the Netherland embassy, for sending letters or little gifts
to Holland. A letter forwarded by express was the swiftest way of
receiving or giving news; but there was the signal telegraph, whose arms
we often saw moving up and down, but exclusively in the service of the
Government. When, a few years ago, my mother was ill in Holland, a reply
to a telegram marked "urgent" was received in Leipsic in eighteen
minutes. What would our grandparents have said to such a miracle?

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

The remarkable changes wrought during my lifetime in the political
affairs of Germany I can merely indicate here. I was born in despotic
Prussia, which was united to Austria and the German states and small
countries by a loosely formed league. As guardians of this wretched unity
the various courts sent diplomats to Frankfort, who interrupted their
careless mode of life only to sharpen distrust of other courts or
suppress some democratic movement.

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

The journey to Holland closes the first part of my childhood. I look back
upon it as a beautiful, unshadowed dream out of doors or in a pleasant
house where everybody loved me. But I could not single out the years,
months, or days of this retrospect. It is only a smooth stream which
bears us easily along. There is no series of events, only disconnected
images--a faithful dog, a picture on the wall, above all the love 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, the ringing of
the little bell announcing that the Christmas tree is ready.

Only in after days, when the world of fairyland and legend is left
behind, does the child have any idea of consecutive events and human
destinies. The stories told by mother and grandmother about Snow-White,
the Sleeping Beauty, the giants and the dwarfs, Cinderella, the stable at
Bethlehem where the Christ-Child lay in the manger beside the oxen and
asses, the angels who appeared to the shepherds singing "Glory to God in
the 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 was when I saw the first picture of the kings in their purple robes
kneeling before the babe in its mother's lap, but its forms and hues were
indelibly stamped upon my mental vision, and I never forgot its meaning.
True, I had no special thoughts concerning it; nay, I scarcely wondered
to see kings in the dust before a child, and now, when I hear the summons
of the purest and noblest of Beings, "Suffer little children to come unto
me," and understand the sacred simplicity of a child's heart, it no
longer 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 the
first period of my childhood. When I was four years old we went to my
mother's home to attend my grandparents' golden wedding. If I wished to
describe the journey in its regular order I should be forced to depend
upon the statements of others. So little of all which grown people deem
worth seeing and noting in Belgium, Holland, and on the Rhine has
remained in my memory, that I cannot help smiling when I hear people say
that they intend to take children travelling for their amusement and
instruction. In our case we were put in the carriage because my mother
would not leave us behind, and wanted to give our grandparents pleasure
by our presence. She was right, but in spite of my inborn love of travel
the month we spent on the journey seemed a period of very uncomfortable
restlessness. A child realizes only a single detail of beauty--a flower,
a radiant star, a human face. Any individual recollection of the journey
to Holland, aside from what has been told me, is getting into the
travelling carriage, a little green leather Bajazzo dressed in red and
white given to me by a relative, and the box of candies bestowed to take
on 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 many
recollections.

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

In later years I learned to know him as a jovial artist, who in the days
of his youth very possibly might have given the strait-laced lady cause
for anxiety. Even when his locks were white he was ready for any
pleasure; but he devoted himself earnestly to art, and I am under
obligation to him for being the means of my mother's possessing the
friendship of the animal painter, Verboeckhoven, and that greatest of
more modern Belgian artists, Louis Gallait and his family, in whose
society 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 by
jealousy--no less cheery wife. There was something specially winning and
lovable about her, and I have heard that this lady, my mother's oldest
sister, possessed in her youth the same dazzling beauty. At the famous
ball in Brussels this so captivated the Duke of Wellington that he
offered her his arm to escort her back to her seat. My mother also
remembered the Napoleonic days, and I thought she had been specially
favoured in seeing this great man when he entered Rotterdam, and also
Goethe.

I remember my grandfather as a stately old gentleman. He, as well as the
other members of the family, called me Georg Krullebol, which means
curly-head, to distinguish me from a cousin called Georg von Gent. I also
remember that when, on the morning of December 5th, St. Nicholas day, 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 had been
prepared for us in a room on the ground floor attracted such a crowd of
curious spectators in front of the Jones house that we were obliged to
close the shutters. Of my grandparents' day of honor I remember nothing
except a large room filled with people, and the minutes during which I
repeated my little verse. I can still see myself in a short pink skirt,
with a wreath of roses on my fair curls, wings on my shoulders, a quiver
on my back, and a bow in my hand, standing before the mirror very much
pleased with my appearance. Our governess had composed little Cupid's
speech, my mother had drilled me thoroughly in it, so I do not remember a
moment of anxiety and embarrassment, but merely that it afforded me the
purest, deepest pleasure to be permitted to do something.

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

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

Black clouds had gathered over the house adorned with garlands and
flowers, echoing for days with the gay conversations, jests, and
congratulations of the relatives united after long separation and the
mirth of children and grandchildren. Not a loud word was permitted to be
uttered. We felt that something terrible was impending, and people called
it grandfather's illness. Never had I seen my mother's sunny face so
anxious and sad. She rarely came to us, and when she did for a short time
her thoughts were far away, for she was nursing her father.

Then the day which had been dreaded came. Wherever we looked the women
were 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 a
gift bestowed by their guardian angels, that no gloomy shadows may darken
the sunny brightness of their souls.

I saw only that cheerful faces were changed to sad ones, that the figures
about us moved silently in sable robes and scarcely noticed us. On the
tables in the nursery, where our holiday garments were made, black
clothes were being cut for us also, and I remember having my mourning
dress fitted. I was pleased because it was a new one. I tried to
manufacture a suit for my Berlin Jack-in-the-box from the scraps that
fell from the dressmaker's table. Nothing amuses a child so much as to
imitate what older people are doing. We were forbidden to laugh, but
after a few days our mother no longer checked our mirth. Of our stay at
Scheveningen I recollect nothing except that the paths in the little
garden of the house we occupied were strewn with shells. We dug a big
hole in the sand on the downs, but I retained no remembrance of the sea
and its majesty, and when I beheld it in later years it seemed as if I
were greeting for the first time the eternal Thalassa which was to become
so dear and familiar to me.

My grandmother, I learned, passed away scarcely a year after the death of
her 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. We
went by steamer up the Rhine, and stopped at Ehrenbreitstein to visit old
Frau Mendelssohn, our guardian's mother, at her estate of Horchheim. The
carriage had been sent for us, and on the drive the spirited horses ran
away and would have dashed into the Rhine had not my brother Martin, at
that 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 salmon
in the kitchen, and resolved to fish for one from the steamer; so I tied
a bit of candy to a string and dropped it from the deck. The fish were so
wanting in taste as to disdain the sweet bait, but my early awakened love
of sport kept me patiently a long time in the same spot, which was
undoubtedly more agreeable to my mother than the bait was to the salmon.
As, protected by the guards, and probably watched by the governess and my
brothers and sisters, I devoted myself to this amusement, my mother went
down into the cabin to rest. Suddenly there was a loud uproar on the
ship. People shouted and screamed, everybody rushed on deck and looked
into the river. Whether I, too, heard the fall and saw the life-boat
manned I don't remember; but I recollect all the more clearly my mother's
rushing frantically from the cabin and clasping me tenderly to her heart
as her rescued child. So the drama ended happily, but there had been a
terrible scene.

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

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

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

I have forgotten everything else that happened on our way home; but when
I think of this first journey, a long one for so young a child, and the
many little trips--usually to Dresden, where my grandmother Ebers
lived--which I was permitted to take, I wonder whether they inspired the
love of travel which moved me so strongly later, or whether it was an
inborn instinct. If a popular superstition is correct, I was predestined
to journey. No less a personage than Friedrich Froebel, the founder of
the kindergarten system, called my attention to it; for when I met him
for the first time in the Institute at Keilhau, he seized my curly hair,
bent my 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 wide
apart."




CHAPTER V.

LENNESTRASSE.--LENNE.--EARLY IMPRESSIONS.

Lennestrasse is the scene of the period of my life which began with my
return from Holland. If, coming from the Brandenburg Gate, you follow the
Thiergarten and pass the superb statue of Goethe, you will reach a corner
formed by two blocks of houses. The one on the left, opposite to the city
wall, now called Koniggratz, was then known as Schulgartenstrasse. The
other, on the right, whose windows overlooked the Thiergarten, bore the
name in my childhood of Lennestrasse, which it owed to Lenne, the park
superintendent, a man of great talent, but who lives in my memory only as
a particularly jovial old gentleman. He occupied No. 1, and was one of my
mother's friends. Next to Prince Packler, he may certainly be regarded as
one of the most inventive and tasteful landscape gardeners of his time.
He transformed the gardens of Sans-Souci and the Pfaueninsel at Potsdam,
and laid out the magnificent park on Babelsberg for Emperor William I,
when he was only "Prince of Prussia." The magnificent Zoological Garden
in Berlin is also his work; but he prided himself most on rendering the
Thiergarten a "lung" for the people, and, spite of many obstacles,
materially enlarging it. Every moment of the tireless man's time was
claimed, and besides King Frederick William IV, who himself uttered many
a tolerably good joke, found much pleasure in the society of the gay,
clever Rhinelander, whom he often summoned to dine with him at Potsdam.
Lenne undoubtedly appreciated this honour, yet I remember the doleful
tone in which he sometimes greeted my mother 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 in hand
with him.

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

Yet this superabundance of men in "secret" positions lent no touch of
mystery to our cheerful street, shaded by the green of the forest.
Franker, gayer, sometimes noisier children than its residents could not
be found in Berlin. I was only a little fellow when we lived there, and
merely 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 make
fireworks. The old Rechnungsrath, who lived in the house owned by
Geheimerath Crede, the father of my Leipsic colleague, was their
instructor in this art, which was to prove disastrous to my oldest
brother and bright Paul Seiffart; for--may they pardon me the
treachery--they took one of the fireworks to school, where--I hope
accidentally--it went off. At first this caused much amusement, but
strict judgment followed, and led to my mother's resolution to send her
oldest son away from home to some educational institution.

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

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

Yet it was so delightful with my mother, the sun around which our little
lives revolved! I had no thought, performed no act, without wondering
what would be her opinion of it; and this intimate relation, though in an
altered form, continued until her death. In looking backward I may regard
it as a law of my whole development that my conduct was regulated
according to the more or less close mental and outward connection in
which I stood with her. The storm and stress period, during which my
effervescent youthful spirits led me into all sorts of follies, was the
only time in my life in which this close connection threatened to be
loosened. Yet Fate provided that it should soon be welded more firmly
than ever. When she died, a beloved wife stood by my side, but she was
part of myself; and in my mother Fate seemed to have robbed me of the
supreme arbitrator, the high court of justice, which alone could judge my
acts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fortunately, the outdoor life at Keilhau counteracted the perils which
might have arisen from attending theatrical performances too young. What
I beheld there, in field and forest, enabled me in after life, when I
desired a background for my stories, not to paint stage scenes, but take
Nature herself for a model.

I must also record another influence which had its share in my creative
toil--my early intercourse with artists and the opportunity of seeing
their work.

The statement has been made often enough, but I should like to repeat it