He was off duty for a few hours and had never visited the shrines of
Weimar, and if I had no objection he would like to go with me on
my tour of inspection, so together we walked through those shadowed
streets, which seemed to be haunted even in that bright sunshine by
the ghosts of the great men who have walked in them. We saw the homes
of Goethe and Schiller, the noble statues of the _Dichter-Paar_,
and the old theatre behind it in which were first performed the
masterpieces of the German drama. We went together to the cemetery
and descending into the crypt of the mausoleum stood by the coffins
of Goethe and Schiller, the men most illustrious in German letters.
It was a memorable day of my life, the outward conditions perfect, the
June sunshine, the wealth of lovely foliage, the bird songs, and right
at hand the homes and haunts of the inspired singers whom I especially
reverenced. I was most fortunate in my companionship, the bearing of
the youth was marked by no flippancy, he venerated as I did the lofty
spirits into whose retreats we had penetrated. He was familiar with
their masterpieces and we felt for them a like appreciation. His
soldierly garb accorded perhaps ill with the peaceful suggestions of
the hour and place, but in his mind plainly the sentiment lay deep, a
warm recognition of what gave his country its best title to greatness.
We took thought too of Wieland and looked in silence at the fine
statue of Herder standing before the church in which he long
ministered; but the supreme personages for us were Goethe and
Schiller. What became of my sympathetic young soldier I have never
known. If he escaped from Mars-la-Tour and Gravelotte and Sedan I am
sure that he must have matured into a high-souled man.

I had an opportunity, during a visit to Strassburg in the spring, to
see the soldiery of France. At the time the prestige of the Second
Empire was at its height, Magenta and Solferino were considerable