iness. Her
sister-in-law, the widow of a magistrate, Frau Pauline Schmidt, shared
the care of the pupils and the beautiful, large garden; while her pretty,
bright young sons and daughters increased the charm of the intercourse.

How pleasant were the evenings we spent in the family circle! We read,
talked, played, and Frau Pauline Schmidt was a ready listener when ever I
felt disposed to communicate to any one what I had written.

Among my school friends were some who listened to my writings and showed
me their own essays. My favorite was Carl Hey, grandson of Wilhelm Hey,
who understood child nature so well, and wrote the pretty verses
accompanying the illustrations in the Speckter Fables, named for the
artist, a book still popular with little German boys and girls. I was
also warmly attached to the enthusiastic Hubotter, who, under the name of
"Otter," afterwards became the ornament of many of the larger German
theatres. Lindenbein, Brosin, the talented Gosrau, and the no less gifted
Schwalbe, were also dear friends.

At first I had felt much older than my companions, and I really had seen
more of life; but I soon perceived that they were splendid, lovable
fellows. My wounded heart speedily healed, and the better my physical and
mental condition became the more my demon stirred within me. It was no
merit of mine if I was not dubbed "the foolhardy Ebers" here also. The
summer in Quedlinburg was a delightful season of mingled work and
pleasure. An Easter journey through the Hartz with some gay companions,
which included an ascent of the Brocken--already once climbed from
Keilhau--is among my most delightful memories.

Like the Thuringian Mountains, the Hartz are also wreathed with a garland
of legends and historical memories. Some of its fairest blossoms are in
the immediate vicinity of Quedlinburg. These and the delight in nature
with which I here renewed my old bond tempted more than one of us to
write, and very different poems, deeper and with more true feeling, than
those produced in Kottbus. A poetic atmosphere from the Hercynian woods
and the monuments of ancient days surrounded our lives. It was delightful
to dream under the rustling beeches of the neighbouring forest; and in
the church with its ancient graves and the crypt of St. Wiperti Cloister,
the oldest specimen of Christian art in that region, we were filled with
reverence for the days of old.

The life of the great Henry, which I had celebrated in ver