e play of features. My claim that I had
seen service in the tented field again served me in good stead as an
introduction; it was a passport to his confidence and I had a pleasant
hour or two with him until he left me at length at his rendezvous.

Best of all I remember a third encounter. When I stepped from my car
at Weimar I asked a direction from a young grenadier off duty who
stood at hand on the platform. He too possessed the usual Teutonic
vigour and strength. A conversation sprang up in which I explained
that I was an American and desired to see as well as I could in a
few hours the interesting things in that little city so quiet and
renowned. I had found out by this time that my small veteranship was
a good asset and paraded it for all it was worth and as usual it told.
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 Gravelott