we were not
yet quite satisfied. In the Oranienburger Strasse in Berlin stands a
city house of the last century. Here, with a serving-man as the real
master of his house,--with no wife, no child,--the author of "Kosmos"
did much of his best work.

"I was often with my father in Humboldt's house during his lifetime,"
said my German hostess to me, after my return from these visits. "He
lived among his books, in his study in the back of the house,--the
second story, looking into the court; for he could not bear the noise
of the street in the front rooms."

To this place we found our way in returning from Tegel. We stood
before it in the street, and read the inscription on the marble tablet
in the front wall: "In this house lived Alexander von Humboldt from
the year 1842 till _he went forth_, May 6, 1859."

Entering the street door, we inquired of the bright-eyed little
daughter of the porter, who had been left in charge, if we could see
the second floor, where Humboldt used to live. "No," said the child;
"there is nothing to see. Others live there now. As for Humboldt, you
can see his statue before the University!"

The privilege of looking upon the home surroundings of Humboldt in
Berlin was accorded us later, by an American gentleman into whose
possession they had come. His massive old writing-desk, with a great
mirror behind it, and deep drawers,--each bearing his seal,--where he
kept his most valued curiosities and correspondence, and where now
repose many of his autograph papers, is worth going far to see. Here,
too, are a smaller writing-desk, his champagne glasses, quill pens,
lamp-screen, candlestick, snuffers, and the last candle which he used.
These and other significant and home-like memorials belong not to
Germany, but to America, unless Germany repurchase them, as she
should. Only in the house so long the home of their master will they
fittingly repose, as the memorials of Goethe and Schiller adorn the
homes that were theirs at Weimar.

During the conversation with the child of the porter at the house in
Oranienburger Strasse, I had looked into the large and pleasant court,
and saw the great vine clambering up over the wall which must have
been in sight from the study. Here doubtless it was that Bayard
Taylor, the famous young traveller visiting the famous old traveller,
had the interview which he described so vividly that at the distance
of more than thirty years recorded bits of the conversation remai