savages, whose sport was nothing to them without a dash of cruel rage.  The practice dates from the time when the Germans wore wolf-skins, and were barbarians roaring in their woods.  Perhaps the university authorities found it too inveterate a thing to be done away with; perhaps, too, they felt, thinking as it were under their spiked helmets, that after all it had a value, making the young men cool in danger and accustoming them to weapons.  We, after all, cannot say too much.  Often our young American students in Germany take to the Schlaeger as gracefully and naturally as game-cocks to spurs.  The most noted duellist at one of the universities that winter was a burly young Westerner, who had things at first all his own way.  A still burlier Prussian from Tuebingen, however, appeared at last, and so carved our valiant borderer’s face, that thereafter with its criss-cross scars it looked like a well-frequented skating-ground.  Football, too, in America probably kills and maims more in a year than all the German duels.

To crown all, the schools and University at Berlin were magnificently supplemented in the great Museum, a vast collection, where one might study the rise and progress of civilisation in every race of past ages that has had a history, the present condition of perhaps every people, civilised or wild, under the sun.  In one great hall you were among the satin garments and lacquered furniture of China; in another there was the seal-skin work of the Esquimaux stitched with sinew.  Now you sat in a Tartar tent, now among the war-clubs, the conch-shell trumpets, the drums covered with human skin of the Polynesians.  Here it was the feathery finery of the Caribs, here the idols and trinkets of the negroes of Soudan.  There too, in still other halls, was the history of our own race; the maces the Teutons and Norsemen fought with, the torcs of twisted gold they wore about their necks, the sacrificial knives that slew the victims on the altars of Odin; so, too, what our fathers have carved and spun, moulded, cast, and portrayed, until we took up the task of life.  In another place you found the great collection made in Egypt by Lepsius.  The visitor stood within the facsimile of a temple on the banks of the Nile.  On the walls and lotus-shaped columns were processions of dark figures at the loom, at the work of irrigation, marching as soldiers, or mourners at funerals,—­exact copies of the original delineations.  There were sphinx and obelisk, coffins of kings, mummies of priest and chieftain, the fabrics they wore, the gems they cut, the scrolls they engrossed, the tomb in which they were buried.  Stepping into another section, you were in Assyria, with the alabaster lions and plumed genii of the men of Nineveh and Babylon.  The walls again were brilliant, now with the splendour of the palaces of Nebuchadnezzar; the captives building temples, the chivalry sacking cities, the princes on their thrones.  Here too was Etruria revealed in her sculpture and painted vases;