I watched also, with as much interest as the dredging, the mooring of ships, when they came home from long voyages, some of them, such as the Queen Luise, a marine trading vessel, from their voyages around the world, which signified something in those days.  My main vessel, however, was the Mentor, which was said to have won the victory in a fight with Chinese pirates.  The pirates carried a long-barreled bronze cannon which shot better than the rough cast-iron cannons of which the Mentor had a few on board.  Besides, the pirate boat was much swifter, so that our Swinemuende trader soon found itself in a bad position.  But the captain was equal to the emergency.  He had all his heavy cannons moved to one side of the ship, then purposely moderated his speed, in order to make it easier for his pursuers to catch up with him.  And now their boat was really alongside, and the pirates were already preparing to climb over the side of the ship, when the captain of the Mentor gave the preconcerted signal and the cannons rolled with all force and swiftness from the one side of the ship to the other and the weight of the heavy guns, carrying the thin wall before them, crushed to pieces the boat lying below, already certain of victory, so that every soul on board was lost.

Such stories were always in the air and were associated, not only with the ships lying along the “Bulwark,” but occasionally also with the houses on the opposite side.  Further down the river both the houses and the stories lost their charm, until, at the very end of the city, one came to a large building standing back from the street, which again aroused interest.  This was the recently erected “Society House,” the meeting place not only for the summer bathers, but also, during the season, for the leading people of the city, of whom no one, perhaps, was more often seen there than my father.  To be sure, his frequent visits were really not made on account of the “Society House” itself, least of all on account of the concerts and theatrical performances given in it, to say nothing of the occasional balls,—­no, what attracted him and took him out there now and then even Lor his morning glass, was a pavilion standing close by the “Society House,” in which a major with a historical name and most affable manners, dressed in a faultless blue frock coat with gold buttons, kept the bank.  This was only too often the resort of my father, who, when he had lost a considerable sum and had correspondingly enriched the pot of the bank keeper, instead of being out of sorts over it, simply drew the inference that the keeping of the bank was a business that produced sure gain, and the old major with the high white neckcloth and the diamond pin was an extremely enviable man and, above all, one very worthy of emulation.  In such a career one got something out of life.  My father expressed such opinions, too, when he came home and sat down late to dinner.  This he did once in the presence of a recently married sister of my mother, who was visiting in our home during the bathing season.