Its head, Professor Richter, the learned editor of the fragments of Sappho, did not equal Tzschirner in keenness of intellect and bewitching powers of description, yet we gladly followed the worthy man’s interpretations.

Many a leisure day and hour we spent in the beautiful Hartz Mountains.  But, best of all, was my home in Quedlinburg, the house of my tutor, Professor Adalbert Schmidt, an admirable man of forty, who seemed extremely gentle and yielding, but when necessary could be very peremptory, and allowed those under his charge to make no trespass on his authority.

His wife was a model of amiable, almost timid womanliness.  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.