He was remarkable to look at—his hair had turned snow-white when he was 원주임플란트 only twenty, and he had eyes like coals of fire. In his own line he was unquestionably the greatest man since Ducange; and there at Munich he was a colleague of Furtwaengler, the greatest since Winckelmann in one aspect of archæology. I knew Furtwaengler from 1885, when he was still at Berlin, and Krumbacher from 1891. They both died far too young, at 53 or 54. With a further twenty years of life, they might have achieved far greater things than they had yet attempted. They were unaffected men and never posed, as Mommsen sometimes did when he thought of his resemblance to Voltaire.

Once in Berlin I went to a sitting of the Archaeologische Gesellschaft, 3 March 1896. It was all plain living and high thinking there, and they debated Pheidias and Plato amidst great bursts of Wagner that came in from a concert-hall close by. I have a letter here that I wrote my brother next day—“They manage their meetings in a much more formal way than the people at the Institut at Paris; and they are more long-winded. One of the men last night got his notes in such a muddle that he made nearly all his statements three times over; but nobody seemed to mind.” In my next letter, Dresden, 10 March 1896, I said that I had been to call on Fleckeisen, and described him as “an old man with long white hair, toddling about his study in a dressing-gown.” I regret to see that in another letter I spoke of a society of learned men as “a cellar-ful of beer-barrels.{80}”

Amongst the learned Germans whom I used to meet, some few talked politics quite freely; and I used to hear that everything that Bismarck did was right, and everything that the young Emperor did was wrong. I should like to hear what they are saying about the causes of this War.

I remember the abdication of the Emperor of the French in 1870; and now in 1918, at the abdication of the German Emperor, the feeling of relief is just the same. Both men had kept all Europe in alarm for years before their fall. In turn they had the greatest army on the Continent and a navy that was second to our own; and no one could foresee how they would use their strength, as their foreign policy was all adventure and sensation. There was very little sympathy with France at the disaster of Sedan. It is the fashion now to talk as if we sympathised with France all through. My recollection is that people were mostly against France in 1870 until Paris was besieged: then they realized that Germany was getting dangerous, and began to change their views.

After the war of 1870 the French did not get possession of their Lorraine frontier till the indemnity was paid and the occupying army was withdrawn. Then they fortified it so effectively from Belfort to Verdun that everybody said the Germans would come round through Switzerland or Belgium, if ever they came again. (I remember people saying this, about 1878 and onwards, quite as a matter of course.) Against Switzerland there was the fortress of Besançon, and against Belgium there was supposed to be a line from Verdun to Dunkirk through Lille. But this line never was made effective, and gradually fell into decay. That certainly was no affair of ours in the days of the Two Power standard, when we were building ships to fight the French and Russians. But after the Entente I thought we might request the French to pay attention to their Swiss and Belgian frontiers. No doubt, they could not make as strong a line from Dunkirk to Verdun as from Verdun to Belfort; but the Germans were not likely to embroil themselves by going through Belgium, if they had to face a line on the French frontier there of anything like the same strength as the French line in Lorraine.{81}

One of those learned Germans was making a tour in England five-and-twenty years ago; and I met him at Portsmouth, and went over the Victory with him. He showed much emotion at it all; and when we reached the place where Nelson died, he quite broke down and burst out into tears. And the quartermaster said, “I’m blowed.”

He may have pictured it more vividly than we did, for he was a veteran of 1870, and knew what warfare meant. A great-uncle of mine was on the Impregnable at the battle of Algiers in 1816, and I have heard him say that it was really nauseous to have two hundred killed and wounded all crowded up in such a narrow space.

Unless a naval battle has been fought close by the shore, no landsman can well picture to himself what it was like. Looking down upon the island and the straits of Salamis, I have seen the battle as vividly as Trasimene or Waterloo; but I have never been able to conjure up Trafalgar by thinking of the latitude and longitude that I was in. I have tried it several times and always failed.

There have been many naval battles in the Dardanelles, in ancient times and in the middle ages; but I did not think of these when I was there in 1880. Our fleet had gone up through the straits two years before; and that seemed much more real. People criticised some things that Hornby did, especially his sending ships right up the gulf of Xeros; but everybody seemed quite sure that the strategic point was in the throat of the peninsula, five miles north-east of Gallipoli, not in its toes at Suvla bay and cape Helles, more than twenty and thirty miles south-west. So, being out of date, I imagined that our Gallipoli expedition would try to land near Yenikli-liman.

When people say that the Thermopylæ epitaph would suit Gallipoli, I rather wonder if they see how very suitable it really is. It is not the namby-pamby thing they think, “Go, tell the Spartans, thou that passest by, that here, obedient to their laws, we lie.” It really is a stinging thing, and the sting is in the tail, the last word of the line. “Tell the Spartans it was here—in an untenable position, with a flank that could be turned—it was here that, in compliance with their orders, our lives were thrown away.{82}”

In a list of the books here that were acquired before 1846, the German books are the collected works of Goethe, Schiller, Richter (Jean Paul) and Koerner, as well as separate works of theirs, a few things by Niemeyer, Tieck, Werner and Wilmsen, and some translations into German from the Danish and Swedish of Andersen and Bremer. All this, of course, is what is known as literature; and there is nothing at all utilitarian except a volume of travels in Surinam, published at Potsdam in 1782. The later acquisitions show how Germany has changed since 1846. These books are crammed with information, but devoid of literary merit.—No doubt, the recent books were chosen by myself, and the others by departed relatives whose tastes and interests were not the same as mine; but this will not explain the change. There was not the same scope for choice: there were few books then of such appalling industry as those that come out now, and there has not been another Goethe.

It is fifty years since I first travelled in Germany, 1868, and I have watched the later stages of the transformation that had been foretold. “But the Ideal is passing slowly away from the German mind ... and the memories that led their grandsires to contemplate, will urge the youth of the next generation to dare and to act.” Old Bulwer Lytton wrote that in 1834 in his Pilgrims of the Rhine. I remember my father reading it out to me in very early years.

He had a very dexterous way of giving me glowing accounts of places on the Continent, and making me long to go there. And then, whenever I said that I should like to go, he said to me, “Of course, you shall; but it’s no good your going till you can talk to people there.” I commend that dodge to parents whose children are disinclined to learn.

When my brother was at Harrow, my father was dissatisfied at his learning so little German there, but my grandfather took quite another view, 8 February 1863, “I should say, Let him be a proficient in the French language first, for that is spoken nearly all the world over, while German is more a flash thing than useful: all very well, if time permits after learning the more useful. So let him get on with Mathematics and the Classics, for that is what he will gain Honours on (if any) and not the German language: that is merely an accomplishment.{83}”

Foreign languages ought to be begun in nurseries, and not left for schools: all good linguists have begun by learning words in different languages as soon as they could speak. If children are only told that a certain creature is a cat, they will afterwards learn the word ‘chat’ as a translation of the word ‘cat.’ But if they are told that the creature is called ‘cat’ by some people and ‘chat’ by others, they are prepared to find that other people call it ‘katze,’ others ‘gatto,’ and so on. And they connect the creature with its foreign names at once, instead of indirectly through the English name.—However, these nursery lessons are not always a success. I remember a Parisian who learnt her English from an Irish nurse, and always spoke it with a brogue.

Good linguists sometimes get confused, when languages have words with similar sounds but different meanings. Thus, the German ‘nehmen’ sounds like the English ‘name’ and ‘dumm’ like ‘dumb’ and ‘bekommen’ like ‘become.’ A man once said to me at breakfast, “I shall name bacon”: then, seeing that I did not grasp what he had said, he hurriedly corrected it, “Ach, I am dumb. I shall become bacon.”

When I first went to Greece, they still spelled Byron’s name phonetically, Mpairon. They pronounce b like our v, but mp like our b—a fact unknown to many of the people who talk about the Mpret of Albania. Similarly, the Spaniards spelled O’Donohue’s name O’Donojo. He was Cuesta’s chief-of-staff in the Peninsula. The veterans of that war picked up the foreign names by hearsay, and usually got them right; but now our veterans can read, they see how foreign names are spelled and mispronounce them sadly. Leekatoo suggests a cockatoo, but really is Le Câteau.

There is always a temptation to turn foreign names into some English words with which we are familiar: we still say Leg-horn for Livorno, though we have dropped Lush-bone for Lisboa, and call it Lisbon now. I was looking for a ship at Devonport, the Hecate, and thought I spotted her; so I asked, “Is that the Hekaty?” and was answered, “She’s the He Cat.” In the gardens here the Gloire de Lorraine begonia is always called the Lower End. I hear people talk of the Cornice as the Cornish road, and make Hague rhyme with ague.{84}

After the Kruger telegram Punch printed an imaginary letter to the German Emperor (18 January 1896) signed Grandmamma, but attributed on internal evidence to the Duke of York, there being a nautical breeziness about it, e.g. “Solche eine confounded Impertinenz habe ich nie gesehen.” I saw this in Vienna, reprinted in the February number of Progress, the editor stating explicitly that it was “drollig.” In the ensuing War people on the Continent felt certain that our troops were using Dum-Dum bullets; and I saw a newspaper at Paris which said that we were slaughtering the Boers with our murderous Dam-Dams. And in 1912 or 1913 I saw one there which said that we expressed our highest hopes in singing “God shave the King.”

In looking through the obsolete music here I found the anthem in the good old form which should have been revived in 1910—“God save great George our King”—and also in a later form that seems to be forgotten—“God save Britannia’s King, William, our noble King.” There was also a good deal of dance-music, some “as performed at His Majesty’s balls, Almack’s, and the Court of France,” and some “as danced at Almack’s, the Nobility’s balls, and the Assembly Rooms, Ramsgate.” Judging by the music, the dancing was very animated then: in Beauties of the Ball Room the first dance is the Sailor’s Hornpipe. Pop Goes The Weasel is described as “now become so popular in fashionable circles,” and directions are given for dancing it and exclaiming at the right moments “Pop Goes The Weasel.”

Amongst the old pamphlets and sermons here (mostly presented by their authors) there is A Sermon preached in Trinity Church, Cambridge, on Feb. 1, 1857, the Sunday before the Bachelors’ Ball. The text seems inappropriate—“neither circumcision availeth anything, nor uncircumcision, but a new creature.” The sermon is chiefly aimed at candidates for ordination. They are to shun the Bachelors’ Ball, not only for their own sake, but for the sake of others who might be led astray by their example. And it gives an awful instance. “He received a pressing invitation to a public ball.... In that ball-room he found, it is stated, no fewer than six clergymen. To stifle the reproaches of conscience, he went up to those six clergymen, and asked them, one by one, if they thought there could be any harm in attending a public ball.... To shelter{85} their own inconsistency, they at once answered that such amusements were perfectly harmless.... That night’s dissipation removed all his former scruples.... He plunged into extravagance, had recourse to gambling, became a bankrupt in his fortunes, perpetrated forgery, administered poison, and at last expiated his crimes upon the scaffold, the precincts of the prison receiving his strangled body, and hell, it is to be feared, receiving his lost soul.”