In the spring of 1844 I had finished a dramatic tale, "The Flower of Fortune." The idea of this was, that it is not the name of the artist, nor the of a crown which can make man happy; but that happiness is to be found where people, satisfied with little, love and are loved again. The scene was Danish, an idyllian, sunbright life, in whose clear heaven two dark pictures are reflected as in a dream; the unfortunate Danish poet Ewald and Prince Buris, who is sung of in our heroic . I wished to show, in honor of our times, the middle ages to have been dark and , as they were, but which many poets only represent to us in a beautiful light.  
Professor Heiberg, who was appointed , declared himself against the reception of my piece. During the last years I had met with nothing but from this party; I regarded it as personal ill-will, and this was to me still more painful than the of the pieces. It was painful for me to be placed in a position with regard to a poet whom I respected, and towards whom, according to my own conviction, I had done everything in order to obtain a friendly relationship. A further attempt, however, must be made. I wrote to Heiberg, expressed myself , and, as I thought, cordially, and him to give me the reasons for his rejection of the piece and for his ill-will towards me. He immediately paid me a visit, which I, not being at home when he called, returned on the following day, and I was received in the most friendly manner. The visit and the conversation belong certainly to the extraordinary, but they occasioned an explanation, and I hope led to a better understanding for the future.
 
He clearly set before me his views in the rejection of my piece. Seen from his point of sight they were unquestionably correct; but they were not mine, and thus we could not agree. He declared decidedly that he cherished no spite against me, and that he acknowledged my talent. I mentioned his various attacks upon me, for example, in the Intelligence, and that he had denied to me original invention: I imagined, however, that I had shown this in my novels; "But of these," said I, "you have read none; you, yourself have told me so."
 
"Yes, that is the truth," replied he; "I have not yet read them, but I will do so."
 
"Since then," continued I, "you have turned me and my to in your poem called Denmark, and spoken about my for the beautiful Dardanelles; and yet I have, in that book, described the Dardanelles as not beautiful; it is the Bosphorus which I thought beautiful; you seem not to be aware of that; perhaps you have not read The Bazaar either?"
 
"Was it the Bosphorus?" said he, with his own smile; "yes, I had quite forgotten that, and, you see, people do not remember it either; the object in this case was only to give you a stab."
 
This sounded so natural, so like him, that I was obliged to smile. I looked into his clever eyes, thought how many beautiful things he had written, and I could not be angry with him. The conversation became more lively, more free, and he said many kind things to me; for example, he my stories very highly, and entreated me frequently to visit him. I have become more and more acquainted with his , and I fancy that he too will understand mine. We are very dissimilar, but we both strive after the same object. Before we separated he conducted me to his little ; now his dearest world. He seems now to live for poetry and now for philosophy, andùfor which I fancy he is least of all calculated—for astronomy. I could almost sigh and sing,
 
  Thou wast erewhile the star at which them gazest now!
My dramatic story came at length on the stage, and in the course of the season was performed seven times.
 
As people grow older, however much they may be tossed about in the
world, some one place must be the true home; even the bird of passage
has one spot to which it hastens; mine was and is the house of my
friend Collin. Treated as a son, almost grown up with the children,
I have become a member of the family; a more heartfelt connection,
a better home have I never known: a link broke in this chain, and
precisely in the hour of , did I feel how firmly I have been
engrafted here, so that I was regarded as one of the children.
 
 If I were to give the picture of the mistress of a family who wholly
loses her own individual I in her husband and children, I must name
the wife of Collin; with the sympathy of a mother, she also followed me
in sorrow and in gladness. In the latter years of her life she became
very deaf, and besides this she had the misfortune of being nearly
blind. An operation was performed on her sight, which succeeded so well,
that in the course of the winter she was able to read a letter, and
this was a cause of grateful joy to her. She longed in an extraordinary
manner for the first green of spring, and this she saw in her little
garden.
I parted from her one Sunday evening in health and joy; in the night I was awoke; a servant brought me a letter. Collin wrote, "My wife is very ill; the children are all assembled here!" I understood it, and hastened . She slept quietly and without pain; it was the sleep of the just; it was death which was approaching so and calmly. On the third day she yet lay in that peaceful : then her grew pale—and she was dead!
 
  Thou didst but close thine eyes to gather in
    The large amount of all thy spiritual ;
  We saw thy like a little child's.
     O death! thou art all brightness and not shadow.
Never had I imagined that the departure from this world could be so painless, so blessed. A devotion arose in my soul; a conviction of God and , which this moment elevated to an in my life. It was the first death-bed at which I had been present since my childhood. Children, and children's children were assembled. In such moments all is holy around us. Her soul was love; she went to love and to God!
 
At the end of July, the monument of King Frederick VI. was to be uncovered at Skanderburg, in the middle of Jutland. I had, by , written the for the festival, to which Hartmann had furnished the music, and this was to be sung by Danish students. I had been invited to the festival, which thus was to form the object of my summer excursion.
 
Skanderburg lies in one of the most beautiful districts of Denmark. Agreeable hills rise covered with vast beech-woods, and a large inland lake of a pleasing form extends among them. On the outside of the city, close by the church, which is built upon the ruins of an old castle, now stands the monument, a work of Thorwaldsen's. The most beautiful moment to me at this festival was in the evening, after the unveiling of the monument; torches were lighted around it, and threw their unsteady flame over the lake; within the woods blazed thousands of lights, and music for the dance from the tents. Round about upon the hills, between the woods, and high above them, bonfires were lighted at one and the same moment, which burned in the night like red stars. There was spread over lake and land a pure, a summer which is peculiar to the north, in its beautiful summer nights. The shadows of those who passed between the monument and the church, gigantically along its red walls, as if they were spirits who were taking part in the festival.
 
I returned home. In this year my novel of the Improvisatore was translated into English, by the well-known authoress, Mary Howitt, and was received by her countrymen with great applause. O. T. and the Fiddler soon followed, and met with, as it seemed, the same reception. After that appeared a Dutch, and lastly a Russian translation of the Improvisatore. That which should never have ventured to have dreamed of was ; my writings seem to come under a lucky star; they fly over all lands. There is something elevating, but at the same time, a something terrific in seeing one's thoughts spread so far, and among so many people; it is indeed, almost a fearful thing to belong to so many. The noble and the good in us becomes a ; but the bad, one's errors, shoot forth also, and involuntarily the thought forces itself from us: God! let me never write down a word of which I shall not be able to give an account to thee. A peculiar feeling, a mixture of joy and anxiety, fills my heart every time my good genius conveys my fictions to a foreign people.
 
Travelling operates like an invigorating bath to the mind; like a Medea-draft which always makes young again. I feel once more an impulse for it—not in order to seek up material, as a critic fancied and said, in speaking of my Bazaar; there exists a of material in my own inner self, and this life is too short to mature this young existence; but there needs of spirit in order to convey it vigorously and maturely to paper, and travelling is to me, as I have said, this invigorating bath, from which I return as it were younger and stronger.
 
By economy, and the proceeds of my writings, I was in a condition to undertake several journeys during the last year. That which for me is the most sunbright, is the one in which these pages were written. , perhaps over-estimation, but especially kindness, in short, happiness and pleasure have flowed towards me in abundant measure.
 
I wished to visit Italy for the third time, there to spend a summer, that I might become acquainted with the south in its warm season, and probably return thence by Spain and France. At the end of October, 1845, I left Copenhagen. I had thought when I set out on a journey, God! what thou permit to happen to me on this journey! This time my thoughts were, God, what will happen to my friends at home during this long time! And I felt a real anxiety. In one year the hearse may drive up to the door many times, and whose name may shine upon the ! The proverb says, when one suddenly feels a cold , "now death passes over my grave." The shudder is still colder when the thoughts pass over the graves of our best friends.
 
I spent a few days at Count Moltke's, at Glorup; strolling players were some of my dramatic works at one of the nearest towns. I did not see them; country life firmly me. There is something in the late autumn beautiful; when the leaf is fallen from the tree, and the sun shines still upon the green grass, and the bird twitters, one may often fancy that it is a spring-day; thus certainly also has the old man moments in his autumn in which his heart dreams of spring.
 
I passed only one day in Odense—I feel myself there more of a stranger than in the great cities of Germany. As a child I was , and had therefore no youthful friend; most of the families whom I knew have died out; a new generation passes along the streets; and the streets even are altered. The later buried have the miserable graves of my parents. Everything is changed. I took one of my childhood's to the Marian-heights which had belonged to the Iversen family; but this family is ; unknown faces looked out from the windows. How many youthful thoughts have been here exchanged!
 
One of the young girls who at that time sat quietly there with beaming eyes and listened to my first poem, when I came here in the summer time as a scholar from Slagelse, sits now far quieter in noisy Copenhagen, and has thence sent out her first writings into the world. Her German publisher thought that some introductory words from me might be useful to them, and I, the stranger, but the almost too kindly received, have introduced the works of this clever girl into Germany.
 
It is Henriette Hanck of whom I speak, the authoress of "Aunt Anna," and "An Author's Daughter." [Footnote: Since these pages were written, I have received from home the news of her death, in July, 1846. She was an affectionate daughter to her parents, and was, besides this, of a deeply poetical mind. In her I have lost a true friend from the years of childhood, one who had felt an interest and a sisterly regard for me, both in my good and my evil days.] I visited her birth-place when the first little circle paid me and gave me joy. But all was strange there, I myself a stranger.
 
The ducal family of Augustenburg was now at Castle Gravenstein; they were informed of my arrival, and all the favor and the kindness which was shown to me on the former occasion at Augustenburg, was here renewed in rich abundance. I remained here fourteen days, and it was as if these were an announcement of all the happiness which should meet me when I arrived in Germany. The country around here is of the most description; vast woods, cultivated uplands in perpetual variety, with the shore of the bay and the many quiet inland lakes. Even the floating mists of autumn lent to the landscape a some what picturesque, something strange to the islander. Everything here is on a larger scale than on the island. Beautiful was it without, glorious was it within. I wrote here a new little story. The Girl with the Brimstone-matches; the only thing which I wrote upon this journey. Receiving the invitation to come often to Gravenstein and Augustenburg, I left, with a grateful heart, a place where I had spent such beautiful and such happy days.
 
Now, no longer the traveller goes at a snail's pace through the deep sand over the heath; the railroad conveys him in a few hours to Altona and Hamburg. The circle of my friends there is increased within the last years. The greater part of my time I spent with my oldest friends Count Hoik, and the resident Minister Bille, and with Zeise, the excellent translator of my stories. Otto Speckter, who is full of genius, surprised me by his bold, glorious drawings for my stories; he had made a whole collection of them, six only of which were known to me. The same natural freshness which shows itself in every one of his works, and makes them all little works of art, exhibits itself in his whole character. He appears to possess a patriarchal family, an affectionate old father, and gifted sisters, who love him with their whole souls. I wished one evening to go to the theatre; it was scarcely a quarter of an hour before the commencement of the opera: Speckter accompanied me, and on our way we came up to an elegant house.
 
"We must first go in here, dear friend," said he; "a wealthy family lives here, friends of mine, and friends of your stories; the children will be happy."
 
"But the opera," said I.
 
"Only for two minutes," returned he; and drew me into the house, mentioned my name, and the circle of children collected around me.
 
"And now tell us a tale," said he; "only one."
 
I told one, and then hastened away to the theatre.
 
"That was an extraordinary visit," said I.
 
"An excellent one; one out of the common way; one entirely out of the common way!" said he ; "only think; the children are full of Andersen and his stories; he suddenly makes his appearance amongst them, tells one of them himself, and then is gone! vanished! That is of itself like a fairy-tale to the children, that will remain in their remembrance."
 
I myself was amused by it.
 
In Oldenburg my own little room, home-like and comfortable, was awaiting me. Hofrath von Eisendecker and his well-informed lady, whom, among all my foreign friends I may consider as my most sympathizing, expected me. I had promised to remain with them a fortnight, but I stayed much longer. A house where the best and the most intellectual people of a city meet, is an agreeable place of residence, and such a one had I here. A deal of social prevailed in the little city, and the theatre, in which certainly either opera or ballet was given, is one of the most excellent in Germany. The ability of , the director, is known, and unquestionably the nominationof the poet Mosen has a great and good influence. I have to thank him for enabling me to see one of the classic pieces of Germany, "Nathan the Wise," the principal part in which was played by Kaiser, who is as for his deeply studied and excellent acting, as for his readings.
 
Moses, who somewhat resembles Alexander Dumas, with his half African countenance, and brown sparkling eyes, although he was suffering in body, was full of life and soul, and we soon understood one another. A trait of his little son me. He had listened to me with great devotion, as I read one of my stories; and when on the last day I was there, I took leave, the mother said that he must give me his hand, adding, that probably a long time must pass before he would see me again, the boy burst into tears. In the evening, when Mosen came into the theatre, he said to me, "My little Erick has two tin soldiers; one of them he has given me for you, that you may take him with you on your journey."
 
The tin soldier has faithfully accompanied me; he is a Turk: probably some day he may relate his travels.
 
Mosen wrote in the of his "John of Austria," the following lines to me:—
 
  Once a little bird flew over
    From the north sea's ;
  Singing, flew unto me over,
    Singing M rchen through the land.
  Farewell! yet again bring hither
    Thy warm heart and song together.
Here I again met with Mayer, who has described Naples and the Neapolitans so charmingly. My little stories interested him so much that he had written a little treaties on them for Germany, Kapellmeister Pott, and my countryman Jerndorff, belong to my earlier friends. I made every day new acquaintance, because all houses were open to me through the family with whom I was staying. Even the Grand Duke was so generous as to have me invited to a concert at the palace the day after my arrival, and later I had the honor of being asked to dinner. I received in this foreign court, especially, many unlooked-for favors. At the Eisendeckers and at the house of the parents of my friend Beaulieu—the Privy-Counsellor Beaulieu, at Oldenburg, I heard several times my little stones read in German.
 
I can read Danish very well, as it ought to be read, and I can give to it perfectly the expression which ought to be given in reading; there is in the Danish language a power which cannot be into a translation; the Danish language is peculiarly excellent for this species of fiction. The stories have a something strange to me in German; it is difficult for me in reading it to put my Danish soul into it; my pronunciation of the German also is feeble, and with particular words I must, as it were, use an effort to bring them out—and yet people everywhere in Germany have had great interest in hearing me read them aloud. I can very well believe that the foreign pronunciation in the reading of these tales may be easily permitted, because this foreign manner approaches, in this instance, to the childlike; it gives a natural coloring to the reading. I saw everywhere that the most men and women of the most highly cultivated minds, listened to me with interest; people entreated me to read, and I did so willingly. I read for the first time my stories in a foreign tongue, and at a foreign court, before the Grand Duke of Oldenburg and a little select circle.
 
The winter soon came on; the meadows which lay under water, and which formed large lakes around the city, were already covered with thick ice; the skaters flew over it, and I yet remained in Oldenburg among my friends. Days and evenings slid rapidly away; Christmas approached, and this season I wished to spend in Berlin. But what are distances in our days?—the steam-carriage goes from Hanover to Berlin in one day! I must away from the beloved ones, from children and old people, who were near, as it were, to my heart.
 
I was astonished in the highest degree on taking leave of the Grand Duke, to receive from him, as a mark of his favor and as a keepsake, a valuable ring. I shall always preserve it, like every other remembrance of this country, where I have found and where I possess true friends.
 
When I was in Berlin on the former occasion, I was invited, as the author of the Improvisatore, to the Italian Society, into which only those who have visited Italy can be admitted. Here I saw Rauch for the first time, who with his white hair and his powerful, figure, is not unlike Thorwaldsen. Nobody introduced me to him, and I did not venture to present myself, and therefore walked alone about his studio, like the other strangers. Afterwards I became personally acquainted with him at the house of the Prussian Ambassador, in Copenhagen; I now hastened to him.
 
He was in the highest degree captivated by my little stories, pressed me to his breast, and expressed the highest praise, but which was honestly meant. Such a estimation or over-estimation from a man of genius many a dark shadow from the mind. I received from Rauch my first welcome in Berlin: he told me what a large circle of friends I had in the capital of Prussia. I must acknowledge that it was so. They were of the noblest in mind as well as the first in rank, in art, and in science. Alexander von Humboldt, Prince Radziwil, Savigny, and many others never to be forgotten.
 
I had already, on the former occasion, visited the brothers Grimm, but I had not at that time made much progress with the acquaintance. I had not brought any letters of introduction to them with me, because people had told me, and I myself believed it, that if I were known by any body in Berlin, it must be the brothers Grimm. I therefore sought out their residence. The servant-maid asked me with which of the brothers I wished to speak.
 
"With the one who has written the most," said I, because I did not know, at that time, which of them had most interested himself in the M rchen.
 
"Jacob is the most learned," said the maidservant.
 
"Well, then, take me to him."
 
I entered the room, and Jacob Grimm, with his knowing and strongly-marked countenance, stood before me.
 
"I come to you," said I, "without letters of introduction, because I hope that my name is not wholly unknown to you."
 
"Who are you?" asked he.
 
I told him, and Jacob Grimm said, in a half-embarrassed voice, "I do not remember to have heard this name; what have you written?"
 
It was now my turn to be embarrassed in a high degree: but I now mentioned my little stories.
 
"I do not know them," said he; "but mention to me some other of your writings, because I certainly must have heard them spoken of."
 
I named the titles of several; but he shook his head. I felt myself quite unlucky.
 
"But what must you think of me," said I, "that I come to you as a total stranger, and myself what I have written: you must know me! There has been published in Denmark a collection of the M rchen of all nations, which is to you, and in it there is at least one story of mine."
 
"No," said he good-humoredly, but as much embarrassed as myself; "I have not read even that, but it delights me to make your acquaintance; allow me to conduct you to my brother Wilhelm?"
 
"No, I thank you," said I, only wishing now to get away; I had fared badly enough with one brother. I pressed his hand and hurried from the house.
 
That same month Jacob Grimm went to Copenhagen; immediately on his arrival, and while yet in his travelling dress, did the kind man hasten up to me. He now knew me, and he came to me with cordiality. I was just then and packing my clothes in a trunk for a journey to the country; I had only a few minutes time: by this means my reception of him was just as as had been his of me in Berlin.
 
Now, however, we met in Berlin as old acquaintance. Jacob Grimm is one of those characters whom one must love and attach oneself to.
 
One evening, as I was reading one of my little stories at the Countess Bismark-Bohlen's, there was in the little circle one person in particular who listened with evident fellowship of feeling, and who expressed himself in a peculiar and sensible manner on the subject,—this was Jacob's brother, Wilhelm Grimm.
 
"I should have known you very well, if you had come to me," said he, "the last time you were here."
 
I saw these two highly-gifted and amiable brothers almost daily; the circles into which I was invited seemed also to be theirs, and it was my desire and pleasure that they should listen to my little stories, that they should participate in them, they whose names will be always spoken as long as the German Volks M rchen are read.
 
The fact of my not being known to Jacob Grimm on my first visit to Berlin, had so disconcerted me, that when any one asked me whether I had been well received in this city, I shook my head doubtfully and said, "but Grimm did not know me."
 
I was told that Tieck was ill—could see no one; I therefore only sent in my card. Some days afterwards I met at a friend's house, where Rauch's birth-day was being , Tieck, the , who told me that his brother had lately waited two hours for me at dinner. I went to him and discovered that he had sent me an invitation, which, however, had been taken to a wrong inn. A fresh invitation was given, and I passed some cheerful hours with Raumer the historian, and with the widow and daughter of Steffens. There is a music in Tieck's voice, a spirituality in his intelligent eyes, which age cannot , but, on the contrary, must increase. The Elves, perhaps the most beautiful story which has been conceived in our time, would alone be sufficient, had Tieck written nothing else, to make his name immortal. As the author of M rchen, I bow myself before him, the elder and The master, and who was the first German poet, who many years before pressed me to his breast, as if it were to me, to walk in the same path with himself.
 
The old friends had all to be visited; but the number of new ones grew with each day. One invitation followed another. It required considerable physical power to support so much good-will. I remained in Berlin about three weeks, and the time seemed to pass more rapidly with each succeeding day. I was, as it were, overcome by kindness. I, at length, had no other for than to seat myself in a railway-carriage, and fly away out of the country.
 
And yet amid these social festivities, with all the amiable and interest that then was felt for me, I had one disengaged evening; one evening on which I suddenly felt in its most oppressive form; Christmas-eve, that very evening of all others on which I would most willingly witness something festal, willingly stand beside a Christmas-tree, gladdening myself with the joy of children, and seeing the parents become children again. Every one of the many families in which I in truth felt that I was received as a relation, had fancied, as I afterwards discovered, that I must be invited out; but I sat quite alone in my room at the inn, and thought on home. I seated myself at the open window, and gazed up to the heavens, which was the Christmas-tree that was lighted for me.
 
"Father in Heaven," I prayed, as the children do, "what dost thou give to me!"
 
When the friends heard of my solitary Christmas night, there were on the following evening many Christmas-trees lighted, and on the last evening in the year, there was planted for me alone, a little tree with its lights, and its beautiful presents—and that was by Jenny Lind. The whole company consisted of herself, her attendant, and me; we three children from the north were together on Sylvester-eve, and I was the child for which the Christmas-tree was lighted. She rejoiced with the feeling of a sister in my good fortune in Berlin; and I felt almost pride in the sympathy of such a pure, noble, and womanly being. Everywhere her praise resounded, not merely as a singer, but also as a woman; the two combined awoke a real enthusiasm for her.
 
It does one good both in mind and heart to see that which is glorious understood and beloved. In one little contributing to her triumph I was myself made the confidant.
 
One morning as I looked out of my window unter Linden, I saw a man under one of the trees, half hidden, and shabbily dressed, who took a comb out of his pocket, smoothed his hair, set his neckerchief straight, and brushed his coat with his hand; I understood that bashful poverty which feels by its shabby dress. A moment after this, there was a knock at my door, and this same man entered. It was W——, the poet of nature, who is only a poor tailor, but who has a truly poetical mind. Rellstab and others in Berlin have mentioned him with honor; there is something healthy in his poems, among which several of a sincerely religious character may be found. He had read that I was in Berlin, and wished now to visit me. We sat together on the sofa and : there was such an amiable , such an unspoiled and good tone of mind about him, that I was sorry not to be rich in order that I might do something for him. I was ashamed of offering him the little that I could give; in any case I wished to put it in as agreeable a form as I could. I asked him whether I might invite him to hear Jenny Lind.
 
"I have already heard her," said he smiling; "I had, it is true, no money to buy a ticket; but I went to the leader of the supernumeraries, and asked whether I might not act as a supernumerary for one evening in Norma: I was accepted and habited as a Roman soldier, with a long sword by my side, and thus got to the theatre, where I could hear her better than any body else, for I stood close to her. Ah, how she sung, how she played! I could not help crying; but they were angry at that: the leader forbade and would not let me again make my appearance, because no one must weep on the stage."
 
With the exception of the theatre, I had very little time to visit collections of any kind or institutions of art. The able and amiable Olfers, however, the Director of the Museum, enabled me to pay a rapid but extremely interesting visit to that institution. Olfers himself was my conductor; we delayed our steps only for the most interesting objects, and there are here not a few of these; his remarks threw light upon my mind,—for this therefore I am obliged to him.
 
I had the happiness of visiting the Princess of Prussia many times; the wing of the castle in which she resided was so comfortable, and yet like a fairy palace. The blooming winter-garden, where the fountain splashed among the at the foot of the statue, was close beside the room in which the kind-hearted children smiled with their soft blue eyes. On taking leave she honored me with a richly bound album, in which, beneath the picture of the palace, she wrote her name. I shall guard this volume as a treasure of the soul; it is not the gift which has a value only, but also the manner in which it is given. One forenoon I read to her several of my little stories, and her noble husband listened kindly: Prince P ckler-Muskau also was present.
 
A few days after my arrival in Berlin, I had the honor to be invited to the royal table. As I was better acquainted with Humboldt than any one there, and he it was who had particularly interested himself about me, I took my place at his side. Not only on account of his high intellectual character, and his amiable and polite behavior, but also from his infinite kindness towards me, during the whole of my residence in Berlin, is he become unchangeably dear to me.
 
The King received me most graciously, and said that during his stay in Copenhagen he had inquired after me, and had heard that I was travelling. He expressed a great interest in my novel of Only a Fiddler; her the Queen also showed herself graciously and kindly disposed towards me. I had afterwards the happiness of being invited to spend an evening at the palace at Potsdam; an evening which is full of rich remembrance and never to be forgotten! Besides the ladies and gentlemen in waiting, Humboldt and myself were only invited. A seat was assigned to me at the table of their , exactly the place, said the Queen, where Oehlenschl ger had sat and read his tragedy of Dina. I read four little stories, the Fir-Tree, the Ugly Duckling, the Ball and the Top, and The Swineherd. The King listened with great interest, and expressed himself most on the subject. He said, how beautiful he thought the natural scenery of Denmark, and how excellently he had seen one of Holberg's comedies performed.
 
It was so deliciously pleasant in the royal apartment,—gentle eyes were gazing at me, and I felt that they all wished me well. When at night I was alone in my , my thoughts were so occupied with this evening, and my mind in such a state of excitement, that I could not sleep. Everything seemed to me like a fairy tale. Through the whole night the chimes sounded in the tower, and the aerial music itself with my thoughts.
 
I received still one more proof of the favor and kindness of the King of Prussia towards me, on the evening before my departure from the city. The order of the Red Eagle, of the third class, was conferred upon me. Such a mark of honor delights certainly every one who receives it. I confess candidly that I felt myself honored in a high degree. I discerned in it an evident token of the kindness of the noble, enlightened King towards me: my heart is filled with . I received this mark of honor exactly on the birth-day of my Collin, the 6th of January; this day has now a twofold festal significance for me. May God fill with gladness the mind of the royal who wished to give me pleasure!
 
The last evening was spent in a warm-hearted circle, for the greater part, of young people. My health was drunk; a poem, Der M rchenk÷nig, declaimed. It was not until late in the night that I reached home, that I might set off early in the morning by railroad.
 
I have here given in part a proof of the favor and kindness which was shown to me in Berlin: I feel like some one who has received a considerable sum for a certain object from a large assembly, and now would give an account thereof. I might still add many other names, as well from the learned world, as Theodor, M gge, Geibel, H ring, etc., as from the social circle;—the reckoning is too large. God give me strength for that which I now have to perform, after I have, as an earnest of good will, received such a richly abundant sum.
 
After a journey of a day and night I was once more in Weimar, with my noble Grand Duke. What a cordial reception! A heart rich in goodness, and a mind full of noble endeavors, live in this young prince. I have no words for the infinite favor, which, during my residence here, I received daily from the family of the Grand Duke, but my whole heart is full of devotion. At the court festival, as well as in the familiar family circle, I had many evidences of the esteem in which I was held. Beaulieu cared for me with the tenderness of a brother. It was to me a month-long Sabbath festival. Never shall I forget the quiet evenings spent with him, when friend freely to friend.
 
My old friends were also unchanged; the wise and able Sch÷ll, as well as Schober, joined them also. Jenny Lind came to Weimar; I heard her at the court concerts and at the theatre; I visited with her the places which are become sacred through Goethe and Schiller: we stood together beside their , where von Muller led us. The Austrian poet, Rollet, who met us here for the first time, wrote on this subject a sweet poem, which will serve me as a visible remembrance of this hour and this place. People lay lovely flowers in their books, and as such, I lay in here this verse of his:—
 
Weimar, 29th January, 1846.
 
  M rchen rose, which has so often
    Charmed me with thy breath;
  Where the prince, the poets slumber,
    Thou hast wreathed the hall of death.
 
  And with thee beside each coffin,
    In the death-hushed chamber pale,
  I a grief-enchanted,
    Sweetly dreaming nightingale.
 
  I rejoiced amid the stillness;
    Gladness through my past,
  That the gloomy poets' coffins
    Such a magic crowned at last.
 
  And thy rose's summer fragrance
    Floated round that chamber pale,
  With the gentle
    Of the grief-hushed nightingale.
It was in the evening circle of the intellectual Froriep that I met, for the first time, with Auerbach, who then chanced to be staying in Weimar. His "Village Tales" interested me in the highest degree; I regard them as the most poetical, most healthy, and production of the young German literature. He himself made the same agreeable impression upon me; there is something so frank and , and yet so sagacious, in his whole appearance, I might almost say, that he looks himself like a village tale, healthy to the core, body and soul, and his eyes beaming with honesty. We soon became friends—and I hope forever.
 
My stay in Weimar was prolonged; it became ever more difficult to tear myself away. The Grand Duke's birth-day occurred at this time, and after attending all the festivities to which I was invited, I departed. I would and must be in Rome at Easter. Once more in the early morning, I saw the Hereditary Grand Duke, and, with a heart full of emotion, bade him farewell. Never, in presence of the world, will I forget the high position which his birth gives him, but I may say, as the very poorest subject may say of a prince, I love him as one who is dearest to my heart. God give him joy and bless him in his noble endeavors! A generous heart beats beneath the princely star.
 
Beaulieu accompanied me to Jena. Here a hospitable home awaited me, and filled with beautiful memories from the time of Goethe, the house of the publisher Frommann. It was his kind, warm-hearted sister, who had shown me such sympathy in Berlin; the brother was not here less kind.
 
The Holstener Michelsen, who has a professorship at Jena, assembled a number of friends one evening, and in a and cordial toast for me, expressed his sense of the importance of Danish literature, and the healthy and natural spirit which flourished in it.
 
In Michelsen's house I also became acquainted with Professor Hase, who, one evening having heard some of my little stories, seemed filled with great kindness towards me. What he wrote in this moment of interest on an album leaf expresses this sentiment:
 
"Schelling—not he who now lives in Berlin, but he who lives an immortal hero in the world of mind—once said: 'Nature is the visible spirit.' This spirit, this unseen nature, last evening was again rendered visible to me through your little tales. If on the one hand you deeply into the mysteries of nature; know and understand the language of birds, and what are the feelings of a fir-tree or a daisy, so that each seems to be there on its own account, and we and our children sympathize with them in their joys and sorrows; yet, on the other hand, all is but the image of mind; and the human heart in its , trembles and throughout. May this fountain in the poet's heart, which God has lent you, still for a time pour forth this , and may these stories in the memories of the Germanic nations, become the legends of the people!" That object, for which as a writer of poetical fictions, I must strive after, is contained in these last lines.
 
It is also to Hase and the gifted improvisatore, Professor Wolff of Jena, to whom I am most indebted for the appearance of a uniform German edition of my writings.
 
This was all arranged on my arrival at Leipzig: several hours of business were added to my traveller's mode of life. The city of bookselling presented me with her , a sum of money; but she presented me with even more. I met again with Brockhaus, and passed happy hours with Mendelssohn, that glorious man of genius. I heard him play again and again; it seemed to me that his eyes, full of soul, looked into the very depths of my being. Few men have more the stamp of the inward fire than he. A gentle, friendly wife, and beautiful children, make his rich, well-appointed house, blessed and pleasant. When he rallied me about the , and its frequent appearance in my writings, there was something so childlike and amiable revealed in this great artist!
 
I also met again my excellent countryman Gade, whose compositions have been so well received in Germany. I took him the text for a new opera which I had written, and which I hope to see brought out on the German stage. Gade had written the music to my drama of Agnete and the Merman, compositions which were very successful. Auerbach, whom I again found here, introduced me to many agreeable circles. I met with the composer Kalliwoda, and with K hne, whose charming little son immediately won my heart.
 
On my arrival at Dresden I instantly hastened to my motherly friend, the von Decken. That was a joyous welcome! One equally cordial I met with from Dahl. I saw once more my R............