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tion of his fellow refugees, and his name was on many lips. I give a single example, characteristic of the time.
One hot summer afternoon in 1850, without a knock at my top story door in Bonn, there entered a big weather-worn knapsack, carried on the back of what looked like a travelling mechanic. The tramp had hollow cheeks, big whiskers, was begrimed and fatigued, no shoes on his feet, a big cane in his hand. I knew that ilk; he wanted a bed for once, and food and safety. My first question, “Who are you?” was answered, “Schimmelpfennig.” Some of you may remember his name as that of the Brigadier-General who, under Sherman, was the first to enter Charleston. [Applause.] He had been a leader on the battlefields, was an exile and now an emissary in what was to us a holy cause. That is the way Mr. Schurz's friends skulked and starved at that time. Fifteen dollars, Mr. Treasurer, would have been a bloated competency for fifteen weeks. [Laughter.] His very first question was, “Heard of Schurz?” “No.” “Will soon hear of him.” A few days after, when he had left, his hunger being appeased and his safety becoming doubtful, I received notice that a stranger wanted to see me, after the setting of the moon, in an out of the way summer house outside of the town. There I found a tall, curly-headed, jovial, easy-going, serious young fellow, with eyes at once confiding and searching. What he had to say, I learned; what he concealed, I did not ask; but, before I left him to his solitude, I well remembered how thoroughly my Greifswald friend had pictured him.
