THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ
the emigrants, and a large crowd followed them until the wagon disappeared in the forest on the road to Cologne. Another family, by the name of Kribben, who were particular friends of ours, soon followed the Trimborns to settle in Missouri, where I saw them many years later. Meanwhile, things American were eagerly discussed by my father and my uncles. Then I heard for the first time of that immeasurable country on the other side of the ocean, its great forests, its magnificent rivers and lakes—of that young republic where the people were free, without kings, without counts, without military service, and, as was believed in Liblar, without taxes. Everything about America that could be got hold of was eagerly read, and I saw for the first time in a penny magazine the picture of George Washington, whom my father called the noblest of men in all history, because he had commanded large armies in the war for the liberation of his people and, instead of making himself a king, had voluntarily divested himself of his power and returned to the plow as a simple farmer. By this example my father explained to me what it was to be a true patriot.
The men in our family circle fairly reveled in that log-cabin romance, which is so full of charm to the European unacquainted with the true conditions of American life; and it wanted but little to induce the men of the family to try their fortune in the new world at once. Although the resolution was not taken in a hurry, America always remained a favorite topic of conversation with them; and in the course of time every member of my family did emigrate, some to remain in America, others to return to Germany.
Among grown-up people outside of the family, too, I found a friend who stands out in my memory in bold relief. He was a singular character. His name was George van Bürk, and
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