THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ
I found him living in a very modest house, the interior of which looked almost like a convent—for Bone had always been a devout and strict Roman Catholic. An elderly nun-like person ushered me into a small parlor hung with pictures of saints and adorned with crucifixes. She carried my card into an adjoining room, from which instantly issued a cry of delight; and the next moment, dragging himself hurriedly along, my good old teacher appeared. Time had changed him from a vigorous young man into a shriveled, fragile little body, clad in a long dressing gown, his feet in large gray felt slippers, and a black skull-cap covering his thin white hair. We embraced, and the dear old man seemed beside himself with joy.
“There, I knew I was right,” he exclaimed: “I heard that you had come to Germany, and I was sure that if you went to see the great people in Berlin you would certainly also come to see me. I recognized your voice at the front door; yes, yes, I knew it at once, although I have not heard it for more than forty years.”
We sat down close together, and there was much asking and answering of questions. His eyes shone with pleasure when I told him that I had sent to Germany for the latest edition of his reader; that I had often explained to my children and friends the method by which he taught me how to write German, whereupon he reminded me of our evenings in Cologne and how he had liked me as a boy, and so forth. Thus a few delightful hours slipped by. When finally I rose to go, he exclaimed:
“What, not going already! We must have a glass of wine together. Good heavens! there isn't a drop of wine in the house. What shall I do?”
Then he added, thoughtfully:
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