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EIGHTH SERIES Į

No. 3830 December 1, 1917

FROM BEGINNING

CONTENTS

I. In Berlin During Three Years of the War.

By F Sefton Delmer, Formerly Lecturer
in English at the University of Berlin

NINETEENTH CENTURY AND AFTER 515 II. Carrying On. By Bartimeus" . BLACKWood's MAGAZINE 529 III. John-a-Dreams. By Katharine Tynan.

Chapter III. “If Winter Comes, Can
Spring Be Far Behind?" Chapter IV.
Miss Octavia. (To be continued)

.

. . . . '. 537 IV. Meredith and Our Allies. By M. Sturge

Gretton . . . . . CONTEMPORARY REVIEW 546 V. Industry During the War ..

. ATHENAEUM 549 VI. The Fair Romaine. By B. Paul Neuman CHAMBERS's JOURNAL 554 VII. The Anglo-American Basis of Peace . . . SPECTATOR 561 VIII. How Foreigners Are Fooling Us

SATURDAY Review 564 IX. Sugar. By R. C. Lehmann .

. Punch 566 X. Birds and Air Waves. By Horace Hutchinson WESTMINSTER GAZETTE 568 XI. Why the Channel Tunnel Must Be Built. By Sir Harry Johnston . . . . LONDON CHRONICLE 569

WARTIME FINANCE. XII. The Dominion's Railway Idea .

. NEW STATESMAN 571 XIII. Labor in American Shipyards.

· ECONOMIST 573 A PAGE OF VERSE. XIV. “The Kilt's My Delight." By Neil Munro Blackwood's MAGAZINE 514

XV. Madonna Mia. By Alice W. Linford . . POETRY REVIEW 514 XVI. The Fairies Have Never a Penny to Spend.

By R. F. . . . . . . . . PUNCH 514 BOOKS AND AUTHORS . . . . . . . 574

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IN BERLIN DURING THREE YEARS OF THE WAR.

It seems strange to think that I, an Australian, born in 1865, in Hobart, Tasmania, with a father an Irish seacaptain of County Armagh, should have spent so many years in exile in Prussia. For exile my Australian wife and I increasingly felt our sojourn there to be as the years went by. It must have been the Celtic strain in my blood that filled me, even as a boy, with a desire to visit “strangestrandes.” Later on Carlyle directed this romantic longing to Germany. Bach, Schubert and Beethoven completed the spell of my enchantment. A post-graduate scholarship in Modern Languages from the University of Melbourne made it possible for me to realize my dream and visit the old universities of Central Europe. So it came about that I found myself in Berlin, sitting at the feet of men like Zupitzka, Treitschke, Curtius and Herman Grimm. After an absence of nearly three years, spent partly in Italy and Greece, I returned to Australia, where I took up teaching as a profession. The life of a schoolmaster, however, under the conditions then prevailing, was uncongenial to me, and when after some years a lectureship at the University of Königsberg was offered me, through the mediation of my Berlin friend, Professor Herman Grimm, with whom I had remained in correspondence, I accepted it. A year later I was called to a similar post at the University of Berlin, a position which I retained until the outbreak of war in 1914. In the year 1908 the title of Professor was conferred upon me.

Herman Grimm was the only German with whom I ever formed a real friendship. He was, too, the only German I ever met who represented to me the Germany of my dreams. The son of one of those two brothers who

wrote the Fairy Tales, he always seemed to me to be the last representative of a great dying German tradition. Like an island he stood out against the inrushing tide of Prussian materialism. I understand now, as I did not in those days, Herman Grimm's reverence for Emerson and his desire to make Emerson known to Germany. He had formed a plan for a great translation of Emerson's works into German in which I was to collaborate with him, but in the early summer of 1901 death put an end to his Sisyphus visions and Young Germany took Nietzsche instead of Emerson as its mentor. . . . I still remember the look of quizzical distress on Grimm's face one day at table in 1900, when a certain typically Prussian Geheimrat X who was present described how he and his fellow-officers in the FrancoPrussian War had amused themselves by shying the champagne bottles they had just emptied against the old faience stove of the château in which they were quartered. Joachim, the violinist, was there, and with Frau von Keudel had been playing Bach to us, and the story jarred.

From August 4, 1914, till May 23, 1917, I was a civil prisoner in the German capital. From November 6, 1914, till March 10, 1915, I was interned in that horrible place of cold, eternal twilight, hunger, and Prussian bullying which the German newspapers call the “idyllically situated English camp of Ruhleben.” From the day of my release from the Camp till the day I left Berlin I was permitted to reside— still of course as a civil prisoner– under police supervision in my own flat in the quiet little Flotow Strasse on the edge of the Tiergarten, so close to the Spree that the thousands of

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