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[85] expect some account of it. Its name is ‘The Literary Club,’ and, like all literary clubs that ever survived the frosts of the first winter, its chief occupation is to eat suppers. There are twenty-four members, eight or ten of whom are professors; and the students who make up the number are only such as these professors choose, and, of course, are commonly the best of the University. As many of these members as like—for there is no compulsion—meet once a fortnight at eight o'clock, eat a moderate supper, drink a little wine, laugh and talk two or three hours, and then go home. We were taken in as a kind of raree-show, I suppose, and we are considered, I doubt not, with much the same curiosity that a tame monkey or a dancing bear would be. We come from such an immense distance, that it is supposed we can hardly be civilized; and it is, I am told, a matter of astonishment to many that we are white, though I think in this point they might consider me rather a fulfilment than a contradiction of their ignorant expectations. However, whatever may be the motives from which we were taken in, there we are, and we have as good a right to be there as the best of them. The only time I have been I found it pleasant enough, but I doubt whether I shall go often.

Dictated in 1859.

A Mr. Balhorn dedicated to Mr. John Pickering the thesis which he wrote for his doctorate, and, when I went to Germany, Mr. Pickering asked me, if I ever met Mr. Balhorn, to say that he had written twice to thank him for the compliment, but did not believe his letters had ever reached him, and that he begged him to receive his thanks through me. Their acquaintance was formed at Utrecht, where Balhorn was studying, and when Mr. Pickering was Secretary of Legation in Holland. I had been some time in Gottingen, and had neither heard nor thought anything of the Herr Balhorn; but one day, remembering my commission, asked Prof. Blumenbach if he knew such a person, ‘Why, to be sure; he's here, he's here’; and I found that he was tutor to some small prince, and probably when he had educated him he would be his Prime Minister. I made his acquaintance and delivered my message.

Before I left home I had made several attempts to read Dante, and found it not only difficult to get a copy, but impossible to get help in reading. Balhorn knew everything about Dante. He was not fully occupied, but he could not be hired,—he was too well off to be paid in money. A brother of my friend Mr. James Savage had sent me from Hamburg a box of very fine Havana cigars, and I found that

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