we found what we sought, the most suitable house possible, whose
landlady proved to have been trained as a cook in a Frankfort hotel.

The lodgings we engaged were among the most "romantic" I have ever
occupied, for our landlord's house was built in the ruins of the
monastery just beside the old refectory. The windows of one room looked
out upon the cloisters and the Virgin's chapel, the only part of the once
stately building spared by the French in 1692.

A venerable abode of intellectual life was destroyed with this monastery,
founded by a Count von Calw early in the ninth century. The tower which
has been preserved is one of the oldest and most interesting works of
Romanesque architecture in Germany.

A quieter spot cannot be imagined, for I was the first who sought
recreation here. Surrounded by memories of olden days, and absolutely
undisturbed, I could create admirably. But one cannot remain permanently
secluded from mankind.

First came the Herr Kameralverwalter, whose stately residence stood near
the monastery, and in his wife's name invited us to use their pretty
garden.

This gentleman's title threw his name so far into the shade that I had
known the pleasant couple five weeks before I found it was Belfinger.

We also made the acquaintance of our host, Herr Meyer. Strange and varied
were the paths along which Fate had led this man. As a rich bachelor he
had welcomed guests to his ever-open house with salvos of artillery, and
hence was still called Cannon Meyer, though, after having squandered his
patrimony, he remained absent from his home for many years. His career in
America was one of perpetual vicissitudes and full of adventures. Afore
than once he barely escaped death. At last, conquered by homesickness, he
returned to the Black Forest, and with a good, industrious wife.

His house in the monastery suited his longing for rest; he obtained a
position in the morocco factory in the valley below, which afforded him a
support, and his daughters provided for his physical comfort.

The big, broad-shouldered man with the huge mustache and deep, bass voice
looked like some grey-haired knight whose giant arm could have dealt that
Swabian stroke which cleft the foe from skull to saddle, and yet at that
time he was occupied from morning until night in the delicate work
splitting the calf skin from whose thin surfaces, when divided into two
portions, fine morocco is made.

We also met the family of Herr Zahn,