The Berlin of the late eighties was a very different city from the Berlin of to-day. There is probably no other Continental city which has undergone so many changes in the same period of time. When I wandered into the place nearly twenty years ago there were no electric cars—horses were still the exclusive motive power in the business streets; there was no rational direction of traffic—there isn't to-day in some parts; there were no automobiles that I can remember having seen; there were no great department stores such as now vie with those of New York; there was no such street lighting as there is to-day; and there were by no means so many Germans leaning on window sills and on the streets. Like Moscow, the place resembled a great overgrown village more than it did the capital of a great country. The people were provincial, the military upstarts often acted as if they thought the city had been built and was kept up for their exclusive entertainment, and strangers, particularly Americans, who ventured to dress as they do at home—white dresses in summer for ladies, for instance—were stared at as if they were a new species of human beings. In one particular, however, the city has not changed, and probably never will, i.e., in the amount of noise the Berliners are equal to when they are turned loose in the streets, afoot, in trains or in Drosckken. If it be true that the word German, philologically dissected, means a shouter in battle, then the word Berliner means two shouters talking about a battle. The incessant ya-yaing and nein-neining in the streets, the perspiring and nervous self-consciousness that comes to a large-boned populace suddenly advanced to Welt-Stadt significance, the reckless driving of the cabbies, the screams of the cabbies' victims, these all contribute to the present provinciality of the metropolis, in spite of the modern trolleys, automobiles, half-Londonized policemen, and taxameter cabs. Indeed, these very appurtenances of cosmopolitan, the crunching trolley, for instance, and the puffing "auto," accentuate very strikingly the undue emphasis which the town puts in noises, and are indicative of its lust for more. Twenty years ago the shouting and buzzing were not so bad, but the city is now making up for any silences that may have been observed at that time.

Part of the street roar and clamor is due to the unusual amount of small traffic in the streets, to the thousands and thousands of cabs, "commercial" tricycles and pushbarrows, all of which claim the right to play their part in the city's roar and bustle. But a much more conspicuous cause, if not the main one, is the fact that Berlin has grown up to Welt-Stadt prominence, overnight, as it were, and the good Berliners have not yet untangled their feet sufficiently to keep an orderly pace under the new order of things. Two-thirds of them are still living under the old horse-car rÉgime, and when they come to congested corners, where the trolley's clang and the automobile's "toff-toff" prevail, they very willingly lend a hand in increasing the general confusion.

At least this is the way the town impressed me a year or two ago, as compared with the easy-going city I first entered as a coal-passer, with honorable discharge papers in my pocket, and very little else. But far be it from me to dwell on this subject, for if there is any city in the world to which I ought to be grateful, it is Berlin. If it pleases the Berliners to shout their World City distinction from the housetops, as if fearful that it might otherwise escape notice, well and good; the noise sounds funny, that is all—particularly after London and New York.

I began my career in the town in a very "Dutch" ready-made suit of clothes, high-heeled shoes that could be pulled on at one tug like the "Romeo" slipper, a ready-made fly-necktie, and a hat the style of which may be seen at its best in this country in the neighborhood of Ellis Island; it was local color hatified indeed. While I lay asleep on the sofa in my mother's library, making up for the loss of sleep at sea, my mother went out and kindly made these purchases. Washed, dressed and fed, I may have looked "Dutch," but I was clean at least, and there was no dusky fireman about to order me to hurry "further mit de coals."

The family physician, a gentleman who has since come on to great things and is one of Berlin's most famous medical men, for some reason best known to himself examined me carefully to see how I had stood the journey. All that he could find out of the way was a considerably quickened heart action, which did not give him great concern, however. At that time the good man was just beginning to pick up English, and at our first meeting made me listen to his rendering of "Early to bed, early to rise," etc. A few weeks later, when making a professional visit on an American young lady, a new neighbor of ours, he was emboldened to give some advice in English—to compose an original sentence. He wanted the young lady to take more exercise, and this is how he told her to get it.

"Traw a teep inspiration, take t'ree pig shteeps across te floor, and ten expire." She pulled through her ailment splendidly.

In those days, the late eighties and early nineties, the American colony, as it was called, lived mainly in the western part of the city, in the neighborhood of the Zoological Gardens. The doctor, or professor, as he is now called, was for years the colony's physician, and many were the regrets when he gave up visiting us. We were still privileged to call at his office, but hospital work and Imperial patients made it impossible for him to call on us, although he kindly made neighborly visits in my mother's home as long as he remained in our street. He is now getting old and gray, but I found him as friendly and hospitable on my last visit to Berlin, in spite of his fine villa, lackeys and carriages, as when he examined me for broken bones and twisted muscles after the coal-passing experience. I told him that I was on my way to Russia to study the heavily-advertised revolution. His face became grave, as of old when studying a case. "Be careful, my son," he cautioned me; "be very careful in Poland." The fatherly warning and the friendly interest brought back to my mind memories of the Berlin that I had known and in a way loved, the town that took me in and truly gave me another chance.

Nearly all American colonies abroad are but little more than camps. The campers tarry a while, for one reason or another—culture is what most of them claim to be seeking—and then fold their tents and pass on, those who remain behind having to get acquainted afresh with the new set of "culturists" who are sure to arrive in due time. In Venice there is an Anglo-Saxon camp which lays claim to ancient privileges and rights. In 1894-95 I spent four unforgettable months in the place, and got well acquainted with many of the campers.

"And how long have you been here?" was one of my questions on meeting an Englishman or fellow countryman, already beginning to plume myself on my long residence.

"Eighteen years, thank you!" was the answer I got on numerous occasions. My four months' sojourn dwindled to a very slight significance when set over against the old residents' record, but in spite of their long stay in the city they were, after all, campers. When the Christmas holiday time came, for instance, they all spoke of going "home" to England. Venice was not their home. It was simply a desirable abiding place for the time being.

So it is wherever I have lived on the Continent. Barring a very few exceptions, the American colonists are transient residents that you have barely got acquainted with before they are off to some new tenting ground. Whether such "colossal" life is advantageous for the rearing of children, or not, is a question which each camping family decides for itself. In the case of young men, students for example, it has its advantages and disadvantages. In my own case I think it worked well for a time. It was not compulsory; I could have returned to America at any time. And it afforded me an opportunity to see how clean I could keep my record sheet in a community unacquainted with my previous devilishness. There was no local reason whatever why I should not hold my head just as high as anybody—a privilege which, I believe, goes a long way in explaining the pride I took in trying to deserve such a right.

It is a far cry from the stoke-room of an ocean liner to a refined home and unexcelled educational opportunities. No one who had seen me passing coal on the Elbe would ever have expected to meet me in the lecture rooms of the Berlin University, a few months later, a full-fledged student in the "philosophical faculty." And no one was more surprised at such a metamorphosis than the student himself.

It came about in this way: For a fortnight or so after reaching Berlin there was little that I felt equal to beyond sitting in my mother's library, resting and reading. The little "Dutch" outfit made me presentable at least, and I was welcome to spend as much time as I liked browsing among the books. It seemed strange for a while, to sit there in comfort and ease, after the long tramp trip and the voyage on the Elbe, but I soon found myself fitting into the new arrangement without much difficulty. The coal-passing experience had exhausted my physical resources more than I had at first imagined, and for days lying on a lounge was about as much as I felt up to. It was during this period, I recall, that I read Livingstone's "Travels in Africa," George Eliot's "Daniel Deronda," some of John Stuart Mills' "Political Economy" and chapters in German history. I seemed to take as naturally to this selection in my reading as I had formerly taken to tramp trips—testimony, it seems to me, that two sets of forces were always at work within me. While poring over these books the Road, Die Ferne, and my former companionships seemed as foreign to my nature as they could possibly be; indeed, I frequently caught myself looking about the library, with its pleasant appointments, and wondering whether my wanderings were not, after all, simply a nightmare.

Friendly care and good food soon restored me to my usual good health, and then came walks, visits in and about the city, experiments in the language on long-suffering cabbies and tramway conductors, and a pleasant round of excursions in the environs. But nothing as yet had been said or decided about my status in the new home, my mother apparently wanting me to recuperate first, and then suggest something myself. My twenty-first birthday was near at hand. I was no longer a boy with no responsibilities. My own sense of the fitness of things told me that it was high time for me to be up and doing, if I was going to be of any use to myself and the family. Yet, for the life of me, I could think of nothing more remunerative and honorable as a calling, than a woodchopper's life in the Black Forest. One of the coal trimmers on the Elbe, a "bankrupp" whose acquaintance I had made in the Hoboken cellar, had told me about this work in South Germany, and I had made up my mind to go there in case Berlin proved inhospitable. At best it was a makeshift job, but, for the time being, it was the best outlook that I had—at least so I thought. My mother, however, had no good opinion of this plan, and recommended that I consider the whole matter more fully.

I finally decided that another fair test of sea life should be made, not in the bunkers or stoke-room, but on deck, or wherever my services might be in demand. For some strange reason I had Egypt as an objective, perhaps on account of reading Livingstone's book. There was nothing particular that I can remember now to make Egypt any more attractive than Italy. But the name seemed to fascinate me, and I told my mother that if she would help me get to Liverpool, I believed that my rightful calling would come to light there. A number of days were taken up in discussing this new project, but I persisted in thinking that Liverpool and Egypt had something wonderful in store for me. The good housing and nourishment had very probably awakened my Wanderlust again, but I know that the projected trip was not meant as a mere wandering in the dark; I honestly believed that something worth while would come of it. Looking back over the affair to-day, however, reminds me that probably the old desire to disappear to unknown parts and come back successful later was at work within me.

It was evidently decided that I should at least try my hand in Liverpool, and sufficient money for the trip and more was given to me. I left Berlin, thinking that I ought to come back at least an admiral of The Fleet, my mother feeling quite hopeful about me, yet regretting that I was not then willing to sound Berlin a little more, and see whether I could not fit in there.

As no particular harm came to me from the Liverpool experiment, perhaps it is not to be regretted to-day, but it seemed to accomplish very little at the time. I lodged in the Sailor's Home and tried to act and talk like a master of a ship, as long as my money lasted, but this was as far as I got toward becoming an admiral or in the direction of Egypt. The only "berth" offered me was in a Norwegian schooner as "cook's mate," or something like that, whatever "that" may mean. Liverpool itself, however, or rather those sections of it near the Sailors' Home and Lime Street, was faithfully explored and studied. One experience that I had may or may not have been worth while, according to the different views of it that are permissible; but I thought, at the time, that it was valuable.

A runaway girl from Manchester, a pretty little thing who had lost her head over the theater, music halls and the ballet, crossed my path. She told me her story, a stencil-plate affair such as England is full of, and I told her mine, also about Egypt and my determination to be an admiral, if possible. She suggested that we combine our stories and funds, and grow rich and famous together. She was sure that she was fated to be an actress, a great one, and I was equally sure that something illustrious awaited me. "Alice"—this was the fair one's name—arranged the combination of funds very neatly; fortunately the bulk of mine were in safe keeping in the Sailor's Home. The whole amount, or rather the amount that I let her have, went for the cultivation of her voice and "stoil" in Lime Street concert halls; but she explained this selfishness away with a promise to finance me when she should be successful and I was passing the final examinations for the admiral's position. It is not unlikely that I might yet be struggling to get money for "Alice's" musical education if her charms had continued to please, but she fainted, or pretended to, in my arms, in public fashion one evening near the Home, and the spell was broken then and there. The fainting took place in an alleyway through which people passed to the rear of the Home and then on to another street. It came so unexpectedly that in spite of the girl's slight form she nearly toppled me over in clutching at me. Some newsboys saw me holding her up and fanning her face with my hat. A squad of policemen, going on night duty, passed by and snickered.

"I'd doi for that goil, I would," one of the boys screamed, and the others made similar teasing remarks. "Alice" gradually recovered and grabbed my neck.

"Save me!" she cried. "Save me! I'm losin' all me high notes."

I "saved" her in double-quick fashion into a cab and sent her home to look for the high notes. I never saw her again, but five years later, when a friend and I were tramping in England, I asked about her in the concert halls in Lime Street, and finally found an old acquaintance who remembered her.

"Oh, that girl!" the acquaintance exclaimed. "She's got seven days. She's dotty. Thinks she's a primer donner. Good thing you an' her never went to housekeeping—ain't it?"

What with my experience with the capricious "Jeminy" of earlier days and with the screeching "Alice," housekeeping has not entered heavily into my life. I must thank "Alice," however, for showing me the folly of trying to be an admiral on a mere coal-passer's experience. Her light-fingered ingenuity and the resulting depletion of my funds also assisted in curing me of the Egyptian fever. The upshot of the trip to England was a hasty return to Germany to try something else—and to celebrate my coming of age. I meant that that event should mark a distinct change in my life, and in many ways it did.