person might have fancied himself living hundreds of years ago, because
so many customs prevailed then which belonged to an earlier age. The
guilds walked in procession through the town with their harlequin
before them with mace and bells; on Shrove Tuesday the butchers led the
fattest ox through the streets adorned with garlands, whilst a boy in a
white shirt and with great wings on his shoulders rode upon it; the
sailors paraded through the city with music and all their flags flying,
and then two of the boldest among them stood and wrestled upon a plank
placed between two boats, and the one who was not thrown into the water
was the victor.

That, however, which more particularly stamped itself upon my memory,
and became refreshed by after often-repeated relations, was, the abode
of the Spaniards in Funen in 1808. It is true that at that time I was
but three years old; still I nevertheless perfectly remember the brown
foreign men who made disturbances in the streets, and the cannon which
were fired. I saw the people lying on straw in a half-tumbledown
church, which was near the asylum. One day, a Spanish soldier took me
in his arms and pressed a silver image, which he wore upon his breast,
to my lips. I remember that my mother was angry at it, because, she
said, there was something papistical about it; but the image, and the
strange man, who danced me about, kissed me and wept, pleased me:
certainly he had children at home in Spain. I saw one of his comrades
led to execution; he had killed a Frenchman. Many years afterwards this
little circumstance occasioned me to write my little poem, "The
Soldier," which Chamisso translated into German, and which afterwards
was included in the illustrated people's books of soldier-songs.
[Footnote: This same little song, sent to me by the author, was
translated by me and published in the 19th No. of Howitt's Journal.--M.
H.] I very seldom played with other boys; even at school I took little