the Good, had endeavoured within the limits of his time (if not of our time) to erect a new and firmer Christendom. Darwinism might very well have adjusted itself to this new Christendom, that needed no record of miracles from disputed historical works to support it, but sought the holiest ideal prophetically in the symbolic conception and the development of the true, the good, and the beautiful. Had Schleiermacher read the _Natural History of Creation_, or later theologians shared his temper, one wonders how much exaggeration and bitterness might have been spared on either side. But religion was not prepared to dissociate itself from “the Church,” and with the Church there could be no compromise. Thus one’s thoughts travelled from the radiolaria in Haeckel’s latest publication and the old bust of Schleiermacher, which was protected by its glass shade, in this home of old-world piety, from the wicked flies of the twentieth century. An elder sister of Bertha Sethe and daughter of the old Christoph Sethe had married the much older lawyer, Karl Haeckel, in the twenties. The first-fruit of this marriage was Ernst Haeckel’s elder brother, the Provincial Councillor Haeckel who died a few years ago, a high-minded and sensitive man. He remained throughout life faithful to the strict traditional forms of religious experience, in spite of all his admiration for his gifted zoological brother. The second and last child did not appear until ten years later. Ernst Haeckel was born on the 16th of February, 1834, shortly after the death of Schleiermacher, as I have explained. Most of what I know of his earliest years was told me by his venerable aunt Bertha. His father died long ago, in 1871. Gustav Freytag has pointed out how eagerly he drank in the morning air of the dawning freedom before 1813. For many years he was at a later date a very close friend of Gneisenau. He was an earnest, conscientious, upright man, with no particular artistic arabesques to his life, and at the same time no errors. The victories of 1870 lit up the red sunset of his days. He was one of those happy folk who thought that _all_ was accomplished in the great achievements of those days, and had little suspicion of what was still to come. The mother survived him for many years. Her son’s _Indian Travels_ was dedicated to her on her eighty-fourth birthday, November 22, 1882. The dedication ran: “Thou it was who from early childhood fostered in me a sense for the infinite beauties of nature: thou hast ever watched my changeful career with all the ceaseless care and thought that we compress in the one phrase—a mother’s love.”