It had never occurred to the Berliners to raise a monument to Goethe until two years ago, and Alexander and Wilhelm von Humboldt have just been recognized in this way. “Tegel,” the grand old home of Alexander, is seldom seen by visitors, that is to say, it is not frequented by the traveler as Potsdam and Charlottenburg. An interesting place, and an interesting master it had, “who had trod many lands, known many deeds, probed many hearts, beginning with his own, and was far in readiness for God.” His grave is just beyond the house, at the end of an avenue. His home has been inherited by a niece, and is kept up in all the elegance of former years. The grounds are very handsome, so densely covered in places with magnificent old trees along avenues stretching beyond the house and grave. These forest trees are very rare in this low sandy region. After driving for miles through barren land with only occasional forests of stiff pines, to come suddenly upon trees which somewhat resemble our American oak, bestows a happy home-like feeling to the American who has wandered from her primeval forests. The house at “Tegel” is built in the most rigid style, relieved on the outside by niches filled with good pieces of statuary. Within every room is painfully neat—the formality with which the furniture is placed shows evidence that the owner had no wife and no children. It is an attempt at an Italian villa, but seems too cold and formal for such a climate as Berlin. There is certainly taste displayed and cultivation evinced in the selection of many things. The library is filled with books, principally works of Humboldt and Voltaire. On the tables are large portfolios containing maps and cartoons. The desk with the pen and inkstand remain just as he left them. Indeed, there is only a suggestion here and there, that the niece is living and owning the place—it seems as if she were a ghost and her life a myth—so still and so orderly are the rooms, and so undisturbed hang the red apples by the house. Indeed, the house seems as silent as the stately avenue of oaks that leads to the grave. Humboldt left a handsome fortune to this niece, for he lived and died a bachelor. He owned many valuable pieces of statuary. The original of Thorwaldsen’s Venus was purchased by Humboldt with much pride, it is said, and placed in his collection with other rare pieces found at various places in his travels. Among other curious possessions a mutilated old fountain from Pompeii stands in the hall. The floors are tiles, as one generally finds in Germany, and the saloon which contains the finest statuary suggests Goethe’s lines in “Mignon:” “Und Marmor Bilder stehen und sehen mich an.”