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Robert Haven Schauffler was an American writer, cellist, athlete, and war hero. Schauffler published poetry, biographies of Beethoven, Brahms, and Schumann and a series of books celebrating American holidays. where his parents were missionaries. By the time he was two he was back in the United States where his family founded the Schauffler College of Religious and Social Work in Cleveland in 1886 for Bohemian immigrants who were interested in social or religious work.
"The best bed-chamber, with its hangings of crimson moreen, was opened and aired--a performance which always caused my eight little brothers and sisters to place themselves in convenient positions for being stumbled over, to the great annoyance of industrious damsels, who, armed with broom and duster, endeavored to render their reign as arbitrary as it was short. For some time past, the nursery-maids had invariably silenced refractory children with "Fie, Miss Matilda! Your grandmother will make you behave yourself--she won't allow such doings, I'll be bound!" or "Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Master Clarence? What will your grandmother say to that!" The nursery was in a state of uproar on the day of my venerable relative's arrival; for the children almost expected to see, in their grandmother, an ogress, both in features and disposition."
I have to express my indebtedness first of all to the executors of Henrietta MacOubrey, George Borrow's stepdaughter, who kindly placed Borrow's letters and manuscripts at my disposal. To the survivor of these executors, a lady who resides in an English provincial town, I would particularly wish to render fullest acknowledgment did she not desire to escape all publicity and forbid me to give her name in print. I am indebted to Sir William Robertson Nicoll without whose kindly and active intervention I should never have taken active steps to obtain the material to which this biography owes its principal value.
"The stories that the fairies toldI learnt in English lanes of old,Where honeysuckle, wreathing high,Twined with the wild rose towards the sky,Or where pink-tinged anemonesGrew thousand starred beneath the trees.I saw them, too, in London town,But sly and cautious, glancing down,Where in the grass the crocus growAnd ladies ride in Rotten Row,St James's Park's a garden meetFor tiny babes and fairy feet.But since I came to Germany,The good folk oftener talk to me;I find them in their native homeWhen through the forest depths I roam,When through the trees blue mountains shine,The heart of fairyland is mine."
One is forever hearing enough and to spare about old books and those who love them. There is a whole literature of the subject. The men themselves, from Charles Lamb downwards, have over and over again described their ecstasies--with what joy they have pounced upon some rare edition, and with what reverence they have ever afterwards regarded it.