He was the son of a clergyman
who himself had a deep love for the great tales of antiquity, for
his son has told how his father used often vividly to narrate the
stories of the destruction of Pompeii and Herculaneum, and of the
Trojan War. When Schliemann was barely seven years old he received
a present of a child's history of the world, in which the picture
of the destruction of Troy and the flight of AEneas made a profound
impression upon his young mind, and roused in him a passionate desire
to go and see for himself what remained of the ancient splendours
of Ilium. He found it impossible to believe that the massive
fortifications of Troy had vanished without leaving a trace of
their existence. When his father admitted that the walls were once
as huge as those depicted in his history book, but asserted that
they were now totally destroyed, he retorted: 'Father, if such walls
once existed, they cannot possibly have been completely destroyed;
vast ruins of them must still remain, but they are hidden beneath
the dust of ages.' Already he had made the resolution that some
day he would excavate Troy.
The romance of bygone days and of hidden treasure surrounded the
boy's early years, and no doubt had its own influence in determining
his bent. A pond just behind his father's garden had its legend of
a maiden who rose from its waters each midnight, bearing a silver
bowl.
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